The Eagle's Prophecy

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘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.’

  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 Secretary’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.

  Cato folded his blanket over his belongings, tied the ends together, and looped the knot over the end of the marching yoke. When Macro had finished, he joined Cato a short distance away from the waiting Praetorians.

  He looked down at his boot, as if checking his laces, and whispered, ‘Think we should try and make a break for it?’

  ‘No.’

  The Praetorian smiled, anticipating the remark even though he had not heard it. ‘Please, don’t either of you do anything foolish. Me and the lads have had plenty of experience escorting people.’

  ‘Prisoners, you mean,’ Macro growled.

  The Praetorian shrugged. ‘People, prisoners, it’s all the same to us, sir. We just collect and deliver. There’s others who handle the messy stuff. I’m just warning you not to try and escape. It’d be an unpleasant business for both of us, if you get my meaning.’

  Macro glared at him. ‘I’d get it a lot quicker if you didn’t dress it up so much. In the legions we call a spade a spade. We have to deal with the real messy stuff.’

  ‘But we’re not in the legions, are we, sir? In Rome things are done with more style.’

  ‘Death’s death, lad. There ain’t no hiding that.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what we keep hidden.’ The Praetorian smiled coldly, then stood aside and gestured towards the door. ‘Now, sirs, if you wouldn’t mind…?’

  With two guards in front and two behind, their swords drawn, the centurions made their way down the narrow staircase and emerged into the stairwell at the b
ottom of the tenement block. The guardsmen had been seen entering the building and a small crowd of curious onlookers had gathered outside. As the prisoners and escort clattered on to the paved street, Velina emerged from the bakery. Her eyes widened in surprise as she saw Cato and Macro carrying their packs. She stepped out in front of the leading Praetorians.

  ‘Cato! What’s happening?’

  ‘Out of the way, lady!’ snapped one of the guards.

  Velina looked round his shoulder. ‘Cato?’

  She tried to push past but the guard grabbed her arm and thrust her back against the wall of the tenement and then the Praetorians marched off with their prisoners.

  They entered the palace through one of the servants’ entrances that opened on to a narrow side street away from well-used thoroughfares. Cato recalled using the narrow gateway a few times as a child, when he had lived in the servants’ quarters of the palace. There were few people around to see them taken inside, and Cato realised how easy this made it for people simply to disappear in the city. Once past the guards stationed at the entrance, the Praetorians took them along a corridor until they reached a stairwell, and then they climbed up through the heart of the imperial palace.

  Cato turned to the leader. ‘You’re not taking us to the cells, then?’

  The man raised his eyebrows. ‘Evidently.’ Then he relented and relaxed his stern expression for a moment. ‘Look, sir, we were told to take you to Narcissus. That’s all the orders we have, as far as you two are concerned.’

  ‘You weren’t sent to take us to be executed, then?’

  ‘No, sir. Just to take you to Narcissus. That’s all. If he decides you’re for the chop, well then, that’s different, and we might have to take you to the lads who get that job done.’

  ‘Oh…’ Cato looked at the man more closely, wondering how he could be so sanguine about his duties. Maybe the Praetorian had simply become used to it. Cato remembered that under Emperor Caligula the Praetorian Guards had been kept busy arresting and executing people throughout the three years of his reign.

  After four flights of stairs they emerged on to a wide corridor with an ornate mosaic pattern flowing across the floor. Large windows, high up, admitted broad shafts of light. Cato had never seen the corridor before and as he felt a warm current of air rise up his legs he realised that the floor must be heated.

  Macro pursed his lips. ‘Our man Narcissus knows how to live well.’

  The escorted party marched down the corridor towards an imposing door, almost twice the height of a man. The door was flanked by a pair of Praetorian Guardsmen, and in a niche to the left a clerk sat at a large walnut desk. He was neatly turned out in a soft wool tunic and looked up at the sound of echoing footsteps. The leader of the squad nodded to him.

  ‘Centurions Macro and Cato, as requested by the Imperial Secretary.’

  ‘He’s in a meeting with the Emperor. You’ll have to wait. Over there.’ He pointed across the corridor with his stylus, to where padded benches lined another niche. The party crossed over and the two centurions gratefully lowered their packs, and took a seat. Two guardsmen stood either side of them. In the austere surroundings of the Imperial Secretary’s suite of offices, Macro felt self-conscious about his unshaven and battered face. Glancing over at Cato, he saw his friend staring dejectedly at the mosaic floor, wholly absorbed in his misery.

  The Imperial Secretary’s meeting with Emperor Claudius went on, and on. As the sun rose above the sprawling city, the shafts of light slowly glided down the walls of the corridor and finally bathed the prisoners and their escort in a warm golden glow. Macro eased himself back and shut his eyes, and, despite their predicament, he began to enjoy the soothing sensation of the warmth and the hazy orange glow of the sunlight through his eyelids. So it was that he missed the faint creak of the doors as they swung open. As the guardsmen stiffened to attention, the clerk jumped to his feet and bowed. Cato rose quickly, but before he could stir Macro, the Emperor of Rome and his most faithful and trusted servant, Narcissus, emerged into the corridor.

  ‘S-s-so, you really think it’s that important?’

  ‘Yes, Caesar.’ Narcissus nodded to emphasise his agreement. ‘It is a vital component of the work. Without it, posterity will be forever impoverished.’

  Emperor Claudius looked at him wide-eyed, and there was a violent twitch of his head. ‘Really? You r-really think so?’

  ‘Yes, Caesar. Without question.’

  ‘Well, put like that, w-w-what can I say? I had thought that my ch-ch-ch-childhood poetry might not be quite the ticket for an autobiography.’ He smiled, twitched, and squeezed Narcissus’ arm. ‘But you’ve convinced me. As ever, your good t-t-taste and sound judgement are a perfect complement to my genius.’

  ‘Caesar.’ Narcissus bowed low. ‘Your praise is undeserved. Any mortal with any literary sensibility at all could not mistake the divine brilliance of your powers of perception and description.’

  Claudius beamed and clasped Narcissus’ arm in gratitude, then froze as he spied Macro, nodding off on his bench. ‘I somehow doubt that f-fellow shares your point of view.’

  Narcissus glared into the niche and snapped an order. ‘Get that fool on his feet!’

  Two guardsmen took an arm each and hauled Macro up. He opened his eyes blearily. ‘What? What? Oh…’

  At the sight of the Emperor he was instantly awake and stood straight as a marble pillar, Claudius limped over towards him and looked the centurion over.

  ‘Is this one of the men you were telling me about, Narcissus?’

  ‘Yes, Caesar.’

  ‘Hardly an impressive sp-sp-sp-specimen, I must say. But he looks like the sort of man we might sacrifice without losing much s-sleep.’

  ‘Yes, Caesar. Once again you anticipate my thoughts.’

  Claudius turned to Cato, with a look of surprise. ‘And this other one, this boy? Surely he’s not the other officer you mentioned. Why, h-h-he doesn’t look old enough to even shave!’

  Narcissus forced a laugh, and when his clerk followed his cue the Emperor turned round with a frown. ‘No one asked you to join in!’

  The clerk froze, and blanched, dropping his eyes at once.

  ‘That’s better.’ The Emperor turned back to continue his examination of the two centurions. ‘I suppose you know what you’re d-d-doing, Narcissus. That other business we talked about will need careful handling. Are you sure the-the-these men are up to the job?’

  ‘If they aren’t, then no one is, Caesar.’

  ‘Very well…I’ll see you at dinner.’

  ‘Caesar.’ Narcissus bowed again, as did the Praetorians, his secretary and the two centurions. They kept their heads down as Claudius shuffled away down the corridor and disappeared into a side gallery. The moment the Emperor was out of sight there was a collective sigh of released tension. Macro felt as if he had escaped instant execution by a hair’s breadth and the blood pounded through his heart.

  Narcissus glanced at the two centurions and snapped an order. ‘Bring them in!’

  He turned on his heel and strode back into his office as Cato and Macro grabbed their yokes and, flanked by the guardsmen, they were escorted through the high doorway into the office of the Imperial Secretary.

  The room was vast. Above, the ceiling rose to the same height as the corridor, and the floor was covered with animal skins, through which the heat of the hypocaust could still be felt. To the right stretched a wall made up of a honeycomb of shelving for scrolls and books. To the left, the wall was covered with a finely detailed painting of a huge bay that stretched out into the distance where it was lost in a faint haze. Looming over the coastal strip was a vast mountain, dwarfing the towns that lined the shores at its feet. On the far wall were four large windows, with spectacular views over the Forum and the sprawling slopes of the Subura beyond. Narcissus had crossed the room and settled himself behind an oak desk whose size was proportionate to the room, if not to the amount of paperwork upon it, which struggled to
look burdensome. The Imperial Secretary noticed the admiring looks on the faces of the two centurions as they gazed out over the city, fascinated to see so much of it at once.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ he smiled. ‘It is the first thing that people who visit this office remark on. I find it inspiring and, at the same time, frightening. Terrifying even.’

  He twisted away from Cato and Macro to stare out of the window, and continued in the same reflective tone, ‘The Empire is ruled from here. From this palace. The palace is the mind that directs the muscles and sinews of empire. Down there, in the Forum, is the public expression of that power. The fine temples to scores of Gods. The basilicas where the fortunes of men are made and traded, and regulated by law. People from all over the world come to the Forum to marvel at the scale of our achievement. Together, the palace and Forum constitute a shrine to power and order.’ He paused and raised a hand, pointing across to the rising slope of the Subura, a filthy mass of tile and plaster, poised like a wave about to crash down upon the Forum.

  ‘That slum, on the other hand, is a chaos of poverty and depravity forever threatening to engulf and destroy the order we have created. The Subura is a daily reminder of what we might become if the Emperor and all who further his aims are swept away. The plebs are the barbarians within the gate. As long as they are fed and entertained we have them in our grasp. But let them get an inkling of their own power, or worse, let another person prey upon their baser motivations…and their superstitions,’ Narcissus added with heavy emphasis, ‘and they’ll cut our throats.’

  The Imperial Secretary turned back towards the two centurions with a weary expression. ‘So, it is my task, my purpose in this life, to make sure that order is maintained and that Claudius remains in power. That means I have to identify and contain any and all possible threats to the Emperor. And it is your job, as soldiers sworn to obey his will, to aid me in any way I determine. Do I make myself clear?’