Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

'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 heart 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

'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.