'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.
'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 annoyance. 'Of course not! The thing is, it really won't do for me to be mixing with the other ranks. It lacks a certain dignity wouldn't you agree? I am, after all, a procurator acting in the Emperor's name.'
'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 cannot afford to offend the Atrebatans. Not right now, sir.'
'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 hea
rt 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.'
'Course it was. I eat cunts like that for breakfast.'
'Must be something in the porridge.'
Macro glanced at him, and roared with laughter. At the sound, one of the hunting dogs snapped upright, ears pricked up and nose pointing at the two centurions. His owner raised his head, scowled at the Romans and gave his hound a kick.
Macro slapped Cato on the back. 'You're all right, lad! You're all right.'
Back in the royal enclosure the business of preparing for the hunt continued in the boiling heat, and the two centurions were pushing their way through the heavily laden servants when Cato heard someone call his name. Looking through the crowd, he saw Tincommius. The Atrebatan prince frantically waved a hand and pushed towards the centurions, his expression wrought with anxiety.
Cato pulled on his friend's arm. 'There's Tincommius. Something's wrong.'
'Eh?' Macro tried to peer over the shoulders of the men around him. Then Tincommius was before them, breathless and desperate.
'Sir! Please, come with me at once!'
'What's happened?' Macro snapped. 'Make your report!'
'It's Bedriacus, sir. He's been stabbed.'
04 The Eagle and the Wolves
Chapter Twenty-One
'What happened exactly?'
'Come now, sir!' Tincommius pleaded.
'Tell me what happened?' Macro replied harshly.
'I don't know. I found him inside the headquarters building. He was lying on the floor in the corridor. There was blood everywhere.'
'Is he still alive?'
'Yes, sir. Just.'
'Who's looking after him?'
'Artax. He was in the corridor just after I found Bedriacus.'
Cato grabbed Tincommius' arm. 'You left him with Artax? Alone?'
Tincommius nodded. 'I sent a man for the surgeon before I came to find you.'
'Why the hurry?' asked Macro.
Tincommius glanced round before he leaned closer. 'He was losing consciousness. He called out Cato's name and said something about Verica being in danger.'
'Verica?' Macro said loudly. 'What kind of danger?'
'Keep it down!' Cato warned, as one of the stewards looked in their direction. 'Want everyone to hear?'
For a moment Macro was startled by the vehemence of Cato's tone. Cato turned back to Tincommius and spoke quietly. 'What exactly did Bedriacus say?'
'He had to see you. Had something important to say; he'd overheard someone talking about the king. About killing him… That's all I got out of him before Artax found us.'
'Artax heard him say all that?'
Tincommius nodded. 'Then he sent me to find you.'
Cato exchanged a look with Macro. 'We'd better get back to the depot quick as we can.'
'Right.'
'Has he said anything?' Tincommius gasped as they burst into Cato's quarters, breathless. The surgeon was crouched over the body. Opposite him Artax was kneeling on the floor and looked round.
'Na…'
A pool of blood glistened in the light from the high window in Cato's office. More blood was splashed about the beaten earth floor, and was smeared on the whitewashed lathe walls either side of the wooden doorframe.
Cato took a sharp breath at the sight of Bedriacus. The hunter's face looked whiter than snow, with a waxy pallor. His eyes flickered open and shut as his mouth hung loose, the tongue feebly moving over his trembling lips. Bedriacus' red tunic had been removed and lay to one side, dark and wet. Only the loincloth remained on the hunter, and the drained white skin smeared with his blood made him look to Cato like a creature that had been caught and skinned.
'How is he?'
'How is he?' Macro looked up from the surgeon. 'Use your bloody eyes. He's had it. Don't need to be a quack to work that one out.'
'Quiet, please, sir,' the surgeon requested. 'It's best for him.'
Cato slowly crossed the room and kneeled to one side of the huddle of men. 'Artax? He say anything to you?'
Artax raised his shaggy head and looked levelly at Cato, his expression clear of any feeling of any kind.
'Did he say anything to you while you were waiting with him?'
Artax was still for a moment, and then gently shook his head.
