The Eagle's Prophecy

by Simon Scarrow

  Macro and Cato marched over and stood to attention in front of the desk. The procurator snorted, and leaned back in his chair, revealing a rolling belly that stretched the wool fabric of his tunic. ‘What are you here for?’

  ‘We’re looking for reappointment to the legions, sir,’ said Cato.

  The procurator tapped a pile of waxed tablets on his desk. ‘So I understand. You must be Centurion Licinius Cato. You’ve been pushing for a new legion for several months now.’

  ‘Three months, sir,’ Cato replied.

  ‘Well, from the quantity of your correspondence and the endless haranguing of my clerks it feels like several months. Truth is, I cannot make any decision until I’m clear about your position.’

  ‘Our position?’ Macro cut in. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  The procurator crossed his fingers and rested the folds of his chin on his knuckles. ‘A few days ago I received information that Centurion Cato was sentenced to death by General Plautius, the commander of the army in Britain. Is that true?’

  Cato felt a chilling sensation in the pit of his stomach. He nodded. ‘Yes, sir. But I can explain.’

  ‘I think you’d better.’

  Cato swallowed. ‘Our cohort was condemned to decimation for failing to carry out orders. As a result, the enemy general escaped with some of his men. Centurion Macro and I managed to capture him, and the death sentence was lifted by the legate of the Second Legion.’

  ‘So I understand. As it happens, Legate Vespasian exceeded his authority when he rescinded your sentence. I might add that there’s some concern, in higher circles, about the extent of your complicity in the death of your cohort commander. Both of you, that is.’

  He fell silent as the two officers standing in front of him froze and tried to keep their faces composed. They dared not look at each other and stared straight ahead instead. The procurator continued, ‘I understand that following the decimation there was considerable bad feeling towards your commanding officer.’

  ‘Are you surprised, sir?’ Macro shrugged. ‘Most of the men blamed him for the cohort’s punishment.’

  ‘Most of the men?’ The procurator looked at him closely. ‘And the officers?’

  Macro nodded.

  ‘Then you will understand that the death of Centurion Maximius has provoked considerable suspicion. Naturally, in the face of such grave accusations, the army bureau is investigating the matter fully. I’ve sent a letter to General Plautius requesting a full report on the matter. I’m still waiting for his reply. We should know the full facts soon enough. At which point you will either be in the clear, and I can consider you for some new postings, or you will be taken into custody and disposed of at the Emperor’s convenience…In the meantime, I’d be grateful if you didn’t try to leave the city.’

  He looked up and noticed the despair in their faces and for a moment his hard bureaucratic mask slipped and he shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can do or say. I only permitted this meeting because I thought that you should know about the situation. In view of your records I felt that Rome owed you that much at least.’

  Macro gave a thin smile. ‘That much and far more, I’d say.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The procurator shrugged. ‘That’s not for me to judge. Now I think you’d better leave.’

  Macro and Cato stared back a moment, until the procurator reached for a blank wax tablet and took up a stylus. They were dismissed.

  Outside the office, Cato turned slowly to Macro, who could see that he was still stunned by the procurator’s words. His thin shoulders slumped forwards.

  ‘Come on, Cato…’ Macro took his arm and steered him towards the street.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They left the palace and fought their way through the crowds streaming across the Forum. Families clustered together amid bands of loud young men clutching jars of wine as they all made for the Great Circus to find good seats for the day’s racing. Cutting across this tide of excited humanity, the two centurions made for a corner tavern. The usual morning trade of wagon drivers and night porters was just beginning to dry up as the exhausted, and now inebriated, men began to stagger home to their beds.

  Macro waved the barman over.

  ‘What’ll it be, gents?’ the weasily-looking youth asked politely as he eyed up their uniforms and estimated the tip he might expect from two centurions.

  ‘A jar of your cheapest wine. Two cups,’ Macro replied curtly. ‘Quick as you can.’

  ‘Quick is the order, swift is the service.’ The barman smiled. ‘That’s our motto.’

  ‘Nice.’ Macro glanced up at him. ‘But it would be even swifter if you just cut out the motto.’

