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 tow irds 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 m oment 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.
‘Sire!. . . Sire. . .’
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?’
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. While the men took up their stations under the flare of hastily lit torches, and waited for further news of their king, 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 thinning hair. Then he sat back and nodded at Cato.
‘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?’
‘Not much,’ Cato replied, conscious that many eyes were on him as he had emerged from Verica’s bedchamber. ‘Artax must have hit him pretty hard. Verica’s lost a lot of blood, but the skull’s intact. He might live.’
‘He’d better.’ Macro glanced round the hall. ‘I get the impression that there’s quite a few of the locals who might welcome a change of regime. Not much love lost for us here.’
‘Maybe,’ Cato shrugged wearily, ‘but I think they’re just scared.’
‘Scared?’ Macro’s voice rose in surprise and a score of faces, dimly lit by the glow of the hall’s torches, turned towards the two centurions. Macro tilted his head closer to Cato. Ά bunch of scared Celts? There’s something I thought I’d never live to see.’
‘You can hardly blame them. If the king dies they’ve lost him and his chosen successor in one go. Anything could happen. There’s no one named to succeed him. The king’s council will have to choose a new ruler. Just hope Quintillus can persuade them to pick someone who’ll keep the Atrebatans on our side.’
‘And where is our fine tribune?’
‘He’s with them now, in Verica’s audience chamber.’
‘Hope he’s turning on the charm.’
‘Charm doesn’t come into it,’ muttered Cato. ‘I imagine he’ll be quite blunt about the consequences of any change in the tribe’s relations with Rome. Just hope he can scare them enough to be sensible, for all our sakes.’
Macro was silent for a moment before he continued softly. ‘Do you think the tribune’11 succeed?’
‘Who knows?’
‘Any idea who they might choose?’
Cato thought briefly. ‘Tincommius is the obvious candidate. Him or Cadminius. If they want peace with Rome.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Macro nodded. ‘Cadminius would be best.’
‘Cadminius? I’m not sure that we know him well enough.’
‘And you think you really know Tincommius?’ Macro looked at his friend earnestly. ‘Enough to trust him with your life? We’d be fools to trust any of this lot.’
‘I suppose.’ Cato ran a soiled hand through his lank hair and frowned. ‘But I think if we can trust anyone it would be Tincommius.’
‘No. I disagree.’
‘Why?’
Macro shrugged. ‘I don’t know exactly. Something doesn’t quite feel right about what happened with Artax.’
‘Artax?’ Cato sniffed. ‘Always thought he was plotting something, especially after I showed him up on the training ground. Wouldn’t trust Artax as far as I could spit him. And I was right.’
‘Yes. . .’
‘I don’t know what Verica could have been thinking when he named him for the succession. That was as good as signing his own death warrant.’
‘You’re wrong, Cato.’ Macro shook his head. ‘What Artax did doesn’t make much sense. Verica’s an old man. He couldn’t be expected to live much longer. Why didn’t Artax just wait?’
‘You know what they’re like.’ Cato nodded surreptitio
usly towards the natives clustered around the great hall. ‘Impatient and hot-headed. My betting is that Artax came across the king alone during the hunt and thought he’d take a short cut to the throne. Lucky for us that Tincommius was there.’
‘So you say.’
‘The last thing we need is someone like Artax running things here in Calleva. We’ve got enough to worry about with Caratacus still on the loose, without having to watch our backs in case the Atrebatans decide to have a change of heart. We’d be caught out nicely. Lucky escape for us. . . On the other hand. . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I can’t help feeling that something worse is about to happen. It’s not over yet.’
Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Macro cuffed Cato on the shoulder. ‘When will you stop seeing the worst in everything? Ever since I’ve known you, it’s always been the same. “Something worse is going to happen.” Get a grip 011 yourself, boy. Better still, get a grip on this cup. Here, I’ll pour. Nothing quite like the sight of the bottom of a cup to cheer a man up.’
