Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

The great hall was filled with men clustered in small groups around the trestle tables. Several of the king's bodyguard barred the way into Verica's private quarters, swords drawn and alert to any danger. Whispers and carefully moderated voices filled the air, and all eyes frequently flickered towards the doorway leading into Verica's bedchamber. Word of Verica's injury had started to spread beyond the royal enclosure, through the muddy byways of Calleva, and Atrebatans of every rank anxiously waited for further news.

Earlier Cato had watched the surgeon carefully clean the blood and mud away from the old man's torn scalp. The surgeon sucked in a deep breath before he gently probed the discoloured skin beneath the thinning hair. Then he sat back and nodded at Cato.

'He'll live, for now.'

'What are his chances?'

'Can't say. With this kind of injury he might be fine in a few days, or dead.'

'I see,' Cato muttered. 'Do what you can.'

The king lay on his bed, his face deathly pale where it showed beneath the dressing the Roman surgeon had applied to the wound. The old man's breathing was shallow. But for the faint rise and fall of his chest he looked as good as dead.

'Let me know the moment there's any change,' Cato told the surgeon.

'Yes, sir.'

Cato stepped away from the bed and headed towards the door leading into the hall. He paused before leaving the chamber. On the opposite wall was another door leading to the king's private audience chamber, through which Cato could hear the muffled sounds of a heated debate. Then Quintillus called loudly for silence. It was tempting to go to the door and listen more closely, but Cato would not demean himself in such a way in front of the surgeon. Outside in the great hall Cato caught sight of Macro taking a seat at the nearest bench and hurried over to his friend to report on the king's condition.

'No improvement? What did the surgeon say?'

'Not much,' Cato replied, conscious that many eyes were on him as he had emerged from Verica's bedchamber. 'Artax must have hit him pretty hard. Verica's lost a lot of blood, but the skull's intact. He might live.'

'He'd better.' Macro glanced round the hall. 'I get the impression that there's quite a few of the locals who might welcome a change of regime. Not much love lost for us here.'

'Maybe,' Cato shrugged wearily, 'but I think they're just scared.'

'Scared?' Macro's voice rose in surprise and a score of faces, dimly lit by the glow of the hall's torches, turned towards the two centurions. Macro tilted his head closer to Cato. 'A bunch of scared Celts? There's something I thought I'd never live to see.'

'You can hardly blame them. If the king dies they've lost him and his chosen successor in one go. Anything could happen. There's no one named to succeed him. The king's council will have to choose a new ruler. Just hope Quintillus can persuade them to pick someone who'll keep the Atrebatans on our side.'

'And where is our fine tribune?'

'He's with them now, in Verica's audience chamber.'

'Hope he's turning on the charm.'

'Charm doesn't come into it,' muttered Cato. 'I imagine he'll be quite blunt about the consequences of any change in the tribe's relations with Rome. Just hope he can scare them enough to be sensible, for all our sakes.'

Macro was silent for a moment before he continued softly. 'Do you think the tribune'll succeed?'

'Who knows?'

'Any idea who they might choose?'

Cato thought briefly. 'Tincommius is the obvious candidate. Him or Cadminius. If they want peace with Rome.'

'That's what I thought.' Macro nodded. 'Cadminius would be best.'

'Cadminius? I'm not sure that we know him well enough.'

'And you think you really know Tincommius?' Macro looked at his friend earnestly. 'Enough to trust him with your life? We'd be fools to trust any of this lot.'

'I suppose.' Cato ran a soiled hand through his lank hair and frowned. 'But I think if we can trust anyone it would be Tincommius.'

'No. I disagree.'

'Why?'

Macro shrugged. 'I don't know exactly. Something doesn't quite feel right about what happened with Artax.'

'Artax?' Cato sniffed. 'Always thought he was plotting something, especially after I showed him up on the training ground. Wouldn't trust Artax as far as I could spit him. And I was right.'

'Yes…'

'I don't know what Verica could have been thinking when he named him for the succession. That was as good as signing his own death warrant.'

'You're wrong, Cato.' Macro shook his head. 'What Artax did doesn't make much sense. Verica's an old man. He couldn't be expected to live much longer. Why didn't Artax just wait?'

'You know what they're like.' Cato nodded surreptitiously towards the natives clustered around the great hall. 'Impatient and hot-headed. My betting is that Artax came across the king alone during the hunt and thought he'd take a short cut to the throne. Lucky for us that Tincommius was there.'

'So you say.'

'The last thing we need is someone like Artax running things here in Calleva. We've got enough to worry about with Caratacus still on the loose, without having to watch our backs in case the Atrebatans decide to have a change of heart. We'd be caught out nicely. Lucky escape for us… On the other hand…'

'Yes?'

'I can't help feeling that something worse is about to happen. It's not over yet.'

'Oh, for fuck's sake!' Macro cuffed Cato on the shoulder. 'When will you stop seeing the worst in everything? Ever since I've known you, it's always been the same. "Something worse is going to happen." Get a grip on yourself, boy. Better still, get a grip on this cup. Here, I'll pour. Nothing quite like the sight of the bottom of a cup to cheer a man up.'

For a moment Cato took umbrage at being referred to as a boy. That might have been all right some months before, when he was Macro's optio, but not now he had been appointed centurion. Cato bit back on his resentment; it would serve no purpose for the two officers to be seen to be at odds in front of this crowd of anxious natives. So he forced himself to drain the cup that Macro had filled for him, gritting his teeth to sieve the sediment that clouded the local beer like mud. He held his cup out for a refill.

'That's more like it!' Macro smiled. 'Might as well make the most of this while we wait for the tribune.'

They sat at the table and let the heat from the glowing brazier warm them through, and small wisps of steam curled up from the folds of their damp tunics as they drank more beer. Cato, far more responsive to the effects of drink than his companion, became drowsy, slowly slumping back against the wall behind him. His eyes fluttered a moment and then closed. Moments later, chin drooping on to his chest, the young centurion was asleep.

Macro watched him with an amused expression, but did nothing to disturb his friend. He took a perverse satisfaction in this moment of weakness. While he had celebrated Cato's promotion with a full heart, there were times when it pleased Macro to feel that, after all, his experience counted for more than Cato's undoubted ability. Despite every battle the lad had fought his way through since joining the Eagles, despite all the courage and resourcefulness Cato had shown in the most desperate of circumstances, he was still not even twenty years of age.

In the orange glow of the gently wavering flames Cato's face was smooth and unblemished, not scarred and wrinkled like his own, and Macro indulged himself in a moment of fatherly tenderness towards his companion before he took another swig of beer and looked round the great hall. The anxiety of the Atrebatan noblemen was palpable, and already they were forming distinct factions, gathered in close groups in the gloomy depths of the hall. Perhaps the lad was right, Macro reflected. Perhaps there was worse to come.