The Eagle's Prophecy

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Stop, him!’ Cato shouted.

  Macro reacted at once and dashed forward, sending sprays of powdery snow flying in his wake. Cato turned back towards the tree trunk, grabbed the handle of his sword and with a convulsive heave he wrenched the blade free. He sat up and, gritting his teeth, he slashed it down into the injured man’s forearm, cutting deep into flesh and shattering the bones. The grip on his ankle loosened and Cato wrenched his boot free of the nerveless fingers. The man grimaced, then his eyes slowly rolled up and he slumped face first into the snow, blood and grey matter oozing out of the side of his shattered skull.

  A sharp neigh drew Cato’s attention towards the trees and he saw the torturer leaning low across the back of a horse as he wheeled it round and spurred it across the drainage ditch and on to the road. Macro scrambled after him, but it was too late, and he stopped when he reached the ditch and could only slap his sword against his thigh in frustration as the horse galloped off up the road and into the night.

  Cato turned his attention to the prisoner and kneeled down beside him. He was a tall man, well-built, of middle age with short dark hair. He wore riding breeches and soft leather boots. His bare chest had several patches of scorched flesh and there was a burn on his cheek. He forced a smile as Cato loomed over him.

  ‘My rescuers, I hope.’

  Cato reached round and fumbled with the thongs that bound him to the tree trunk, found the knot and then worked it apart. When the bindings came free the man slumped forward and rubbed his wrists.

  ‘Oh, shit…I’m in agony.’

  He trembled, and Cato fetched the cloak from the nearest of the bodies, wrapping it about the man. ‘Can you walk?’

  Macro crunched across the snow to join them. ‘You all right, mate?’

  The man glanced up with a forced grin. ‘Oh, I’m just fine, thanks. May I ask who you two are? I seem to recognise you.’

  ‘Centurions Macro and Cato, part of a marine column heading for Ravenna. You?’

  The man winced and was silent for a moment before he replied. ‘Marcus Anobarbus, merchant.’

  Macro nodded, and then gestured towards the bodies of the three men they had killed. ‘And who the hell are these jokers?’

  Anobarbus looked up. ‘Mind if we get some shelter before I tell you my story? I’m feeling a bit faint.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Macro leaned over and offered his hand. The merchant grasped it and heaved himself to his feet with a grimace, then passed out.

  ‘Give me some help here, Cato,’ said Macro, as he slipped an arm round the merchant’s back.

  With Cato supporting him on the other side the three men crossed to the road and began to walk slowly down towards the marines’ camp site.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Centurion Minucius was waiting for them on the road beside the camp. As the centurions slowly approached either side of Anobarbus, he crossed his arms.

  ‘And this is…?’

  ‘Marcus Anobarbus,’ Macro grumbled. ‘We’ve met him before. He was at Hispellum the night we stayed there.’

  ‘And you just went out for a walk in the middle of the night and found him, I suppose?’ Mmucius said with scarcely veiled suspicion. ‘For that matter, just who exactly are you two?’

  ‘Centurions, on our way to a new posting, like we said.’

  ‘Like you said.’

  ‘You’ve seen our documents,’ Cato added. ‘They carry the stamp of the Imperial Army Bureau, right?’

  ‘Any half-competent child could have faked those.’

  ‘Maybe, but who would want to?’ Cato persisted. ‘Now, please, can we get this man into our tent and tend to his injuries?’

  Minucius raised his eyebrows. ‘Injuries? What kind of injuries?’

  ‘When we found him, some men were amusing themselves by seeing how painful they could make Anobarbus’ last moments.’

  ‘Why?’

  Macro shrugged. ‘Let’s get him inside and find out.’

  The centurions laid Anobarbus down on Macro’s bedding. A moment later Minucius appeared from the wagons with a heavy box of salves and dressings. He set the box down beside the merchant as Cato gently peeled back the cloak and exposed the injuries.

  ‘Shit,’ Minucius grimaced. ‘What the hell were they doing to him?’

  ‘Trying to loosen his tongue,’ Cato replied. ‘We heard them asking him some questions.’

  ‘What questions?’

