The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Twenty-Two

Only a few hundred of the people of Calleva turned out to watch the royal hunting party set off for the forest. And even these failed to lend the event the customary festival atmosphere. As Cato and Macro rode out of the gate they saw the pinched faces of the starving on both sides of the track leading away from the town. But hungry as they were, the children still capered alongside the procession of carts, horses and the small column of servants from the royal household. Cato turned his gaze away from the people of Calleva. It was not as if he hadn't seen starvation before. Even Rome, for all its exotic food markets and the corn dole, had a multitude of beggars and drifters starving on its streets.

At the insistence of tribune Quintillus, the two centurions were riding just ahead of King Verica's household slaves and the wagons bearing all the supplies and luxuries for the hunt. In front of them were the lesser nobles of the tribe, dressed in loose tunics and brightly coloured leggings. Even though it was early morning, the men had already dipped their drinking horns and were talking and laughing loudly, quite oblivious to the eyes staring at them from thin hungry faces each side of the track. At the head of the hunting party rode King Verica, his closest friends and advisors, and a small band of his bodyguards; armed and ready to deal with any threat. They watched the people lining the track closely, sword hands resting near the top of their scabbards. But there was no move towards the king. Some of the crowd cheered weakly. Most watched in silence until the supply carts rumbled past them, some filled with haunches of cured meat, stoppered jugs of wine and beer, baskets filled with bread and fruit.

A low moan of despair slowly rose into a collective keening whine. Then a voice was raised in anger. Cato turned back to look, and saw a man holding up a grubby infant, eyes bulging from its skeletal head. The man was shouting, but the raw emotion straining his voice made it difficult for Cato to understand the words. Not that he had to. The dull lethargic look in the baby's eyes and the man's terrible anguish were clear enough. Others took up the angry cry and the crowd slowly shuffled towards the food wagons.

The stewards who were driving the vehicles rose from their benches, shouting and waving the townspeople back. But their warnings were ignored as every eye hungrily focused on the contents of the wagons. Before the first hand could reach inside there was the loud crack of a whip and a scream of pain. Cato saw a man clutching his face, and blood streamed through his fingers. The crowd paused, silent for an instant, as if they were all having a sharp intake of breath. Then they closed on the wagons, and the stewards laid about them with their whips, shouting curses at the starving crowd.

'Stop them!' Cato heard Quintillus shout.

The tribune was galloping back past the party of nobles, sword drawn. Behind him thundered the king's bodyguard, scattering people away from the track.

'Macro!' Cato called out. 'Help me!'

The younger centurion wheeled his horse and urged it towards the nearest wagon as he shouted in Celtic. 'Back, you fools! Get back!'

Faces turned towards him, filled with anger and then fear as they tried to push themselves away from the flaring nostrils and gleaming bulk of Cato's horse. Cato drove his mount on, forcing it between the crowd and the wagon. 'Get back! Back, I said! Now!'

Then he was aware of Macro, on the far side of the wagon, following Cato's lead as he drove a gap between it and the shrieking mob. The townspeople fell back from the two horses, just long enough for them to be aware of the tribune and the bodyguard charging down on them, drawn weapons glinting. Then in a stumbling tide the crowd swept back from the wagons, desperately seeking escape from the hoofs and blades of Verica's warriors.

'After them!' Quintillus shouted, waving his sword at the retreating townspeople.

'Hold still!' Cato shouted in Celtic at the bodyguards. They paused. For a moment he feared that they would ignore him and ride the people down. Cato thrust his arm up. 'Hold still, I said! Leave them alone. The wagons are safe.'

The bodyguards checked their mounts and lowered their weapons. Quintillus looked at them with a shocked, then enraged expression.

'What do you think you're doing? Get after them! Kill them!'

The warriors looked at him blankly and the tribune turned to Cato. 'You speak this bloody barbaric language. Tell them to get after that mob! Before it's too late.'

'Too late for what, sir?'

'What?' The tribune glared at him. 'Tell them! What are you waiting for, Centurion?'

Cato saw the crowd breaking into a loose mass, rushing back towards the gateway.

'There's no point now, sir.'

'Just do it! Tell them!' Quintillus screamed at him. 'I command it!'

'Yes, sir. At once.' Cato saluted, turned to face the bodyguard and frowned. 'Soon as I can remember the right words.'

The tribune's face drained of blood as his mouth clenched in a tight line. Macro had to look away before he laughed, and he busied himself with an adjustment to his sword belt. He heard Cato click his fingers.

'That's it! I remember now!… Hey! Where'd they go?'

