The Eagles Prophecy

It was after dark before Macro felt he had discharged his duties to the point where he could justify quitting the base for the rest of the evening. At least that was what he told himself. As he became engrossed with evermore mundane tasks, the junior officers had started giving him fu

Macro gently eased a path through the crowd, desperate to get away from these distraught people, yet too overwhelmed by the sense of guilt in his own survival to affect any brusque fatalism. At length he was free of them and headed along the wharf, walking slowly as he tried to think of the best way to tell Portia that Minucius was dead. But there was no easy way. How could there be? More distressing still was the nature of Minucius' death. Macro wanted to spare her that detail at least, but he knew that such grand treachery would not be a secret for long. Even if only a handful of men in the fleet knew the full story, there were others who possessed fragments of the tale who would swap stories and so it would leak out and reach his mother's ears and add immeasurably to the burden of her grief.

He turned up the thoroughfare that led into the seedy part of Rave

Too soon, Macro found himself standing on the opposite side of the street to the Dancing Dolphin. He stopped and stared. He wasn't yet prepared for it. Then Macro clenched his fists irritably and strode across the stepping stones that ran across the grime and filth of the street. He drew a deep breath and stepped into the bar.

There was only a handful of customers sitting about the room, and he saw Portia at once. She stood at an angle to him, setting up the cups for the evening's customers, unaware of his entrance. Macro swallowed and crossed the room as quietly as he could, but a loose board betrayed him before he could reach the counter, and she turned to look.

Their eyes met, and each stood still and speechless for a moment. Then her face wrinkled up and she leaned on the counter for support.

'No… no… no…' Her fingers pressed into the wooden surface and the knuckles went white. Macro strode the last few paces and gently took her shoulders.

'Mother, I'm so sorry.'

Her head drooped and Macro felt her thin frame shudder in his hands. He looked up and saw that the customers were watching curiously.

'Mother, come with me. Back there.'

He shuffled awkwardly round the counter, put his arm across her shoulders and helped her through the doorway to the small storeroom at the back of the bar. There, he eased her down on to the stool at the small desk where she did her accounts. For a while Portia clasped her hands to her face as her body was racked with sobs. Macro remained silent, holding her with one arm. He hesitantly raised his spare hand and then gently stroked the wispy grey hair.

After a while the crying subsided, and then a little later Portia suddenly lowered her hands, stiffened her back and pulled out a bar cloth to dab around her eyes.

'What happened?'

'He was killed in the final assault.'

'He didn't suffer?'

'No. It was quick. He wouldn't have felt anything.'

'I see.' She nodded, as if that somehow made it more acceptable.'That's good. I wouldn't have liked him to suffer. I wouldn't…' Her face screwed up again and more tears were wrenched from her old frame before she managed to recover a measure of composure. 'He was a good man.'

Macro was silent, and she immediately sensed something wrong in his mood.

'What's the matter, Macro?'

'It's nothing. Shall I get you a drink?'

'A drink?' Portia eyed him shrewdly. 'That's what men say when they want to avoid a subject.'

Macro looked at her helplessly.

'What happened?' she asked quietly, but firmly. 'Tell me.'

'This isn't the time.'

'Tell me!'

Macro swallowed, tried to meet her intent gaze, and wavered. He looked down and spoke softly.'Minucius was a traitor. He was selling information to the pirates. He'd been doing it for months.'

'No.'

'Yes. How else do you think he had come by the money for all those retirement plans of his?'

'He said he'd inherited it.' She looked confused. 'He couldn't have been a traitor. How could he be? I'd have known.'

'Are you saying you never suspected him?'

Portia glared back and slapped him hard.'How dare you!'

Macro reached up and rubbed his cheek. His mother shook her head, trembling with rage and grief, and despair. 'Macro… what's to become of me?'

'I've taken care of it, Mother.' He lifted his haversack on to the desk, unfastened the ties and, reaching inside, he drew out the leather bag Minucius had carried up to the roof. 'This was his. I think you should have it now.'

Portia stared at the leather bag. 'What's in it?'

'Gold, some gems, some silver. More than enough to keep you in comfort. You can still have that small estate in the country.'

Her eyes remained fixed on the bag.'How did you come by this?'

Macro winced. 'It was with him when he died.'

Her eyes flickered up. 'You were there?'

Macro nodded.

'So what happened?'

When her son did not immediately reply a look of horror seeped across her features. 'What did you do to him? What did you do to him?'

She grasped his arms and tried to shake him. Macro looked at her woodenly. 'I offered him a choice. Either I'd kill him, or let him kill himself. He did the best thing. He took his own life.'

Portia looked straight at her son.'Swear you didn't do it! Swear it.'

'I promise you, Mother. I didn't kill him.'

'I hope so, for your sake.' She looked away, shrunken and despairing. 'You've no idea what you would have done.'

Macro frowned, not understanding what she meant. But Portia kept her silence for a little longer, as she stared at the floor. Macro cleared his throat.

'You know, you could come back to Rome with me. It's not far from there to Ostia… Father's still alive, as far as I know.'

Portia looked up at him, and suddenly burst out laughing. The sound was brittle and somehow frightening. For a moment she no longer seemed in control of herself.

'Mother? What's the matter?'

'Oh, it's priceless!' She laughed again.'Quite priceless… You really want me to go back to Ostia, to that stupid, worthless, violent drunk you call a father?'

Macro shrugged. 'It's just a suggestion. I just hoped…' He stared at her, a terrible chill of suspicion gripping him as he dimly grasped that there was something strange about what she had just said.

'What's wrong with my father?'

'What's wrong with him?' Portia's lips trembled. 'He's dead. That's what's wrong with him. Minucius was your father.'