Porcius, true to his reputation, somehow managed to coax an extra burst of strength from his team and they had nosed ahead in the first length. The blues were just clear of the other teams as the chariots swerved round the end of the island, throwing up sheets of sand as the body of each chariot skidded round, and passed temporarily out of sight. The cheering of the spectators around Cato subsided as they turned their eyes to the other end of the island, waiting in tense anticipation for the chariots to reappear. Sand sprayed up an instant before the first chariot swung into view and the Praetorians leaped up in delight, screaming out their support for Porcius. Right behind him was Nepos, and Macro only just managed to restrain his cry of delight that Nepos was still in close contention. With desperate flicks of the reins Nepos steered his team to the outside as they raced down the track towards the imperial box. Gradually he closed on Porcius, then began to edge up alongside the blues. Porcius saw the danger and, with a quick tug on the reins, moved out to head off his rival.
A howl of outrage burst out from the supporters of the greens and Macro balled his hands into tight fists, but kept his lips clamped tightly together. Beside him, Cato just felt sick as he saw the man carrying the fate of their last few coins desperately rein in, then abruptly swerve left, closer to the island. Porcius had misjudged his manoeuvre and now his horses missed a pace as their charioteer urged them back on course. But it was too late. Nepos, leaning over the front rail of his chariot, was cracking his reins furiously and crying out encouragement to his team. They surged forward, inside the blues, past them and into the lead. Cato felt a surge of joy burst through his veins, and fought not to let it show.
'Yessss!' Macro punched his fist into the air, then looked round anxiously. Some of the guardsmen were looking at him in surprise, but quickly turned their attention back to the race.
'Watch it,' Cato muttered. 'I get the feeling we're not amongst friends.'
Back on the track, Nepos raced ahead, and rounded the island, disappearing from view. An instant later the blues swerved round after him and were gone. Already a sizeable gap had opened up between the leaders and the other two teams, the reds and the yellows, who were battling it out, neck and neck, trying to close up on the leaders. Once more the cheering on this side of the Circus died down as the race continued on the far side of the island. Heads swivelled to the far end of the central island, everyone watching intently.
Not everyone.
Cato glanced down into the imperial box and saw that Narcissus was staring back in his direction. Their eyes met. Cato was sure of it. The Imperial Secretary was staring directly at him, and there was nothing Cato could do but pretend it wasn't happening, as if he was just some face in the crowd. Then Narcissus raised a hand and pointed his finger at Cato, then waved slowly, before turning back towards the track. Cato felt the cold chill of terror trickle down his spine. He had been seen and recognised and there would be no avoiding the Imperial Secretary now. Cato knew he was as good as dead. Narcissus had beckoned to one of the guards officers and was speaking animatedly into his ear. It could be about anything, Cato hoped desperately; they could be talking about somebody or something else. Then Narcissus turned and pointed towards him and the officer nodded, and moved towards the entrance of the imperial box.
Cato grabbed his friend's arm. 'We have to go! Now!'
'Are you mad?' Macro shook his hand off. 'What's left of our money's out there. We're not going anywhere. Not until the race is over.'
'But…' Cato's mind raced. There was no time to explain it to Macro. And Macro wouldn't budge. 'All right! I'm heading back to that tavern. Find me there, afterwards.' He rose, snatched up his helmet and hurried up the steps towards the exit.
Behind him, Macro stretched out a hand. 'Cato! Wait! Oh, sod you, then!'
