Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

'Wake up! Come on, Centurion! Wake up!'

'What! What's up?' Cato mumbled anxiously as a hand shook his shoulder roughly. His eyes flickered open and he jerked upright. Tribune Quintillus was leaning over him. Macro stood to one side, bleary-eyed but erect. Beyond them the hall was almost still. The braziers had burned down, and the dim red embers revealed only the dark forms of men sleeping on the rush-covered floor.

'You with us, Cato?' asked Quintillus.

'Yes, sir… Yes.' Cato rubbed his eyes. 'How long have I been asleep?'

'It's almost dawn.'

'Dawn?' Cato was immediately wide awake and furious with himself. Macro saw his friend's brow crease into a frown and couldn't help smiling. Quintillus eased himself back and wearily rubbed the stubble on his chin.

'We have to talk. Follow me.'

The tribune turned abruptly and strode towards the door to the king's bedchamber as Macro and Cato scrambled to their feet, hurrying after him. The royal bodyguards edged away from the entrance to the chamber to let them through, closing ranks the moment the door shut behind Cato. Once inside, the small group instinctively looked over to the bed where Verica lay. There was no movement, only the rhythmic thin rasp of breathing.

'Any change?' asked Quintillus.

The surgeon, seated on a stool beside the bed, shook his head. 'He hasn't regained consciousness at all, sir.'

'Let us know the moment there's any change, for the better, or worse. Understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

Quintillus gave a curt wave for the others to follow him and led the way through to the king's private audience chamber. Apart from the large table, the benches and Verica's ornate wooden throne, the chamber was empty.

'Sit,' ordered Quintillus, as he made his way over to the throne and sat himself down without the slightest sign of hesitation. Macro exchanged a quick look with Cato and raised his eyebrows. Quintillus leaned forward on his elbows and pressed the tips of his fingers together.

'It seems that I have persuaded the council to name Tincommius as Verica's new heir.'

'Of course, we all hope that Verica lives,' said Macro. Reservations about Tincommius still filled his thoughts.

'Goes without saying,' the tribune nodded. 'He's the best guarantee of peace between Rome and the Atrebatans.'

'We'll do all right by Tincommius, sir,' said Cato.

'I hope so.' Quintillus pressed his palms together. 'But, if the worst should happen and Verica dies, then we'll need to move fast. Anyone who opposes the new regime must be rounded up and held in the depot until Tincommius has a firm grip on his people.'

'You don't think Artax was acting alone then, sir?' said Cato.

'I'm not sure. I had never suspected him of being a traitor.'

'Really?' Cato was surprised. 'Why not, sir?'

'Because he was supposed to be one of General Plautius' agents. I doubt the general is going to be too pleased when he finds out that Artax was such a poor investment.'

'Artax, a spy!' Macro was surprised. 'He was a prickly sod, but I thought he was straight enough.'

'Apparently not, Centurion. Anyway, he wasn't a spy. He was a double agent,' Quintillus corrected him. 'Or at least that's what he became, it seems… It might be that being made Verica's heir simply went to his head, and he was acting alone.'

'Maybe, sir.' Cato shrugged. 'Either way, I never trusted him. But I think he's not the last of the locals we have to worry about. Now that Verica's off the scene I think we can expect some trouble, particularly with Tincommius lined up to succeed him. There are bound to be those who think he's too young and inexperienced for the job. And others who want to be king themselves.'

'Some of them may resist the council's choice,' Quintillus conceded. 'Some of them might even take up arms against their new king, if Verica dies. They will be dealt with by your cohorts.' A smile flickered across the tribune's lips. 'Your, er, Wolves and Boars.'

Cato ignored the jibe, too concerned with the implications of the tribune's orders. A chilling sense of foreboding traced its way up the scalp from the back of his neck.

'That might not go down too well with some of the men, sir. You saw how it was out there in the hall: the tribe is already beginning to break apart. We can't afford to make the situation worse.'

'Don't be so melodramatic, Centurion. Your men are under your orders. They'll do as you say. Or, is it that you fear you can't control your men? That's a real man's job, and you're not much more than a boy. I can understand that. How about you, Macro? Will your men obey orders?'

'They will, sir, if they know what's good for them.'

'That's the spirit!' The tribune nodded in satisfaction. 'Glad to know there's one officer I can rely on.'

Cato stared at the tribune, fighting back his anger and wondering if he was being cruelly baited, or tested. He resolved to remain calm – as calm under this attack on his integrity as he tried to be in front of his men in the face of the enemy.

'You can rely on me, and my cohort too, sir.'

The tribune stared at him for a moment. 'I hope so, Cato. I hope so… But for now the situation is hypothetical. Verica still lives, and while he lives we must all endeavour to make sure that relations between Rome and the Atrebatans continue as they were before.'

'Yes, sir.' Cato nodded. 'And we must do our best to make sure the Atrebatans keep the peace amongst themselves.'

Tribune Quintillus smiled. 'That goes without saying, Centurion.'

'Bastard!' Cato muttered as he and Macro walked back to the depot. The rising sun was still below the level of the roofs of the native huts lining the muddy track. The air was cool and damp, and by the thin light of this early hour Cato had seen how filthy he was and yearned for a good wash and a clean tunic. But the withering contempt of the tribune clung to him like a shadow and the young centurion knew that would be a lot harder to shift than a layer of dirt and grime.

'Don't carry on so!' Macro laughed. 'You're whining like a jilted bride.'

'You heard him. "That's a real man's job," ' Cato mimicked. 'Bastard. Arrogant patrician bastard. I could show him a thing or two.'

'Of course you could,' Macro said soothingly, and held his hands up as Cato shot him a withering look. 'Sorry. Wrong tone. Anyway, look on the bright side.'

'There is one?'

Macro ignored the bitter remark. 'Verica's still with us for the moment. And even if he drops off the twig we've got a man lined up to replace him. Tincommius wouldn't be my number one choice but at least he's not a traitor, like Artax. Things could be a lot worse.'

'Which means they will be…'

This was too much for Macro. Much as he liked Cato, the lad's constant pessimism could have a profoundly depressing and irritating effect on a generally cheerful soul like Macro, and he stepped in front of Cato, blocking the young centurion's path. 'Don't you ever stop being defeatist?' he snapped. 'It's really starting to get on my wick.'

Cato looked down into his superior's face. 'I'm so sorry, sir. Must be nerves.'

For an instant the older man tensed up, hands balling into fists at the end of his thick hairy forearms. Macro felt an overwhelming urge to knock some sense into Cato and get him to quit his grinding mood of depression. Then Macro relaxed his hands, slowly rested them on his hips and spoke very deliberately.

'You know, I wonder if the tribune wasn't right after all. If you get so riled by a few harsh words then maybe you've no place commanding grown-ups.'

Before Cato knew what he was doing his fist shot out and slammed into Macro's jaw. The older centurion's head snapped back and he staggered away from Cato. Macro recovered his balance and felt his jaw, raising his eyebrows as he saw blood on the palm of his hand from a split lip. He looked up at Cato, with a cold glint in his eyes.