Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

'Macro, what are we going to do about Bedriacus' murder?'

'What can we do? Bloody tribune's gone and released the only suspect. Bet that Artax is laughing at us.'

Macro looked over his shoulder at the nobles, sleeping off their ride before the evening meal. Only a few were awake, Artax and Tincommius amongst them, talking in quiet tones as they sipped beer from gilded drinking horns. Verica, on the cusp of dotage, needed a nap and was propped up against a lamb's hide bolster, mouth hanging open as he snored. Around him squatted his bodyguards, very much awake and with their weapons within reach.

Macro shifted his gaze back to Artax as Cato continued quietly, 'Question is, why did he let Bedriacus die the way he did?'

'A good stab in the chest is generally a sensible way to proceed.' Macro yawned. 'He could have tried your method, of course, and talked poor Bedriacus to death.'

Cato ignored the bait. 'Talking is very much the issue.'

Macro sighed. 'Somehow I knew you'd come up with something like that. Go on then, tell me what talking has got to do with it.'

'It's just this. Bedriacus wanted to warn us about something. He was stabbed by someone who wanted to prevent him passing on the warning. And the most likely suspect is Artax.'

'Yes. So?'

'So why didn't Artax finish him off when Tincommius went to find us?'

'I don't know.' Macro shrugged. 'Maybe the surgeon turned up too quickly.'

'How long would it have taken to add another, lethal wound? Or smother him? He must have had time. He had to take the risk and kill Bedriacus. He couldn't afford to let him speak to us.'

'Maybe. But if that's the case, then why didn't he finish Bedriacus off while he had the chance?'

'I don't know…' Cato shook his head. 'I don't know.'

'It might be that he was just passing by, as Tincommius said.'

Cato turned and looked straight into Macro's eyes. 'Do you really believe that?'

'No. He did it, all right. Just look at the shifty sod. Would you trust him with your sister?'

Artax was still talking with Tincommius, hunched forward as they conversed in tones so low that they were inaudible from where the centurions were sitting.

Before Cato could reply, a horn sounded across the small campsite, calling everyone to the evening meal. The two centurions rose up from the side of the stream and strolled across the grass to where the Atrebatan nobles were slowly waking from their slumbers. To one side lay Tribune Quintillus, on his back, one foot crossed over the other as he stared towards the setting sun. At the second sounding of the horn the tribune sat up and saw Macro and Cato approaching. With a discreet nod of his head he directed them away from where he was sitting and they altered course towards the area where the lesser nobles squatted.

'Hobnobbing with the rich and powerful, as usual,' Macro complained quietly. 'Don't know why he bothers. I doubt they have much in common.'

'Some of them speak Latin – not brilliantly, but enough to get by. They can translate for the rest.'

'That's only half the problem!' Macro laughed. 'What the hell are they going to speak about? The latest fashion in Rome? Or what well-bred Trinovantian matrons are wearing this season? I don't think so.'

'I don't think he'll have much of a problem,' said Cato. 'Social class is a pretty universal language. The sons of the aristocracy are a clubbable bunch, they'll have no problem communicating.'

Nor did they. As darkness thickened and the king's party fell to feasting, the tribune and his newfound Atrebatan friends got roaring drunk, singing and talking in loud slurred voices and splitting their sides at the slightest joke or mishap. Carved chunks of roast mutton were eagerly devoured and washed down with yet more drink as the night wore on. All the while the king sat quietly by, indulging the raucousness of his youthful companions. He ate little and drank nothing but a little watered wine. A brilliant moon rose, outshining all but the brightest stars and casting a thin blue mantle of light across the sleeping landscape. At last, drowsiness overcame most of the royal companions and one by one they crawled off to their sleeping lines and dropped into the warm skins their servants had made ready for them. Just as Cato and Macro drained the last of their beer, the king's chief steward approached from the shadows and bent down over them.

'The king desires you to join him by his fire.' The steward spoke softly in his tongue and, without waiting for a reply, turned and made his way back to his master.

'What was that?' asked Macro sleepily.

'Verica wants to speak with us.'

'Now?'

'Apparently.'

'What about?'

'The servant didn't say.'

'Shit! Just when I was ready to drop off. Hope the old boy doesn't keep us long.'

'I think he might,' said Cato. 'Has to be something important. Why else wait until almost everyone is asleep? Come on.'

Macro swore softly and then rose unsteadily to his feet and followed Cato past the snoring forms of sleeping men towards the dying fire, set slightly aside from the rest of the camp site. King Verica sat on an oak stool, flanked by the still forms of two of his bodyguards. A wan orange glow played over his wrinkled face and wispy beard, and his hand slowly turned a gold goblet resting on his lap. He looked up as the two centurions approached and a smile flickered across his face as he gestured them to take a place beside the glowing embers. A few others were already seated: Tincommius, Tribune Quintillus and Artax. Cato paused in mid-stride as he made out the last face, and then sat himself on the warm ground, on the opposite side of the fire to the tribune. Macro slumped heavily beside him. Cato suddenly felt very awake, and wary. Why had these three been summoned to sit with them before the king? What was it that Verica had to say, so late in the night, and so secret?

The king waved his steward over and handed him the empty goblet. The steward muttered something and Verica shook his head.

'No. No more. See that we are not disturbed. No one is to come near enough to hear our words.'

'Yes, my lord.'

When the steward had left them the king silently raised his head towards the gleaming moon for a moment before he addressed his guests. When he began there was a great weariness in his voice.

'I'll speak mostly in my tongue, since what I have to say affects my kinsman Artax more than anyone else. Centurions Macro and Cato are here because they have earned my gratitude and, more importantly, my trust. The tribune is present because he represents General Plautius. Centurion Cato, do you have enough of our tongue to translate for your Roman companions?'

'I think so, my lord.'

Verica frowned. 'Be sure that you do. I want no misunderstanding over what I am about to say. You will all bear witness to my wishes this night, and I task you all to honour them in the coming months. Understand me, Centurion?'

'Yes, my lord. If there's any doubt, then Tincommius can help me with the translation.'

'So be it. Now explain this to the others.'

After Cato finished translating this exchange to Macro the latter leaned close to whisper. 'What's going on, lad?'

'I've no idea.'

Verica lowered his head and gazed into his lap. 'I've had a strange feeling these last few days. I sense that my death is imminent. I've even had a dream: Lud came to claim my spirit… during tomorrow's hunt.'

He looked up at his listeners, as if seeking a response, but none came. What could a man say to a king who voiced intimations of his own mortality? For Cato, more used to the ready assumption of divine status by the three emperors he had lived under, there was something very touching about Verica's admission. Perhaps he feared death as much as other men. It would be unconscionably crass to offer any reassurance that the king need not fear death. That was the sort of remark best left to the most obsequious of men; the sort of remark that almost any senator in Rome could be relied upon to make loudly and publicly should anyone voice any doubts that the current Caesar would be with them for ever.