The Eagle and the Wolves

'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.'

'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.

'You'll pay for that.'

'I – I'm sorry, Macro. I don't know what I was thinking, what I was doing. I didn't mean to-'

'But it felt good, eh?' Macro smiled faintly.

'What?'

'You feel any better?'

'Better? No! I feel dreadful. Are you all right?'

'I'm fine. Hurts like hell, but I've had worse. But it took your mind of the bloody tribune for a moment there, didn't it?'

'Well, yes,' Cato admitted, still feeling embarrassed by his loss of control. 'Er, thank you.'

Macro waved his hand dismissively. 'Come on, let's get back to the depot. Forget the tribune, forget this bloody tribe of barbarians and let's get some decent food inside us.'

'Yes…' Cato was still standing where Macro had stopped him. He was staring over Macro's head, a faint look of concern in his expression.

'Relax,' Macro chuckled. 'I'll get you back sometime… What's the matter?'

'Look.' Cato pointed towards the eastern sky, painted pale gold by the rising sun. Macro turned to follow the direction of Cato's finger. Some miles distant several faint columns of smoke smudged the pale sky of the new day.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Twenty-Six

'Supply column?' Cato muttered.

'Looks like it.'

'I didn't know one was due.'

'Neither did I.' Macro grabbed his arm. 'Come on. Let's go.' Macro led the way as they ran back to the depot. As soon as they were through the gate he sent one of the sentries to summon the tribune and Tincommius. As the man ran off down the lane towards the royal enclosure Macro turned to his subordinate.

'Get the Wolves formed up by the gate. I'll rouse the Boars and join you as soon as I can.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cato sprinted towards the headquarters building and burst through the door into the admin hall. Catching sight of one of the garrison's trumpeters, he shouted at the man to get his instrument and follow him to the main gate of Calleva. The man arrived on the walkway breathless from running under the weight of the curved brass horn, and having to climb the ladders to join his commander. Cato slapped his thigh impatiently as he waited for the man to catch his breath. At last he spat to clear his mouth, drew in a deep breath and blew into his mouthpiece. The strident notes of the assembly call rang out over the town and the men of the Wolf Cohort hurried towards the sound.

Over in the depot another signal rang out and, glancing round, Cato saw the men of the Boar Cohort tumbling out of their tents to assemble on the parade ground. The squat figure of Macro emerged from the headquarters building, helmet glinting in the first rays of the sun beneath the red flare of his transverse crest. He was fully armoured and ready for action. With a pang of self-contempt Cato realised that he had left his armour in his quarters, and he turned to the nearest man and sent him to fetch it.