Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (27 page)

‘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.

Chapter Twenty-Three

At dusk they camped beside a small pebbly stream that chuckled along the edge of the forest where the next day’s hunting would take place. The sun hung low in the sky, massive against the western horizon as it washed the underside of the few thin clouds in orange and red. Long dark shadows stretched across the grass growing along the stream, which was short, eaten down by sheep from a nearby farm that had evaded the attentions of the Durotrigans. The farm, a low huddle of thatched round huts surrounded by a flimsy stockade, stood half a mile away on the other side of the stream. A small fire glinted from within the opening of the largest hut and a thin trail of smoke gradually dispersed above the thatched roofs.

The king, spying the fattened sheep, had decided that he wanted to dine on roast mutton. The best specimen had been slaughtered by his kitchen steward, and the body had been opened up and spitted, ready for roasting over the fire being prepared by some of the household slaves. When the flames died down the kitchen slaves raked the embers over and began to roast the carcass. Fat oozed from the meat and dripped down on to the glowing heart of the fire where it exploded in short-lived flares of smoky orange flame.

Macro’s nose twitched. ‘Smell that! You ever smelled anything so good?’

‘It’s just your stomach speaking,’ said Cato.

‘Sure it is, but go on, take a sniff.’

Cato had never particularly liked the smell of roasting meat. The resulting meal was fine, but the smell reminded him of funeral pyres.

‘Mmmm,’ Macro continued his reverie with half-closed eyes. ‘I can almost taste it.’

There was so much smoke now that their eyes began to water. Without saying a word the two of them got up and moved away to a spot by the stream. The water looked clear and Cato cupped a handful to his lips and guzzled it down, cool and refreshing after the hot day’s ride. A day in which he had had plenty of time to think.

‘Macro, what are we going to do about Bedriacus’ murder?’

‘What can we do? Bloody tribune’s gone and released the only suspect. Bet that Artax is laughing at us.’

Macro looked over his shoulder at the nobles, sleeping off their ride before the evening meal. Only a few were awake, Artax and Tincommius amongst them, talking in quiet tones as they sipped beer from gilded drinking horns. Verica, on the cusp of dotage, needed a nap and was propped up against a lamb’s hide bolster, mouth hanging open as he snored. Around him squatted his bodyguards, very much awake and with their weapons within reach.

Macro shifted his gaze back to Artax as Cato continued quietly, ‘Question is, why did he let Bedriacus die the way he did?’

‘A good stab in the chest is generally a sensible way to proceed.’ Macro yawned. ‘He could have tried your method, of course, and talked poor Bedriacus to death.’

Cato ignored the bait. ‘Talking is very much the issue.’

Macro sighed. ‘Somehow I knew you’d come up with something like that. Go on then, tell me what talking has got to do with it.’

‘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, my lord.’

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, my lord.’

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, my lord. 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 had a dream: 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, my lord.’

‘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 was 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, my lord, from your people?’ asked Cato. ‘Are you in danger?’

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

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, my lord.’

‘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, my lord, but I remember. When the Catuvellaunians crossed the Tamesis?’

‘Aye. They are truly a greedy nation. First the Trinovantans, then the Cantiians, 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?’