‘Feels like a fight’s going to break out at any moment,’ Cato muttered. ‘We should have stayed back at the barracks.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Macro elbowed him.’Not frightened of a few surly teenagers, are you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Cato readily confessed. ‘These ones at least. They look as if they’d kill to start a fight.’
‘Ooooh,’ Macro pretended to shiver. ‘Better find shelter quickly then . . . Here we are. Crab Lane.’
He turned into a wide thoroughfare, every foot of it given over to taverns. The drunken din of their customers assaulted Cato’s ears. Macro shouted something to him and pointed across the street to a brightly painted sign, high up a grimy wall.
‘ “The Dancing Dolphin - we don’t water our wine . . .” ‘ Cato muttered to himself. ‘Cute name.’
The two centurions pushed their way across the street and through the arch that led into the tavern. Inside, the air was thick with cheap incense and dimly lit by just enough lamps for the clientele to see their way up to the bar, or out the back to the latrine. Two well-built and tough-looking men were working behind the bar, together with a tall, grey-haired woman who had her back to the entrance as she dealt with a drunken customer who was trying to grope her. Cato watched as one of the barmen leaned over and floored the drunk with a quick upper cut.
The centre of the tavern was packed with benches and trestle tables, at which large groups of rowdy men were drinking, or chatting up the local tarts and negotiating a rate for their transaction. To the side of the tavern were a number of alcoves with curtains that could be drawn across for a degree of privacy.
‘Cato!’
The two centurions turned towards the sound and saw Minucius beckoning them to the alcove in the far corner, closest to the bar. Opposite him sat Anobarbus, who smiled a greeting as Macro and Cato squeezed through the drinkers towards them. They slipped on to the benches either side of the battered table, and Minucius immediately filled two leather cups and pushed them towards Macro and Cato, sloshing some of the wine over the brims.
‘Thought you weren’t coming.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Macro replied. ‘Looks like we’ve got a bit of catching-up to do. Cheers!’ He raised his cup and took a gulp.
Cato was sitting next to Anobarbus and turned towards him. ‘How are the injuries healing?’
‘Not bad. Still a bit painful. Skin on my chest feels like it’s shrunk to fit a man half my size.’
Cato nodded. ‘I know. I’ve had some burns. You’ll be all right. Give it time.’
‘That’s what the quack says. Cheers.’
They tapped cups together and took a sip. Cato noted, with approval, that Anobarbus was a kindred spirit and merely sipped at his wine rather than gulping it down like there was no tomorrow, as was the case on the other side of the table. Anobarbus lowered his cup.
‘Minucius tells me you’ve already been out with the navy.’
Cato glanced up at him. ‘That’s right. A patrol.’
Anobarbus smiled. ‘So, how have you taken to a life on the ocean waves?’
‘Not at all. I was sick as a dog for most of the trip.’
‘Where did they take you?’
‘Just a patrol,’ Cato said carefully. ‘Over to the coast of Illyricum and back.’
‘Really?’ Anobarbus looked surprised. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was safe to venture that side of the sea with all these pirates about. Don’t suppose you actually got to see any?’
Cato shook his head. ‘No. One or two sails. That was it. Quite boring really. How about you? Picked up any more artworks for your clients?’
‘No. The market’s dead right now. I’ll stay a while longer, until I’ve fully recovered. Might try one of the ports further up the coast in the next few days, see if they have anything worth buying, then head back to Rome.’
‘Well, I hope you have better luck with your next journey.’
‘Yes,’ Anobarbus replied quietly. ‘I’ll need it.’
‘Come on, lads!’ Macro leaned over the table. ‘Drink up. It’s on the house! Let’s have a toast to Minucius’ woman, bless her!’
The cups thudded together, spilling yet more wine, and the toast was drunk, to the bottom of the cup. Cato was surprised that the wine was of a decent quality and wished that Macro would take the time to actually savour it. Unfortunately, the other two centurions had already finished the first jar of wine and Macro rose up from the bench.
‘Next one’s on me.’