'Nothing? Nothing at all?'
'Nothing that made any sense, Roman.'
Cato and Artax stared at each other, then Cato continued softly, 'I find that difficult to believe.'
Artax shrugged, but said nothing. Before Cato could question him more closely Bedriacus let out a long gasping groan. His eyes opened wide, stared wildly round at the faces of the men leaning over him, and then fixed on Cato.
'Sir…'
'Bedriacus, who did this? Did you see who did this?'
'Here… closer…'
Cato leaned forward, until his face was no more than a foot from Bedriacus' staring eyes. The hunter's left hand shot out and clenched Cato's tunic by the collar. The centurion instinctively tried to pull back but there was an insane power in the dying man's grasp and he pulled Cato closer. Cato could smell the stale odour of the hunter's breath and the sweeter, thicker stench of his blood.
'The king… in great danger.'
'I know… Now, just-'
'Listen! I came to tell you… Heard some men talking. Nobles…' Bedriacus' face contorted, and a violent spasm shot through his body.
'Hold him down!' the surgeon ordered, pulling Cato's cloak off a peg on the nearby wall. He threw the thick woollen folds over Bedriacus' body. The spasm quickly passed and the hunter's grip on Cato's tunic relaxed. His breathing now came in shallow gasps, his eyes fixed desperately on Cato. The centurion grasped the hunter's face between his hands.
'What the hell are you doing?' shouted the surgeon.
'Quiet!' Cato snapped. 'Bedriacus! Bedriacus! Who did this? Tell me! Tell me, while you can!'
Bedriacus tried to answer, but the fight had almost died in him. His eyes flickered towards Tincommius, then back to Cato and he managed to whisper. 'My eyes… grow dim…'
Tincommius gently pushed Cato away and rested a hand on Bedriacus' brow. 'Sleep, Bedriacus the hunter. Sleep.'
'Stop that!' Cato snapped. 'You bloody fool! We have to know.'
&nbs
p; Tincommius looked up with a dark and angry expression. 'The man's dying.'
'I can't stop that. No one can. We have to know. You heard him: someone's after Verica. Now, get out of my way!'
'Too late,' murmured Artax. 'Look. He's gone.'
Cato turned away from Tincommius, and looked down at Bedriacus. The hunter was quite still, eyes staring up at the ceiling, mouth slack and without breath. The surgeon leaned closer to inspect Bedriacus for any sign of life. He turned his head, and placed an ear on the Briton's breast. A few moments later he sat up, and released the bloodstained wad of cloth that he had been holding to the hunter's stab wound. As the material came away, Cato saw the dark puncture, like a glistening mouth. Then the macabre illusion was broken as blood welled up and trickled down the skin and on to the floor.
'He's dead,' the surgeon said officially.
'Right then, better get it in a report,' said Macro, rising to his feet. 'You want the body taken anywhere?'
The surgeon nodded towards the two Britons still sitting beside Bedriacus. 'Ask them, sir. I don't know the local customs.'
'Goodbye, Bedriacus,' Artax said quietly. Cato looked up and saw a faint smile playing at the corners of Artax's lips as the nobleman continued, 'Safe journey to the next world.'
Cato quickly went to the door and shouted an order for the headquarters guard. As distant footsteps pounded across the courtyard he turned back to the two Britons, still squatting over the body. Macro came over to him.
'What's up? Why call the guard? We can get someone else to take the body away.' The older centurion's gaze flickered over the blood smeared across the floor. 'Better get 'em to clean up your office as well.'
'We can deal with that later,' Cato replied. 'Right now I want Artax taken and held somewhere safe. Somewhere nice and quiet, where we can ask him a few questions.'
'What the bloody hell is going on?' Tribune Quintillus exploded as he marched into Cato's office. 'Why was I called away from my training?' Then he noticed the body on the floor. Cato had arranged his cloak so that it covered Bedriacus' face. Only his bare feet stuck out from the heavy material. 'Who is that joker?'
'Joker, sir?' Cato followed the direction of the tribune's glance. 'That's one of my men. My standard bearer, Bedriacus.'
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