The Eagle and the Wolves

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘It’s just this. Bedriacus wanted to warn us about something. He was stabbed by someone who wanted to prevent him passing on the warning. And the most likely suspect is Artax.’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘So why didn’t Artax finish him off when Tincommius went to find us?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Macro shrugged. ‘Maybe the surgeon turned up too quickly.’

  ‘How long would it have taken to add another, lethal wound? Or smother him? He must have had time. He had to take the risk and kill Bedriacus. He couldn’t afford to let him speak to us.’

  ‘Maybe. But if that’s the case, then why didn’t he finish Bedriacus off while he had the chance?’

  ‘I don’t know. . .’ Cato shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It might be that he was just passing by, as Tincommius said.’

  Cato turned and looked straight into Macro’s eyes. ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘No. He did it, all right. Just look at the shifty sod. Would you trust him with your sister?’

  Artax was still talking with Tincommius, hunched forward as they conversed in tones so low that they were inaudible from where the centurions were sitting.

  Before Cato could reply, a horn sounded across the small campsite, calling everyone to the evening meal. The two centurions rose up from the side of the stream and strolled across the grass to where the Atrebatan nobles were slowly waking from their slumbers. To one side lay Tribune Quintillus, on his back, one foot crossed over the other as he stared towards the setting sun. At the second sounding of the horn the tribune sat up and saw Macro and Cato approaching. With a discreet nod of his head he directed them away from where he was sitting and they altered course towards the area where the lesser nobles squatted.

  ‘Hobnobbing with the rich and powerful, as usual,’ Macro complained quietly. ‘Don’t know why he bothers. I doubt they have much in common.’

  ‘Some of them speak Latin – not brilliantly, but enough to get by. They can translate for the rest.’

  ‘That’s only half the problem!’ Macro laughed. ‘What the hell are they going to speak about? The latest fashion in Rome? Or what well- bred Trinovantian matrons are wearing this season? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll have much of a problem,’ said Cato. ‘Social class is a pretty universal language. The sons of the aristocracy are a clubbable bunch, they’ll have no problem communicating.’

  Nor did they. As darkness thickened and the king’s party fell to feasting, the tribune and his newfound Atrebatan friends got roaring drunk, singing and talking in loud slurred voices and splitting their sides at the slightest joke or mishap. Carved chunks of roast mutton were eagerly devoured and washed down with yet more drink as the night wore on. All the while the king sat quietly by, indulging the raucousness of his youthful companions. He ate little and drank nothing but a little watered wine. A brilliant moon rose, outshining all but the brightest stars and casting a thin blue mantle of light across the sleeping landscape. At last, drowsiness overcame most of the royal companions and one by one they crawled off to their sleeping lines and dropped into the warm skins their servants had made ready for them. Just as Cato and Macro drained the last of their beer, the king’s chief steward approached from the shadows and bent down over them.

  ‘The king desires you to join him by his fire.’ The steward spoke softly in his tongue and, without waiting for a reply, turned and made his way back to his master.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Macro sleepily.

  ‘Verica wants to speak with us.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The servant didn’t say.’

  ‘Shit! Just when I was ready to drop off. Hope the old boy doesn’t keep us long.’

  ‘I think he might,’ said Cato. ‘Has to be something important. Why else wait until almost everyone is asleep? Come on.’

  Macro swore softly and then rose unsteadily to his feet and followed Cato past the snoring forms of sleeping men towards the dying fire, set slightly aside from the rest of the camp site. King Verica sat on an oak stool, flanked by the still forms of two of his bodyguards. A wan orange glow played over his wrinkled face and wispy beard, and his hand slowly turned a gold goblet resting on his lap. He looked up as the two centurions approached and a smile flickered across his face as he gestured them to take a place beside the glowing embers. A few others were already seated: Tincommius, Tribune Quintillus and Artax. Cato paused in mid- stride as he made out the last face, and then sat himself on the warm ground, on the opposite side of the fire to the tribune. Macro slumped heavily beside him. Cato suddenly felt very awake, and wary. Why had these three been summoned to sit with them before the king? What was it that Verica had to say, so late in the night, and so secret?

