He sat up on the bed and winced at the light coming in through the window of the officers’ barracks. ‘Cato! Push that shutter to. The light’s killing me.’ Cato half closed the shutter and lowered the catch so that it would not swing open in the morning breeze coming off the sea. He returned to the side of Macro’s bed and leaned over to inspect the cut on the back of his friend’s head. The blood had congealed into an ugly black and purple gum.
‘You’ll need some kind of dressing on that.’ ‘Why? I’m not going round looking like some bloody Parthian.’ Macro groped a hand over his head and cried out as his rough fingers pressed on the injury.
Cato clicked his tongue. ‘That’s why. Now leave it alone while I get a bandage.’ Cato left his friend in his room and stepped out into the corridor that ran down the middle of the officers’ quarters. The hospital block was on the other side of the parade ground, a fair distance away.