  ‘Not sure. They were after something and he said he didn’t have it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very helpful.’

  Macro nodded at the merchant. ‘He’s stirring. Let’s ask him.’

  Anobarbus’ eyes flickered open, and he glanced anxiously at the faces looming over him before he recognised Cato and Macro, and the terror eased off. He licked his lips and forced a smile. ‘My rescuers. For a moment I thought you were…What happened to them?’

  ‘One got away,’ Macro replied. ‘The others are dead. Care to tell us who they were?’

  ‘In a moment,’ Minucius interrupted. ‘Let me see to the burns first.’

  He lifted the lid off his medical box. In the bottom lay a selection of jars of ointments and dressings. Minucius rummaged about and took out a small pot with a cork lid. Inside was an oily cream which he applied carefully to the merchant’s chest and the burn on his face.

  ‘Goose fat,’ he explained. ‘It’ll protect the burns. Now lift him up while I get the dressing on.’

  The merchant gritted his teeth as Minucius wrapped a clear linen bandage round his torso and tied it off under one arm. Anobarbus gratefully slumped back on to the bedding while Minucius closed the medical box and placed it to one side.

  ‘All right then,’ Macro said. ‘Tell us what happened.’

  Anobarbus closed his eyes for a moment before he started. ‘I’ve already told you I’m a merchant. I deal in artworks. I buy stuff that’s shipped into Ravenna from Greece and have it transported to my clients in Rome. I came down from the capital a week ago. I had quite a large sum of money with me when I set off for Rome. I was making good time. Then a blizzard set in and closed the Flaminian Way. When it cleared I saw those men, some distance ahead on the road. They must have been waiting for travellers. I turned my horse and raced back the way I’d come. Soon as they had mounted they came after me. My money box was still filled with gold and weighing me down. I could see that they must catch me if I didn’t move faster. So I stopped and hid the gold before continuing.’

  ‘Hid it?’ Macro interrupted. ‘Where?’

  Anobarbus looked at him. ‘Why should I tell you?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, man! We rescued you. We’re centurions in the service of the Emperor, not more bloody mountain brigands.’

  Anobarbus thought for a moment. ‘All right. There’s a small shrine by the side of the road. I slipped the box into a fox-hole close by. It’d better still be there when I get back to it, or I’ll know who to blame. I’ve got contacts, I have. Powerful contacts.’

  Macro shook his head sadly. ‘So have we all, mate. The trick is to avoid getting shafted by them all the time. Anyway, on with your story.’

  ‘You can guess the rest,’ Anobarbus continued. ‘I rode on, but they were better mounted, and they caught up with me just as it was getting dark. They were going to kill me straight away but when they saw I no longer had the money box they knew I had hidden it somewhere. At first they just slapped me about a bit, and when I refused to speak, the leader threatened to kill me on the spot. But I knew that I would be dead the moment I told them where to find the money, so I clammed up. They settled down, stripped me, tied me to that tree trunk and lit themselves a nice little fire. I had no idea what was in store for me until I saw him start to heat his sword. Well, you know the rest. You came on the scene just in time. Frankly, I’d have spilled my guts the moment he put that blade anywhere near my balls.’

  Cato winced. ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘So, then you two charged on to the scene. Against four
of them.’ Anobarbus smiled. ‘Now that does take balls.’

  ‘Use them while you still have ’em,’ said Macro. He turned to Minucius. ‘We surprised them. Took the first two out before they could react. I sorted one, and the other man gave Cato the slip.’

  ‘Just a bloody moment!’ Cato flared up. ‘Some bastard had me by the ankle. You went after him. He gave you the bloody slip.’

  Macro raised his hands placatingly. ‘Figure of speech, lad, that’s all. Anyway, he got away, and headed off down the road.’

  Cato pointed a finger at the merchant. ‘You said you deal in antiques.’

  ‘Yes, So?’

  ‘What kind of antiques?’

  ‘Usual stuff. Statues. Ceramics. Furniture. Books. Anything that commands a premium price amongst collectors in Rome. You’d be horrified to know what they’re prepared to pay for some things. Of course, I’m delighted.’

