The Eagle and the Wolves

'Cato!' Macro called from nearby, from the direction of the mortally wounded horse. There was no mistaking the anxiety in Macro's voice.

'Over here!'

'Hold on, lad! I'm coming.'

As Cato rose to his feet there was a shout from close by, from the direction of the king. As he held his breath and strained his ears the voice cried out again.

'Help! Help! Murder!'

Cato recognised Verica's voice now, and turned to shout over his shoulder, 'Macro! This way! Quick!'

Then he was ru

'This way!' he shouted back over his shoulder as he ran. His feet struck an object and he went flying forwards, arms instinctively raised to protect his face as he landed. He hit the ground hard, and rolled over before scrambling back to his feet. There was Tincommius, lying on the ground clutching his head. Blood oozed from between his fingers and his eyes flickered in a daze. His spear lay across his chest.

'Tincommius! Where's the king?'

'What?' The Briton shook his head, dazed.

'The king?'

Tincommius' eyes cleared and he rolled on to his side, his arm raised as he pointed down a narrow track. 'That way. Quick! Artax is after him.'

'Artax?'

'I tried to stop him. Go! Get some help! I'll follow Artax!'

Cato ignored him, and ran along the track. Looking down, he saw bright crimson drops on the ground and smeared on the ferns that he passed. The path suddenly opened out into a small glade. Twenty feet away was the thick trunk of an oak tree. At its base Verica lay crumpled on the ground. His white hair was matted with blood from a deep gash on the top of his head. Standing over him was Artax, a thick length of wood in one hand. As Cato crashed out of the undergrowth lining the path Artax looked up and bared his teeth in a grim smile.

'Cato! Good! Come here, boy!'

'Drop the club,' said Cato. 'Drop it!'

'I've had enough of your orders,' Artax sneered, and took a step towards Cato. Then he paused and glanced round anxiously. 'Where's Tincommius?'

Cato launched himself at the man and both fell clear of the still form of Verica. Cato was on his feet first and swung his boot into Artax's face. There was a crunch as the iron studs co

Artax's teeth clenched in a snarl. 'You'll pay for that, Roman! I warn you, get back!'

Cato jumped forward. This time Artax was prepared and stepped to one side as he swung the club down across Cato's shoulders. The centurion crashed to the ground, utterly winded by the blow. He saw Artax nod his satisfaction and waited for the killer blow to land that would dash his brains out. Instead, Artax turned and walked back towards the king. But he never reached him. There was a dull thud and Artax grunted under the impact of Tincommius' hunting spear. The blow toppled him sideways and he fell to the earth, the dark shaft of the spear angling up towards the sky. Tincommius staggered over to the body, grasped the shaft and placed his foot close to the wound. With a great wrench he tore the barbed point out of Artax's chest and blood gushed from the gaping wound. Artax's body shuddered for a moment and he seemed to be trying to rise up. Tincommius kicked him to the ground and just before he died Artax reached a hand out to his king and clenched a fold of Verica's tunic.

'My lord!… Verica…'

Then he was still.

Cato was still too winded to rise. The blow had left his arms and shoulders numb and they refused to move. So he could only watch as Tincommius kneeled down beside his king, bloody spear in hand, checking for signs of life.

With a great snapping of branches Macro rode into the clearing, spear raised, ready to thrust it into the first enemy he came across. He looked round in confusion and reined in his horse before sliding off its back. He ran to Cato and turned him over.

'You all right?'

'Will be, in a moment.'

Macro nodded, then looked to where Artax lay dead, his hand still clutching his king's tunic. Tincommius turned and met his gaze coldly.

'What the fuck's been going on here?'

'Artax,' Cato mumbled. 'He tried to kill Verica.'

'The king,' Macro called across to Tincommius, 'is he alive?'

Tincommius nodded. 'Just.'

'Oh great!' Macro muttered. 'Now what?'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Twenty-Five

'How's the old man?' asked Macro. 'Any improvement?'

Cato shook his head as he sat down on the bench beside Macro. He had just returned from the royal bedchamber where the depot's surgeon was attending the king, under the watchful eye of Cadminius. Macro was drinking some of the local beer and slowly drying out beside the glowing embers of a brazier. It had been a long, uncomfortable day. The rain had closed in around the hunting party as they hurried back to Calleva with their wounded king. They reached Calleva at dusk, drenched and shivering, Tribune Quintillus had ordered Cato and Verica's bodyguards to accompany the king back to the royal enclosure while Macro rode to the depot to fetch the surgeon. Quintillus roused the Wolf Cohort from its quarters and had them mount guard on the depot and the looping ellipse of the ramparts of Calleva, in case any of Verica's enemies tried to take advantage of the attack on the king. While the men took up their stations under the flare of hastily lit torches, and waited for further news, Macro made his way up to join Cato in the royal enclosure.

The great hall was filled with men clustered in small groups around the trestle tables. Several of the king's bodyguard barred the way into Verica's private quarters, swords drawn and alert to any danger. Whispers and carefully moderated voices filled the air, and all eyes frequently flickered towards the doorway leading into Verica's bedchamber. Word of Verica's injury had started to spread beyond the royal enclosure, through the muddy byways of Calleva, and Atrebatans of every rank anxiously waited for further news.

Earlier Cato had watched the surgeon carefully clean the blood and mud away from the old man's torn scalp. The surgeon sucked in a deep breath before he gently probed the discoloured skin beneath the thi

'He'll live, for now.'

'What are his chances?'

'Can't say. With this kind of injury he might be fine in a few days, or dead.'

'I see,' Cato muttered. 'Do what you can.'

The king lay on his bed, his face deathly pale where it showed beneath the dressing the Roman surgeon had applied to the wound. The old man's breathing was shallow. But for the faint rise and fall of his chest he looked as good as dead.

'Let me know the moment there's any change,' Cato told the surgeon.

'Yes, sir.'

Cato stepped away from the bed and headed towards the door leading into the hall. He paused before leaving the chamber. On the opposite wall was another door leading to the king's private audience chamber, through which Cato could hear the muffled sounds of a heated debate. Then Quintillus called loudly for silence. It was tempting to go to the door and listen more closely, but Cato would not demean himself in such a way in front of the surgeon. Outside in the great hall Cato caught sight of Macro taking a seat at the nearest bench and hurried over to his friend to report on the king's condition.

'No improvement? What did the surgeon say?'