Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

'All right.' Cato looked round and caught the eye of a royal bodyguard, lounging against one of the wagon wheels, thumbs tucked into the cord that held checked breeches around his hairy stomach. Cato beckoned to the man, but the Briton merely flickered a smile back, and continued to stare languidly at the slaves toiling around him. With a low curse Cato pushed his way over to the bodyguard.

'Hey! You!'

The bodyguard looked round at the approaching Romans with an irritated expression.

'You seen the tribune?'

Cato knew that his accent was clear enough, but the man stared at him blankly.

'The tribune. The Roman who arrived four days ago. Is he here?'

'Sa!' The bodyguard nodded, once.

'Where?'

The Briton tipped his head towards the great hall. 'Inside?'

'Na! Training.'

Cato turned to Macro. 'He's here. Behind the hall.'

'Right.' Macro was staring hard at the bodyguard. 'Chatty type, aren't you?'

The Latin was incomprehensible to the bodyguard and he simply returned Macro's stare, silent and unyielding.

'Come on,' said Cato. 'Can't keep the tribune waiting. Save that one for later.'

With Cato leading the way, the two centurions pushed through the throng towards the entrance to the great hall. The two guards knew them well enough by now to wave them through. The interior was dark and cool, and it took a moment for Cato and Macro to adjust to the contrast. Then Cato could see a few of the nobles resting quietly along the benches lining each side of the hall. Discarded cups and the remains of a meal lay on wooden platters strewn along the wide wooden tables. Lying stretched out on the floor were the dim shapes of hunting dogs – all still, save one bitch who was licking one of the puppies nestling against her side. Overhead, a few stray beams of light pierced the thatch and shafted through the gloom.

'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.