  ‘What about scrolls?’ asked Cato.

  Anobarbus frowned. ‘Scrolls? What kind of scrolls?’

  ‘I don’t know. But tell me, in your experience, what makes a scroll valuable?’

  ‘Depends. Some people will pay a fortune for an original book of recipes. Others collect histories. Or stories, sayings, predictions. That type of stuff. Of course, some of the best material, from an investment point of view, is erotica, especially material from the Far East. They could teach a Subura streetwalker a trick or two.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Cato smiled. ‘But is that it? Nothing else that might make a scroll so valuable?’

  Anobarbus thought a moment and then shrugged. ‘Sorry. That’s all I can think of right now…Ouch!’ His face contorted and he reached up to his chest.

  ‘Don’t!’ Minucius snapped and slapped his hand aside. ‘Best to leave it alone. You should try and get some rest.’

  ‘Yes. Rest.’ The merchant nodded. ‘Now, I think I’ve had enough questioning for the night, if you gentlemen don’t mind?’

  Macro shook his head, and Cato sat back and puffed his cheeks. Anobarbus closed his eyes and, with a strained expression etched on his face, he tried to breathe easily. Gradually, the rise and fall of his chest became less laboured and his face relaxed into a deep sleep.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Cato.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About his story? Does it hold up?’

  Macro shook his head. ‘Why not? Cato, you see conspiracies everywhere. Why shouldn’t the man be what he said he is? It’s simple enough to believe.’

  ‘Too simple,’ mused Minucius.

  Macro looked round in exasperation. ‘Not you too?’

  ‘Why not?’ said the old centurion, ‘And, by the way, I’m still not even sure about you and the lad here. What was all that nonsense about scrolls?’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Macro grumbled. ‘I need some sleep.’

  ‘Tough.’ Minucius nodded at the merchant.

  ‘Oh, great,’ Macro gritted his teeth. ‘That’s all I need.’ He rose up and made for the tent flaps.

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘For a piss. If you don’t mind. Then I might just go and cut myself some more bloody bedding.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The column reached Urbinum two days later, having paused a short while along the way to retrieve a small wooden chest from behind a shrine. Anobarbus decided to remain with them, explaining that he had friends in Ravenna who would put him up until he recovered from his wounds.

  Two more men had been lost in the mountains, simply vanishing in the night in a foolhardy attempt to return to their families in Rome. Minucius doubted they would get out of the mountains alive, and Macro was in spitting distance of winning his bet.

  By the time the marines reached the port of Arinimum the roadside inns were full of stories relating the latest exploits of the pirate fleet terrorising the seas off the coast. Although the barbarians were hardly at the gate, there was no denying the palpable hysteria that was gripping the people of Umbria. In Arinimum itself the local garrison had moved into the citadel, along with most of the wealthiest townspeople. There were few ships in port and the azure horizon of the sea was bare of sails.

  Ten days after they had picked up Anobarbus, the column marched through the town gate of Ravenna, one man over the total number Macro needed to win his bet. It had taken a great effort of will for Macro not to quietly dispose of one of the recruits the night before they reached their destination, and he reluctantly conceded the bet to Cato as the last of them marched inside the town.

  ‘Want me to start a tab?’ Cato grinned.

  ‘Only if you want me to knock your teeth out. You’ll get your money, just as soon as we’re paid.’

  ‘I can hardly wait to spend your first month’s wages. Three hundred denarians goes a long way.’

  ‘Three hundred?’ Minucius laughed at the exchange. ‘You’ll be lucky I assume you two are on the marine payroll?’

  ‘Yes,’ Macro replied. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose for a moment that the officials who posted you here were kind enough to mention the rate of pay?’

  ‘No.’ Macro’s heart was sinking like a rock. ‘What of it?’

  ‘We get the same as the auxiliaries.’

  Macro stared at him in horror for a moment, and then smiled nervously. ‘You’re having me on again, aren’t you? Just give it a rest, Minucius.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘No, really. I’m serious.’

  Macro shook his head, and then slapped his thigh in fury. ‘Shit!…That tight bastard Narcissus has shafted us again! I swear I’ll kick his head in one day, if it’s the last thing I ever do.’