  The king waved his steward over and handed him the empty goblet. The steward muttered something and Verica shook his head.

  ‘No. No more. See that we are not disturbed. No one is to come near enough to hear our words.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  When the steward had left them the king silently raised his head towards the gleaming moon for a moment before he addressed his guests. When he began there was a great weariness in his voice.

  ‘I’ll speak mostly in my tongue, since what I have to say affects my kinsman Artax more than anyone else. Centurions Macro and Cato are here because they have earned my gratitude and, more importantly, my trust. The tribune is present because he represents General Plautius. Centurion Cato, do you have enough of our tongue to translate for your Roman companions?’

  ‘I think so, sire.’

  Verica frowned. ‘Be sure that you do. I want no misunderstanding over what I am about to say. You will all bear witness to my wishes this night, and I task you all to honour them in the coming months. Understand me, Centurion?’

  ‘Yes, sire. If there’s any doubt, then Tincommius can help me with the translation.’

  ‘So be it. Now explain this to the others.’

  After Cato finished translating this exchange to Macro the latter leaned close to whisper. ‘What’s going on, lad?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Verica lowered his head and gazed into his lap. ‘I’ve had a strange feeling these last few days. I sense that my death is imminent. I’ve even dreamed of it: Lud came to claim my spirit. . . during tomorrow’s hunt.’

  He looked up at his listeners, as if seeking a response, but none came. What could a man say to a king who voiced intimations of his own mortality? For Cato, more used to the ready assumption of divine status by the three emperors he had lived under, there was something very touching about Verica’s admission. Perhaps he feared death as much as other men. It would be unconscionably crass to offer any reassurance that the king need not fear death. That was the sort of remark best left to the most obsequious of men; the sort of remark that almost any senator in Rome could be relied upon to make loudly and publicly should anyone voice any doubts that the current Caesar would be with them for ever.

  ‘Sometimes a dream is merely a dream, my lord,’ said Quintillus in a comforting tone. ‘I’m sure the gods are determined to bless the Atrebatans with many more years of your rule.’

  ‘Whose gods, Tribune? Yours or ours? I’m sure that I’ve done quite enough to appease the great Jupiter in recent months, but at what cost to the gods of my people?’

  ‘As long as Jupiter is content, then you need fear no other god, sire.’

  ‘Really, Tribune?’

  ‘Of course. I’d stake my life on it.’

  Verica smiled. ‘Let’s hope you, and your two centurions, don’t have to do anything quite so dangerous in the coming days.’

  Quintillus looked offended. For a man who appeared to have drunk quite freely earlier that evening, he was surprisingly serious, thought Cato. Then he realised that the tribune had been putting on an act for the benefit of the Atrebatan nobles. No, Cato smiled, it w
as for the benefit of the tribune himself: wine and easy company loosened some tongues far more effectively than any amount of intrigue or torture.

  ‘Are we in danger, sire, from your people?’ asked Cato. ‘Are you in danger?’

  ‘No!’ Tincommius protested. ‘Your people revere you, sire.’

  Verica smiled fondly at his nephew. ‘You may still hold some affection for me, as might Artax there, but you are in no position to speak for the rest of my people.’

  ‘They feel as I do, sire.’

  ‘Maybe, but I hope they don’t think as little as you do.’

  Tincommius’ mouth opened in shock at the rebuke, then he looked down with an ashamed expression.

  Verica shook his head sadly. ‘Tincommius. . . Tincommius. . . don’t feel angry with me. Truly, I value such loyalty. But you mustn’t be blinded by it. You must look up and see the world as it really is. And plan accordingly. I know that there are some nobles who question my alliance with Rome. I know that they say I should never have been permitted to regain my kingdom. I know that they would dearly love to throw their lot in with Caratacus and go to war against Rome. I know all this, as does any man with the sense to see and hear what goes on in Calleva. But this is foolishness of the worst order.’ Verica raised his eyes to the heavens again before continuing, ‘We are a little people caught between two great forces. You remember how I was thrown out of my kingdom?’