Cato scrambled down the steep steps into the arched gallery that ran around the Circus, under the banked seating. From there a wider flight of steps led down into the street, and his nailed boots echoed sharply off the columns and curved ceiling of the gallery. Above the dulled noise of the crowd he thought he could hear more footsteps, more nailed boots and a shout. He ran down the steps, three at a time, risking an injury in his bid to escape the Circus before Narcissus' men could stop him. At the bottom of the stairs he emerged from the shadows of the building and saw that there were still plenty of people ambling along the wide thoroughfare that ran beside the Great Circus. Cato knew if he ran he was sure to stand out from the crowd. He drew a breath and then moved in amongst the passers-by, filtering diagonally away from the steps towards an opening in the line of shops opposite, where a small side street ran down towards the Forum. Behind him he heard the clattering of boots on the steps, but, with iron will, he forced himself not to turn and look, but to keep walking steadily towards the side street. As people crossed his path, or barged into him, Cato refused to meet their gaze and moved on, all the while waiting for a shout from behind that would mean his doom. At last he reached the street corner, and ducked down the narrow alley, pausing only briefly to glance back towards the Great Circus. Four guardsmen were standing a few steps above the street, scrutinising the crowd, but none of them was looking in his direction.
Cato hurried down the alley, which was one of the older streets in the city, winding its way down the slope, becoming evermore narrow until the sky was only visible as a jagged line overhead, crowded by the eaves of the tightly packed tenement blocks rearing up on either side. Behind him the roars of the vast crowd in the Circus were gradually muffled. The atmosphere of the alley was thick with the rank odour of rotting food and sewage. He passed few people as he walked quickly along. A few surly-looking women watched him from open doorways and he had to squeeze past a small band of drunken youths, heading uphill towards the Great Circus. In the gloomy alley there were no landmarks for Cato to steer by, only where the slope led, and the broad sense of the direction in which he needed to move. Then, at last, he turned a corner, and the alley ran into a wider street, filled with people. To the left lay the Forum and, with a deep breath, Cato turned towards it and walked on at a steadier pace, trying not to look like the wretched fugitive he had become.
He found the tavern easily enough, and took a seat inside, close to a wall so that he could keep watch on the crowds outside and lean back into the shadows if he needed to avoid anyone's searching gaze. The young barman came over, drying his hands on a filthy rag. A flicker of recognition crossed his face and he grinned.
'Didn't go to the races then?'
'We did,' Cato replied quickly before he realised that his quitting the Circus so soon would look suspicious unless he could explain it.'But I remembered I was supposed to meet someone here. My friend will join me later.'
'I see.' The barman shrugged. 'Well, that's a shame. What'll you drink?'
'Drink?'
'This is a tavern, friend, not a clients' waiting room.'
'A cup of wine. Heated wine.'
'Just a cup?'
'That's all I want, for now.'
'Right.' The barman threw the rag over his shoulder and headed back to the large wine jars set into the counter. He returned and placed a steaming cup down at Cato's table.
'That's one sestertian.'
With a sick feeling Cato realised that Macro had charge of all their money, and he was back at the Circus. He glanced up at the barman. 'Keep a tab. I'll pay when my friend arrives.'
The barman shook his head.'No tabs. House policy. You pay now.'
Cato cleared his throat and stared hard at the young barman. He lowered his voice to a rough growl. 'I said I'll pay later. Now leave me.'
The barman opened his mouth to protest. Cato leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms and nodded back towards the rear of the tavern. The barman eyed him coldly, then moved away and settled behind the bar to rinse some cups, and keep an eye on his difficult customer.
Cato turned his gaze back on to the crowd in the Forum and waited. Hopefully Macro would come to him once the first race was o
ver, if Nepos had won. Then he'd collect his winnings and head for the Forum. An hour passed and the cup in front of Cato had been empty for a long while. He did not dare order another in case Macro did not turn up, and began to worry about how he would talk his way out of the tavern.
Then, a short distance away, the crowd parted as a patrician woman shrank back with a small cry of disgust. A figure in a centurion's armour shambled past her. His face was battered and bloody and for a moment Cato did not recognise Macro. Then, as his friend turned towards the tavern, Cato jumped up.
'Macro! Macro, what the hell's happened to you?'
06 The Eagles Prophecy
CHAPTER FIVE
'Out of my way!' Macro shouted. He brushed Cato to one side and threw himself at the barman, swinging a punch to the young man's head. The barman had been working the Forum taverns for long enough to know how to react to such attacks. He ducked beneath the blow and stepped to one side, giving the centurion a firm thrust in the back as he swept past. With a splintering crash Macro sent a table and stools flying before he struck the unyielding bar counter with sufficient force to drive the wind from his lungs. He lay there for a moment, shaking his head, and the barman scurried back round the bar to snatch up a heavy club. The other drinkers in the tavern scrambled up from their seats and pushed towards the street, from where they turned back to watch the spectacle.
