Simon Scarrow: The Eagles Prophecy

Porcius, true to his reputation, somehow managed to coax an extra burst of strength from his team and they had nosed ahead in the first length. The blues were just clear of the other teams as the chariots swerved round the end of the island, throwing up sheets of sand as the body of each chariot skidded round, and passed temporarily out of sight. The cheering of the spectators around Cato subsided as they turned their eyes to the other end of the island, waiting in tense anticipation for the chariots to reappear. Sand sprayed up an instant before the first chariot swung into view and the Praetorians leaped up in delight, screaming out their support for Porcius. Right behind him was Nepos, and Macro only just managed to restrain his cry of delight that Nepos was still in close contention. With desperate flicks of the reins Nepos steered his team to the outside as they raced down the track towards the imperial box. Gradually he closed on Porcius, then began to edge up alongside the blues. Porcius saw the danger and, with a quick tug on the reins, moved out to head off his rival.

A howl of outrage burst out from the supporters of the greens and Macro balled his hands into tight fists, but kept his lips clamped tightly together. Beside him, Cato just felt sick as he saw the man carrying the fate of their last few coins desperately rein in, then abruptly swerve left, closer to the island. Porcius had misjudged his manoeuvre and now his horses missed a pace as their charioteer urged them back on course. But it was too late. Nepos, leaning over the front rail of his chariot, was cracking his reins furiously and crying out encouragement to his team. They surged forward, inside the blues, past them and into the lead. Cato felt a surge of joy burst through his veins, and fought not to let it show.

'Yessss!' Macro punched his fist into the air, then looked round anxiously. Some of the guardsmen were looking at him in surprise, but quickly turned their attention back to the race.

'Watch it,' Cato muttered. 'I get the feeling we're not amongst friends.'

Back on the track, Nepos raced ahead, and rounded the island, disappearing from view. An instant later the blues swerved round after him and were gone. Already a sizeable gap had opened up between the leaders and the other two teams, the reds and the yellows, who were battling it out, neck and neck, trying to close up on the leaders. Once more the cheering on this side of the Circus died down as the race continued on the far side of the island. Heads swivelled to the far end of the central island, everyone watching intently.

Not everyone.

Cato glanced down into the imperial box and saw that Narcissus was staring back in his direction. Their eyes met. Cato was sure of it. The Imperial Secretary was staring directly at him, and there was nothing Cato could do but pretend it wasn't happening, as if he was just some face in the crowd. Then Narcissus raised a hand and pointed his finger at Cato, then waved slowly, before turning back towards the track. Cato felt the cold chill of terror trickle down his spine. He had been seen and recognised and there would be no avoiding the Imperial Secretary now. Cato knew he was as good as dead. Narcissus had beckoned to one of the guards officers and was speaking animatedly into his ear. It could be about anything, Cato hoped desperately; they could be talking about somebody or something else. Then Narcissus turned and pointed towards him and the officer nodded, and moved towards the entrance of the imperial box.

Cato grabbed his friend's arm. 'We have to go! Now!'

'Are you mad?' Macro shook his hand off. 'What's left of our money's out there. We're not going anywhere. Not until the race is over.'

'But…' Cato's mind raced. There was no time to explain it to Macro. And Macro wouldn't budge. 'All right! I'm heading back to that tavern. Find me there, afterwards.' He rose, snatched up his helmet and hurried up the steps towards the exit.

Behind him, Macro stretched out a hand. 'Cato! Wait! Oh, sod you, then!'

Cato scrambled down the steep steps into the arched gallery that ran around the Circus, under the banked seating. From there a wider flight of steps led down into the street, and his nailed boots echoed sharply off the columns and curved ceiling of the gallery. Above the dulled noise of the crowd he thought he could hear more footsteps, more nailed boots and a shout. He ran down the steps, three at a time, risking an injury in his bid to escape the Circus before Narcissus' men could stop him. At the bottom of the stairs he emerged from the shadows of the building and saw that there were still plenty of people ambling along the wide thoroughfare that ran beside the Great Circus. Cato knew if he ran he was sure to stand out from the crowd. He drew a breath and then moved in amongst the passers-by, filtering diagonally away from the steps towards an opening in the line of shops opposite, where a small side street ran down towards the Forum. Behind him he heard the clattering of boots on the steps, but, with iron will, he forced himself not to turn and look, but to keep walking steadily towards the side street. As people crossed his path, or barged into him, Cato refused to meet their gaze and moved on, all the while waiting for a shout from behind that would mean his doom. At last he reached the street corner, and ducked down the narrow alley, pausing only briefly to glance back towards the Great Circus. Four guardsmen were standing a few steps above the street, scrutinising the crowd, but none of them was looking in his direction.

Cato hurried down the alley, which was one of the older streets in the city, winding its way down the slope, becoming evermore narrow until the sky was only visible as a jagged line overhead, crowded by the eaves of the tightly packed tenement blocks rearing up on either side. Behind him the roars of the vast crowd in the Circus were gradually muffled. The atmosphere of the alley was thick with the rank odour of rotting food and sewage. He passed few people as he walked quickly along. A few surly-looking women watched him from open doorways and he had to squeeze past a small band of drunken youths, heading uphill towards the Great Circus. In the gloomy alley there were no landmarks for Cato to steer by, only where the slope led, and the broad sense of the direction in which he needed to move. Then, at last, he turned a corner, and the alley ran into a wider street, filled with people. To the left lay the Forum and, with a deep breath, Cato turned towards it and walked on at a steadier pace, trying not to look like the wretched fugitive he had become.

He found the tavern easily enough, and took a seat inside, close to a wall so that he could keep watch on the crowds outside and lean back into the shadows if he needed to avoid anyone's searching gaze. The young barman came over, drying his hands on a filthy rag. A flicker of recognition crossed his face and he grinned.

'Didn't go to the races then?'

'We did,' Cato replied quickly before he realised that his quitting the Circus so soon would look suspicious unless he could explain it.'But I remembered I was supposed to meet someone here. My friend will join me later.'

'I see.' The barman shrugged. 'Well, that's a shame. What'll you drink?'

'Drink?'

'This is a tavern, friend, not a clients' waiting room.'

'A cup of wine. Heated wine.'

'Just a cup?'

'That's all I want, for now.'

'Right.' The barman threw the rag over his shoulder and headed back to the large wine jars set into the counter. He returned and placed a steaming cup down at Cato's table.

'That's one sestertian.'

With a sick feeling Cato realised that Macro had charge of all their money, and he was back at the Circus. He glanced up at the barman. 'Keep a tab. I'll pay when my friend arrives.'

The barman shook his head.'No tabs. House policy. You pay now.'