  ‘I was young, sire, but I remember. When the Catuvellaunians crossed the Tamesis?’

  ‘Aye. They are truly a greedy nation. First the Trinovantans, then the Cantii, and then they demanded our unconditional loyalty, or our lands. So I had to quit Calleva and leave the kingdom in the hands of Caratacus’ place man. There was no choice. I had to bear the indignity and shame of exile to spare my people far worse at the hands of Caratacus. You see, that’s the true burden of being a king. You must rule for your people, not for yourself, whatever the cost. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Good. Then you will know how that shame was redoubled when the legions landed and returned my kingdom to me at the point of their swords. Whether it is me, or any other, who rules in Calleva, we do so at the whim of greater powers than the Atrebatans. All we can do is survive as best we can. And that means throwing ourselves at the mercy of the strongest force.’

  ‘But, sire; Cato protested, ‘you are an ally of Rome, not some vassal.’

  ‘Really? And what might the difference be in the long run? Ask your tribune. Ask him what will happen to us when Rome eventually crushes Caratacus.’

  Cato translated, and silently prayed that the tribune would phrase his response carefully.

  Quintillus replied with no trace of his usual cordiality. ‘King Verica, I’d have thought you’d be a bit more grateful to the Emperor. Why, if it wasn’t for us you’d still be stuck in some backroom suite at the Governor’s palace in Lutetia. You’ve done well by Rome, and as long as you stay a loyal ally you will continue to do well.’

  ‘And you will leave us be?’ Verica replied in Latin. ‘Leave us to rule ourselves?’

  ‘Of course! As long as it’s expedient.’ Quintillus drew himself up stiffly. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Your word?’ Verica tipped his head to one side with an amused expression, as he turned towards Tincommius. ‘You see, Tincommius? That’s the choice before us. The certainty of being conquered if Caratacus wins against the probability of being turned into a province if Rome wins.’

  ‘It might not ever happen,’ said Cato.

  ‘It is happening already, Centurion. I know the full scope of the tribune’s powers, as I’m sure do you and Centurion Macro. It’s time that his orders are revealed.’

  Cato forced himself not to glance at Artax, and flashed a warning glance at Macro, but he needn’t have bothered. The older centurion was fighting back a yawn and his eyelids were heavy with the desire for sleep.

  ‘Tribune,’ Verica continued, ‘why not tell us the real purpose of your visit to Calleva? What were your instructions? The ones you discussed with me two days ago?’

  ‘Sir, that was in strictest confidence.’

  ‘It won’t be. Not in a few more weeks. I may not be alive then. My closest kinsmen, Tincommius and Artax, need to know the full truth. Tell us now.’

  Tribune Quintillus pressed his lips together as he considered the best response to make. In the end he took the least honourable way out.

  ‘I can’t. My orders were specific – I should tell only you. A soldier never disobeys orders.’

  ‘Very brave of you,’ Verica replied scathingly. ‘Well then, I’ll have to break the news. Your General Plautius fears that our people will not honour the treaty I made with Rome. Accordingly, he has. . . what was the word?. . . requested! He has requested me to be ready to disband the two cohorts as soon as he gives the word.’

  As Cato translated, Macro sat up abruptly, wide-eyed and angry. Tincommius and Artax were similarly shocked.

  ‘There’s worse news, far worse,’ Verica continued. ‘As well as the disbanding, he requires that every single Atrebatan warrior is disarmed, and the weapons are to be. . . placed beyond use. I believe that was the expression.’

  ‘No!’ Artax growled. ‘No! Sire, it can’t be. It’s not true. Say it’s not true!’

  After his silence thus far, the awful anguish and outrage in Artax’s voice stilled the tongues of the others as the Atrebatan noble jumped to his feet. Verica reached out a hand, open-palmed, to calm his relative.

  ‘Artax, please. . .’

  ‘No! I will not surrender my arms! None of us will! We’d rather die.’

  Cato translated the man’s outburst.

  ‘I’m sure the tribune’s happy to arrange that,’ Macro whispered to Cato as Artax continued to rant in Celtic. ‘And the bastard’s going to kill our cohorts.’