  ‘Right…yes. I suppose so.’ The barman scurried off, leaving Macro to turn his attention back to his friend. Cato was staring across the heaving crowd that filled the Forum and up at the austere heights of the palace on the Palatine. Cato had not said a word since leaving the procurator’s office and now he just sat in silence. Macro patted him on the arm.

  ‘Cheer up, lad. The wine’s ordered.’

  Cato turned his head to stare at Macro. ‘I have no legionary posting, almost no money left and now, it seems, I’m to be executed in the near future. You really think a cup of cheap wine is going to help me?’

  Macro shrugged. ‘Well, it ain’t going to hurt you. In fact, it has a funny way of making things seem better.’

  ‘You’d know,’ Cato muttered. ‘Had enough of it over the last three months to lay out an army.’

  The barman came back, clunked a pair of Samian-ware cups on the rough wooden table between the two centurions, and filled the cups from a jug before setting that down with a cheap flourish.

  ‘Heard the news?’

  Macro and Cato turned towards him with annoyed expressions that clearly invited him to shut his mouth and beat a hasty retreat to behind the counter. The barman was not prepared to give up working for his tip that easily, and leaned against a stout wooden post that held up the three floors above the tavern.

  ‘Porcius is back in town.’

  ‘Porcius?’ Macro raised an eyebrow. ‘Who the bloody hell is Porcius and why should I be remotely interested in him?’

  The barman shook his head in wonder at the ignorance of the two army officers. ‘Why, he’s only the best charioteer ever to have driven for the blues! He’s top of the bill this afternoon. Runs his horses like he was born with reins in his hands. Tell you what,’ he leaned closer, ‘you got anything to spare for a bet, and I could get you good odds.’

  ‘Leave ’em be,’ a voice growled from the next table, and Macro saw the face of the guardsman as he turned towards the two centurions. ‘Porcius is a jumped-up little tosser. Only thinks he’s good. If the man had any talent at all he’d be racing for the greens. Sir, save your money. Place it on Nepos. He’s racing for the greens.’

  ‘Nepos!’ The barman spat on the ground. He looked at the guardsman with contempt and the usual unthinking hostility that ardent supporters of racing teams reserved for each other. Then he strode back to the bar, muttering one last parting shot to the two centurions. ‘Might as well piss your money down the Great Sewer as bet on that twat Nepos.’

  ‘I heard that!’ shouted the guardsman.

  ‘Racing,’ Cato said quietly. ‘If anything destroys the Empire, it’ll be racing.’

  Macro wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the guardsman. He turned towards him and tapped the man on the shoulder.

  ‘Hello, friend,’ Macro smiled. ‘These races–any good tips you might be willing to share with a comrade in arms?’

  ‘Tips?’ The man glanced round at the other customers, but no one seemed to be listening. ‘Yes, I’ve got one tip for you. Don’t bet on that bastard Porcius.’ He tapped his nose. ‘I know what’s what, and I’m telling you, sir, Nepos is your man. Bung a few denarians on him and you’ll be laughing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I have to go.’ He grated his stool back on the flagstone, rose ra
ther unsteadily to his feet, steered a course out of the tavern and was immediately lost from sight in the flow of people in the Forum.

  ‘Doubt he’ll get back to the palace in one go,’ Cato muttered. ‘All the same, I wish I had his problems.’

  Macro turned back to his friend, desperately searching for some crumb of comfort he could offer Cato, but he had never been good at that sort of thing.

  ‘It’s rough luck, lad.’

  ‘Rough luck?’ Cato laughed bitterly. ‘Oh, it’s better than that. I mean, after all that we’ve been through, after all we’ve done for General Plautius, you can be certain that patrician bastard’ll make sure I get the chop. There’s something you can safely bet on. Just to make sure that his shining reputation as a harsh disciplinarian doesn’t get a mark on it. And the Imperial Secretary will back him up.’

  ‘He might recommend a pardon,’ Macro suggested.

  Cato stared at him. ‘He might not. Anyway, aren’t you forgetting something?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You’re also under threat. What if the general decides he wants to put you in the frame over the death of Centurion Maximius?’