'Call the watch!' one of the customers shouted. The call was taken up by some other voices in the crowd that was rapidly gathering outside the tavern.
The last thing Cato wanted was any attention from the men of the urban cohort that policed the streets. He picked his way round the bar and grabbed Macro's shoulder.
'Someone's gone for the watch. Macro, we have to get out of here.'
Macro glared at Cato. 'Once I've finished with him.'
'Not now.' Cato glanced round and saw that the barman was staring at them wildly as he raised his club. 'What do I owe you for the drink?'
'Drink?' The barman frowned.'Just fuck off. Get him out of here.'
'Right.' Cato cautiously approached Macro and helped him up, keeping a firm grip on his arm.'Come on. We have to go.'
Macro caught the note of urgency in Cato's voice and nodded. Then the two centurions picked their way through the splintered wreckage of the table and stools and out into the street. The crowd instinctively pulled back and gave them some space. Not far off, over the heads of the onlookers, four red horse-hair crests edged towards the tavern.
'This way.' Cato shoved Macro along the line of stalls on the edge of the Forum and they threaded their way into the bustling crowd of shoppers and sightseers. When Cato felt they had gone far enough he pulled Macro into a narrow alley behind the Forum and the two of them leaned up against the grimy plaster walls of an ancient shrine and caught their breath.
'What the hell was that all about?' Cato snapped.
'Eh?'
'That fight at the tavern. What the hell do you think you were doing?'
'That bastard was one of Porcius' supporters.'
'I know. So what?'
'Porcius won.'
'Is that any reason…? Oh, shit.' Cato's head drooped. 'The bet. You lost all our money.'
'What d'you mean I've lost it?' Macro responded angrily. 'It was our money. Our bet. You'd have had fair shares if we'd won.'
'But we didn't.'
'I know!' Macro smacked his fist against his chest. 'I was bloody well there when that twat Nepos drove his fucking chariot straight into the wall. Only a hundred feet short of the line. The Praetorians were pissing themselves laughing…'
'And?'
'Well,' Macro lowered his eyes, 'that's when I hit one of them.'
'You hit one of them?'
'Two, actually. Perhaps a few more as well. Can't quite remember. One of them didn't get up.'
'I see.' Cato spoke through clenched teeth. 'So not only did you lose our money, you've managed to get the Praetorian Guards on our backs. And now, thanks to your little rumpus in the tavern, the urban cohort are after us as well.' Cato rubbed his forehead to ease the torrent of tormenting thoughts cascading through his mind. 'On top of that, Narcissus knows we're in Rome.'
Macro looked up. 'Oh?'
'He saw me. Back at the Great Circus.'
'You're sure?'
'Of course I'm bloody sure. He looked right at me. He even waved. Before he sent some men after me. Why did you think I had to get out so fast?'
Macro shrugged.'I had wondered about that. So what do we do now?'
'That's the question. Trouble is, there's no answer. We can't run for it. They're bound to have men watching for us at the city gates. We can't lie low in Rome, not without money.'
Both men were silent for a moment, before Macro reached a hand up to his face and winced as it came in contact with a huge bruise on his cheek. 'Ouch! That smarts!'
Cato glared at him. 'Well, you deserve it.'
'Thanks for your sympathy…' Macro looked up at his friend. 'We need to get off the streets.'
