The Eagle's Prophecy

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Who said I was leaving?’

  ‘Trust me. You will be, very shortly.’

  ‘All right. Tell me one thing. I’m looking for someone. A friend. I was told he was staying here, as your guest.’

  ‘Well,’ Rufius Pollo stretched out his arms, ‘as you can see, I have more guests than you can wave a stick at, although some of these miscreants do actually have homes to go to. What is your friend’s name?’

  ‘Anobarbus.’

  Pollo’s eyes betrayed a flicker of surprise at the name, then he composed his features and tipped his head slightly to one side. He stared intently at the centurion for a moment and then lowered his voice as he leaned forward to speak to Cato. ‘A friend, you say? If I was to ask you what the blind man seeks, what would you reply?’

  Cato frowned. He hadn’t the slightest idea about the merchant’s family, and was surprised at the strangeness of the question. He shook his head.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Blind man? What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Pollo’s gaze flickered to one side, and he gestured towards the hall that led to the entrance. ‘Anobarbus was here. He left early in the evening. Long before you arrived.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato paused before he continued. ‘Might I ask you to explain how he came to be a guest in your house?’

  ‘Simple enough. We have friends in common back in Rome. They told him to look me up when he arrived in Ravenna.’

  ‘What friends?’

  ‘Just friends.’ Pollo smiled. ‘Tell me, Centurion, do you suspect Anobarbus of some crime?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘No. But I find it strange that you are conducting enquiries at this time of night. Why do you want to find Anobarbus? Do you suspect him of some crime? Some treachery?’

  Cato paused before replying. ‘I only want to eliminate him from my list of suspects.’

  Pollo flinched. ‘You have a list?’

  ‘I can’t disclose official information.’

  ‘I see…’ Pollo leaned back, keeping his eyes fixed on Cato. He affected a yawn. ‘Now, I’m afraid you really must go. You’ve quite exhausted my hospitality. My men will show you out.’

  ‘No need.’ Cato stood and backed off a few paces. ‘I know the way. I bid you good night, Rufius Pollo. Until we meet again.’

  ‘We won’t.’ Pollo shook his head, and waved towards a pair of burly-looking slaves lurking at the back of the dining room, and discreetly pointed at the centurion. Cato turned away and walked quickly towards the corridor. He glanced back and saw that the slaves were doing their best to keep up as they pushed through the guests crowding the dining room. As soon as he was clear of them Cato ran down the corridor, ignoring the surprised expressions of the guests who turned towards the sound of running feet on the tessellated floor.

  ‘Laecus!’ he called out. ‘Get up! We’re leaving.’

  Ahead of him the vague mass of the gangmaster emerged from the shadows, a small jug of wine in one hand.

  ‘What’s up, sir?’

  ‘Get the door open!’

  Cato threw himself forward and by the time Laecus had caught the sense of urgency the centurion thudded into the door beside him, fingers groping for the thick iron bolt that secured it. Behind them sandled feet padded down the corridor. With a grating rasp they worked the bolt and heaved the door inwards.

  ‘Come on!’ Cato shouted, shoving Laecus into the street. ‘Run!’

  They scrambled down the steep steps on to the broad tufa stone paving and started back towards the heart of Ravenna. They were only a short distance down the street when Pollo’s men burst out of the house, dagger blades glinting in the wan glow of the light from within.

  One of them pointed. ‘There!’

  ‘What the hell’s happening?’ Laecus grunted as he ran beside Cato. The centurion said nothing but gritted his teeth and darted towards the opening of a narrow alley, quickly praying that it wouldn’t turn out to be a dead end. The alley was as black as a Parthian’s heart, and rubbish had been left in long neglected piles, threatening to trip them up as Cato and Laecus stumbled headlong, desperately trying to gain some ground on their pursuers. They took a turning to the right and ran on, then took another turn, to the left this time, into an even tighter alley that reeked of excrement and rotting vegetation. A short way down the alley Cato could just make out the opening to a small yard and pulled the gangmaster in with him, crouching down behind a small cart.

