Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (29 page)

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Macro whispered. ‘You trying to plant ideas in his head?’

‘I don’t trust Artax,’ said Cato.

‘I don’t trust anyone,’ Macro replied in a furious undertone. ‘Not Artax. Not Tincommius and certainly not that oily shit of a tribune. You start messing with the likes of them and you’ll get us both killed.’

When the hunting party reached the edge of the forest the horsemen spread out along the tree line. Cadminius found Macro and Cato and told them to take up position close to the king, along with Artax, Tincommius and Cadminius himself.

‘Why?’ asked Macro.

‘He needs men around him he can trust,’ Cadminius replied quietly.

‘What about them?’ Macro nodded towards the king’s bodyguards, who hung back behind the hunting party and formed a screen a short distance from the tree line.

‘They’ll make far too much noise if they stick close to the king. Scare all the boars away.’

‘Doesn’t he think that’s a bit risky?’ asked Cato.

Cadminius shook his head wearily. ‘You’ve seen how he is these last few months. He’s growing old and he knows it. He wants to get as much out of what’s left of his life as he can. You can’t blame him.’

‘I might not, but his people might.’

Cadminius shrugged as he turned his horse away. ‘We’re his people, Centurion. He can do as he likes.’

Once the hunting party was settled in position they waited for the first sounds of the beaters. The horses lowered their heads and grazed on the wet grass while their riders sat quietly on their backs, spears resting across their thighs. The rain continued to patter a gentle drizzle on the leaves of the trees and soaked through the clothes of the hunting party. Cato’s hair was soon plastered across his scalp and irritating rivulets began to trickle down his nose. With a muttered curse he pulled the cold mutton from his haversack, placed the bag on his head and sat there miserably chewing on the stringy meat waiting for the hunt to begin. As he sat, he wondered about the wisdom of having Artax so close to the king. Chosen successor he might be, but given the man’s impatient and impetuous nature would Artax be willing to wait for his benefactor to die a natural death? It was as well that Macro, himself, Cadminius and Tincommius were close at hand, and Cato resolved to stay near to the king in the coming hunt.

‘Cato!’ Macro called out from twenty paces away. Macro pointed towards the trees. ‘Listen!’

Cato cocked his head towards the forest. At first all he could make out was the steady rhythm of rain falling on leaves. Then he heard it: the long-drawn-out note of a horn, faintly in the distance. Other men looked up at the sound, grasped the shafts of their spears and made ready to move. King Verica turned his head and nodded towards the captain of his bodyguard. Raising his own horn, Cadminius drew a deep breath and blew a single powerful note. The line of horsemen walked forwards into the trees, out of view of the king’s bodyguard and the handful of slaves who had accompanied the hunting party with cases of fresh spears.

Inside the forest the dimness of the day was accentuated by the thick leaf canopy, and Cato found that he had to squint to see clearly. Through the tall ferns and saplings to his left rode Macro. To his right was Tincommius. Beyond him the king was already out of sight and beyond the king rode Artax. In a short space of time the dense patches of undergrowth separated the huntsmen. Cato could hear them well enough: a constant cracking of branches and the occasional curse from some rider struggling through a tangled thicket.

To Cato’s front the horns of the beaters were much clearer now, and he could hear faint shouts passing up and down the line. Somewhere between himself and the beaters lay the prey they had come to hunt. Besides boar there might be deer or even wolves, wild and terrified by the unaccustomed sound of the beaters. But it was the boars that caused Cato most anxiety. Besides the captured beast at Verica’s feast, he had seen the animals at the games in Rome. Imported from Sardinia, these great brutes had had brown bristling hair and long snouts from which wicked tusks curved. Nor were the tusks their only weapon. Mouths filled with razor-sharp teeth had made short work of the condemned prisoners in the arena that day. Cato had seen one boar close its jaws on a woman’s arm, and shake its huge head from side to side until it had ripped the limb away. The vivid memory made him shudder, and Cato prayed to the goddess Diana that the British boars were wholly unlike their terrifying Sardinian cousins.