That night Cato lay on his side and stared at the wall, close enough to see his breath glistening on the cracked plaster, thanks to a shaft of moonlight probing through the broken shutter. He was more tired than he had been for months, yet his mind would not stop running over the day's events. The uncertainty over his future that had plagued him since returning to Rome now seemed quite trivial compared to the despair he felt at his present situation. Only a miracle could save him now. Tormented by such thoughts he lay still and stared at the wall for what felt like hours. Macro, as usual, had fallen into a deep sleep almost as soon as he had laid his head down on his mattress, and his snoring threatened to shake the tenement block down. For a while Cato entertained the notion of crossing the room and rolling Macro over on to his side, but that would mean leaving the snug warmth he had managed to build up under his tunic, army cloak and blanket. So he suffered the din, grew accustomed to it, and eventually drifted off to sleep.
A shattering crash snapped him into wakefulness. It was just after dawn, and the room was readily visible in the thin grey light. Cato sat up, turning towards the doorway just as the old iron latch sprang from its fixings and the weathered timbers of the door flew inwards and cracked sharply against the wall, dislodging a shower of loose plaster.
'What the hell…?' Macro raised his head just as four heavily armoured soldiers burst into the room with swords drawn.
'Stay where you are!' one of the men shouted, raising his blade just enough to make the threat unmistakable. Cato and Macro froze, and the man lowered his sword as he addressed them in a more official tone.
'Centurions Macro and Cato?'
Cato nodded.
'Narcissus wants to see you.'
06 The Eagles Prophecy
CHAPTER SIX
'Bollocks!' Macro shouted, and shot out an arm to where his sword lay against the wall. The Praetorian reacted at once and stamped his boot down on Macro's wrist. Macro gasped as the iron studs stabbed into his flesh, but before he could say another word he felt the point of a sword at his throat.
'I really wouldn't do that, sir,' the Praetorian said reasonably. 'You're outnumbered, you're on the ground and you'd be dead before you could even draw your sword. So don't give us any trouble.' He let the words sink in, and when Macro nodded, he slowly raised his boot, but kept the point of his sword poised over Macro's throat. Keeping his eyes fixed on the centurion he gave an order.'Frontinus, get their weapons.'
One of his men sheathed his blade and took charge of the swords and daggers of the two officers. Only when the man had retreated out of the room did the leader of the squad withdraw the point of his weapon and step away from Macro.
'Get dressed. And get your kit together.'
Cato frowned. 'Our kit?'
'Yes, sir. I'm afraid you won't be coming back here again.'
Cato felt his blood chill. He was numb. So this was what it was like to be led to your execution. A cordial visit from the Imperial Se
cretary's henchmen and two more names were erased from history. He almost laughed out loud at the pretentiousness of the thought. He and Macro were not even worthy of a footnote. Two minor characters with walk-on parts in some provincial drama was nearer the mark. They were doomed to be forgotten, even within the living memory of the very men who took them to their deaths. That was how it was, and Cato felt the bitter anger of one whose life was fated to end meaninglessly almost before it had even begun. He looked up at the leader of the squad.
'Where are you taking us?'
'Told you, sir. Narcissus wants to see you.'
Cato smiled. No doubt the Imperial Secretary wanted a chance to bid them farewell so that they would be in no doubt who had crafted their doom. That was typical of Narcissus. No matter how small the triumph, he needed to witness it in person. Under more detached circumstances Cato would have been curious to reflect on the flaws of such an insecure personality, but with death seemingly imminent he had nothing but hatred and despair in his heart.
'Now then, on your feet, please, sir. I've got a busy morning; quite a few other appointments to fit in. So, if you wouldn't mind…?'
Cato rose up from his mattress warily, his mind racing with thoughts of fight and escape. He wondered if the Praetorians would finish him and Macro off there and then. But then, he supposed, they would have to carry the bodies away for disposal. They wouldn't like that. Much easier to make their victims take themselves away before being disposed of. Being careful not to turn his back on the Praetorians, Cato put on his boots and laced them up, before packing his clothes and equipment into his blanket. On the other side of the room Macro did the same. There was not much to leave behind: a few scraps of food, and odd items of clothing that had been awaiting repair. It puzzled Cato that the Praetorians were prepared to let them pack their possessions, until it struck him that the worldly goods of the two centurions might fetch a reasonable price back at the guards' barracks.
The Eagles Prophecy c-6 Page 5