The Eagle and the Wolves

Cato's sullen mood was gradually assuaged once Calleva was far behind them. Tribune Quintillus was lost amid the cluster of men crowding about the king, and Cato soon forgot him as he let his eyes dwell on the fertile British landscape. True, it wasn't as dramatic, or cultured and cultivated as the countryside around Rome, but it had a gentle unspoiled beauty of its own and he savoured the sweet scents it offered up to him.

'It'll be a nice spot to retire in,' mused Macro, correctly reading his companion's expression. 'Once we've given the enemy a good kicking.'

'How long have you got to serve?' Cato asked, with a tinge of anxiety as he anticipated life in the Second Legion without Macro at his side.

'Eleven years, assuming the Emperor honours the end-of-service rituals.'

'You think he won't?'

'I don't know. After the Varus disaster they kept some time-served veterans on until they could barely walk, or eat. Some of those boys had to put Germanicus' hand on their bare gums before he realised they'd had enough of the army.'

'Really?'

'Oh yes! There were still some of 'em around when I joined up. Poor sods. If the Germans had known the Rhine legions were made up of old men barely strong enough to lift a sword, they'd have swept through Gaul like crap through a goose.'

'Colourful.'

'No. Just truthful. It'd have been us soldiers buried up to our necks in shit, while those bloody politicians in Rome tried to pin the blame on each other. Bastards.'

'Still, it's different now,' countered Cato. 'Those who have served their time seem to be getting the discharge, with a full gratuity. The Emperor seems to be honouring that well enough.'

'Sure. Old Claudius seems to be an honest type, but he ain't going to last for ever.' Macro shook his head sadly. 'The better ones never do. Bound to get some little shit like Caligula, or worse, like Vitellius next, knowing our luck.'

Cato shook his head with a wry smile. 'Vitellius? Oh, come on! Even scum like him get found out in the end. Vitellius becoming Emperor? No. It isn't possible.'

'You don't think so?' Macro looked serious. 'I'd bet good money on it.'

'Then you'd lose it.'

'I know his type: no ambition is ever too high.' Macro pointed towards the front of the column. 'Like our friend Quintillus there.'

Cato's eyes followed the direction Macro was indicating, and saw that the king's companions were riding in a loose column, in twos and threes. Amongst them, Cato could just make out the scarlet cloak of the tribune. A man was riding close by the side of Quintillus; a broad-shouldered man with dark hair braided into pigtails, and Cato wondered what Artax was doing in such deep conversation with the tribune.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Twenty-Three

At dusk they camped beside a small pebbly stream that chuckled along the edge of the forest where the next day's hunting would take place. The sun hung low in the sky, massive against the western horizon as it washed the underside of the few thin clouds in orange and red. Long dark shadows stretched across the grass growing along the stream, which was short, eaten down by sheep from a nearby farm that had evaded the attentions of the Durotrigans. The farm, a low huddle of thatched round huts surrounded by a flimsy stockade, stood half a mile away on the other side of the stream. A small fire glinted from within the opening of the largest hut and a thin trail of smoke gradually dispersed above the thatched roofs.

The king, spying the fattened sheep, had decided that he wanted to dine on roast mutton. The best specimen had been slaughtered by his kitchen steward, and the body had been opened up and spitted, ready for roasting over the fire being prepared by some of the household slaves. When the flames died down the kitchen slaves raked the embers over and began to roast the carcass. Fat oozed from the meat and dripped down on to the glowing heart of the fire where it exploded in short-lived flares of smoky orange flame.

Macro's nose twitched. 'Smell that! You ever smelled anything so good?'

'It's just your stomach speaking,' said Cato.

'Sure it is, but go on, take a sniff.'

Cato had never particularly liked the smell of roasting meat. The resulting meal was fine, but the smell reminded him of funeral pyres.

'Mmmm,' Macro continued his reverie with half-closed eyes. 'I can almost taste it.'

There was so much smoke now that their eyes began to water. Without saying a word the two of them got up and moved away to a spot by the stream. The water looked clear and Cato cupped a handful to his lips and guzzled it down, cool and refreshing after the hot day's ride. A day in which he had had plenty of time to think.

'Macro, what are we going to do about Bedriacus' murder?'

'What can we do? Bloody tribune's gone and released the only suspect. Bet that Artax is laughing at us.'

Macro looked over his shoulder at the nobles, sleeping off their ride before the evening meal. Only a few were awake, Artax and Tincommius amongst them, talking in quiet tones as they sipped beer from gilded drinking horns. Verica, on the cusp of dotage, needed a nap and was propped up against a lamb's hide bolster, mouth hanging open as he snored. Around him squatted his bodyguards, very much awake and with their weapons within reach.

Macro shifted his gaze back to Artax as Cato continued quietly, 'Question is, why did he let Bedriacus die the way he did?'

'A good stab in the chest is generally a sensible way to proceed.' Macro yawned. 'He could have tried your method, of course, and talked poor Bedriacus to death.'

Cato ignored the bait. 'Talking is very much the issue.'

Macro sighed. 'Somehow I knew you'd come up with something like that. Go on then, tell me what talking has got to do with it.'

'It's just this. Bedriacus wanted to warn us about something. He was stabbed by someone who wanted to prevent him passing on the warning. And the most likely suspect is Artax.'

'Yes. So?'

'So why didn't Artax finish him off when Tincommius went to find us?'

'I don't know.' Macro shrugged. 'Maybe the surgeon turned up too quickly.'

'How long would it have taken to add another, lethal wound? Or smother him? He must have had time. He had to take the risk and kill Bedriacus. He couldn't afford to let him speak to us.'

'Maybe. But if that's the case, then why didn't he finish Bedriacus off while he had the chance?'

'I don't know…' Cato shook his head. 'I don't know.'

'It might be that he was just passing by, as Tincommius said.'

Cato turned and looked straight into Macro's eyes. 'Do you really believe that?'

'No. He did it, all right. Just look at the shifty sod. Would you trust him with your sister?'

Artax was still talking with Tincommius, hunched forward as they conversed in tones so low that they were inaudible from where the centurions were sitting.

Before Cato could reply, a horn sounded across the small campsite, calling everyone to the evening meal. The two centurions rose up from the side of the stream and strolled across the grass to where the Atrebatan nobles were slowly waking from their slumbers. To one side lay Tribune Quintillus, on his back, one foot crossed over the other as he stared towards the setting sun. At the second sounding of the horn the tribune sat up and saw Macro and Cato approaching. With a discreet nod of his head he directed them away from where he was sitting and they altered course towards the area where the lesser nobles squatted.

'Hobnobbing with the rich and powerful, as usual,' Macro complained quietly. 'Don't know why he bothers. I doubt they have much in common.'

'Some of them speak Latin – not brilliantly, but enough to get by. They can translate for the rest.'