The sound of something rustling through a bed of ferns ahead made Cato rein in his horse. He lowered the tip of his hunting spear and guided the point towards the sound. An instant later a ripple of moving fronds revealed the passage of some beast and Cato gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the spear shaft. A fox burst out of the ferns on to the bare forest floor and stopped the instant it saw the horse. Crouching low, and quite still, it stared at Cato for a moment. Then it was gone, before Cato could even decide if it was worth a prod. He laughed at the release of tension and tapped his heels into the side of his pony. Further down the line, away to his left, there was an excited shout as one of the hunters came upon his prey and there was a brief mad confusion of cries, a piercing whinny then the long grating squeal of an injured boar.

‘Cato!’ Macro called out. ‘You hear that?’

‘Yes! Sounds like someone’s had some luck.’

His head was turned towards Macro when the beast broke cover. So he heard it before he saw it and instinctively tightened his grip on the horse’s reins. The horse, spooked by the sudden appearance of the animal, and responding to the sharp tug on the reins, reared up. Cato threw himself forward, against its neck, to avoid falling off and the boar charged beneath the belly of the horse and crashed into its groin. A shriek of agony burst from the horse’s foaming muzzle as it tumbled back and to the side. Cato saw the ground rushing up towards him and just had time to throw himself clear. He landed heavily and the breath was driven from his lungs with an explosive grunt of pain. He was aware of the horse thrashing on the ground nearby, and there was an enraged squeal from the boar as it turned on the horse once again, its short powerful legs kicking up dead leaves as it charged. Cato forced himself to his feet, gasping for air and frantically scrabbling through the bed of ferns for his spear.

‘Cato!’

Cato raised his head and opened his mouth to cry for help, but he was too winded to sum up more than a terrified wheeze. Then he saw the spear tip, glistening close to his feet. He reached for the shaft and snatched the spear up, spinning back towards his horse. It lay on its side, front hoofs thrashing at the ground, rear legs strangely limp, and Cato realised its back must be broken. There was a sickening thud as the boar charged home again and Cato, circled round the rear of the horse, crouching low, the blade of the spear poised for a thrust.

‘Cato!’ Macro’s voice sounded anxious now. ‘What’s happening?’

As the other side of his mount came into view Cato saw the boar toss back its head, its tusks goring their way deep into the belly of the horse. With a savage wrench the long snout came clear, glistening with blood as a length of intestine was torn away on the tip of one tusk. The boar’s wild red eyes widened as it caught sight of Cato and at once it turned and charged.

‘Oh shit!’ Cato grunted, diving back round the rear of the horse. The boar swept through the space he had been an instant before and then swerved and charged after him. With a terrified glance over his shoulder Cato ran, spear in hand, away to the right where the forest floor was clear. The boar came after him, like a battering ram, screeching for his blood. Any moment now his legs would be swept from under him and his back would be torn open by those tusks.

Ahead there was a thick tree trunk, an ancient oak that had fallen many years earlier and was now covered with a verdant moss, glistening in the rain. Bracing his legs, Cato leaped over it and sprawled on the far side. There was no chance of escape now. He rolled on to his back, and with the butt of the spear braced against the earth he raised the point towards the tree trunk. There was a scuffle as the boar prepared itself for the leap on the far side and then there it was, huge, bloody-faced and horrifying, sharp teeth gleaming in its open maw. It threw itself forward at Cato and its chest slammed into the broad point of the hunting spear. The boar’s flesh swallowed up the point of the spear as it plunged deep into the animal’s vital organs. The impact wrenched the shaft from Cato’s grip and the length of the spear carried the huge beast clear over Cato before the shaft snapped with a sharp splintering crack.

The boar crashed to the ground with a grunt, squealing in agony as it struggled to regain its feet. The spear had broken near to the blade and the splintered shaft protruded from a bloody wound just below the boar’s neck. Blood was gushing out and spattered the surrounding moss and the ferns as the beast tried to shake the spear tip free. Cato snatched up the broken shaft and drove the splintered end into the animal’s side, thrusting his full weight behind the length of wood. The squealing intensified and Cato felt his legs battered by the scrabbling trotters of the boar. He ignored the pain and pressed the spear shaft home, wrenching it from side to side as he leaned his weight on it. Slowly the creature’s efforts became weaker, and then ever more feeble, and Cato thrust harder with gritted teeth, hissing at the beast, ‘Just die, you bastard! Die!’

