The Eagle's Prophecy

by Simon Scarrow

  Now, Cato was eager to return and complete the decoding, before he had to risk a trip into the port to deal with the other pressing matter. He entered the headquarters building and hurried upstairs to the prefect’s suite of offices. Only a handful of clerks were still at their desks, drafting inventories of the supplies being loaded on to the biremes. Cato strode through them, groping for the key in his purse. He fitted it to the lock, turned the key, opened the door and entered. He glanced at the nearest clerk.

  ‘I’m not to be disturbed. Not unless there’s an emergency.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato closed the door and sat down in the prefect’s finely carved chair. There was still some watered wine in the cup he had poured earlier and Cato took a quick sip before taking up his stylus and starting work on the final tablet. Each letter in the report corresponded to another letter further down the alphabet and as Cato decoded he made a copy of the message on a blank tablet he had taken from the prefect’s stationery locker. The gist of the message was becoming quite clear, and Cato felt a chilling sense of fear, which gradually gave way to a desire for revenge. When he reached the end he set his stylus down and read through his copy.

  In conclusion, our forces have achieved a qualified success so far, in no small part due to the diligence with which I have carried out the planning, preparation and execution of the operation. It is therefore, with great regret, that I have to report that an early resolution of the pirate threat and possible recovery of the Delphic scrolls was compromised by the actions of Centurion Cato during the naval engagement mentioned above.

  At a critical point of the battle, as the enemy flagship was in full retreat and being pursued by the Horus and the trireme squadron, Centurion Cato ordered his ship to break off the pursuit and turn on the lighter enemy vesssels engaging our bireme force. A charitable explanation of his action might be that the centurion had gone to aid some of our ships who were in some slight difficulties at the time. However, it is possible that Centurion Cato’s desire for personal glory overrode his obedience to orders. It is also possible that he deliberately chose to close with an enemy of less impressive force than the enemy’s flagship.

  In any event, his ship broke formation, and a number of the other triremes followed his lead. This left me with insufficient forces to close with the pirate commander and I was obliged to break off the pursuit.

  As a consequence of Centurion Cato’s recklessness, the operation will take considerably longer than I had anticipated. I therefore request your permission to have the centurion removed from my command and returned to Rome for disciplinary proceedings. Given the sensitive nature of the mission you asked me, and Centurions Cato and Macro, to complete, I cannot proceed with any certainty of success while encumbered with a man who has neither the experience nor the courage required for the job. It pains me to report to you in these terms, Narcissus, since I know you have some regard for the abilities of the individual in question. Nevertheless, with the stakes being as high as they are I am sure you will understand my grave concerns and give your assent, as speedily as possible, for the removal of this burden, one way or another.

  Vitellius

  Cato set the tablet down and drew a deep breath. The report was as good as a death warrant and he felt a moment of icy fear gnawing at his guts as his mind raced to grasp the full implications of Vitellius’ closing remarks. His first response was bitter hatred for the prefect. The conclusion of the report went beyond injustice. It was pure self-serving dishonesty, designed to shift the blame for the sea battle fiasco on to Cato. The prefect meant to kill him. That much was evident. If a suitable opportunity arose he might not even be prepared to wait for the permission of the Imperial Secretary.

  Cato poured himself another cup of wine and didn’t water it down this time. Before he could make plans to deal with this new danger, he needed to understand why the prefect wanted him dead. Presumably it had something to do with the scrolls. The Delphic scrolls…Not the Delphic scrolls, surely?

  Whatever they turned out to be, the Imperial Secretary thought these scrolls were vital enough to risk a large force of men and ships for. And now it seemed that Vitellius considered them important enough to want Cato dead and out of the way, so that he could take them for himself.

  Cato realised that he must find some way out of the danger he faced. He might write his own report and send it on to Rome with that of Vitellius. He could explain the truth behind the débâcle of the naval engagement. He might also express his doubts about how far the prefect could be trusted to recover the scrolls for Narcissus. But even as these thoughts raced through Cato’s mind, he knew that it would be pointless to attempt to tell the truth. Vitellius was a favourite of Emperor Claudius, ever since he had been given credit for saving the Emperor from the blade of an assassin during the imperial visit to the army in Britain. He was also one of Narcissus’ most trusted agents. The word of a lowly centurion would carry little weight against that of an aristocrat. Indeed, it was more than likely that Cato’s accusations would be interpreted as malicious at best, and sinister and suspicious at worst. That would be how Vitellius would misrepresent the charges against him and Cato would quietly disappear from the scene. Another anonymous corpse dragged from the Tiber, flung into a common grave and covered with lime.

  Cato drained the cup of wine, and stared again at the prefect’s report. As he did so a smile slowly formed on his face. Very well, if he dare not accompany Vitellius’ lies with his own account, then he would alter the prefect’s report so that it condemned Vitellius by itself. Leaning forward over the desk, Cato reached for some fresh slates and began to rewrite the report.