  ‘More than likely,’ muttered Cato. ‘And pipe down about Narcissus, unless you want the whole town to know our business.’

  ‘I don’t bloody believe this,’ Macro continued. ‘Not only does he stick our heads in the bloody noose, he does it on the cheap into the bargain.’

  Macro persisted in his grumbling as the column worked its way down the main thoroughfare of Ravenna towards the docks. As in most provincial towns, the streets were narrow and few of the buildings were more than two storeys tall. Even before they reached the waterfront, Cato could see a dense forest of masts and rigging packed into the harbour. On the main quay itself scores of sailors sat around disconsolately and gazed out at the ships moored tightly together in the gentle swell. They stood up as the recruits marched by, and stared at them with open hostility.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Cato. ‘I thought all the shipping had tried to get as far from the pirates as possible. There was a handful of ships in Arinimum.’ He waved a hand across the harbour. ‘I’ve never seen so many before. Aren’t they afraid of the pirates?’

  ‘Of course they are, lad,’ Minucius grinned. ‘And that’s precisely why they’re here. What better place to be than right beside a naval base. Over there’s the guarantee of their safety.’

  Cato followed the arm that Minucius had raised and saw what he was pointing at. At the end of the quay was a large fortified gateway, leading into the naval dockyard. Riding at anchor in the open waters of the navy harbour was a fleet of sleek warships. He counted over thirty of them. Most were small patrol craft, but further out lay a squadron of larger triremes, the formidable backbone of the Roman fleet. Each trireme boasted three banks of oars on each side, with fortified towers at the bow and stern, upon which catapults were mounted. A large bronze-sheathed ram extended from the prow of each ship.

  Beyond the triremes there was one even bigger vessel. Cato stood up on the bed of the wagon and pointed. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’s the Horus, our flagship. She’s a quinquireme, a five, as we call ’em. Quite a history behind that one. She was Mark Antony’s flagship. Captured at Actium and taken into the imperial navy by Augustus. Built to last and tough as old boots. There’s nothing afloat that can match her.’

  Cato stared at the Horus a moment lon
ger, then resumed his seat as the convoy moved along the quay towards the gates of the naval base. The sailors and dockers lining the route closed in on each side, watching them in bitter silence.

  A voice cried out, ‘When are you going to do something about them pirates?’

  The complaint was instantly taken up by other voices, and soon the marines and their officers were surrounded by angry shouts and shaking fists. The recruits glanced around nervously.

  ‘Eyes front!’ Minucius roared out. ‘Eyes front, I said. Ignore the bastards.’

  A clod of filth sailed through the air and struck the centurion on the shoulder. He clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead. Unfortunately, the example had been set and suddenly the air was filled with mud, excrement and other stinking refuse, and it pelted down on the hapless marines and their officers. The men at the front of the column faltered as they tried to shield themselves from the bombardment, and Minucius rose to his feet and cupped his hands to his mouth.

  ‘Keep marching at the front there! Don’t bloody stop!’

  The optios lashed out at their men with their staffs and the pace picked up. Minucius opened his mouth to shout further encouragement and, as Macro watched, a turd flew through the air and caught the veteran right in the mouth. There was a spontaneous roar of laughter from the nearest townspeople at the sight.

  Minucius ducked down, spitting and wiping his lips on his sleeve. ‘If I ever find the bastard responsible for that, I’ll make him eat shit for the rest of his bloody days.’

  Macro, struggling hopelessly to keep a straight face, nudged Cato. ‘I thought that sort of thing only happened to me.’

  ‘It has. Look’ Cato pointed to his tunic and, glancing down, Macro saw a nasty brown smear on the wool.

  The watch officer on the gate had seen the trouble brewing along the wharf and as the recruit column approached a squad of marines piled out of the entrance to the naval base and charged into the crowd to clear a route for Minucius and his men. The barrage intensified as the townspeople made the most of their last chance to have a go at the men they held responsible for the loss of their livelihood. Macro and Cato covered their heads and ducked down behind the sides of the wagon.