At the bottom of the stairs Cato turned into the heart of the building and emerged into the gloomy yard where the block had its communal cooking hearth. A wizened old man was stirring a large blackened pot on the griddle and the air was thick with the smell of gruel. Even at this early hour there was someone ahead of Cato in the queue, a thin pasty woman who lived with a large family in one room on the floor immediately below Macro and Cato. Her husband worked in the warehouses; a huge surly man whose drunken shouting and beating of his wife and children could be heard clearly enough in the room above. At the sound of Cato’s nailed boots tramping across the flagstones she turned and looked over her shoulder. Her nose had been broken some time ago and today her cheek and eye were heavily bruised. Still a smile flickered across her lips and Cato made himself smile back, out of pity. She could have been any age between twenty and forty but the back-breaking labour of raising a family and the strain of tiptoeing round her brutish husband had reduced her to a wasted streak of despair as she stood barefoot in a ragged tunic, bronze pail in one hand and a sleeping infant clutched against her hip in the other.
Cato glanced away, not wanting to make further eye contact, and sat down at the far end of the bench to wait his turn at the hearth. In the arches on the far side of the yard the slaves of a bakery were already at work, heating the ovens for the first loaves of the day.
‘Hello, Centurion.’
Cato looked up and saw that the baker’s wife had emerged from her premises and was grinning at him. She was younger than Cato, and had already been married to the ageing owner of the business for three years. It had been a good marriage for the pretty, but coarse girl from the Subura, and she had plans for the business once her husband had passed on. Of course she might need a partner to share her ambitions when the time came. She had freely imparted this information to Cato as soon as he had moved into the tenement, and the implication was clear enough.
‘Morning, Velina.’ Cato nodded. ‘Good to see you.’
From the other end of the bench came a clearly audible sniff of contempt.
‘Ignore her.’ Velina smiled. ‘Mrs Gabinius thinks she’s better than the rest of us. How’s that brat Gaius coming on? Still poking his nose where it’s not wanted?’
The thin woman turned away from the baker’s wife and clutched her child close to her chest without making any reply. Velina placed her hands on her hips and raised her head with a triumphant sneer before her attention returned to Cato.
‘How’s my centurion today? Any news?’
Cato shook his head. ‘Still no postings for either of us. But we’re going to see someone at the palace this morning. Might have some good news later on.’
‘Oh…’ Velina frowned. ‘I suppose I should wish you good luck.’
‘That would be nice.’
She shrugged. ‘Can’t see why you bother, though. How long has it been now? Five months?’
‘Three.’
‘What if there’s nothing for you? You should think about doing something else with your life. Something more rewarding.’ She arched an eyebrow and pouted quickly. ‘Young man like yourself could go a long way, in the right company.’
‘Maybe.’ Cato felt himself blushing and glanced round towards the hearth. The open attention he was getting from Velina embarrassed him and he desperately wanted to quit the yard before she developed her plans for him any further.
The old man who had been stirring his gruel was heaving the steaming pot from the iron griddle and headed carefully towards the stairs. The wife of Gabinius reached for her pots.
‘Excuse me.’ Cato stood up. ‘Would you mind if I went first?’
She looked up, sunken eyes fixing him with a cold stare for an instant.
‘We’re in a rush this morning,’ Cato explained quickly. ‘Have to get up and out as quick as we can.’ He made a pleading face and tilted his head slightly in the direction of the baker’s wife. The thin woman pursed her lips in a smile, glanced at Velina with a barely concealed delight as she saw the other’s look of frustration.
‘Of course, sir. Since you’re so desperate to get away.’
‘Thank you.’ Cato nodded his gratitude and placed the mess tins on the hot griddle. He ladled some water in from the water trough, mixed it into the ground barley and started stirring as it heated up.
Velina sniffed, turned and strode back towards the bakery.
‘She’s still giving you the eye then?’ Macro grinned as he scraped the bottom of his mess tin with a scrap of bread.