The trotters were no longer lashing at his leg, but hung limp and still. For a moment longer the boar’s breath came in short, snatched gasps. At last, with a final sighing wheeze, it was dead.

Cato slowly relaxed his white-knuckled grip on the spear shaft and slumped to his knees, shaking with relief and excitement. He’d done it, he’d made his kill and he was alive and uninjured. His heart pounded as he looked over the boar. Now that it was dead it seemed smaller, somehow. Not much, but smaller all the same. Looking down at the head Cato saw the jaws hanging slightly open, with a blood-flecked tongue protruding between the sharp teeth. He shivered and rose to his feet.

‘Cato!’ Macro called from nearby, from the direction of the mortally wounded horse. There was no mistaking the anxiety in Macro’s voice.

‘Over here!’

‘Hold on, lad! I’m coming.’

As Cato rose to his feet there was a shout from close by, from the direction of the king. As he held his breath and strained his ears the voice cried out again.

‘Help! Help! Murder!’

Cato recognised Verica’s voice now, and turned to shout over his shoulder, ‘Macro! This way! Quick!’

Then he was running towards the shouts, crashing through beds of ferns and being lashed by branches as he sprinted in the direction of the king’s voice. Behind him he heard Macro calling out his name.

‘This way!’ he shouted back over his shoulder as he ran. His feet struck an object and he went flying forwards, arms instinctively raised to protect his face as he landed. He hit the ground hard, and rolled over before scrambling back to his feet. There was Tincommius, lying on the ground clutching his head. Blood oozed from between his fingers and his eyes flickered in a daze. His spear lay across his chest.

‘Tincommius! Where’s the king?’

‘What?’ The Briton shook his head, dazed.

‘The king?’

Tincommius’ eyes cleared and he rolled on to his side, his arm raised as he pointed down a narrow track. ‘That way. Quick! Artax is after him.’

‘Artax?’

‘I tried to stop him. Go! Get some help! I’ll follow Artax!’

Cato ignored him, and ran along the track. Looking down, he saw bright crimson drops on the ground and smeared on the ferns that he passed. The path suddenly opened out into a small glade. Twenty feet away was the thick trunk of an oak tree. At its base Verica lay crumpled on the ground. His white hair was matted with blood from a deep gash on the top of his head. Standing over him was Artax, a thick length of wood in one hand. As Cato crashed out of the undergrowth lining the path Artax looked up and bared his teeth in a grim smile.

‘Cato! Good! Come here, boy!’

‘Drop the club,’ said Cato. ‘Drop it!’

‘I’ve had enough of your orders,’ Artax sneered, and took a step towards Cato. Then he paused and glanced round anxiously. ‘Where’s Tincommius?’

Cato launched himself at the man and both fell clear of the still form of Verica. Cato was on his feet first and swung his boot into Artax’s face. There was a crunch as the iron studs connected with the bridge of the other man’s nose and Artax cried out in surprise and pain. Then he too rolled to his feet and swung his club at the centurion. Cato ducked the blow and crouched low, preparing to spring forward again. Where the hell was Tincommius? And Macro?

Artax’s teeth clenched in a snarl. ‘You’ll pay for that, Roman! I warn you, get back!’

Cato jumped forward. This time Artax was prepared and stepped to one side as he swung the club down across Cato’s shoulders. The centurion crashed to the ground, utterly winded by the blow. He saw Artax nod his satisfaction and waited for the killer blow to land that would dash his brains out. Instead, Artax turned and walked back towards the king. But he never reached him. There was a dull thud and Artax grunted under the impact of Tincommius’ hunting spear. The blow toppled him sideways and he fell to the earth, the dark shaft of the spear angling up towards the sky. Tincommius staggered over to the body, grasped the shaft and placed his foot close to the wound. With a great wrench he tore the barbed point out of Artax’s chest and blood gushed from the gaping wound. Artax’s body shuddered for a moment and he seemed to be trying to rise up. Tincommius kicked him to the ground and just before he died Artax reached a hand out to his king and clenched a fold of Verica’s tunic.