The Eagles Prophecy

'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 ru

'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 ru

'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 good living out of ru

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.'

'Fair enough.' Cato nodded.'By the same token I'd prefer you to call me Cato, and not young man.'

She glared at him for a moment, before her stern features abruptly melted into an amused smile. 'Well said.'

Portia turned back to her son and ran her fingers through his hair, then paused. She leaned closer.'What on earth…? Is that a scar? Why, it's enormous. It's a wonder the boy's still alive.'

'Yes it is,' Cato replied quietly. 'I was there when it happened. A celt nearly took off the top of his head. He was in the legion's infirmary for months. We shared the same room.'

'You've been in battle? You don't look old enough.'

'I've been in battle. And I've survived, largely thanks to Macro.'

Portia smiled. 'You're very fond of him.'

Cato thought about it for a moment.'Yes. Yes, I am. He's the nearest thing I've had to family since my father died.'

Anobarbus coughed. 'Er…'

'What is it?' Portia resumed her brisk, businesslike mask. 'What do you want?'

'Latrine.'

'Down the corridor, last door on the left. Make sure you clean it after you. I know what you men are like.'

After the merchant had left them Cato wanted to pick up the conversation about Macro but the brief display of maternal feeling had dried up. Portia rose and picked up the bowl with its bloodstained water. She went over to a potted plant in the corner and threw the water on to its soil, and placed the empty vessel beside Macro's couch.

'Keep pressing that cloth to his wound. When he comes round, he'll probably want to throw up. Make sure he gets it in the bowl.'

'Where are you going?'

'To see if my intended has survived your friend's assault. Then I'm going to look over what he's left of my tavern. Is that all right with you?' Portia concluded tartly.

Cato nodded, and she disappeared in the direction of the atrium.

He glanced down and saw that the blood was flowing more slowly and pressed gently against the wound. Macro moaned and rolled on to his side.

'Ohhhh, shit… What the hell hit me? Feels like a bloody house collapsed on my head.'

'Shhh. Lie still.'

Macro's eyes flickered open and his forehead creased into a frown as he tried to identify his surroundings. 'Where am I?'

'Well, you may not like this, but it seems that you're at home.'

'What?' Macro turned round quickly. Too quickly. His eyes rolled up and with a convulsive heave he vomited, completely missing the bowl Cato had snatched up from the floor.

06 The Eagles Prophecy