The Eagle and the Wolves

'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.

'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 halclass="underline" 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.'