The Eagle's Prophecy

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Did you see who just arrived?’

  Cato nodded. ‘Our friend, the Imperial Secretary.’

  ‘Do you think Narcissus knows we’re back in Rome?’

  ‘If he doesn’t already know, he will soon.’

  ‘Then we’re in trouble. That bastard talked General Plautius into decimating our cohort.’

  ‘I remember. He won’t be happy that I’m still alive.’

  Cato felt a surge of fear as he looked over the heads of the crowd at Narcissus. Not much escaped the notice of the man who controlled the Emperor’s secret police, disposed of any threats and dispensed much of Claudius’ patronage. And if he did know that Cato was in the city then he would be sure to tie up any loose ends as soon as possible, preferably by discreet strangulation in some dark, forgotten cell of the Mammertine prison. But there was a chance, an outside chance, that Macro and he had evaded the ever watchful eye of Narcissus, even now.

  At that precise moment Narcissus turned in his seat and cast his gaze over the crowd and, before Cato could react, his eyes fixed in the direction of the two centurions. Cato felt his guts turn to ice. It was only an instant, then Cato slumped down on his bench, out of Narcissus’ line of sight.

  ‘Shit!’ Cato muttered. ‘Shit…shit…shit.’

  Macro dropped down beside him, alarmed by the sudden change in his friend’s expression. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘He saw us. Narcissus saw me.’

  ‘Bollocks. How could he? We’re just a pair of faces amongst thousands. There’s no way—’

  ‘I’m telling you, he saw me!’ Cato could almost feel the rough hands of the Praetorian Guardsmen Narcissus would be sure to send out to arrest him. It would all be over in a moment.

  Macro stood up slowly and glanced towards the imperial box, before ducking back down beside his friend. ‘He’s not even looking this way. Just chatting with the Emperor. Nothing else. He can’t have seen you. Relax!’

  The cheering quickly died away as the priests prepared for the sacrifice to open the day’s racing. Two assistants dragged one of the white kid goats out from the cage and, holding the struggling animal by its legs, they carried it up the steps to the altar and held it down on the gleaming marble surface. The chanting of the high priest could just be heard across the track, as he intoned the blessing of Jupiter, best and greatest, on the Emperor Claudius, his family, the senate and people of Rome, and the charioteers. Then, he raised a curved dagger above the bleating goat, paused a moment, the blade glinting in the sunlight, before he slashed it down. The distant bleating was abruptly cut off. For a moment the priest bent over the twitching body of the goat and worked at its stomach with the dagger. Then, he eased out the liver, glistening in purple and red as it steamed slightly in the cool air. He bent over the organ to examine it closely, then called over a colleague, who also looked at the liver before they discussed their readings. The priest suddenly lifted the organ aloft to signify that Jupiter had accepted the sacrifice and the races could proceed. A huge roar of relieved tension swept round the stadium. Macro slapped his hands down on his knees and grinned like a boy.

  The pious speeches by the senate fathers were kept as brief as possible. It was the usual flowery offer of thanks to the sponsor of the races, in this case Claudius himself. The Emperor tapped his feet impatiently as he tried to catch the eye of the speakers and then made a quick waving gesture with his hand to get them to move on swiftly. The crowd cheered each speech politely, and then, as the last speaker climbed down from the podium on the island, they craned their necks expectantly, all eyes riveted to the line of gates at the far end of the Great Circus.

  There was a moment of hushed expectancy. Then a great fanfare of trumpets shrilled out and the gates swung inwards to reveal the dark tunnels leading back to the marshalling area. There was movement in the shadows, then the chariot teams burst out of the tunnels and on to the sand of the Great Circus. The crowd jumped up and screamed with excitement, and slowly the cheers resolved into rival chants in support of each team, or of vulgar denigration of the opposition. Most of the Praetorians, clearly, were supporters of the blues and bellowed out the name of Porcius as he drove his team past the imperial box and saluted Emperor Claudius.

  ‘Bastard better lose,’ Macro said softly. Then he glanced around nervously and drew a deep breath. ‘Come on, Porcius!’

  Cato raised an eyebrow as he caught his friend’s gaze. Macro shrugged. ‘Just keeping on side. No point in starting a fight.’

  The chariot teams completed a circuit of the track and then drew up in a line abreast, just in front of the Emperor. The crews clustered round, making final adjustments to the horses’ harnesses and applying a last handful of grease to the chariot axles. The charioteers checked their reins and made sure that the razor-sharp safety knives were secure in their scabbards. Each charioteer wore a short, sleeveless tunic in his team’s colours, and the light screens that folded around their legs were also painted in the team colours.

  Macro focused his attention on Nepos, a wiry man with a dark complexion. Nepos stood erect and still in his green tunic. Too still for Macro’s liking, almost as if he was too terrified to move. Or maybe he simply had nerves of steel. He’d better had.

  Once the preparations were complete the crews withdrew from the track and the charioteers took the strain on their reins, holding back their horse teams. The animals had been raised to run flat out and jostled each other nervously, muzzles flaring as their powerful flanks heaved.

  For a moment Cato forgot everything that troubled him as he sat forward on the edge of his bench and stared at the four chariot teams, tensed up and ready to explode into action. The Emperor nodded to the race marshal and the latter stepped up on to the podium at the front of the imperial box. He carried a small flag, which he carefully unfurled and slowly raised up until his arm was erect. Every eye of the tens of thousands of people in the Circus was on him and there was not a sound except for the snorting of the horses. The marshal waited until the teams were as level as they could be. Then he snatched his hand down and the flag dropped with a rippling flutter. Instantly the crowd roared. The charioteers cracked their reins and the horses kicked up plumes of sand as they yanked the chariots forward and the race began.

  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 over and 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?’

  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…’