Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

'He apologises for the hounds, but there were no wolves to be had in such a hurry. He means the fight to honour the Wolf and the Boar Cohorts, and their commanders. The winner of the fight will be given the chance to do one more deed to complete the evening's entertainment.'

'One more deed?' Macro turned towards Tincommius. 'What's that all about?'

Tincommius shrugged. 'No idea. Honestly.'

'As long as the old boy keeps the show going,' said Macro.

Verica raised his arm, held it up for a moment, then swept it down with a dramatic flourish. The dog handlers released their grips on the collars and scurried for safety behind the ring of torches. The crowd roared as the hunting dogs bounded towards the boar, still swaying on its feet, but now with its shoulders hunched and jaws open and ready to deal terrible injury to its attackers.

The first dog to reach its prey jumped for the boar's neck, jaws open, ready to clamp shut on the boar's throat and tear it out. But the boar struck first, swatting the hunting dog to one side with its snout as if it weighed no more than a sack of feathers. The dog crashed to the stone floor with a sickening thump and a pained yelp. The crowd cried out: a strangely dissonant chorus of groans from those who had backed the dogs, and cheers from those who had bet on the boar. The other dogs, true to the intelligence of their breed, swerved aside and took up positions either side of the boar, feinting with sudden darting movements and snaps of their great jaws. Slowly shifting round, the boar kept its tusks lowered, ready to deal slashing blows at any dog that came within reach.

'No two dogs alive are ever going to kill that beast,' Macro yelled above the roar of the crowd. Cato nodded his agreement; the first dog was still struggling to get back on to its feet.

'Don't be too sure, sir,' Tincommius shouted back. 'Have you ever seen this breed before?'

Macro shook his head.

'They come from across the sea.'

'Gaul?'

'No. The other way. I think you Romans call it Hibernia.'

'I've heard of it,' Macro bluffed.

'From what they say, it's so inhospitable that I doubt even a Roman would consider invading it. They breed good hunting dogs, though. Like those three. That boar's in for the fight of its life.'

'Care to take a wager?'

'What's the stake?'

'Wine. I'd kill for something to take away the taste of this beer.'

'You haven't had a problem with it so far.'

Macro slapped a friendly arm around the young Celt's shoulder as he grabbed the nearest jug of beer. 'Soldiers will drink anything to get shit-faced. Anything, old son. Even this crap. Cheers!'

'An amphora of wine on the dogs then, sir,' said Tincommius, as he casually shrugged off the centurion's arm.

'Done.' Macro raised the jug to his lips and guzzled a deep draught, brown drips spilling from each side of his mouth.

The first dog had finally regained its feet, and took position between the other two, warily waiting for a chance to dash in and snap at the boar. The latter now had to keep watch in three directions and its great dark head was constantly turning this way and that. Cato watched the spectacle with a curious mixture of sentiment. He had been to the games in Rome a few times and had witnessed the bloody contests between beasts before. They had always struck him as somehow distasteful, even as he had thrilled to the tense atmosphere, and the excitement of the fights themselves, but afterwards he was left feeling guilty, sordid. Now, this fight between the hunting dogs and the boar induced that same sense of compulsive interest and repulsive self-awareness.

There was a sharp yelp of agony as the injured dog feinted towards the boar's leg and retreated too slowly to avoid the tusks. Now it lay where it had fallen, belly and chest ripped open. Glistening intestines slipped out into a smeared pool of blood as the dog jerked its legs in a pathetic attempt to rise back to its feet.

Macro smacked his thigh. 'I can taste that wine already!'

The boar took advantage of the fallen adversary, padded over and slashed at the stricken dog. In doing so, it brought about its own destruction. In a blur of grey one of the other dogs leaped on to the boar's back and buried its teeth in the boar's bristling neck. The third dog flew in from the side and clamped its teeth round the boar's throat. Instantly the boar lowered its head, frantically trying to shake its attackers loose, but the powerful jaws held firm, crushing its windpipe. Slowly the beast weakened, the flailing of the trotters gradually fading. At last the boar swayed a moment before its legs gave out and it slumped to the ground, with the dogs' jaws still clamped below its head. A roar of delight erupted from the crowd, drowning out the groans of those who had backed the boar.

'Fuck!' Macro shouted. 'Where'd they get that boar from? Bloody fight was rigged!'

Tincommius laughed. 'Shall I collect my wine in the morning, Centurion?'

'Do what you like.'

Cato ignored them, and watched in sick fascination as the dogs tore out the boar's throat with all the vicious efficiency of many years of training for their role in the hunt. Once the boar was quite dead the handlers moved in and carefully replaced the leashes on their charges. The dead dog was heaved back into the wagon, then half a dozen bodyguards strained with the loose mass of the boar, struggling to lift it on top of the mangled form of its erstwhile foe. Then the wagon was trundled out of the hall again, and a fresh murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd as they waited for the final entertainment of the evening.

After a short pause the bodyguards returned to the hall. Between each pair of men was a prisoner, bound hand and foot, eight of them in all. The prisoners were dragged to one side of the hall, close to the guests sitting on the tables. Opposite them were the hunting dogs, blood dripping from their muzzles and flanks still heaving from the frenzied effort of their attack on the boar.

'What the hell's going on?' asked Macro, turning to Cato. 'They're our bloody prisoners!'

Cato looked at the prisoners. 'I know them. They're the Atrebatans we captured… Oh, no. He can't mean to…' The colour drained from Cato's face.

'What?' Macro asked. 'What's going on? Who are you talking about?'

Verica was back on his feet, and the guests needed no prompting for silence as their gaze flickered between the king of the Atrebatans and the bound prisoners, glancing anxiously at the dogs. Verica started to speak. This time there was no warmth in his voice, no hint of his earlier hospitality.

'The traitors are to die. If they had been Durotrigans they might be spared with a less terrible end. There can be no easy death for those who turn on the tribe that gave life to them and demands loyalty unto death in return. Therefore, they will die like dogs, and their bodies will be cast into Calleva's midden for the carrion to feed on.'

'He can't be serious,' Cato whispered to Tincommius. 'Surely?'

'Not with my bloody prisoners!' Macro added indignantly.

Before they could raise any protest, a figure leaped from the crowd and ran into the space between the hunting dogs and the huddle of bound prisoners. Artax pointed to the prisoners and addressed his king and the guests in a deep, commanding voice.

'What's he saying?' asked Macro.

Cato could understand some of the words, but Artax's passion had been inflamed. That, and far too much beer, made the torrent of words hard to follow. Cato grasped Tincommius' arm and nodded at Artax.

'He knows those men,' Tincommius explained. 'One is his half-brother. Another is his wife's cousin. He wants them spared. No member of our tribe should die like this.'

A grumble of assent accompanied Artax's words, but Verica pointed a trembling finger at the prisoners and replied in tones of indignant anger, 'They will die. They must serve as an example to all those who would side with the enemies of the Atrebatans and Rome. The lesson must be learned. All those who even think of betraying their king must learn of his terrible revenge.'