  A while later, as dusk began to gather about the port, he sat back and admired his work. Let Vitellius dig himself out of that one, he mused. Cato tied the wax tablets together through holes in the wooden frames and carefully wrapped them in the linen packaging. Then he erased the report on the original slates with firm sweeps of the reverse end of his stylus. Lastly, he heated some fresh wax and dripped it on to the package before pressing the original seal of the fleet prefect into the wax and letting it set. He inspected the results carefully, and smiled in satisfaction as he rose from the desk.

  Before he left the office, Cato was momentarily tempted to leave his uncoded version of the report out on the desk for the prefect to discover upon his return. There was huge satisfaction at the thought of Vitellius knowing that he had been bested by the man he had sought to destroy. Cato toyed with the idea, then dismissed it with a sense of regret. He picked up the stylus, heated the broad end over the flame of an oil lamp and erased his work, destroying any trace of the decoded message. Vitellius would know soon enough that his plot had been frustrated. Let him suffer the uncertainty of knowing how it had been achieved.

  Cato unlocked the door and stepped into the large office outside.

  ‘You!’ He motioned to one of the clerks still at his desk. ‘Come here!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Take this dispatch to the courier station. It’s to be sent to Rome at once.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Better have the rider leave by the shore gate. No sense in having him chance the mob. See to it.’

  The clerk saluted, then hurried from the office clutching the dispatch in both hands. Cato had to fight to restrain the nervous thrill building up within. The anticipation of Vitellius’ realisation that he had been set up was extremely gratifying. Only the gods could save his career and reputation now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Cato’s good humour stayed with him as he quitted the naval base by a small side entrance after night had fallen. It was cold and a light wind brought a fine drizzle with it as it gusted through the streets. Cato pulled the hood of the cloak over his head and hunched his shoulders beneath the wool folds. Barely a hundred angry and drunk townspeople were left of the mob outside the main gate, but there was no sense in risking his life by trying to pass through them into the backstreets of Ra
venna. Cato had stripped off his uniform and donned a simple tunic and boat cloak with cheap sandals; the typical garb worn by the sailors who thronged the streets of the port. He skirted round the harbour front and made his way into the winding network of thoroughfares and narrow passages in the most run-down quarter of the port.

  The street on which the Dancing Dolphin stood was far quieter than the last time Cato had been there. The marines and the navy had been the main source of custom for the myriad bars and brothels of the area. Unoccupied prostitutes sat in their curtained alcoves with sullen expressions, which brightened into laboured seductive looks as they caught sight of Cato approaching down the side of the street. He refused to meet their eyes, or respond to their explicit sexual entreaties, as he strode past, head down.

  There was only a handful of customers in the Dancing Dolphin when Cato entered. He kept his hood up for a moment as he glanced round. The only face he recognised was that of the barman leaning on the counter as he waited to serve a customer. He looked at Cato hopefully, and the centurion worked his way through the haphazard arrangement of tables and benches towards the counter. The barman gave him a thin, unconvincing smile of welcome.

  ‘Evening. What can I get you?’

  ‘Mulsum.’

  ‘Right.’ The barman dipped a ladle into a steaming jar and filled a bronze cup, sliding it across the bar to Cato. ‘That’s three asses.’

  Cato plucked the small coins out of his purse and slapped them down on the counter. Despite the price, the drink was only just palatable and Cato could feel the sediment in his mouth as he gulped down the first warm mouthful.

  The barman returned the ladle to the jar. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cato took another sip. ‘Portia. I need to speak to her. Let her know I’m here.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Centurion Cato. She knows me.’

  The barman stood back from the counter and weighed Cato up. He clearly decided that the customer was of little account, and shook his head. ‘You can’t see her. She’s not here.’

  ‘All right, sunshine. Where is she, then?’

  The look of dull preoccupation that crossed the barman’s face as he tried to make up an excuse was eloquent enough for Cato.

  ‘Uh, she’s, uh, gone to the wine wholesaler.’

  ‘I see. And he only opens at night, I suppose?’

  ‘Er, yes…no. He’s doing it as a special favour.’

  ‘Really?’ Cato smiled mirthlessly, then leaned closer. ‘Look, mate, she’s on the premises. There’s no point in denying it. Just go and tell her that Cato–Macro’s friend–is here and needs to speak to her urgently. Now go. Before I have to make you.’

  Cato felt his heart quicken as he stared at the barman, trying to act the part of a man who would not take ‘no’ for an answer. The barman stared back at him, slowly kneading his hands together in a soiled cloth. At length he pursed his lips and snorted with contempt.

  ‘I said she’s not here. Now, I think you’d better drink up and leave, before I throw you out.’

  Cato flipped his cloak open to reveal the pommel of his sword, and casually drew the blade. ‘I think you’d better go and look for her.’

  The barman’s eyes fixed on the gleaming swordpoint and he nodded quickly. ‘I remember now. She’s doing the accounts. I’ll tell her you’re here.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Cato kept his sword up, and the barman backed carefully along the wall behind the counter until he was out of reach, and then hurried through the small doorway into the passage beyond. Once the man was gone Cato sheathed the blade and looked round the wine shop at the other customers. A few faces had turned towards him out of curiosity, but most continued talking in low undertones with their friends, or just stared ahead in a drunken stupor. He turned back to his mulsum and raised the cup. Then he recalled the gritty sediment and set it back down on the counter with a grimace.

