Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

'Too late for what, sir?'

'What?' The tribune glared at him. 'Tell them! What are you waiting for, Centurion?'

Cato saw the crowd breaking into a loose mass, rushing back towards the gateway.

'There's no point now, sir.'

'Just do it! Tell them!' Quintillus screamed at him. 'I command it!'

'Yes, sir. At once.' Cato saluted, turned to face the bodyguard and frowned. 'Soon as I can remember the right words.'

The tribune's face drained of blood as his mouth clenched in a tight line. Macro had to look away before he laughed, and he busied himself with an adjustment to his sword belt. He heard Cato click his fingers.

'That's it! I remember now!… Hey! Where'd they go?'

Tribune Quintillus glared at Centurion Cato for a long time, and Macro began to worry that his young friend had overstepped the mark. Then, as Verica's bodyguard lowered their weapons and began to trot back towards the head of the small column, the tribune rammed his sword into its sheath and nodded slowly at Cato.

'Very well, Centurion. So be it. This time you've had your way, but I'm warning you, if I detect one shred of disrespect or disobedience from you again, I'll see to it that you're finished with the Eagles. At the very best I'll have you broken back to the ranks, on latrine duty, shovelling shit for the rest of your life.'

'Shovelling shit. Yes, sir.'

Tribune Quintillus clenched his teeth angrily, then wheeled his mount, savagely dug his heels in and galloped it on towards the king and his entourage. The two centurions watched him go. Macro scratched the bristles on his chin and shook his head slowly.

'You know, Cato, old son, I really wouldn't make a habit of pissing off tribunes. Likely as not he'll make legate one day, and what if he happens to be in command of any legion you might be serving with? What then, eh?'

Cato shrugged. 'I'll deal with that when the time comes. But if pricks like that are ever trusted with command of a legion then we might as well hand the Empire over to the barbarians right now.'

Macro laughed. 'Don't take it to heart! He just sees you as something in the way of him grabbing the glory that's his due. It's nothing personal.'

'Oh?' Cato muttered. 'Well, it's personal now. Personal to me.'

'Bollocks!' Macro reached over and slapped Cato on the shoulder. 'Forget it. He's out of your reach. You can't afford to have him as an enemy. Pick on someone that fits your purse. Better still, just forget the whole thing.'

Cato glanced at him. 'That's rich, coming from you.'

The royal hunting party left Calleva and its troubled population behind them. The capital of the Atrebatans soon disappeared behind a hill as the column of riders, wagons and servants on foot followed the rutted track through the rolling landscape, with its scattered farms interspersed with small clumps of unfelled woods and slender coppices. Despite the fears over the raids that Caratacus and his Durotrigan allies were conducting deep into Atrebatan lands, some of the farms were still being worked. Occasional fields of barley and wheat rippled yellow and gold in the light breeze that wafted fluffy white clouds across a deep blue sky.

Cato's sullen mood was gradually assuaged once Calleva was far behind them. Tribune Quintillus was lost amid the cluster of men crowding about the king, and Cato soon forgot him as he let his eyes dwell on the fertile British landscape. True, it wasn't as dramatic, or cultured and cultivated as the countryside around Rome, but it had a gentle unspoiled beauty of its own and he savoured the sweet scents it offered up to him.

'It'll be a nice spot to retire in,' mused Macro, correctly reading his companion's expression. 'Once we've given the enemy a good kicking.'

'How long have you got to serve?' Cato asked, with a tinge of anxiety as he anticipated life in the Second Legion without Macro at his side.

'Eleven years, assuming the Emperor honours the end-of-service rituals.'

'You think he won't?'

'I don't know. After the Varus disaster they kept some time-served veterans on until they could barely walk, or eat. Some of those boys had to put Germanicus' hand on their bare gums before he realised they'd had enough of the army.'

'Really?'

'Oh yes! There were still some of 'em around when I joined up. Poor sods. If the Germans had known the Rhine legions were made up of old men barely strong enough to lift a sword, they'd have swept through Gaul like crap through a goose.'

'Colourful.'

'No. Just truthful. It'd have been us soldiers buried up to our necks in shit, while those bloody politicians in Rome tried to pin the blame on each other. Bastards.'

'Still, it's different now,' countered Cato. 'Those who have served their time seem to be getting the discharge, with a full gratuity. The Emperor seems to be honouring that well enough.'

'Sure. Old Claudius seems to be an honest type, but he ain't going to last for ever.' Macro shook his head sadly. 'The better ones never do. Bound to get some little shit like Caligula, or worse, like Vitellius next, knowing our luck.'

Cato shook his head with a wry smile. 'Vitellius? Oh, come on! Even scum like him get found out in the end. Vitellius becoming Emperor? No. It isn't possible.'

'You don't think so?' Macro looked serious. 'I'd bet good money on it.'

'Then you'd lose it.'

'I know his type: no ambition is ever too high.' Macro pointed towards the front of the column. 'Like our friend Quintillus there.'

Cato's eyes followed the direction Macro was indicating, and saw that the king's companions were riding in a loose column, in twos and threes. Amongst them, Cato could just make out the scarlet cloak of the tribune. A man was riding close by the side of Quintillus; a broad-shouldered man with dark hair braided into pigtails, and Cato wondered what Artax was doing in such deep conversation with the tribune.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

At dusk they camped beside a small pebbly stream that chuckled along the edge of the forest where the next day's hunting would take place. The sun hung low in the sky, massive against the western horizon as it washed the underside of the few thin clouds in orange and red. Long dark shadows stretched across the grass growing along the stream, which was short, eaten down by sheep from a nearby farm that had evaded the attentions of the Durotrigans. The farm, a low huddle of thatched round huts surrounded by a flimsy stockade, stood half a mile away on the other side of the stream. A small fire glinted from within the opening of the largest hut and a thin trail of smoke gradually dispersed above the thatched roofs.

The king, spying the fattened sheep, had decided that he wanted to dine on roast mutton. The best specimen had been slaughtered by his kitchen steward, and the body had been opened up and spitted, ready for roasting over the fire being prepared by some of the household slaves. When the flames died down the kitchen slaves raked the embers over and began to roast the carcass. Fat oozed from the meat and dripped down on to the glowing heart of the fire where it exploded in short-lived flares of smoky orange flame.

Macro's nose twitched. 'Smell that! You ever smelled anything so good?'

'It's just your stomach speaking,' said Cato.

'Sure it is, but go on, take a sniff.'

Cato had never particularly liked the smell of roasting meat. The resulting meal was fine, but the smell reminded him of funeral pyres.

'Mmmm,' Macro continued his reverie with half-closed eyes. 'I can almost taste it.'

There was so much smoke now that their eyes began to water. Without saying a word the two of them got up and moved away to a spot by the stream. The water looked clear and Cato cupped a handful to his lips and guzzled it down, cool and refreshing after the hot day's ride. A day in which he had had plenty of time to think.