The Eagles Prophecy

Only then did he glance up and see how his friend was doing. But Macro needed no help. His man was already down, and the centurion was standing over him, one foot braced on his enemy's chest as he wrenched the blade out from between the man's ribs.

Macro glanced round. 'You all right, lad?'

'Not a scratch.' Cato turned round and went to retrieve his blade. A hand shot out and grabbed his ankle and he sprawled on the ground. He turned on his side at once and lashed out with his foot. The man he had stabbed in the ear snarled at him through clenched teeth, even as he glared at Cato with a strange unfocused expression. But his grip was as firm as a vice and his fingers locked painfully around the flesh of Cato's ankle. Cato kicked out with his free boot, bringing the iron studs down on the man's knuckles. Still he held on, blood streaming from the gouged flesh. Beyond him Cato could see that the torturer had scrambled back on to his feet. He looked at Cato, then Macro, and turned and ran towards the horses.

'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 Rave

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.

06 The Eagles Prophecy

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?' Minucius 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 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 Rave

'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.'