‘Yes, sir. That’s all we got out of Bedriacus before he died.’
‘He didn’t happen to let you know who stabbed him?’
‘No, sir,’ Cato admitted.
‘Oh, come on! This is ridiculous. There must be more to it than that!’
‘Maybe, sir. Tincommius was joined by another man before he set off to find us.’
‘And who is this man? Let me guess – another one of Verica’s little friends?’
‘As it happens, yes, sir. But one who might have less cause to be fond of Rome than some of his comrades.’
‘Imagine that.’
Cato shrugged. ‘I find it difficult to believe that he just happened to be nearby when Tincommius found this man dying, right outside my quarters. Especially when Bedriacus had something vital he had to tell me. Too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t you agree, sir?’
‘It might be. Then again, it might just be coincidence that Artax was there. Have you any other proof?’
A puzzled expression passed fleetingly across Cato’s face, but he was interrupted by Macro before he could answer the tribune.
‘Artax is a fishy one, all right. Arrogant sod has been giving us the evil eye ever since we showed up in Calleva.’
‘And yet he still serves with your cohorts,’ Quintillus pointed out.
‘Well, yes. . . But what better way to keep an eye on us?’
The tribune shook his head. ‘No. I doubt he’s plotting anything. Plotters don’t tend to try to stand out, let alone act suspiciously.’
‘Speaking from experience, sir?’
‘Only from common sense, Centurion. . .’
Some people just couldn’t help being confrontational, Cato decided as he watched the two men. But this was not helping things. Artax was being held in a cell on the far side of the headquarters block, and Cato was sure the Briton knew something about the stabbing, if not the plot that Bedriacus had mentioned. He had to be questioned, and soon.
‘Sir, we must interrogate Artax. He’s keeping something from us. I’m sure of it.’
‘You’re sure of it?’ the tribune said scathingly. ‘On what grounds? Gut feeling?’
There was nothing Cato could say to that without looking foolish. It was true that there was no hard evidence on Artax, just Cato’s observations of the man over recent days, the weight of coincidence and, if he was honest with himself, gut instinct.
‘So, I’m right then?’ Quintillus gave a small smile of triumph. ‘Well, Centurion?’
Cato nodded.
‘So then, this Artax. Just how close is he to the king?’
‘Very. Blood relation, and part of his entourage before he joined the cohorts.’
‘Sounds like a model ally, and well enough placed for you to treat him with respect, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I suggest you release him as soon as possible, before he reconsiders his view of Rome. Given the sensitivity of the situation I don’t think we should risk any unnecessary offence.’
‘Sir, if we could just question him first—’
‘No! You’ve caused enough trouble already, Centurion. I’m ordering you to release him immediately. Now see to it. I’ve got training to get back to.’ Quintillus strode to the doorway, and paused in the wooden frame, almost filling it with his well-honed physique. He looked at Macro and Cato as he spoke. ‘If I hear that you’ve delayed acting on my order I’ll break you both and send you back to the ranks. Understand me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want to see this Artax in the king’s party when we leave on the hunt tomorrow. If there’s so much as a scratch on him, I’ll have your balls for paperweights.’
As the tribune’s footsteps faded down the corridor Macro clenched his fist and pounded the palm of his other hand.
‘Bastard! Utter bastard! Coming in here and telling us how to bloody proceed. Who the fuck does he think he is? Bloody Julius Caesar? Cato? I said who does he think he is?. . . What the hell’s up with you? Cato!’
Cato started. ‘Sorry. Just thinking.’
Macro rolled his eyes. ‘Thinking are we? Tribune’s ordered the release of our only likely suspect, and you sit there daydreaming. Pull yourself together, lad. We need to act, not think.’
Cato nodded absently. ‘Didn’t you think it was a bit odd?’
‘Odd? No, not really. Typical twat behaviour for a tribune, sticking his oar in when it’s not needed.’
‘No. Not that.’ Cato frowned.
‘What then?’
‘The fact that he knew Artax was involved before we even mentioned his name. . .’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Only a few hundred of the people of Calleva turned out to watch the royal hunting party set off for the forest. And even these failed to lend the event the customary festival atmosphere. As Cato and Macro rode out of the gate they saw the pinched faces of the starving on both sides of the track leading away from the town. But hungry as they were, the children still capered alongside the procession of carts, horses and the small column of servants from the royal household. Cato turned his gaze away from the people of Calleva. It was not as if he hadn’t seen starvation before. Even Rome, for all its exotic food markets and the corn dole, had a multitude of beggars and drifters starving on its streets.
At the insistence of tribune Quintillus, the two centurions were riding just ahead of King Verica’s household slaves and the wagons bearing all the supplies and luxuries for the hunt. In front of them were the lesser nobles of the tribe, dressed in loose tunics and brightly coloured leggings. Even though it was early morning, the men had already dipped their drinking horns and were talking and laughing loudly, quite oblivious to the eyes staring at them from thin hungry faces each side of the track. At the head of the hunting party rode King Verica, his closest friends and advisors, and a small band of his bodyguards; armed and ready to deal with any threat. They watched the people lining the track closely, sword hands resting near the top of their scabbards. But there was no move towards the king. Some of the crowd cheered weakly. Most watched in silence until the supply carts rumbled past them, some filled with haunches of cured meat, stoppered jugs of wine and beer, baskets filled with bread and fruit.