  ‘And what is wrong with that?’

  Cato was momentarily startled by the voice and looked round sharply, before attempting to recover his composure. Portia was standing inside the door-frame, in the shadows, and he heard her chuckle.

  ‘My man told me we had a heavy at the bar. Made no mention of a boy.’

  ‘Not a boy,’ Cato replied through clenched teeth. ‘A centurion.’

  ‘Touchy young fellow, aren’t you?’ She stepped into the dull light of the bar and Cato saw the amused smile she was not even trying to suppress. He felt himself blushing as Portia approached and stood the other side of the counter. ‘I thought you were in Illyricum, sticking it to those pirates.’ The bitter irony of the last words hung in the air like an accusation.

  ‘I was. But the prefect needed someone to come back for reinforcements.’

  ‘So I heard. I assume things aren’t going well for our side. Now it seems you’re leaving us open to attack.’

  Cato said nothing, but glanced down to try to hide the guilt he was feeling.

  ‘What can I do for you, Centurion? Is this about that idiot son of mine?’

  Cato nodded. ‘That. And another matter.’

  She raised her plucked eyebrows. ‘Sounds ominous…Any news of my man?’

  ‘Minucius? He’s safe.’ Cato recalled the flimsy rampart that had been erected around the remains of the fleet. ‘At least he was when I left him.’

  ‘Safe,’ Portia repeated softly, then brushed her hand over her hair, tied back in a simple ponytail. ‘Good. I’ll make an offering for them tomorrow.’

  ‘Them?’ Cato smiled.

  ‘Yes, why not? Even that fool friend of yours could do with a little help from the gods.’

  There was an awkward silence before Cato summed up the nerve to say what he wanted. ‘You know, I think a little reconciliation might be in order.’

  ‘Then you’d better tell him that,’ Portia replied coldly. ‘Last time I saw my son, he seemed content to beat my husband-to-be into a pulp and destroy my livelihood.’

  Cato shot a glance round at the dingy wine shop and Portia sensed his disdain at once.

  ‘You might not think it’s much, but it’s been my bread and butter for years. Minucius and I have sunk every spare sestertian into this place. If we hadn’t come into a little money recently I’d never have forgiven Macro for the damage he caused the other night. As it is, I’m selling up. Soon as Minucius gets back we’re leaving Ravenna.’

  ‘Leaving?’

  ‘Cato, I don’t mean to end my days serving behind a bar. Minucius and I intend to find a small estate and retire quietly.’

  Cato raised his eyebrows. ‘Must be making a tidy profit from this place.’

  Portia snorted. ‘I wish. No. The money comes from Minucius. His uncle died some months ago. Seems the man was wise enough not to have children,’ she added with feeling. ‘He left it all to his only nephew.’ She flashed a bitter smile. ‘Makes a bit of a mockery of all the years I’ve put into this place, wouldn’t you say?’

  Cato shrugged. ‘Better late than never. The same applies to making things up with Macro.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? I left him and his father. Just dumped them and ran off with another man. Can you imagine how much that would hurt a boy that age? Even though I had my reasons, I could never forgive myself for doing that. I’ve often imagined what he must have gone through–tormented myself with it. And all the time I’ve been sure that however bad it made me feel, it was far worse for him, if not for that idle drunk of a husband. You can be sure that Macro will never forgive me.’

  ‘He might,’ Cato replied, ‘if you give him a chance.’

  Portia frowned, and then patted his hand. ‘Look, you seem like a nice boy, Cato. But this really doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Macro’s my friend. It concerns me.’

  ‘Have it your own way, then…’ They stared at each other in silence for a moment, before Portia’s gaze wavered. ‘All right, tell him that I will speak with him when this busines
s with the pirates is over. He can have one last chance to grow up. If he can’t bring himself to behave like an adult I’ll wash my hands of him. After all, I’ve got a future with Minucius. I really don’t need to dredge up the past.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Cato nodded. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Now, if that’s all…No, wait. You mentioned another matter.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You recall that night we came here?’

  Portia arched her eyebrows. ‘What do you think?’

  Cato glanced down to hide his shame. ‘There was a man with us. A merchant. Anobarbus.’

  ‘I remember him. Nice-looking man.’

  ‘Have you seen him since then?’

  ‘Not for a few days after the fight. Then he turned up again. He’s been in here two or three times. Made a beeline for any men from the fleet.’ Portia smiled at the memory. ‘Very flash with his money. Bought a round for everyone on the last occasion.’

  ‘Really?’ Cato raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know where I can find Anobarbus? I need to have a word with him.’

  Portia shook her head. ‘Sorry. No idea…But you might ask that man over there.’ She gestured towards a man slumped across a table to one side of the door, head cradled on crossed arms.

  ‘Him?’

  ‘He’s one of the gangmasters down at the warehouses. Contracts porters for all the shipowners and merchants in the port. If anyone knows where your man is staying, it’ll be Laecus there.’