The Eagle and the Wolves

'There you are. No harm done. Thanks for the exercise.'

The Briton looked at the tribune uncomprehendingly and shook his dazed head.

'I'd sit down for a while if I were you. Catch your breath, and that sort of thing.'

As the two centurions emerged from the entrance to the hall, Quintillus looked up with a frown that was instantly replaced with a genial smile.

'Ah! Wondered where you'd got to!' He straightened up, letting go of the Briton, who sagged back on to the ground.

'Came as soon as we could, sir,' replied Macro, saluting.

'Yes, well, fair enough. But next time, put a little more effort into it, eh?'

'We'll do our best, sir.'

'Quite.' Quintillus flashed a quick smile. 'Now then, to business. I gather you've been invited to the hunt by King Verica.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, that raises an interesting question of protocol, doesn't it?'

'Does it, sir?'

'Oh, yes!' Quintillus' eyebrows rose in surprise at the centurion's ignorance. 'You see, I've been invited as well.'

'I wouldn't imagine that Verica would have left you out, sir.'

The tribune's look of surprise switched to one of a

'Yes, sir,' Macro replied patiently. 'I do recall.'

Quintillus nodded. 'Excellent! Then I imagine you'll be wanting to get off and make your apologies to King Verica.'

'Apologies?'

There was an embarrassed pause, until Quintillus laughed and slapped Macro on the shoulder. 'Come on, Centurion! Don't be so thick! Go and tell the old boy you can't go.'

'Can't go?'

'Just make up some excuse. Duties, or something. Isn't that what you centurions do all the time, duties?'

Cato sensed his friend stiffen with indignation and anger, and decided to intervene before Macro's prickly pride dropped him in any trouble.

'Sir, the thing is we've already accepted the invitation. If we back out now it'll look terribly rude. These Celts take a dim view of the slightest discourtesy, sir.'

'Nevertheless-'

'And we ca

'Well…' Tribune Quintillus stroked his chin and pondered the situation. 'I suppose, for the sake of good diplomatic relations, we might overlook the usual arrangements on this occasion.'

'I think that would be wise, sir.'

'All right, then.' The reluctance in the tone was effortlessly conveyed to his social inferiors. Cato risked a quick glance at Macro and saw the firm line of his clamped lips. Trinbune Quintillus pulled a silk cloth from the hem of his breeches and dabbed at his brow. 'Have either of you hunted before? Socially, I mean.'

'Socially?' Macro frowned. 'I've been hunting, sir. The army trained me to go hunting. To get rations.'

'That's nice. But hunting for food is a little different from hunting for sport,' Quintillus explained. 'There's a certain question of form.'

'A question of form, is there?' Macro said quietly. 'I see.'

'Yes. Have you used a hunting spear?'

'I've used a javelin once or twice, sir.' Macro's voice was laced with irony.

'Right, that's a good start. Let's see you in action, then I can offer you a few pointers before we have a chance to make complete arses of ourselves on the hunt.'

Quintillus walked over to a rack of hunting spears, picked one out and tossed it to Macro. While Cato forced himself not to flinch Macro expertly fielded the weapon and then hefted it into a throwing grip. Fifty feet away stood some wicker targets shaped like men. Macro sighted along his free arm, drew back the hunting spear and hurled it towards the centre target. The spear shot across the training ground in a shallow arc and pierced the target at thigh level. Macro turned towards the tribune, trying not to smile.

'Not at all bad, Centurion. How about you, Cato? Here take this one!'

Cato caught the spear clumsily in both hands.

'Try not to look too cack-handed in front of the natives,' hissed Macro.

'Sorry.'

Cato readied the spear in his right hand, took his aim on the same target as Macro. With a last deep breath he drew his arm back to its fullest extent, then whipped it forward. The spear flew through the air, narrowly missing the chest of the target, and clattered on to the ground beyond. Tribune Quintillus tutted, the bodyguards laughed, and Cato's cheeks burned.

'Perhaps you'd care to show us the correct method, sir?' said Macro.

'Certainly!'

The tribune selected one of the spears, sighted the same target and hurled his weapon. With his powerful muscles the spear flew in an almost flat trajectory and struck the target in the region of the heart with a sharp thwack.

'Shot!' Cato exclaimed in admiration.

A ragged murmur of approval rippled along the bodyguards.

'There! You see?' Quintillus turned to Macro. 'Just takes a little practice.'

'Quite a lot of practice, I should imagine, sir.'

'Not really.' The tribune pursed his lips. 'No more so than any other weapon.'

'Is that so?' Macro replied quietly.

'Of course.'

'There's a difference between throwing a spear and using a sword. And there's a difference between using it against a wicker target and a real man, sir. Quite a big difference.'

'Nonsense! It's all about technique, Centurion.'

'No, sir. It's about experience.'

'I see.' Tribune Quintillus crossed his arms and carefully looked Macro over. 'Care to put that to the test, Centurion?'

Macro smiled. 'You want to fight me, sir?'

'Fight? No, just a little fencing practice. Chance for you to prove your point about experience.'

'Excuse me, sir,' Cato intervened quietly, 'but I doubt it would do Roman prestige much good if we had a fight in front of the natives.'

'Like I said, it's not a fight. Just a little practice. Well, Centurion Macro?'

For a moment Macro glared back, and Cato noticed a little tightening of his friend's jawline. Cato felt a dead weight settle on his heart as he knew Macro would not be able to refuse the tribune's challenge. Then, to the younger centurion's surprise Macro shook his head.

'I don't think so, sir.'

'Oh? Don't fancy your chances, then?'

'No, I don't. It's clear to me that you've spent years training for this. I haven't had that luxury, sir. My swordplay is fairly basic, just the moves necessary for battle, and the rest is gut instinct. Right now, I doubt I could hold a lamp to you. But if we met in battle, I should think the odds would be a little more even.'

'You think so?'

'I know so… sir.'

'I'm still not convinced. Fight me, Centurion.'

'Is that an order, sir?'

Quintillus opened his mouth to reply before he thought it through, and then shook his head instead. 'Perhaps not. That would hardly be fair.'

'No. Is there anything else, sir?'

'Just make sure you don't let the side down tomorrow. Both of you. And keep a respectful distance from me at all times. Understood?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Macro and Cato.

'Dismissed.'

As the two centurions passed back through the hall Cato turned to Macro. 'For a moment there I thought you were going to take him up on that offer.'

'I was. But a sensible man picks his fights, he doesn't let others pick them for him. That twat would have thrashed me. He knew it and I knew it. So what reason was there to fight?'

'Put like that, none at all.' Cato was pleased. It was one of those rare moments in all the time he had known Macro that the veteran centurion had allowed logic to triumph over bullish pride. Better still, in some neatly discreet way Macro had got one over the preening artistocrat, as the ruffled haughtiness of the tribune's parting words clearly revealed. 'That was nicely done.'