‘Afraid so.’ Cato had finished his meal and was rubbing wax into his leather harness with an old rag. The silvered medals he had won in battle shone like freshly minted coins from their fastenings on the harness. He already wore his thick military tunic and scale armour, and had fastened polished greaves to his lower legs. He dabbed some more wax on to the cloth and rubbed away at the gleaming leather.
‘Going to do anything about it?’ Macro continued, trying not to smile.
‘Not on your life. I’ve got enough to worry about as it is. If we don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to go mad.’
Macro shook his head. ‘You’re young. You must have twenty or twenty-five good years of service ahead of you. There’s time enough. It’s different for me. Fifteen more years at the most. The next posting will probably be my last chance to get my hands on enough money to see me through retirement.’
The concern in his voice was clear and Cato paused and looked up. ‘Then we’d better make sure that we make the most of this morning. I staked out the secretary’s office for days to get this appointment. So let’s not be late.’
‘All right, lad. Point taken. I’ll get ready.’
A little later Cato stepped back from Macro and examined him with a critical eye.
‘How do I look?’
Cato ran his eyes over his friend and pursed his lips. ‘You’ll do. Now let’s go.’
When the two officers emerged from the dark staircase and on to the street in front of the tenement, heads turned to take in the spectacle of the gleaming armour and the brilliant red cloaks. Each officer wore his helmet and the neat horsehair crests fanned out across the gleaming metal. With vine cane gripped in one hand while the other rested on his sword pommel, Cato drew himself up and stiffened his back.
Someone wolf-whistled and Cato turned to see Velina leaning against the doorpost at the street entrance to her husband’s business.
‘Well then, just look at the two of you! I could really go for someone in uniform…’
Macro grinned at her. ‘I’m sure something could be arranged. I’ll drop by when we get back from the palace.’
Velina smiled weakly. ‘That would be nice…to see both of you.’
‘Me first,’ said Macro.
Cato gripped his arm. ‘We’ll be late. Come on.’
Macro winked at Velina and stepped out with Cato. Side by side they marched boldly down the slope towards the Forum and the gleaming pillars of the vast imperial palace rising up on the Capitoline Hill.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Centurions Macro and Cato?’ The Praetorian Guardsman frowned as he scanned the slate lying on the desk in front of him. ‘You’re not on the list.’
Macro smiled at him. ‘Have another look. A good look, if you know what I mean.’
The guardsman heaved his shoulders in a weary sigh, to make it quite clear that he had been down this route many times before. He leaned back from the desk and shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir. I’ve got my orders. No admittance to the palace unless your names are on the list.’
‘But we are on the list,’ Cato insisted. ‘We have an appointment at the army bureau. With the procurator in charge of legion postings. Right now, so let us through.’
The guardsman raised an eyebrow. ‘You know how many times someone’s tried that one on me, sir?’
‘It’s true.’
‘It’s only true if you’re on the list, sir. You ain’t on the list so you don’t have an app
ointment.’
‘Wait a moment.’ Cato concentrated his attention on the guardsman. ‘Look here, there’s obviously been some kind of mistake. I assure you that we have an appointment. I arranged it with the procurator’s clerk yesterday. Demetrius was his name. Send word to him that we’re here. He’ll confirm the story.’
The guardsman turned towards a small group of slave boys squatting in a niche to one side of the columned entrance to the palace. ‘You! Go to the army bureau. Find Demetrius and tell him these officers here say they have an appointment to see the procurator.’
‘Thank you,’ Cato muttered, and pulled Macro away from the guardsman’s desk, steering his friend towards the benches that lined the walls each side of the entrance.
As they sat down Macro grumbled, ‘Officious little prick. Gods! I’d love to have him on a parade ground for a few hours of hard drill. Soon see how tough he is. Bloody Praetorians! Think the world owes them a living. And the palace guard are the idlest bastards of ’em all.’
They waited in silence for the messenger to return and Cato looked up at the vast edifice of the palace looming above them. Built on to the side of the Palatine Hill, there were several tiers of accommodation rising high over the Forum. He had been raised within those walls. They had been almost the whole world to him–until his father died and Cato had been sent to join the legions over two years ago. Now, the once-familiar walls and columns felt like strangers, and seemed smaller, somehow. Of course, he reasoned, he had left the palace as little more than a boy, and had travelled across the Empire, across the sea, and had seen the horrors of battle. It was bound to have changed him, and made him see the world differently. But to feel like a stranger before the colossal walls that held so many memories for him made Cato’s heart heavy. He suddenly felt far older than his years and shivered, clutching his military cloak tighter about his shoulders.
When the messenger boy returned there was a quiet exchange of words with the Praetorian Guardsman before he turned round and beckoned to the two centurions.
He nodded at Cato. ‘Seems you were right, sir. Demetrius will see you now.’
‘Oh, he will, will he?’ Macro sniffed. ‘That’s bloody good of him.’
The Praetorian made a wry smile. ‘You can’t imagine. Anyway, follow this boy.’
They marched through the entrance portico, across a small yard and into the main body of the palace. Inside, the iron nails on the bottom of their thick leather boots echoed sharply off the high walls on each side of the passage. They passed wide doorways through which they could see the scribes and the clerks working at the endless record-keeping that kept the wheels of the Empire turning. The walls of the offices were lined with racks of scrolls and slates, every pigeonhole neatly marked with a numeral. Light poured into each room through latticed windows high up on the wall and Macro wondered what it must be like to spend long years working in such a confined space, with no view of the outside world.
They reached a narrow staircase at the end of the passage and climbed four flights before taking another corridor. The rooms leading off this corridor were bright and spacious, and most had windows that must provide fine views across the city. The slave boy drew up outside a wide doorway and rapped on the wooden frame.
‘Enter!’ a high-pitched voice called out.
Before they passed through the door Cato quickly whispered to his friend, ‘Let me do the talking. I know my way round these palace types.’
The slave boy led the two centurions inside and they found they were in an ante-room. Two benches were arranged along the wall opposite three windows that let in plenty of light and air. Too much, thought Cato, as he felt the chill. At the far end of the room was a closed door. To one side of it was a large desk made of some dark wood, and behind it sat the clerk Cato had met briefly the day before. Demetrius was a slight man in a plain but freshly laundered tunic. He had the classic Greek profile and his thinning hair was carefully arranged in dark oiled curls. His whole bearing spoke of the power and influence he thought he wielded. Beside him stood a brazier, glowing warmly. Three other officers were sitting on the bench nearest to the heat.
Demetrius glanced up from a scroll and beckoned to them. ‘Centurions Macro and Cato? You’re late.’
Macro puffed out his cheeks, but Cato responded before his friend could protest. ‘We were held up at the entrance. The guard had no record of our meeting.’ Cato smiled. ‘You know what they’re like. I hope we’re not too late for our meeting with the procurator.’
‘You’ve missed it,’ Demetrius said tonelessly.
‘Missed it?’ Macro jabbed a finger at him. ‘Now, just you look here—’
‘Come back tomorrow.’
‘Not on your life.’
Demetrius shrugged. ‘Your loss.’ He glanced at the messenger boy. ‘Please show these two gentlemen the way out of the palace.’
‘We’re staying!’ Macro growled. ‘And we will see the procurator. You’d better make sure of that.’
‘The procurator’s a busy man. You should have been here at the appointed time.’
Macro leaned over the desk and glared at the clerk. ‘And you should have made sure our names were on that list.’
‘Not my problem.’
‘Then I’ll make it your problem.’ Macro reached for his sword, and Demetrius glanced down at the pommel as the first length of blade emerged from the scabbard. He flinched and his eyes flickered back to meet Macro’s cold, determined expression.
