The Eagles Prophecy c-6

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato sat down on the edge of the dining couch. 'Nice house you have here, Rufius Pollo.'

  Pollo smiled modestly. 'Oh, I'm sure it's as nothing compared to the houses of Rome.'

  'Nothing?' Cato shook his head.'It would compare most favourably, I assure you.'

  'You're very kind,' Pollo replied civilly. 'I'm afraid you've missed the banquet, but I'll have my man see if there's anything left you can have.'

  Cato waved a hand. 'Most kind. But no thank you. I've already eaten.'

  'You're sure? Very well then.' Pollo clicked his fingers and thrust a long bony finger at the slave and waved him away. At once the slave dipped his head, backed away two steps and turned to scurry off.

  'What's the big occasion?' Cato asked.

  'Big occasion?' Pollo chuckled mirthlessly. 'Why, Centurion, in a way I suppose we're celebrating – if that could possibly be the word – your decision to leave us at the mercy of the pirates. One last feast to use up my best stores before my family and I leave Ravenna and head for the shelter of our estate inland. Far inland.'

  'Don't you think that's a little alarmist?' Cato asked quietly.

  'You think so?' Pollo laughed. 'Do you know how many such gatherings are taking place tonight? By this time tomorrow, I'd be surprised if more than a third of the households in this quarter of the port will still be here. Who can blame them? Not one marine will remain to stand between them and the pirates when they come.'

  'If they come.'

  'When they come,' Pollo repeated firmly. 'How could they resist?'

  'And you won't be alone. I'm leaving a century of marines in the naval base.'

  'To protect the base,' Pollo responded shrewdly. 'Not us. In fact, I imagine you're leaving them behind to protect the base from us…'

  Cato ignored the jibe, and continued speaking calmly. 'None the less, they will remain and if we're lucky they might just fool Telemachus and his pirates into believing that Ravenna is adequately defended.'

  'I doubt it'll take him long to see through that sham.'

  'Really?' Cato watched Rufius Pollo closely.'What makes you think that? Why should Telemachus suspect?'

  'Come now, Centurion. I'm old. I'm not a fool. Someone's been feeding information to the pirates about almost every move the fleet has made. That's no secret…' He looked down at the ground and shook his head, before glancing back at Cato with a forced smile. 'Anyway, I'm failing in my duty as a host. How may I help you?'

  For a moment Cato stared back at Pollo, wondering how much the man really knew about the pirates' source of information. Pollo would hardly dare to drop open hints to a man with hundreds of marines at his command. Except Cato was alone and the marines might as well be in another province at that instant. He suddenly felt vulnerable, even here, amid scores of guests, and he looked round quickly and saw that a handful of Pollo's companions were watching them closely.

  Pollo smiled at the centurion's discomfort. 'As I said, is there anything I can do for you, before you leave my house?'

  '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 thou
gh 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?

  06 The Eagles Prophecy

  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 and 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 underway, 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.