The Eagle's Prophecy

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato looked out through the curtain of drips that splattered down from the thatched shelter that gave out on to the road. ‘This isn’t going to pass quickly. How much further to Ocriculum?’

  Macro thought a moment. ‘Three hours.’

  ‘It’ll be dark in three hours.’

  ‘Sooner than that with this weather.’

  Cato glanced back at the inn. ‘We could stay here for the night; catch up with the column tomorrow.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘I’m not paying to stay here when there’s decent barracks just down the road. Besides, if we stay we’ll have to push it to catch up with the column in the morning. No point in that. Drink up, and let’s go.’

  Cato shot him an angry look, then relented. It would be easier to endure a wet and discomforted Macro for the next few hours than put up with his grumbling for the rest of the night and the following morning. With a sigh of resignation he downed the rest of his cup, savouring the warm glow in his belly, and then shouldered his pack and trudged out of the inn. The rain was falling harder than ever, like silver rods, and veiled the surrounding landscape as it hissed on the paved surface of the road. They were alone on the road, Cato realised, and with a last longing look at the warm glow of the hearth at the inn, he turned and followed the dark shape of Macro.

  A mile down the road, the air momentarily turned a blinding white, and almost at once their ears were deafened by a crashing roll of thunder.

  Cato winced and called out to Macro, ‘We should find shelter!’

  His words were drowned out by a fresh detonation in the heavens and Cato trotted forward a few steps and grabbed Macro’s shoulder. ‘Let’s find shelter!’

  ‘What?’ Macro grinned. ‘Shelter? What for? Just a bit of rain, that’s all.’

  ‘A bit of rain?’

  ‘Sure. What’s the matter? You gone soft from too much city living or something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, come on then!’ Macro shouted back above the din, and turned round and strode away.

  Cato stared at him a moment, then with a shrug of resignation he set off in his friend’s footsteps. The thunder grumbled above and echoed off the slopes of the surrounding hills. And so they never heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs and the grind of the carriage wheels until the small mounted party was almost upon them. They came out of the dusk at speed, right behind the two centurions, and Cato just had time to turn, see the danger and throw himself to one side with a shouted warning to Macro as the cloaked horsemen swerved their mounts at the last instant. Macro leaped off the road and crashed into the drainage ditch a short distance from Cato. Above them flitted the shapes of two horsemen, a team of horses, drawing a light covered coach, and then two more horsemen. They ignored the two travellers they had driven from the road and clattered on without stopping.

  ‘Oi!’ Macro raised himself up on one arm. ‘You bastards!’

  His words were lost in the storm and moments later the gloom had swallowed up the coach and its escort, as Macro continued to hurl abuse after them. Cato raised himself up from the mud and retrieved his pack before going to help Macro. Once both men were back on the road, soaked and filthy, Macro calmed down a little.

  ‘You all right, Cato?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘If we catch up with those bastards I’ll give them a hiding they won’t forget in a hurry.’

  ‘We won’t catch them. Not at the rate they’re going.’

  Macro glared down the road. ‘Maybe they’ll shelter for the night at Ocriculum. Then we’ll see what’s what.’

  ‘Come on then, or we’ll never get there.’

  They raised their drenched packs and continued along the road, glistening in the teeming downpour.

  Night came, swallowing up the last vestiges of daylight almost without them being aware of it, so dark had the storm become. They did not reach Ocriculum for nearly another two hours, and emerged into the wavering glow of covered torches at the town gate looking like beggars, drenched and streaked with mud from their tumble into the drainage ditch.

  The gatekeeper slowly rose from a sheltered bench inside the lofty arch and stuck his thumbs into the top of his belt.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he grinned. ‘What have we got here? I assume you two vagrants can pay the entrance fee?’

  ‘Get stuffed.’ Macro growled. ‘And let us through.’