  As they squatted down, lungs straining for breath and ears filled with the pounding of blood, Cato drew his sword and stared through the opening to the yard and into the blackness of the alley beyond. All was still and there was no sign of Pollo’s men.

  Laecus tugged Cato’s tunic. ‘Would you mind telling me what the fuck is going on here?’

  ‘Wish I knew,’ Cato whispered. ‘Keep quiet!’

  They waited, but the streets were silent. Once a voice called out, some distance off, and there came a muffled reply, then nothing. Cato waited until he had recovered his breath and his heart beat steadily once again. Even though his body was still, his mind raced as he struggled to deal with the evening’s events. His earlier suspicions about Anobarbus seemed to have more weight to them now. But what was the merchant’s relationship with Rufius Pollo? The latter clearly feared that Cato was on to him somehow, and wanted the centurion silenced. Were they both selling information to the pirates? Cato frowned. It didn’t seem to make much sense. But if Pollo was not dealing with the pirates, and nor was his friend Anobarbus, then who were they working for?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Cato left Laecus a short distance from the inn, handing him a handful of bronze coins as they parted.

  ‘Get yourself some more wine and go home,’ Cato smiled. ‘You deserve it.’

  ‘Deserve it? I bloody need it after all that sneaking around. Besides, I might just drink enough to make me forget this stench.’ He pulled out a bit of his tunic and gave it a hesitant sniff. ‘There’s no way the wife’s going to let me back in the house in this state.’

  Cato patted him on the back and set off towards the naval base, keeping to the side of the streets and watching for any sign that he was being followed. As he warily made his way through Ravenna, Cato tried to concentrate on the crosscurrents of conspiracy that seemed to have caught him up. His suspicions about Anobarbus’ involvement with the pirates clearly had some basis, and it made some sense. Taking payment for feeding information to the pirates was bound to be a lucrative sideline for any merchant. But how was Anobarbus linked to Rufius Pollo? He was not simply a house-guest. That was certain. Why else send men after Cato? Had the intention been to warn him off, or to take care of him permanently? It was easy enough for Cato to visualise: a swift stabbing in a filthy side street to curtail his investigations. That implied that Pollo was colluding with Anobarbus. But it made no sense. What could Pollo possibly gain from having the pirates ravage the commerce that fed Ravenna and was the source of Pollo’s wealth? Furthermore, Pollo was clearly determined to quit the port in the face of possible pirate raids. He had far more to lose from helping Telemachus than to gain. So if Anobarbus and Pollo were not working for Telemachus then who were they working for? The Liberators?

  Cato paused at a street corner to rub his eyes. He had only been able to snatch a few hours’ sleep over the last few days and his head ached terribly. Worse still, his mind felt clouded by fatigue and it was difficult to keep focusing on the confused situation. When he opened his eyes again and stared towards the sea, he noticed the first faint band of dawn fringing the clutter of roof tiles on the surrounding buildings. The sky was clear overhead, with the prospect of good sailing weather. The small flotilla of biremes at the naval base would be preparing to set sail within the hour and Cato pushed himself away from the wall and hurried on.

  By the time he reached the naval base the sun had already risen over the horizon a
nd dazzling golden light pierced the windows of the prefect’s office and cast their outline on the far wall. Squinting, Cato gazed down on the naval harbour. All of the biremes rode at anchor, their decks covered with the bundled shapes of sleeping men. Only the Spartan remained moored alongside the quay, gangway down, waiting for Cato to come aboard and take command. There was a last matter to attend to first.

  After quickly returning to his quarters to change back into uniform, Cato made for headquarters. Entering the administration section he pointed to the nearest clerk.

  ‘In here, Postumus. Bring a slate.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, sir?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some of the officers have been asking for you all night.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Just what you said. You were in your quarters and not to be disturbed for any reason.’

  ‘Good. That’s all they need to know. Now let’s get on with it.’

  Once the clerk had settled on a stool beside the prefect’s desk Cato dictated his orders.