  ‘I don’t think he will. There’s no evidence linking me to his murder, just a few rumours put around by a handful of idiots who won’t accept that he was killed by the enemy. I’m not worried about that, not really. It’s you I’m worried about.’ He looked away in embarrassment and his eyes fell on his purse, tied securely to his belt. ‘But most of all I’m worried about the fact that we’re broke, and we’re going to be very hungry in a few days’ time unless some back pay comes through. If it doesn’t, then we’ll be on the bloody streets once the next month’s rent is due. All in all, it’s not looking too healthy, Cato my lad.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So we’d better do something about it.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Macro smiled, and leaned closer across the table. ‘Like taking advantage of that tip, and getting ourselves down to the Great Circus.’

  ‘Are you mad? We’re down to our last few coins and you want to throw them away on the races?’

  ‘Throwing ’em away is what mugs do. What we’ve got is a sure thing.’

  ‘No. What you’ve got is incurable optimism. Me? I’m a realist. If we place that money on a race we might as well just give it away.’

  Macro slapped his hand down on the table, making the cups jump. ‘Oh, come on, Cato! What little we’ve got is as good as gone anyway. If the tip’s any use we should get reasonable odds, and, who knows, if the bet comes good we’ll be able to keep the lupine pest from the door for a while yet. What have we got to lose?’

  ‘Apart from our senses?’

  Macro glared at him. ‘Just for once, trust to fate and see what happens.’

  Cato thought it over for a moment. Macro was right, he had pretty much lost everything else in his life, and even the latter was almost certainly forfeit. So why worry about a few coins? The general’s response would arrive from Britain before the landlord’s heavies could pin him to the walls for any arrears. He might as well live a little, while he could.

  ‘All right then, let’s go.’

  By the time they had pushed their way inside the huge arch of one of the public entrances to the Great Circus there were only a few places left in the section reserved for the army. Most of the stone benches had been taken by Praetorian Guardsmen who were busy drinking from wineskins and making bets. Here and there were small clusters of legionaries–men on leave or, like Cato and Macro, waiting for a new posting. Quite a few were ex-soldiers, pensioned off or invalided out of the legions and taking advantage of their veterans’ rights.

  Emperor Claudius, in a shrewd move, had changed the seating plan so that the guardsmen were arranged either side of, and behind the grand imperial box. The senators had been shifted further off, much to their chagrin, and spilled out over their benches where they were waited on by their slaves, who served them heated wine in small goblets. Glancing beyond them, Cato saw the enclosure for the vestal virgins, the less spacious seating reserved for lesser nobles, and then the packed ranks of the common citizens, and above them, on the rearmost benches, the freedmen, foreigners and unattached women, many of whom were obviously plying their trade. Macro followed the direction of his gaze.

  ‘Forget them. You can’t afford it. Not unless Nepos does his stuff.’

  Cato swung his gaze back towards the huge expanse of the track stretching out in front of them. Several race officials were crossing to the central island, while around them scores of slaves raked the sand into a smooth, even surface in final preparation for the first race. The assistants to the priests wheeled a cage of unblemished white goats towards the sacrificial altar in the middle of the island, directly opposite the imperial box.

  All around the arena the usual hawkers sold snacks, cushions and brightly coloured scarves for each team’s supporters. Amongst them prowled the bet-takers, accompanied by a heavy or two to make sure that the money was kept safe. Macro swallowed nervously, stood up, and made for the nearest; a swarthy-looking Hispanic, clutching a bundle of waxed slates tied together. Behind him lurked two huge men, powerfully built and horribly scarred, as most ex-gladiators tended to be. Each man carried a money box on a strap across his shoulders, and had a thick wooden stave to hand.

  ‘Let me guess,’ smiled the bet-taker as he sized Macro up and calculated his worth. ‘You’ll have a gold piece on Porcius, to win.’

  ‘Er, no.’ Macro felt embarrassment burning in his cheeks. He glanced round and continued in a low voice, ‘Five denarians on Nepos, to win.’

  ‘Five denarians?’ The bet-taker looked disappointed. He quickly reappraised the centurion, and continued sarcastically, ‘Sure you can afford it?’