For a moment Cato took umbrage at being referred to as a boy. That might have been all right some months before, when he was Macro’s optio, but not now he had been appointed centurion. Cato bit back on his resentment; it would serve no purpose for the two officers to be seen to be at odds in front of this crowd of anxious natives. So he forced himself to drain the cup that Macro had filled for him, gritting his teeth to sieve the sediment that clouded the local beer like mud. He held his cup out for a refill.
‘That’s more like it!’ Macro smiled. ‘Might as well make the most of this while we wait for the tribune.’
They sat at the table and let the heat from the glowing brazier warm them through, and small wisps of steam curled up from the folds of their damp tunics as they drank more beer. Cato, far more responsive to the effects of drink than his companion, became drowsy, slowly slumping back against the wall behind him. His eyes fluttered a moment and then closed. Moments later, chin drooping on to his chest, the young centurion was asleep.
Macro watched him with an amused expression, but did nothing to disturb his friend. He took a perverse satisfaction in this moment of weakness. While he had celebrated Cato’s promotion with a full heart, there were times when it pleased Macro to feel that, after all, his experience counted for more than Cato’s undoubted ability. Despite every battle the lad had fought his way through since joining the Eagles, despite all the courage and resourcefulness Cato had shown in the most desperate of circumstances, he was still not even twenty years of age.
In the orange glow of the gently wavering flames Cato’s face was smooth and unblemished, not scarred and wrinkled like his own, and Macro indulged himself in a moment of fatherly tenderness towards his companion before he took another swig of beer and looked round the great hall. The anxiety of the Atrebatan noblemen was palpable, and already they were forming distinct factions, gathered in close groups in the gloomy depths of the hall. Perhaps the lad was right, Macro reflected. Perhaps there was worse to come.
‘Wake up! Come on, Centurion! Wake up!’
‘What! What’s up?’ Cato mumbled anxiously as a hand shook his shoulder roughly. His eyes flickered open and he jerked upright. Tribune Quintillus was leaning over him. Macro stood to one side, bleary-eyed but erect. Beyond them the hall was almost still. The braziers had burned down, and the dim red embers revealed only the dark forms of men sleeping on the rush-covered floor.
‘You with us, Cato?’ asked Quintillus.
‘Yes, sir. . . Yes.’ Cato rubbed his eyes. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘It’s almost dawn/
‘Dawn?’ Cato was immediately wide awake and furious with himself. Macro saw his friend’s brow crease into a frown and couldn’t help smiling. Quintillus eased himself back and wearily rubbed the stubble on his chin.
‘We have to talk. Follow me.’
The tribune turned abruptly and strode towards the door to the king’s bedchamber as Macro and Cato scrambled to their feet, hurrying after him. The royal bodyguards edged away from the entrance to the chamber to let them through, closing ranks the moment the door shut behind Cato. Once inside, the small group instinctively looked over to the bed where Verica lay. There was no movement, only the rhythmic thin rasp of breathing.
‘Any change?’ asked Quintillus.
The surgeon, seated on a stool beside the bed, shook his head. ‘He hasn’t regained consciousness at all, sir.’
‘Let us know the moment there’s any change, for the better, or worse. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Quintillus gave a curt wave for the others to follow him and led the way through to the king’s private audience chamber. Apart from the large table, the benches and Verica’s ornate wooden throne, the chamber was empty.
‘Sit,’ ordered Quintillus, as he made his way over to the throne and sat himself down without the slightest sign of hesitation. Macro exchanged a quick look with Cato and raised his eyebrows. Quintillus leaned forward on his elbows and pressed the tips of his fingers together.
‘It seems that I have persuaded the council to name Tincommius as Verica’s new heir.’
Of course, we all hope that Verica lives,’ said Macro. Reservations about Tincommius still filled his thoughts.
‘Goes without saying,’ the tribune nodded. ‘He’s the best guarantee of peace between Rome and the Atrebatans.’
‘We’ll do all right by Tincommius, sir,’ said Cato.
‘I hope so.’ Quintillus pressed his palms together. ‘But, if the worst should happen and Verica dies, then we’ll need to move fast. Anyone who opposes the new regime must be rounded up and held in the depot until Tincommius has a firm grip on his people.’