  ‘One: issue a warrant for the arrest and detention of the merchant known as Anobarbus. He might be found at the house of Rufius Pollo. Have the house watched just in case. Once Anobarbus is taken, he is to be held in isolation pending the return of the prefect and the fleet from Illyricum. He is not to be visited by anyone, nor is he to be permitted to communicate with anyone.

  ‘Two: Rufius Pollo is to be kept under observation. I want to know who visits his house, where he goes, who he talks to. Have the information kept up to date and ready for me to read on my return.’

  Cato looked up and saw the surprised expression on the face of the clerk. ‘Problem?’

  The clerk pursed his lips. ‘Well, sir. Rufius Pollo? He’s the richest, most powerful man in Ravenna. And he’s got influence back in Rome. If he finds out we’re spying on him…’

  ‘Well, make sure he doesn’t find out. Use the best men. Even a town this size must have a good network of informers.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato searched the clerk’s expression for any hint of guile. Perhaps the conspiracies that seemed to flourish in this port stretched as far as the naval base. Then Cato was angry with himself. He was starting to see enemies in every corner. Then again, maybe he should. That would be safest, but he must leave the base within the hour and ensure that steps were being taken to trap the traitors while the fleet was away dealing with the pirates. He had to trust to the loyalty of the Emperor’s servants. There was no one else.

  He leaned towards the clerk and indicated the slate resting on the man’s lap. ‘Someone in this port is betraying us to the pirates; telling them about our every movement. It’s already cost us a number of ships and hundreds of men. I want them found and dealt with. If I find out that they’ve been warned off, then I’ll make sure that those responsible will pay with their lives. Understand? This is to be kept secret. Tell only those men you need to use, and tell them only what they need to know. I’m leaving this in your hands, Postumus. Make sure you don’t fail me.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No…’

  Postumus nodded. ‘Very well, sir. Can I ask what authority I can act on if your orders cause any conflict with the officer you’re leaving in command here?’

  ‘Wait.’ Cato pulled a blank wax tablet over and hurriedly wrote a note to cover the clerk’s instructions. When he had finished Cato saw the prefect’s seal box sitting at the edge of the desk. He pulled it over, lifted the teak lid and took out the seal of the commander of the Ravenna fleet. He pressed the seal firmly into the wax, checked the imprint was sound and slid the tablet across the table to Postumus. ‘There. Until Vitellius returns you have the final say in this matter. You’re only to use this if the centurion gives any orders likely to compromise your investigations.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  Cato saluted and the clerk turned away and left the office. For a moment Cato stared at the desk, torn between two duties. More than anything he wanted to find those who had betrayed their countrymen to the pirates. There was nothing more despicable, to his mind, than men who were prepared to put individual greed before the greater good of the Empire and its people. Their base treachery would cost them their lives. But there was nothing else he could do about that now. Hundreds of miles away in Illyricum his comrades were waiting for badly needed reinforcements to tip the balance against Telemachus and his pirates. Even now, they might already have been attacked again, perhaps even defeated and wiped out. Cato clenched his fists at the thought. That was foolish. Worse, it was a moment of puerile panic. The pirates had had the advantage in the first encounter, thanks to treachery. Next time the Roman warships would be unencumbered by provisions and equipment, and there would be more of them. The pirates were not likely to survive a second head-on engagement. Even Vitellius couldn’t make a mess of that.

  Cato tried to recall as much of the meeting with Telemachus as he could. The man was cool and collected, a realist, ruthless. He would not be duped into a battle he could not win. It was far more likely that he would adopt a strategy of attrition: pouncing on isolated Roman foragers and patrol vessels, wearing the Romans down until their campaign had to be abandoned, or until they were reduced to a weak enough condition for the pirates to risk a final, devastating attack. Between the thirsty ambition of Vitellius and the cunning and guile of Telemachus things looked bleak for the men of the Ravenna fleet.

  Cato thumped his fist down in frustration as he rose from his chair. He strode out of his office and left the headquarters building. Across the parade ground, beside the wharf, the Spartan stood ready to sail. The marine guard at the head of the gangway stiffened to attention and grounded his spear as the centurion approached.

