Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest Read Online Free PDF

replied quietly.
    The curtain fell back across the opening and the orderly returned to his desk. It was quiet, only a faint groaning came from somewhere else in the tent, and the more distant sounds of the camp beyond.
    ‘Well, are you going to look, or shall I?’ asked Macro in a hushed voice.
    ‘Pardon?’
    Macro indicated the chief centurion with his thumb. ‘One last look on the face of the old man before he goes up in smoke. I owe him that.’ Cato swallowed nervously. ‘Go ahead.’
    Macro reached down and gently pulled back the linen shroud, uncovering Bestia as far as his naked chest which bristled with grey hair. Neither of them had ever seen Bestia out of uniform and the mass of tightly curled body hair came as a surprise. Some kind soul had already covered the chief centurion’s eyes with coins to pay Charon his fare for the crossing of the River Styx into the underworld. The injury that had finally killed him had been cleaned, but even so the mangled teeth, bone and muscle sinew that was visible where the flesh had been hacked from the side of Bestia’s face was not a pretty sight.
    Macro whistled. ‘It’s a wonder he managed to say anything to the legate in this state.’
    Cato nodded.
    ‘Still, the old bugger made it to the top, which is more than most of us achieve. Let’s see what he’s left for you. Shall I look?’
    ‘If you want to, sir.’
    ‘Fair enough.’ Macro knelt down and rummaged about under the bed. ‘Ah! Here we go.’
    Rising, he held up a sword in a scabbard and a small amphora. The sword he passed over to Cato. Then he pulled the stopper from the amphora and sniffed cautiously. A smile split his face.
    ‘Caecuban!’ Macro crooned. ‘My lad, whatever it is you did to impress Bestia. it must have been pretty damn miraculous. Do you mind if…?’
    ‘Help yourself, sir,’ replied Cato. He examined the sword. The scabbard was black and inlaid with a striking silver geometric pattern. Here and there, the casing had been dented and marked with heavy use. A soldier’s weapon then, not some ornamental device reserved for ceremonies.
    Centurion Macro licked his lips, raised the amphora and made his toast. ‘To Chief Centurion Lucius Batiacus Bestia, a hard bastard, but a fair one. A good soldier who did honour to his comrades, his legion, his family, his tribe and Rome.’ Macro took a healthy swig of vintage Caecuban wine, his Adam’s apple working furiously, before he lowered the amphora and smacked his lips. ‘Absolutely wonderful stuff. Try some.’
    Cato took the amphora thrust towards him and raised it over the body of the dead chief centurion, feeling slightly self-conscious about the gesture. ‘To Bestia.’
    Macro was right. The wine was uncommonly tasty, a rich fruitiness with just a hint of musk, and a dry aftertaste. Delicious. And intoxicating. ‘Let’s have a look at your sword.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato handed the sword over. After a cursory glance at the scabbard, Macro grasped the ivory handle with its ornately turned pommel of gold, and drew out the blade. It was well-tempered and polished, and glinted like a mirror. Macro raised his eyebrows in honest appreciation as he softly ran a finger down the cutting edge. It had been honed to unusual sharpness for what was essentially a thrusting sword. He felt the weight, and murmured approval at the fine balance between pommel and blade. This was a sword a man could wield with ease, never stressing the wrist the way that standard-issue short swords did. No Roman made this. The blade was surely the work of one of the great Gaulish forges which had been making the finest swords for generations. How had Bestia come by it?
    Then he noticed an inscription, a small phrase near the guard, written in an alphabet he had come to recognise as Greek.
    ‘Here, what’s this say?’
    Cato took the sword and mentally translated: ‘From Germanicus to L. Batiacus, his Patroclus.’ A shiver of wonder went down Cato’s spine. He