‘You don’t think Artax was acting alone then, sir?’ said Cato.
‘I’m not sure. I had never suspected him of being a traitor.’
‘Really?’ Cato was surprised. ‘Why not, sir?’
‘Because he was supposed to be one of General Plautius’ agents. I doubt the general is going to be too pleased when he finds out that Artax was such a poor investment.’
‘Artax, a spy!’ Macro was surprised. ‘He was a prickly sod, but I thought he was straight enough.’
‘Apparently not, Centurion. Anyway, he wasn’t a spy. He was a double agent,’ Quintillus corrected him. ‘Or at least that’s what he became, it seems. . . It might be that being made Verica’s heir simply went to his head, and he was acting alone.’
‘Maybe, sir.’ Cato shrugged. ‘Either way, I never trusted him. But I think he’s not the last of the locals we have to worry about. Now that Verica’s off the scene I think we can expect some trouble, particularly with Tincommius lined up to succeed him. There are bound to be those who think he’s too young and inexperienced for the job. And others who want to be king themselves.’
‘Some of them may resist the council’s choice,’ Quintillus conceded. ‘Some of them might even take up arms against their new king, if Verica dies. They will be dealt with by your cohorts.’ A smile flickered across the tribune’s lips. ‘Your, er, Wolves and Boars.’
Cato ignored the jibe, too concerned with the implications of the tribune’s orders. A chilling sense of foreboding traced its way up the scalp from the back of his neck.
‘That might not go down too well with some of the men, sir. You saw how it was out there in the hall: the tribe is already beginning to break apart. We can’t afford to make the situation worse.’
‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Centurion. Your men are under your orders. They’ll do as you say. Or, is it that you fear you can’t control your men? That’s a real man’s job, and you’re not much more than a boy. I can understand that. How about you, Macro? Will your men obey orders?’
‘They will, sir, if they know what’s good for them.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ The tribune nodded in satisfaction. ‘Glad to know there’s one officer I can rely on.’
Cato stared at the tribune, figh
ting back his anger and wondering if he was being cruelly baited, or tested. He resolved to remain calm – as calm under this attack on his integrity as he tried to be in front of his men in the face of the enemy.
‘You can rely on me, and my cohort too, sir.’
The tribune stared at him for a moment. ‘I hope so, Cato. I hope so. . . But for now the situation is hypothetical. Verica still lives, and while he lives we must all endeavour to make sure that relations between Rome and the Atrebatans continue as they were before.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato nodded. ‘And we must do our best to make sure the Atrebatans keep the peace amongst themselves.’
Tribune Quintillus smiled. ‘That goes without saying, Centurion.’
* * *
‘Bastard!’ Cato muttered as he and Macro walked back to the depot. The rising sun was still below the level of the roofs of the native huts lining the muddy track. The air was cool and damp, and by the thin light of this early hour Cato had seen how filthy he was and yearned for a good wash and a clean tunic. But the withering contempt of the tribune clung to him like a shadow and the young centurion knew that would be a lot harder to shift than a layer of dirt and grime.
‘Don’t carry on so!’ Macro laughed. ‘You’re whining like a jilted bride.’
‘You heard him. “That’s a real man’s job,”’ Cato mimicked. ‘Bastard. Arrogant patrician bastard. I could show him a thing or two.’
‘Of course you could,’ Macro said soothingly, and held his hands up as Cato shot him a withering look. ‘Sorry. Wrong tone. Anyway, look on the bright side.’
‘There is one?’
Macro ignored the bitter remark. ‘Verica’s still with us for the moment. And even if he drops off the twig we’ve got a man lined up to replace him. Tincommius wouldn’t be my number one choice but at least he’s not a traitor, like Artax. Things could be a lot worse.’
‘Which means they will be. . .’
This was too much for Macro. Much as he liked Cato, the lad’s constant pessimism could have a profoundly depressing and irritating effect on a generally cheerful soul like Macro, and he stepped in front of Cato, blocking the young centurion’s path. “Don’t you ever stop being defeatist?’ he snapped. ‘It’s really starting to get on my wick.’
The Eagle and the Wolves Page 23