  As soon as his boots clumped down on to the deck Cato called out to the trierarch. ‘Get underway immediately!’

  Cato made his way aft and stood by the oarsman as the sailors shipped the gangway and cast off the mooring lines. Several men raised a stout post and thrust the bows out from the wharf, then worked their way down the length of the vessel, easing her out, until there was a sufficient gap to allow the crew to slip the long oars out from her sides. As the pausarius beat a slow rhythm the oars steadily swept through the water, churning the surface as the Spartan began to glide forward, out into the naval harbour towards the rest of the flotilla. Seeing this, the trierarchs of the biremes bellowed out orders to raise anchors and get under way, taking up station behind the Spartan.

  The flotilla emerged into the main harbour and a few early risers stood and watched from the wharf and the decks of the merchant vessels crowded into the safety of the harbour defences. From the stern of the trireme Cato gazed out over the sprawl of warehouses and the red-tiled roofs of the town beyond. Already the distance made the buildings look like toys.

  With the sun now well clear of the horizon, the Spartan turned into the open sea, directly into the dazzling orb. Her bows lifted to the increase in the swell of the sea and Cato sensed a faint breeze on his cheek. As soon as the warships were clear of the land the trierarch gave the order to ship oars and raise the mainsail.

  Cato’s eyes closed for a moment, blinked open, closed again, and then he surrendered to the warm, comforting desire for rest. There was a sudden whirling sensation and he opened his eyes just in time to stop himself from falling on to the deck.

  ‘You all right, sir?’

  Cato glanced round at the helmsman. ‘I’m fine. Just tired. Think I’ll sit down for a moment.’

  He lowered himself to the deck and braced his back against the side of the vessel. An hour’s rest. That’s all. Just an hour, Cato told himself firmly. Moments later his head dipped forward until his chin rested on the folds of his cloak. He breathed heavily and regularly, completely oblivious to the rise and fall of the deck and the bustle of the crew as they settled the Spartan down for the day’s sailing.

  The oarsma
n glanced down at him, smiled and shook his head, before concentrating on keeping his vessel on course for distant Illyricum.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘They’ve been kept busy.’ Albinus nodded towards the shore and Cato followed his gaze and saw that the beachhead’s defences had been much expanded and improved in the few days that he had been absent. A large fort rose up a short distance from the beach with high ramparts surrounded by a triple defence ditch. Two stockade walls extended down to the sea to protect the fleet, most of which had been beached, though a handful of vessels rode at anchor. A lookout station had been erected on the nearest headland and, as Cato watched, a signal flag was fluttering from the watchtower, to be answered by a distant flash of colour from the fort. At once there was a flurry of activity aboard the ships anchored off the shore. Cato squinted to catch the detail and saw tiny figures forming up on the fore and aft decks, the sun twinkling on polished armour and weapons. Moments later the oars were unshipped and the triremes began to edge away from the shore towards the Spartan, and the column of smaller biremes sailing in tight formation behind her.

  Albinus turned towards Cato and smiled. ‘Seems like they’re taking no chances with us.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Good thing too. The fleet’s had more than enough surprises. I think the prefect’s finally learning.’

  Albinus glanced at the centurion. ‘You’ve served with him before, then?’

  ‘In Germany, then in Britain. He was the resident broad-striper amongst the tribunes.’

  ‘I see. How did he perform?’

  Cato paused a moment to consider the issue. He recalled the time he had fought alongside Tribune Vitellius, defending a small German village against a horde of barbarian warriors who had managed to lure a cohort of the Second Legion into a cleverly worked ambush. Vitellius had shown his courage in the desperate hours that followed. The trouble was, ever since, he had proved to be a venal traitor who had not one shred of compassion for any man or woman who dared bar his route to power. Already a number of corpses lay strewn in the wake of the young aristocrat. He was a dangerous man to most, and downright lethal to those who posed any threat to him. For Albinus’ sake Cato dare not tell him the whole truth. He coughed and looked towards the shore as he answered. ‘He performed well enough. He’s got the balls for the job. Just don’t cross his path.’