‘No need!’ Minucius smiled. Pulling Macro back down with one hand, he reached under the table and brought out another jar.
Macro’s eyes widened. ‘How many more of those have you got under there?’
‘Enough to keep us going for a while yet. Drink up!’
‘Where’s this woman of yours?’ Macro looked round, but his view of the bar was obscured by a crowd of customers standing in the way. ‘I want to give her a hug.’
‘She’ll join us a bit later. When it quietens down.’
‘Oh, all right then.’ Macro turned back to the others. ‘Hey! Have you heard the news?’
‘What news?’ Anobarbus asked.
‘The prefect’s going to stick it to the pirates. Taking the whole fleet and the marines over to Illyricum to hunt the bastards down.’
Cato leaned across the table and laid a hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Macro!’
‘What?’
‘That’s not for general consumption.’
Macro looked at him blearily. ‘General who?’
‘It’s supposed to be a secret.’
‘Secret? Secret from who? Soon as we start loading up the ships everyone’ll know anyway.’
‘That’s not the point. The prefect doesn’t want word of it getting out to the pirates any sooner than can be helped.’
‘You told me.’
‘I trusted you.’
Macro shifted guiltily. ‘Well, yes. Look, I’m sorry, lad. Anyway, it’s not going any further than the four of us, then. All right, boys?’
‘Sure,’ Minucius smiled. ‘Let’s make an oath, and seal it with a toast.’
‘No,’ Cato said firmly. ‘Just don’t mention it again. Goes for you too. And you, Anobarbus.’
Anobarbus nodded. ‘My lips are sealed. Don’t you worry.’
‘Don’t worry? Easier said than done, with those two soaks around.’
Minucius suddenly beamed and stood up, knocking the table with his hip and nearly sending the fresh jar of wine flying. Anobarbus’ arm shot out and steadied the jar before it could spill a drop.
‘Nice hands!’ Macro winked at him.
‘Here she is now, boys!’ said Minucius. ‘My woman. My girl. The love of my life.’
Cato turned round and scanned the crowd. Suddenly it parted before him as a tall, thin and elegant old lady cast a withering glare at the men around her. From the pattern of her stola he realised she was the woman he had seen earlier at the bar. She walked up to the table and smiled back at Minucius.
Flushing with pride the veteran centurion turned to his companions. ‘Lads, may I introduce you to Portia, proprietress of this fine establishment and soon to be my blushing bride.’
‘Ignore him,’ Portia smiled. ‘He’s been saying he’ll make an honest woman of me for the last twenty years.’
Minucius laughed, then turned to the other men.’Portia, these are the men I was telling you about. We shared that little adventure back in the mountains. That’s Anobarbus, the young lad there is Cato and this incorrigible is Centurion Macro.’
Anobarbus and Cato nodded their greetings but Macro just sat still, an ashen expression on his face.
Portia looked worried. ‘Are you all right?’
Macro swallowed nervously before he could manage a reply. ‘Hello, Mum.’
06 The Eagles Prophecy
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The silence was finally broken when Portia gave a little cry of shock and clasped a hand
over her mouth. Her eyes fluttered and she collapsed like a broken laundry rack.
‘Portia!’ Minucius clambered over Macro and cradled her head in his hands. ‘Portia, my love! Speak to me!’
While he tried to revive the woman, Cato’s gaze switched from her to Macro and back again in total bewilderment. Macro just stared fixedly at Portia as if the old woman was the most astonishing vision in the entire world. When the enormity of what had just happened fixed itself in Cato’s brain he began to understand Macro’s paralysed reaction.
‘What’s going on?’ Anobarbus asked, tugging at Cato’s sleeve. ‘What did he call her?’
‘Mum. He called her Mum.’
‘She’s his mother?’ Anobarbus smiled.’What is she doing here? I thought you two had come down from Rome.’
‘I don’t know.’ Cato shook his head.’Macro told me that she’d abandoned him as a child. Ran off with some marine . . . oh . . .’ Cato looked at Minucius, who was now squatting on the floor and stroking the old woman’s grey hair. ‘Oh, no! Macro.’