  ‘Quiet, please, sir.’ Cato tapped his friend’s arm.

  Verica had risen from his stool and walked over to Artax, gently grasping him by the shoulders. ‘Think what you’re saying, Artax! Think!It is the Roman general’s order. If we resist it, then we are finished. They’ll crush us like an egg. We must disarm our people. We must disband the cohorts. Whatever the dishonour. Dishonour is better than death.’

  ‘Not for warriors!’ Artax spat back.

  ‘This isn’t about warriors. This is about all of our people. Do you think for a moment that the legions will stop to discriminate between the people they butcher? Do you?’ Verica shook him. ‘Well?’

  ‘No. . .’ Artax admitted.

  ‘Then we have no choice. . . You have no choice.’

  ‘Me?’ Artax looked at his king closely. ‘What do you mean, sire?’

  ‘If I die, for whatever reason, in the near future, it is my wish that you will become king. I call these others to bear witness to my wish. . . Now do you see why you must carry out General Plautius’ order?’

  Every face turned towards the king in astonishment. Then Cato looked round the men gathered by the dying fire. Tincommius was shocked and clearly fighting back some kind of emotion. Tribune Quintillus was surprised and then smiled contentedly. Verica simply looked relieved to have unburdened himself of this decision. Macro looked angry.

  ‘Me?’ Artax shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tincommius said quietly. ‘Why him, Uncle? Why not me? You have no son, and I am your brother’s son. Why not me?’

  ‘Tincommius, since you left your father you have been as a son to me. A much-loved son. But you are too young, too inexperienced, and I fear that there are some of our nobles who would twist your thoughts, and turn you against Rome. I would that you were older, and more resilient to such conniving spirits. Also, like me, you have only recently returned from exile, and are something of an unknown quantity to those men that matter in our kingdom. Artax is known and respected by all. Others look up to him, especially those who fear or hate Rome. He is a man of honour and I have no doubt about hi
s loyalty. I’m sorry. I’ve made my decision and there’s no more to be said.’

  Tincommius’ face twisted into an expression of pained bitterness as the king turned back to Artax. ‘Of course, my choice will have to be agreed by the council, but I doubt there will be any opposition. When you become king, Artax, you will see things as clearly as I have come to see them. Then you will know what has to be done.’

  Artax nodded slowly. There was a long silence around the fire. Then, as Cato watched him, a smile flickered at the corners of Artax’s mouth. ‘Of course, sire. I am truly honoured by your decision, and I see now what must be done.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The weather changed the next day. A slow drizzle began just before dawn and the king’s kitchen slaves struggled to get a decent fire going to cook a light morning meal. Verica and his hunting party gathered round a fire that continually hissed from the raindrops spattering down. There was no hint of orange in the dawn, only a dirty pale yellow away to the east. As the pallid light strengthened the sky became an unbroken grey.

  ‘Great day for it,’ grumbled Macro as he tightened the straps on his leather leggings.

  Cato squinted up into fine spray. ‘Might clear up later.’

  ‘Pigs might fly.’

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ smiled Cato. ‘I think I’m going to have enough of a problem with ground-based boar.’

  Cato was already dressed for the hunt, and leaning on the shaft of a long hunting spear. Unlike the legionary javelin, this weapon was broad- bladed, with vicious barbs that could only be dislodged by tearing away huge chunks of flesh. Although the spear could be thrown, the heavy shaft meant that this could be done at only very short range. Too short for Cato’s liking.

  ‘Ever hunted boar before?’ Macro asked with a sinking feeling.

  ‘I got as close to a boar as I ever want to be the other night.’

  Macro grunted.

  ‘Mind you,’ Cato continued. ‘I’ve seen them hunted in the arena.’

  ‘That’s not quite the same thing,’ Macro said gently.

  ‘Ugly brutes.’

  ‘Yes. Ugly and bloody dangerous. If you find yourself on the ground facing one, watch those tusks. I’ve seen ‘em carve a man up really nicely. Didn’t kill him straight off. His wounds got infected with some poison they carry on the tusks. Must have been agony. He died screaming a few days later