  ‘Now then.’ The gatekeeper frowned and slid his right hand round towards the pommel of his sword. ‘No need for that. You pay your dues and you can enter the town. Otherwise…’ He nodded back down the road.

  ‘Nothing doing, friend,’ Macro replied. ‘We’re centurions, on active service. Let us through.’

  ‘Centurions?’ The gatekeeper looked doubtful, and Macro drew back his cape to show his army-issue sword and the unmistakable shape of his marching yoke. The gatekeeper glanced at Cato, who, in his soaked state, looked even younger than his years. ‘Him too?’

  ‘Him too. Now let us in.’

  ‘Very well.’ The gatekeeper nodded to a pair of men at the far end of the arch, and they pushed one of the gates in just enough to admit the two travellers. Macro nodded his thanks and trudged past the gatekeeper.

  The marching barracks were a short distance from the town gate. A small arch led into an open yard lined with stables on one side and barrack blocks along the other three walls. Light glowed through cracks in the window shutter and spilled on to the flagstones in dull slants. A handful of covered torches provided enough illumination to show where they were going as Macro and Cato gave their details to the clerk at the gate and were given directions to one of the officers’ rooms. As they crossed the yard Macro glanced at the vehicles in the wagon park: a neat line of supply wagons and there at the far end, a smaller more refined shape. He drew up so suddenly that Cato walked straight into his back.

  ‘Shit! What did you do that for?’

  ‘Quiet!’ Macro snapped. He raised his hand and pointed. ‘Look!’

  Cato glanced round. ‘Oh…’

  There stood the carriage. Its lines were unmistakable. It was the same one that had sent them sprawling into the ditch a few miles down the road to Rome.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cato hurried after Macro as his friend crashed through the door of the barrack block and strode into the mess. It was a large room, lit and heated by wall-mounted iron braziers. There was a bar and several tables at which a score of officers were sitting. Every one of them had turned to look at the man who had made such a dramatic entrance. A flash of lightning silhouetted Macro’s stocky shape in the door frame, while Cato’s bleached image stood out behind him. Then the lightning was gone and Macro’s expression was lit by the rosy glow of the braziers. He smiled.

  ‘Evening, gents! Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro at your service. Now, can one of you tell me which cunt owns the fancy carriage parked outside?’

  For a moment no one moved or spoke, until Cato caught up with his friend and pushed his way into the mess and out of the rain. The young centurion dumped his pack and sneezed so hard he bent double, and broke the spell. Macro nodded at him.

  ‘This is Centurion Marcus Licinius Cato. He can’t help it. Now then, as I was saying…’

  The barman waved Macro towards the counter. ‘Take a seat and have a drink, sir, and close the door.’

  Once the filthy weather had been shut out, the two newcomers stood dripping on the threshold, under the silent gaze of the other officers. Out of the corner of his eye Cato noticed a man rise from one of the tables against the far wall. He hurried over to a side door and disappeared down an unlit corridor. The barman set up two cups and filled them carefully from a large jug. ‘There you go. Come and drink, and we can talk without spoiling the evening for my other customers.’

  As the two centurions leaned up against the counter the barman shouted for one of his slaves and a thin child with a pinched face scurried out of the storeroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Take the
se officers’ packs to one of the rooms. When you’ve done that, come back for their cloaks. They’ll need drying. Now go.’

  The slave boy nodded meekly, scurried round the bar and headed for the two packs by the door. As Cato watched, the boy hefted his pack with a strained expression and staggered from the room under the weight.

  ‘Now then, sir,’ the barman was saying to Macro, ‘if you want to drink in my establishment, then you’ll behave, understand? Otherwise, I’ll have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d leave?’ Macro smiled sweetly.

  Without taking his eyes off Macro the barman called out, ‘Ursa. Out here, now’

  A huge shadow filled the entrance to the storeroom and then a great blond head ducked into the bar. When the man stood up, his straw locks seemed to brush against the rafters. His arms were thick and hard, and his tunic stretched tightly around his huge chest and over his broad shoulders.