Tribune Quintillus glared at Centurion Cato for a long time, and Macro began to worry that his young friend had overstepped the mark. Then, as Verica's bodyguard lowered their weapons and began to trot back towards the head of the small column, the tribune rammed his sword into its sheath and nodded slowly at Cato.

'Very well, Centurion. So be it. This time you've had your way, but I'm warning you, if I detect one shred of disrespect or disobedience from you again, I'll see to it that you're finished with the Eagles. At the very best I'll have you broken back to the ranks, on latrine duty, shovelling shit for the rest of your life.'

'Shovelling shit. Yes, sir.'

Tribune Quintillus clenched his teeth angrily, then wheeled his mount, savagely dug his heels in and galloped it on towards the king and his entourage. The two centurions watched him go. Macro scratched the bristles on his chin and shook his head slowly.

'You know, Cato, old son, I really wouldn't make a habit of pissing off tribunes. Likely as not he'll make legate one day, and what if he happens to be in command of any legion you might be serving with? What then, eh?'

Cato shrugged. 'I'll deal with that when the time comes. But if pricks like that are ever trusted with command of a legion then we might as well hand the Empire over to the barbarians right now.'

Macro laughed. 'Don't take it to heart! He just sees you as something in the way of him grabbing the glory that's his due. It's nothing personal.'

'Oh?' Cato muttered. 'Well, it's personal now. Personal to me.'

'Bollocks!' Macro reached over and slapped Cato on the shoulder. 'Forget it. He's out of your reach. You can't afford to have him as an enemy. Pick on someone that fits your purse. Better still, just forget the whole thing.'

Cato glanced at him. 'That's rich, coming from you.'

The royal hunting party left Calleva and its troubled population behind them. The capital of the Atrebatans soon disappeared behind a hill as the column of riders, wagons and servants on foot followed the rutted track through the rolling landscape, with its scattered farms interspersed with small clumps of unfelled woods and slender coppices. Despite the fears over the raids that Caratacus and his Durotrigan allies were conducting deep into Atrebatan lands, some of the farms were still being worked. Occasional fields of barley and wheat rippled yellow and gold in the light breeze that wafted fluffy white clouds across a deep blue sky.

Cato's sullen mood was gradually assuaged once Calleva was far behind them. Tribune Quintillus was lost amid the cluster of men crowding about the king, and Cato soon forgot him as he let his eyes dwell on the fertile British landscape. True, it wasn't as dramatic, or cultured and cultivated as the countryside around Rome, but it had a gentle unspoiled beauty of its own and he savoured the sweet scents it offered up to him.

'It'll be a nice spot to retire in,' mused Macro, correctly reading his companion's expression. 'Once we've given the enemy a good kicking.'

'How long have you got to serve?' Cato asked, with a tinge of anxiety as he anticipated life in the Second Legion without Macro at his side.

'Eleven years, assuming the Emperor honours the end-of-service rituals.'

'You think he won't?'

'I don't know. After the Varus disaster they kept some time-served veterans on until they could barely walk, or eat. Some of those boys had to put Germanicus' hand on their bare gums before he realised they'd had enough of the army.'

'Really?'

'Oh yes! There were still some of 'em around when I joined up. Poor sods. If the Germans had known the Rhine legions were made up of old men barely strong enough to lift a sword, they'd have swept through Gaul like crap through a goose.'

'Colourful.'

'No. Just truthful. It'd have been us soldiers buried up to our necks in shit, while those bloody politicians in Rome tried to pin the blame on each other. Bastards.'

'Still, it's different now,' countered Cato. 'Those who have served their time seem to be getting the discharge, with a full gratuity. The Emperor seems to be honouring that well enough.'

'Sure. Old Claudius seems to be an honest type, but he ain't going to last for ever.' Macro shook his head sadly. 'The better ones never do. Bound to get some little shit like Caligula, or worse, like Vitellius next, knowing our luck.'

Cato shook his head with a wry smile. 'Vitellius? Oh, come on! Even scum like him get found out in the end. Vitellius becoming Emperor? No. It isn't possible.'

'You don't think so?' Macro looked serious. 'I'd bet good money on it.'

'Then you'd lose it.'

'I know his type: no ambition is ever too high.' Macro pointed towards the front of the column. 'Like our friend Quintillus there.'

Cato's eyes followed the direction Macro was indicating, and saw that the king's companions were riding in a loose column, in twos and threes. Amongst them, Cato could just make out the scarlet cloak of the tribune. A man was riding close by the side of Quintillus; a broad-shouldered man with dark hair braided into pigtails, and Cato wondered what Artax was doing in such deep conversation with the tribune.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves