The Eagle and the Wolves

'Whatever you do,' said Macro, close to his ear, 'don't pinch your nose when you swallow. Take it like a man.'

Cato nodded and braced himself for the first sip. The bitterness came as a surprise, a pleasant surprise, he decided. Maybe there was a future for British beer after all. He lowered the cup and started chewing on a crudely cut hunk of steaming pork.

'Good!' He nodded to Macro.

'Good? 'S bloody wonderful!'

For a while, the guests at the top table ate in silence, grateful for the food after the lengthy delay. Verica, older and more gracious than his nobles, held his meat in a delicate manner and nibbled steadily at the pork with his remaining teeth. His appetite quickly deserted him and, wiping his greasy fingers in the long fur of one of his hunting dogs, he raised his drinking horn and looked over towards the two Romans.

'A toast to our Roman friends, their Emperor Claudius and the swift defeat of those foolish enough to resist the advance of Rome.'

Verica repeated the toast in Celtic and his words were taken up by the others seated around the table – although not all of them looked quite as enthusiastic as their king, Cato decided, as he glanced sidelong at Artax. Following the king's cue Cato raised the horn to his lips.

'You must drink it in one go,' whispered Tincommius.

Cato nodded, and as everyone began to down their ale he forced himself to begin, fighting off the impulse to gag at the heavily flavoured brew, and clamping his teeth shut to strain the clutter of sediment and other solids at the bottom of the horn. He wiped the flotsam clear of his lips with the back of his hand and set the nearly empty vessel back down on the table.

Verica nodded approvingly and signalled to one of his servants to refill the drinking horns before looking meaningfully at Macro, who was busy tearing off a piece of crackling with his teeth.

'Sir,' muttered Tincommius.

'What? What is it?'

'You're supposed to return the gesture.'

'What? Gesture?'

'Make a toast.'

'Oh!' Macro spat the crackling out and raised his drinking horn. Everyone was looking at him expectantly and suddenly Macro couldn't think of anything suitable to say. He glanced beseechingly towards Cato but his friend seemed to watching Artax closely and did not notice his appeal for help. Macro quickly licked his lips, coughed and then began with a stammer, 'R-right then. To King Verica… his noble cohorts and… his interesting tribe.'

As Tincommius translated, the native guests frowned at the strange and awkward choice of words. Macro flushed with embarrassment, little used to such social ceremonies. He tried to continue in a more appropriate vein.

'Long may the Atrebatans remain faithful allies of Rome. May they profit from the speedy defeat of the barbarian tribes of this island.'

Macro raised his cup and beamed at the other guests. With the exception of Verica, they looked uncomfortable. Artax pointedly sipped from his horn before setting it down and glaring at the meat on his Samian ware platter.

As the other guests looked away Cato whispered, 'That might have been phrased better.'

'Well then, you do it next time.'

The Greek merchant delicately placed his drinking horn to one side and started a quiet conversation with his neighbour, neatly drawing the man's attention away from the tense silence on the head table. Verica was eating some dainty pastries and waved a finger to attract Macro's attention.

'Interesting toast, Centurion.'

'My lord, I did not mean to offend. To be honest, I've never been called on to do this kind of thing before – at least not in front of a king. I just meant to celebrate our alliance, and look forward to the future… that's all.'

'Of course,' Verica replied smoothly. 'No offence was taken. At least not by me, although I can't speak for some of the hotter heads in my family.' He nodded towards Artax with a laugh. 'And young Tincommius there – his father was no friend of Rome while I was in exile. Took a while for Tincommius to see that his father was wrong. Now look at him.'

Cato saw a flush of embarrassment in the young prince's face, before Tincommius replied, in Latin, 'I was younger then, sire, and more easily led. Since I've learned more of Roman ways, and fought alongside them, I've come to respect them and value what they have to offer the Atrebatans.'

'And what do they have to offer the Atrebatans?' the Greek merchant interrupted. 'I'd be interested in your opinion. To hear it straight from the horse's mouth, as it were.'

'I should have thought a Greek would know.'

The merchant smiled at Tincommius. 'Forgive me, but we've lived under Roman rule too long to remember what it was like before. And since I'm investing quite a fortune in developing trading links with the new province I merely wish to understand the native view of the situation. If you wouldn't mind, young man?'

Tincommius looked round the table uncomfortably, meeting Macro's curious gaze only briefly.

'Tincommius, tell us,' Verica urged him gently.

'Sire, like you I've lived a while in Gaul and have seen what you saw: the great towns with all their marvels. And you've told me of the endless network of trade routes that bind the empire together, of the wealth that flows along them to the very fringes of their world. Above all, you told me there is order. An order that tolerates no conflict, that forces its subjects to live in peace with each other, or face terrible consequences. That's why Rome must prevail.'

Macro watched Tincommius closely. The man seemed sincere enough. But you could never really tell with these Britons, Macro reflected as he downed another horn of ale.

'As long as I can remember the Atrebatans have been fighting other tribes,' Tincommius continued. 'Always the Durotrigans, and lately the Catuvellaunians, who so cruelly threw you out, sire.'

Verica frowned at the tactless mention of his eviction from the throne by Caratacus and his tribe.

'I never knew any different. War was our way, the way of all the Celtic tribes of this island. It's why we live in these poor huts, why we can never have our own empire. We have no common purpose, so we must bind ourselves to one who has… the Emperor.'

'Although Caratacus hasn't been doing too badly on that score!' Macro chipped in, with a faint slur to his voice. Cato did a quick calculation and realised with alarm that Macro was already into his fourth horn of beer – on top of all the wine he had been drinking that afternoon. Macro nodded at Tincommius. 'I mean, look how many tribes he's managed to line up against us so far. If we don't kill the bastard quickly, who knows what trouble he's going to cause our general?'

'Quite!' The merchant gave an oily smile. 'But we wouldn't want to give any credence to the idea that the enemy has any realistic chance of defying the legions, would we, Centurion? What does the other Roman officer think, I wonder?'

Cato, who had been looking down in embarrassment while Macro spoke, raised his head to see that everyone was looking at him expectantly. He swallowed nervously, and made himself pause a moment to avoid blurting out anything that might make him look foolish. 'I speak with little authority on the matter. I've been serving with the Eagles for less than two years.'

The merchant's eyebrows rose. 'And already a centurion?'

'A good one!' Macro nodded, and might have continued to say more, but Cato quickly continued.