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Stick around while I talk to these gentlemen.’

  Ursa nodded, and switched his gaze to the two centurions at the counter, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. The barman turned back to Macro.

  ‘If I say leave, you leave. Got that?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ Cato nodded.

  Macro shot him a look of disgust before he turned his attention back to the barman. ‘Well? The carriage?’

  ‘Belongs to a senior officer. On his way north. If you want to know anything more you’ll have to speak to those men over there.’ He pointed towards the table from which Cato had seen the man depart moments earlier. The remaining three customers watched the two centurions closely.

  ‘Speak to them, by all means,’ continued the barman, ‘but keep it civil or I’ll have Ursa sort you out.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Macro replied. ‘And thanks for the drink, friend. Come on, Cato.’

  They eased their way through the room as the other officers started to talk again, low voices swiftly rising to the former level of drunken good humour. Macro drew up in front of the table and nodded at the men seated on the far bench. ‘Evening.’

  They nodded back.

  ‘Chatty lot, aren’t you? Mind telling me who you are? Who you work for?’

  They exchanged glances before one of them cleared his throat. ‘We’re not at liberty to discuss that, sir.’

  ‘Let me guess.’ Macro cocked his head to one side as he appraised the men. ‘Too well dressed to be common legionaries. And too afraid of a fight to be anything other than Praetorian Guards. Am I right?’

  The man nodded, then spoke quickly. ‘Yes, sir. And you know the regulations. We raise a fist against a superior, even one from the legions, and we’re dead men.’

  Macro smiled. ‘What do you say we go outside and settle this without any question of rank? Just us and you three.’

  ‘Settle what exactly, sir?’

  ‘This.’ Macro indicated the mud plastered to his tunic. ‘A little souvenir from the ditch you madmen forced us into back on the Flaminian Way a couple of hours ago.’

  The guardsman’s eyes widened as he recalled the incident. ‘That was you? I thought you two must be tramps. Please accept my apologies, sir. No harm done.’

  ‘Not yet. Now then, are you going to settle this like a man?’

  ‘Settle what, Centurion?’ a voice called from the doorway leading into the dark corridor. Macro and Cato turned round and saw a dim figure emerging from the shadows. The man paused.

  ‘Well, well. It is a small world indeed. Wouldn’t you agree, Centurion Macro?’

  ‘Vitellius…’ Macro whispered.

  ‘That’s right.’ Vitellius chuckled lightly as he emerged into the full glow of the mess room. The guardsmen leaped to their feet, the bench grating across the floor beneath them as it was forced away from the table. ‘But I would prefer it if you addressed me by my proper rank. I take a dim view of insubordination. You’d do well to remember that.’

  ‘Oh, really…sir?’

  ‘Yes. Really.’ Vitellius fixed him with a cold stare for an instant, before the calculating smile returned to his lips. ‘I gather you wanted a word with me. Something to do with my carriage, I understand.’

  ‘Your carriage?’ Cato’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  ‘Yes, mine. Good evening to you too, Centurion Cato. Good to see you here, Both of you. Just like old times. We must have a drink. Barman!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘A jar of your best wine and three goblets. Goblets, mind.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Vitellius waved a hand at his bodyguards. ‘Get up and leave us alone. Make sure my friends and I are not disturbed.’

  The guards saluted and hurriedly made for another table nearby, yet not so near as to permit them to overhear what was said between Vitellius and the two centurions.

  ‘Sit down please, gentlemen.’ Vitellius waved at the vacant bench.

  Macro shook his head. ‘No thank you, sir.’

  ‘That wasn’t a request, Centurion. Now sit down. Both of you.’

  With a pause just long enough to mark their distaste and a measure of defiance, Macro and Cato took their seats. Vitellius smiled at them and then eased himself down on the bench opposite. The barman arrived with the drinks and poured the wine into three silvered goblets, before setting the jar down on the table and leaving them to their discussion.