A low moan of despair slowly rose into a collective keening whine. Then a voice was raised in anger. Cato turned back to look, and saw a man holding up a grubby infant, eyes bulging from its skeletal head. The man was shouting, but the raw emotion straining his voice made it difficult for Cato to understand the words. Not that he had to. The dull lethargic look in the baby’s eyes and the man’s terrible anguish were clear enough. Others took up the angry cry and the crowd slowly shuffled towards the food wagons.
The stewards who were driving the vehicles rose from their benches, shouting and waving the townspeople back. But their warnings were ignored as every eye hungrily focused on the contents of the wagons. Before the first hand could reach inside there was the loud crack of a whip and a scream of pain. Cato saw a man clutching his face, and blood streamed through his fingers. The crowd paused, silent for an instant, as if they were all having a sharp intake of breath. Then they closed on the wagons, and the stewards laid about them with their whips, shouting curses at the starving crowd.
‘Stop them!’ Cato heard Quintillus shout.
The tribune was galloping back past the party of nobles, sword drawn. Behind him thundered the king’s bodyguard, scattering people away from the track.
‘Macro!’ Cato called out. ‘Help me!’
The younger centurion wheeled his horse and urged it towards the nearest wagon as he shouted in Celtic. ‘Back, you fools! Get back! ‘
Faces turned towards him, filled with anger and then fear as they tried to push themselves away from the flaring nostrils and gleaming bulk of Cato’s horse. Cato drove his mount on, forcing it between the crowd and the wagon. ‘Get back! Back, I said! Now!’
Then he was aware of Macro, on the far side of the wagon, follow
ing Cato’s lead as he drove a gap between it and the shrieking mob. The townspeople fell back from the two horses, just long enough for them to be aware of the tribune and the bodyguard charging down on them, drawn weapons glinting. Then in a stumbling tide the crowd swept back from the wagons, desperately seeking escape from the hoofs and blades of Verica’s warriors.
‘After them!’ Quintillus shouted, waving his sword at the retreating townspeople.
‘Hold still!’ Cato shouted in Celtic at the bodyguards. They paused. For a moment he feared that they would ignore him and ride the people down. Cato thrust his arm up. ‘Hold still, I said! Leave them alone. The wagons are safe.’
The bodyguards checked their mounts and lowered their weapons. Quintillus looked at them with a shocked, then enraged expression.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Get after them! Kill them!’
The warriors looked at him blankly and the tribune turned to Cato. ‘You speak this bloody barbaric language. Tell them to get after that mob! Before it’s too late.’
‘Too late for what, sir?’
‘What?’ The tribune glared at him. ‘Tell them! What are you waiting for, Centurion?’
Cato saw the crowd breaking into a loose mass, rushing back towards the gateway.
‘There’s no point now, sir.’
‘Just do it! Tell them!’ Quintillus screamed at him. ‘I command it!’
‘Yes, sir. At once.’ Cato saluted, turned to face the bodyguard and frowned. ‘Soon as I can remember the right words.’
The tribune’s face drained of blood as his mouth clenched in a tight line. Macro had to look away before he laughed, and he busied himself with an adjustment to his sword belt. He heard Cato click his fingers.
‘That’s it! I remember now!. . . Hey! Where’d they go?’
Tribune Quintillus glared at Centurion Cato for a long time, and Macro began to worry that his young friend had overstepped the mark. Then, as Verica’s bodyguard lowered their weapons and began to trot back towards the head of the small column, the tribune rammed his sword into its sheath and nodded slowly at Cato.
‘Very well, Centurion. So be it. This time you’ve had your way, but I’m warning you, if I detect one shred of disrespect or disobedience from you again, I’ll see to it that you’re finished with the Eagles. At the very best I’ll have you broken back to the ranks, on latrine duty, shovelling shit for the rest of your life.’
‘Shovelling shit. Yes, sir.’
Tribune Quintillus clenched his teeth angrily, then wheeled his mount, savagely dug his heels in and galloped it on towards the king and his entourage. The two centurions watched him go. Macro scratched the bristles on his chin and shook his head slowly.
‘You know, Cato, old son, I really wouldn’t make a habit of pissing off tribunes. Likely as not he’ll make legate one day, and what if he happens to be in command of any legion you might be serving with? What then, eh?’
Cato shrugged. ‘I’ll deal with that when the time comes. But if pricks like that are ever trusted with command of a legion then we might as well hand the Empire over to the barbarians right now.’
Macro laughed. ‘Don’t take it to heart! He just sees you as something in the way of him grabbing the glory that’s his due. It’s nothing personal.’
‘Oh?’ Cato muttered. ‘Well, it’s personal now. Personal to me.’
‘Bollocks!’ Macro reached over and slapped Cato on the shoulder. ‘Forget it. He’s out of your reach. You can’t afford to have him as an enemy. Pick on someone that fits your purse. Better still, just forget the whole thing.’
Cato glanced at him. ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’
The royal hunting party left Calleva and its troubled population behind them. The capital of the Atrebatans soon disappeared behind a hill as the column of riders, wagons and servants on foot followed the rutted track through the rolling landscape, with its scattered farms interspersed with small clumps of unfelled woods and slender coppices. Despite the fears over the raids that Caratacus and his Durotrigan allies were conducting deep into Atrebatan lands, some of the farms were still being worked. Occasional fields of barley and wheat rippled yellow and gold in the light breeze that wafted fluffy white clouds across a deep blue sky.
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.
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. Whe
n 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?’
Ά 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.’
The Eagle and the Wolves Page 20