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Try me.’
For a moment Demetrius wavered, and glanced to the other officers in a silent appeal for help, but they just smiled back and didn’t move. ‘I’ll call the guards.’
‘You can,’ Macro nodded. ‘But long before they get here, I’d have lobbed your scrawny arse out of the window. Must be a long way down…’ He smiled at the clerk. ‘Now can we please have our meeting with the procurator?’
Demetrius swallowed and fumbled for a waxed slate on his desk. ‘Yes, er, let me see. He could spare you a few moments at the end of his current meeting, I suppose.’ He looked up desperately. ‘If you’ll just take a seat…’
Macro straightened up and nodded with satisfaction. ‘Thank you.’
As he and Cato joined the other officers on the bench he glanced at Cato and winked. ‘I’ll do the talking from now on. Think I’ve got the measure of these palace types.’
The other officers craned round to introduce themselves. Two of them were veterans; grizzled and scarred beneath coarse hair that was going grey. They each had a chest full of medallions on their harnesses and one wore a gold torque on his wrist. The third officer was a young man, recently kitted out and with not one decoration on his harness. He looked awkward and uneasy in the company of the vastly more experienced men.
One of the veterans nodded over towards Demetrius. ‘Nice job, Centurion…is it Macro or Cato?’
‘Macro. Lately of the Second Legion Augusta. Same as Cato here.’
‘I’m Lollius Asinius. This here’s Hosidius Mutilus. Waiting for travel warrants to join the Tenth Legion. The youngster’s Flaccus Sosius. Looking for his first appointment.’
The young officer smiled quickly as he fixed his attention on the new arrivals. ‘The Augusta? You’ve been in Britain then? What’s it like?’
Macro concentrated for a moment before he replied, remembering the two years of the most intense fighting he had ever witnessed. So many men had died–good men he had known for years, and some he had barely had a chance to know before they were killed. Then there was the enemy: brutal and brave, and led by those deranged druid devils. What was it like? ‘Cold.’
‘Cold?’ Sosius looked confused.
Macro nodded. ‘Yes, cold. Don’t ever go there. Get yourself a posting somewhere comfortable. Like Syria.’
Cato shook his head in despair. As long as he had known Macro he had had to put up with the constant refrain that Syria was the best posting in the Empire.
It was Macro’s lifelong ambition to wallow in the fleshpots of the east.
‘Syria?’ Asinius laughed. ‘We’ve just come back from there. Been training some auxiliary units at Damascus.’
Macro leaned closer to Asinius, eyes bright with intent concentration. ‘Tell me about it–Syria. Is it as good as they say?’
‘Well, I don’t know about that, but—’
The door to the procurator’s office swung open and a man strode out into the ante-room. At once Cato and Macro rose up and stood stiffly to attention, quickly followed by the others. Demetrius rose last of all, taking just long enough to register his lack of obeisance. The man was wearing the full ceremonial toga of a senator, with a broad purple stripe running along the hem. He nodded briefly to the centurions and strode out of the ante-room as Demetrius stepped into his master’s office.
‘Centurions Licinius Cato and Cornelius Macro to see you, sir.’
‘Are they on my list?’
‘An oversight, sir. I’ll punish the scribe responsible.’
‘Oh, very well. Send ’em in.’
Demetrius stood by the door and closed it behind them the moment the two centurions had entered the procurator’s office.
They found themselves standing on a thick rug, one of several that filled the large room. It was situated on the corner of the palace and had windows on two sides. Glazed windows, Macro noted with scarcely hidden astonishment at the luxurious furnishing of the procurator’s office. On the far side, behind a marble-topped desk, sat the procurator, a fat man with a thick head of dark hair and a fistful of gold rings on the pudgy fingers of each hand. He glanced up with an irritable expression.
‘Well, get over here, then! Smartly now!’
The Eagle's Prophecy Page 3