  Macro stiffened. ‘Yes, of course I can. Five on Nepos, like I said.’

  ‘Nepos? You know the odds are ten to one?’

  ‘That’s what I’m counting on.’

  ‘Well, it’s your money. If you’re sure…?’

  Macro frowned. ‘Do you want to take the bet, or not?’

  ‘I’m happy to take your money. Just a moment, please…sir.’ The bet-taker opened his tablets and prepared to make a new entry with his stylus. He began to press some tiny notation into the wax, muttering as he wrote. ‘Five den. on Nepos to win…Your name?’

  ‘Centurion Macro.’

  ‘Macro. Fine, now if I can just have your payment.’ Macro handed him the silver coins from his purse and the bet-taker dropped them into one of the boxes carried by his heavies. The coins fell through the slot with a dull chink on to the money already taken in. The bet-taker nodded to the man carrying the chest. ‘That’s tally one hundred and forty-three.’

  The ex-gladiator raised a large metal hoop from his side and fumbled amongst the small wooden pegs until he reached the right number and then worked it free and handed it over to Macro. The bet-taker smiled at him. ‘Pleasure doing business with you, though I doubt we’ll meet again. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

  Macro tucked the wooden tally into his purse and hurried back to Cato.

  ‘How much did you place on Nepos?’

  ‘Enough,’ Macro replied easily, then pointed across the heads of the spectators towards the imperial box. ‘Look, there’s Claudius’ flunkies. He must be on his way.’

  ‘How much?’ Cato persisted.

  ‘Oh, five denarians, or something.’

  ‘Five den–Macro, that’s pretty much all we have.’

  ‘Actually, it is all we have.’ Macro shrugged an apology. ‘It’s a risk, but I got odds of ten to one.’

  ‘Really?’ Cato responded sourly. ‘And why do you think that’s good news? He’s got nine chances in ten of losing.’

  ‘Look here,’ Macro lowered his voice, ‘our man said it was a sure thing. We stand to win fifty silver pieces when it’s over.’

  ‘I can do the maths, thank you. Fifty pieces, if Nepos wins.’

  ‘He will, trust m
e. I have a feeling for these things.’

  Cato shook his head and glanced away, letting his gaze turn to the imperial box. The household slaves were busy setting up a table of snacks and wines to the side of the Emperor’s seat. Even at a distance of fifty paces, Cato could make out a platter of ornately arranged fowl glazed in what looked like honey. His mouth began to water at the sight and he felt his stomach churn with hunger.

  The imperial household began to emerge from their private entrance and take their seats. A handful of favoured senators eased themselves down on to plump cushions set on the stools each side of the imperial dais. They were followed by some of the Emperor’s freedmen and scribes, who stood at the back of the box. At last the white tufts of hair and the gilded wreath on top of Claudius’ head came into view and a great roar of greeting swelled up from the crowd and echoed around the Great Circus. Louder than a battle, Cato thought. Far louder.

  The Emperor stood still for a moment, basking in the popular acclaim. Only his head moved, in the characteristic twitch that no amount of self-control could prevent. At length Claudius slowly raised an arm and turned to greet his people, who responded to the gesture with an even greater roar. The Emperor’s arm sank back to his side and he climbed on to the dais and slumped clumsily into his seat. As the Emperor’s wife, Messalina, stepped up beside him, the cheering reached a new frenzy.

  Macro leaned close to Cato and shouted into his ear, ‘From what I’ve heard, I bet there’s quite a few amongst them who know her almost as well as her husband.’

  He grinned and Cato looked round anxiously to make sure that no one had overheard the comment. That was the kind of public comment that informers picked up and passed on to palace agents for a small reward. Then, one night, a squad of Praetorians would kick your door in and bundle you off, never to be seen or heard from again. Fortunately, Macro’s foolish words were lost in the deafening roar of the crowd and Cato began to relax.

  Then he saw another man entering the imperial box: thin, with dark hair and a plain white toga. Claudius beckoned to the newcomer with a smile, and indicated a seat just below the dais. Cato felt Macro cup a hand to his ear as he pointed towards the box with the other.