Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

'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…'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

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, following 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.'