The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Twenty

Two days after the tribune's arrival King Verica a

The afternoon before the hunt was to take place the air was breathless. A brilliant sun blazed down on the quiet streets of Calleva as the townspeople sought out shade. Inside the royal enclosure servants and slaves scurried about making preparations. The romantic, spontaneous image of noble man pitting his wits against the cu

'Anyone'd think this lot were about to launch an invasion,' muttered Macro as he and Cato made their way through the bustling mass. 'Thought we were just going for a nice simple hunt.'

Cato smiled. 'For the other half there's no such thing as a simple hunt.'

He spoke from experience, having been brought up behind the scenes at the imperial palace in Rome. Every time the Emperor had decided, often on a whim, that he wished to 'pop over to Ostia', or 'nip up into the hills' to escape the dead heat of a Roman summer, it was Cato's father who had been tasked with organising the myriad necessities and luxuries that accompanied such a trip.

Caligula had been the worst, Cato recalled. The mad Emperor's whims had exhaustively tested the boundaries of the possible and nearly driven Cato's placid father to despair. Like the time Caligula had decided he rather fancied a stroll across the bay at Misenum. There was no hope of reasoning with him. After all, the man was a god and when a god wished a thing done, it was done. And so thousands of engineers constructed a pontoon bridge between Baiae and Puteoli on the backs of commandeered shipping and fishing boats. While Caligula and his entourage paraded back and forth across the bridge thousands of starving fishermen and ruined merchants looked on, and were encouraged to cheer the Emperor, at the point of a Praetorian sword. Cato had seen all this, and now the practical implications of Verica's decision to go hunting did not surprise him.

Macro was still gazing around with a disapproving frown. 'I thought it'd just be a matter of picking up some spears and ru

They had been summoned from the depot late in the afternoon and had dismissed the two cohorts from training before heading through the hot stinking streets to find Tribune Quintillus. Both centurions were uncomfortable in their thick tunics and Cato shivered as he felt sweat trickle down from his armpits under the prickly wool.

'Can you see him?' asked Macro, craning his neck round. Being several inches shorter than Cato, his field of vision was limited by the lofty Celts surrounding them. What Macro lacked in height he made up for in the solid muscle of his broad frame. Right now, Cato sensed, he was irritable enough to want to throw some of that bulk around.

'No.'

'Then ask someone, idiot.'

For an instant Cato glared back at his comrade, and only just managed to bite back on the desire to tell Macro that he should have made a greater effort to learn the native tongue.

'All right.' Cato looked round and caught the eye of a royal bodyguard, lounging against one of the wagon wheels, thumbs tucked into the cord that held checked breeches around his hairy stomach. Cato beckoned to the man, but the Briton merely flickered a smile back, and continued to stare languidly at the slaves toiling around him. With a low curse Cato pushed his way over to the bodyguard.

'Hey! You!'

The bodyguard looked round at the approaching Romans with an irritated expression.

'You seen the tribune?'

Cato knew that his accent was clear enough, but the man stared at him blankly.

'The tribune. The Roman who arrived four days ago. Is he here?'

'Sa!' The bodyguard nodded, once.

'Where?'

The Briton tipped his head towards the great hall. 'Inside?'

'Na! Training.'

Cato turned to Macro. 'He's here. Behind the hall.'

'Right.' Macro was staring hard at the bodyguard. 'Chatty type, aren't you?'

The Latin was incomprehensible to the bodyguard and he simply returned Macro's stare, silent and unyielding.

'Come on,' said Cato. 'Can't keep the tribune waiting. Save that one for later.'

With Cato leading the way, the two centurions pushed through the throng towards the entrance to the great hall. The two guards knew them well enough by now to wave them through. The interior was dark and cool, and it took a moment for Cato and Macro to adjust to the contrast. Then Cato could see a few of the nobles resting quietly along the benches lining each side of the hall. Discarded cups and the remains of a meal lay on wooden platters strewn along the wide wooden tables. Lying stretched out on the floor were the dim shapes of hunting dogs – all still, save one bitch who was licking one of the puppies nestling against her side. Overhead, a few stray beams of light pierced the thatch and shafted through the gloom.

'Not everyone is hard at work,' Macro sneered. Then they heard the sharp ring of swords clashing through the smaller doorway directly opposite. 'Sounds like one of 'em at least is working up a sweat.'

They walked towards the rear entrance of the hall and screwed up their eyes as they emerged into the bright sunshine that filled the timber doorframe. Behind the great hall was a wide bare space contained by the far palisade of the royal enclosure. Several racks of spears and swords stood to one side. A handful of the royal bodyguard sat in the shade against the side of the great hall, watching the display taking place in the centre of the training area. There, bathed in the bright sunshine, stood tribune Quintillus, poised on the balls of his feet, sword arm fully extended towards the British warrior ten feet in front of him. Cato caught his breath at the sight of the tribune. Quintillus looked superb. Stripped to the waist, his perfect physique would have graced a champion gladiator: the oiled skin glistened over perfectly contoured muscles and his chest swelled and subsided in an easy rhythm as he faced his opponent.

The Briton was armed with a longer, heavier sword than the tribune, but seemed to have come off worse so far in this bout. A livid red streak extended across one shoulder and blood oozed from the shallow cut. He was breathing heavily and could not keep his sword still. He suddenly gasped a deep breath and rushed the tribune with a roar. Quintillus feinted, ducked under the Briton's rising blade, then neatly tapped it to one side and smashed the pommel against the side of the man's head. The Briton grunted and crashed to the ground. There was a murmur of approval from the bodyguards sitting in the shade and one or two jeers for their fallen comrade. Quintillus casually flicked his sword into the ground and leaned over to help the man back on to his feet.