  Macro spoke first. ‘What are you doing here, sir?’

  ‘I’m on my way to take up my next appointment.’

  ‘Appointment?’ Macro frowned. ‘You’re returning to active service? Which legion is going to be cursed by your treachery this time, Tribune?’

  ‘Tribune?’ Vitellius put on a shocked expression. ‘What makes you think I’m resuming that rank? I’ve moved on to bigger and better things now that Claudius himself is my patron.’

  Macro leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘If he knew how far you had conspired against him…’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t. And he’s never going to find out, gentlemen. He has complete trust in me, and so does Narcissus. So don’t start getting any ideas about telling them any stories. You’d never be believed, and I assure you the consequences would be far worse for you than for me. Do we understand each other, gentlemen?’

  Macro nodded slowly. ‘Fair enough, sir. So tell me, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m on my way to take up a new appointment.’

  ‘Where’s that then?’

  ‘Really, Centurion, we’re going to have to work a little harder at formalities. Especially as I am about to become the new prefect in command of the fleet at Ravenna…’

  ‘You?’ Cato stared back, open-mouthed. ‘It can’t be true.’

  ‘It is, I assure you. Granted, I have no experience of naval operations, but I can rely on others for that. My real mission is far more vital, and I’ll need every measure of co-operation from you two to see it through. I want that understood.’

  Cato rubbed his brow. ‘You’re the one Narcissus told us about.’

  ‘I am. From now on, you two are under my command. Both as officers attached to the fleet, and also as agents acting for Narcissus. I’ll be watching you closely. If you give me any cause to doubt your loyalty to the Emperor, and to me, I’ll have to report back to Narcissus. And we know what that means, don’t we? A short interview with the palace interrogators and a nasty, obscure death. You won’t be missed, I can assure you. Meanwhile, your lives are in my hands, gentlemen. Serve me well and you’ll live. I’ll come out of it something of a hero. You’ll have your lives. You can’t have everything. But I can, and one day I will. On that day, you had better be on my side.’

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ Macro muttered to Cato.

  ‘We’d better,’ Cato replied, struggling to hide his anxiety. ‘He’s quite serious.’

  Vitellius smiled. ‘Your little friend has it right, Macro. Now that we understand the situation, and each other, I think it’s time for a little toast.
’ Vitellius picked up the jug and filled each of their goblets to the brim. Then he raised his and smiled at them across the glimmering surface. ‘Gentlemen, I give you partnership! At last, it seems, we are on the same side.’

  He raised the goblet and drained it steadily, his eyes fixed on the two centurions. When he had finished he set the cup down and gazed at the two goblets standing untouched on the table in front of Macro and Cato. He smiled.

  ‘As you wish, gentlemen. I’ll indulge your insolence on this occasion. But mark my words well. The next time you give me one shred of defiance or discourtesy, you’ll pay for it.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The column assembled in the yard at dawn. A centurion, assisted by a team of optios, had been appointed to lead the marines across to Ravenna. These officers stormed into the general barracks and began turfing the men off their sleeping mats and screaming abuse into their faces. Amongst the marines terrified recruits hastened out into the cold dawn air, many half dressed and shivering. Dazed by their rough handling, the men stumbled into line, some still struggling into their clothes. As they readied their packs for the march, Macro cast a critical eye over them.

  ‘Not exactly an impressive bunch, are they?’

  Cato shrugged. ‘No better or worse than the batch I joined the Second Legion with.’

  ‘And you can tell, of course.’ Macro shook his head. ‘Trust me, Cato. I’ve seen ’em come and go for years and this lot are from the bottom of the barrel.’

  Cato turned towards him. ‘Is that experience talking, or prejudice?’

  ‘Both,’ Macro smiled. ‘But we’ll see who’s right soon enough. I’ll bet you that we lose a quarter of these men before we reach Ravenna.’