Macro was still staring down at Portia with a stupefied expression. Cato grabbed his arm and shook him hard.
‘Macro! Come on! We have to go.’
Macro tore his gaze away and looked vaguely at Cato. ‘Go? Go where?’
‘Trust me, we just have to go. Right now.’
‘But that’s my mum.’
‘I know. We’ll pop back and see her when you’re sober.’
‘I haven’t seen her for twenty years.’ Tears brimmed in the corner of his bleary eyes. ‘Since I was her little boy.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Cato patted his arm gently. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it? Now we don’t want her to see you in this drunken state, do we? Let’s go and get you sobered up first. Come on.’
Cato rose from his seat, moved in between Macro and his mother, and her lover, and tried to lift Macro off his bench.
‘Here, Anobarbus, lend us a hand.’
The merchant looked at Macro warily. ‘Why? What’s going on here?’
‘Just give me a hand. We have to get him out of here.’
‘She’s my mother,’ Macro mumbled, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘She’s my mum, and she ran away from me. Left us for a marine.’ Macro suddenly froze, staring at Minucius with wide eyes. ‘Him!’
‘Oh, no!’ Cato’s heart sank. ‘Quick! Let’s go!’
He snatched at Macro’s arm and heaved with all his strength, raising the centurion off the bench, but by now full realisation of the situation had flooded drunkenly into Macro’s mind. His head snapped towards Minucius.
‘You! . . . You bastard!’ he snarled, and then a raw shout of hatred ripped out of his throat. ‘It was you! You stole her away from us!’
Minucius looked up, startled by the bellow of rage. He snatched up his hands to protect himself and Portia’s head bumped on to the floor. Her eyes flickered open, fixed on Macro and she screamed.
Before Cato could react, Macro roared something incomprehensible and charged into Minucius, picking him up by the shoulders and thrusting him back, through the crowd of marines. Men went flying to either side, tables went over, jars of wine crashed to the floor and shattered, spilling their red contents like blood. There were outraged shouts and screams of panic from the whores as Macro continued to plough through them like an enraged bull with a lithe acrobat pinned on its horns.
Cato turned to Anobarbus and shrugged. ‘Here we go again . . .’
The merchant frowned. ‘Does he do this sort of thing often?’
‘Not really. But this is something of a special occasion. A family reunion.’
On the far side of the tavern Macro had Minucius pinned up against a wooden post and was busy head-butting him. Customers were piling out of the archway and into the street, most of them keen to avoid any fight that might attract the provosts, and some hoping to get out in the confusion without having to settle their bills.
Portia had recovered from her shock and now flew across the room, snatching up an iron skillet on the way.
‘Let go of him!’ she shrieked. ‘Let go of him, you little horror!’
Macro ignored her intervention and continued battering her paramour with commendable single-mindedness.
‘All right then, you little bastard!’
Portia swung the skillet back, took aim and then smashed it into the back of Macro’s head. There was a dull gong-like noise, and Macro’s knees buckled under him, revealing Minucius, bloody-faced and dazed. A moment later he too slumped to the floor. Portia dropped the skillet and started to cry, an awful screeching sound like a parrot inadvertently caught in a meat-grinder, as her shoulders flapped up and down.
‘Look out! The provosts are coming!’ a terrified voice shrieked from outside in the street.
‘Come on,’ Cato said to Anobarbus.’We have to get them out of here. Before the provosts kick seven shades out of them, and us.’
‘But surely they won’t strike a centurion.’
‘How will they know? We’re out of uniform.’
They scrambled over the wrecked furniture of the tavern as people stampeded past the archway. Cato gently turned Portia towards him.
‘We have to move them. Is there anywhere at the back of the tavern?’
Macro’s mother stared at him for a moment before her mind cleared. ‘Yes. That way!’ She pointed to a small door behind the counter. Anobarbus and Cato picked up the limp form of Macro, dragged him over to the door and thrust him through before they came back for Minucius. Portia held his hand and stroked his hair as they carried him to safety. Outside the Dancing Dolphin an open brawl was breaking out and spilling in through the arch as drunken marines tried to take on club-wielding provosts.
Portia looked up in alarm and screamed, ‘Watch them fixings! I paid good money for them!’
One of the provosts nodded. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’ Then continued pounding the marine lying at his feet.
With the two centurions dragged to safety Cato shut the door and slipped the catch to prevent anyone following them. He looked round and saw that they were in a large stockroom lined with wine jars standing almost as high as a man. A small desk was built into the wall and a ledger lay open on its worn surface. There was a locked gate to the street, and the shadows of people running past in blind panic flitted past the splits and gaps in the timbers. Almost hidden between large jars was a small doorway, which Portia waved them towards.
‘Through here.’
Cato gritted his teeth as he lifted Macro up, flung an arm round his friend’s back and half carried and half dragged him to the doorway. Anobarbus followed with the lighter Minucius, who was slowly recovering his wits. The doorway led into a long narrow passage that was lit by a single oil lamp at the far end. Portia fumbled with a key before opening another door and led them through into a large, poorly illuminated space beyond. Cato eased Macro down on to the tiled floor and stood up. They were standing in a neat, modestly sized atrium. A small pool glimmered in the centre, beneath an opening that revealed distant starlight. Oil lamps flickered beside a small shrine to gods of the household standing in one corner. A gentle tinkling of running water came from a door at the back of the atrium.
‘Nice place you have here,’ Cato muttered as he caught his breath.
‘That’s how I’d like to keep it,’ Portia said bitterly. ‘You might tell your friend that when he comes round. Then you can get him out of here as quickly as possible.’
‘My friend?’ Cato raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s your son, if I’m not mistaken.’
Portia stared back at him. ‘So it seems . . . Very well, bring him into my dining room, through here. We’ll sort him out and try to talk some sense into his thick skull.’
The dining room was just as tastefully decorated at the atrium and had the usual three couches arranged around a communal table. They heaved Macro on to one while Portia helped Minucius to their bedroom.
Anobarbus looked round admiringly. ‘I had no idea one could make such a go
od living out of running a tavern, particularly one that doesn’t water its wine.’
Cato ignored him, and was holding an oil lamp up to the back of Macro’s head. The hair was matted with blood, but the skull seemed to have held up well to the impact of the skillet. Macro groaned, and his shoulders twitched violently as he muttered something that made no sense.
Portia returned a short time later with a bowl of water and some old rags. ‘Out of my way, young man.’ She sat down on the couch next to Macro. ‘If you must loiter, then please hold that lamp where it’ll do some good. There, by his head.’
‘Sorry.’
Cato watched as she gently sponged the blood away to reveal a cut in his scalp. As quickly as the blood was wiped away, more welled up. Portia rinsed the cloth and then held it against the wound.
She laid her spare hand on Macro’s cheek and stroked it gently.’I never thought I’d be doing this again. The number of times I’ve had to sort out this boy’s cuts and scrapes is anybody’s guess.’
Cato was intrigued. ‘Clumsy lad, then?’
‘Clumsy? No. He was a complete thug as a child. Always getting into fights, and never having the sense to pick on people his own size. Just like his father. The pair of them drove me to my wits’ end.’
Cato coughed nervously. ‘Er, is that why you left them?’
Portia turned towards him with a cold expression. ‘And who are you exactly, young man?’
‘Quintus Licinius Cato, ma’am. I’m a friend of your son. I’ve served two years in the Second Legion with him.’
‘A legionary?’
‘No, I’m a centurion, like your son.’
‘Macro a centurion? The good-for-nothing’s a centurion?’
‘And a good one, ma’am.’
She pointed an elegant finger at him.’My name is Portia. I’d rather you didn’t call me ma’am. I’m not your grand-mother and I won’t be treated like one, young man.’
06 The Eagles Prophecy Page 14
