Simon Scarrow: The Eagles Prophecy

A distant hubbub of voices and cries carried across from the forum as the city shuffled to life in the bleak glow of a winter dawn. Macro shivered, and pulled his thick army cloak about his broad shoulders. Grimacing at the rhythmic pounding in his skull, he eased himself to his feet and shuffled across the room to the shutters. He lifted the cord off the bent nail that secured the two wooden panels and then pushed the broken one out. More light spilled into the room as the worn hinges grated in protest and Macro narrowed his eyes against the sudden glare. But only for a moment. Once again the now-too-familiar vista of Rome opened up before him and he could not help being awed by the spectacle of the world's greatest city. Built on to the unfashionable side of the Esquiline hill, the topmost rooms of the tenement block looked out over the insanely crowded squalor of the Subura, towards the towering temples and palaces that surrounded the Forum, and beyond to the warehouses that were packed along the banks of the Tiber.

He had been told that nearly a million people were crowded within the walls of Rome. From where Macro stood that was all too easy to believe. A geometric chaos of rooftiles dropped down the slope in front of him, and the narrow alleyways that ran between them could only be divined where the grimy brickwork of the upper levels of the apartments were visible. A shroud of woodsmoke hung over the city and its acrid stench even overwhelmed the sharp tang from the tannery at the end of the street. Even now, after more than three months in the city, Macro had not grown used to the raw stench of the place. Nor the filth that lay in the streets: a dark mixture of shit and rotting scraps of food that not even the meanest beggar would pick through. And everywhere the dense press of bodies that flowed through the streets: slaves, traders, merchants and artisans. Drawn from across the Empire, they still bore the trappings of their civilisations in an exotic medley of colours and styles. Around them swirled the listless mass of freeborn citizens looking for some form of entertainment to keep them amused when they were not queuing for the grain dole. Here and there the litters of the rich were carried above and apart from the rest of Rome, their owners clutching pomades to their noses to catch a more fragrant breath in the ripe atmosphere that embraced the city.

That was the reality of life in Rome and it overwhelmed Macro. He wondered at the mass of humanity that could tolerate such an affront to the senses and not yearn for the freedom and freshness of a life far removed from the city. He felt sure that Rome would soon drive him mad.

Macro leaned his elbows on the worn sill and peered down into the shadowy street that ran along the side of the tenement block. His eyes slid down the grimy brickwork of the wall stretching below his window in a dizzy drop that foreshortened the people passing below into four-limbed insects; distant and just as easily dismissible, as they scuttled along the dim street. This room on the fifth floor of the tenement was the highest Macro had ever been in anything made by man, and the elevation made him feel a little dizzy.

'Shit…'

'What's shit?'

Macro turned and saw that Cato was awake and rubbing his eyes as his jaw stretched in a yawn.

'Me. I feel like shit.'

Cato examined his friend with a disapproving shake of his head. 'You look like shit.'

'Thanks.'

'Better get yourself cleaned up.'

'Why? What's the point? No need to make an effort when there's nothing to do for the rest of the day.'

'We're soldiers. We let it go now and we'll never get the edge back. Besides, once a legionary always a legionary. You told me that.'

'I did?' Macro raised an eyebrow, and then shrugged. 'I must have been drunk.'

'How can you tell?'

'That's enough of your lip,' Macro grumbled as he felt his head begin to spin gently. 'I need some more rest.'

'You can't rest. We have to get ready.' Cato reached for his boots, put them on and began to fasten the leather ties.

'Ready?' Macro turned to him. 'Ready for what?'

'You've forgotten?'

'Forgotten? What have I forgotten?'

'Our appointment at the palace. I told you about it last night, when I found you in that tavern.'

Macro frowned as he strained his mind to recover the details of the previous evening's binge. 'Which one?'

'The Grove of Dionysus.' Cato spoke patiently.'You were drinking with some veterans of the Tenth and I came up and told you I had got us an interview with the procurator in charge of legionary postings. At the third hour. So we haven't got much time to get ourselves breakfasted, washed and kitted up before we head to the palace. There's racing today at the Great Circus; we have to get out early if we're going to beat the crowds. You could do with something to eat. Something to settle your stomach.'

'Sleep,' Macro replied quietly, as he slumped on to his bed roll and curled up under his cloak. 'Sleep'll settle my stomach nicely.'

Cato finished tying his boots and stood up, ducking his head to avoid banging it against the beam that crossed the room; one of the few instances where being a head taller than Macro was a disadvantage. Cato reached for the leather bag of ground barley that stood beside the rest of their kit, propped up against the wall next to the door. He untied it and poured a measure into each of their mess tins, before carefully twisting the bag and knotting the ties once again, to keep the mice out.'I'll go and get the porridge made up. You can start polishing the armour while I'm gone.'

When the door had closed behind his friend, Macro closed his eyes again and tried to ignore the pain in his skull. His stomach felt knotted and empty. A meal would do him good. The sun had risen higher and he opened his eyes again. He groaned, threw the cloak to one side and went over towards the piles of armour and equipment leaning beside the door. Despite sharing the rank of centurion, Macro had more than a dozen years of experience over Cato. Sometimes it felt strange to find himself obeying one of the lad's instructions. But, Macro bitterly reminded himself, they were no longer on active duty. Rank was largely irrelevant. Instead they were two friends struggling to survive until they finally received their back pay from the miserly clerks at the imperial treasury. Hence the need to watch every sestertian as they waited for a new posting. Not an easy task when Macro was inclined to spend what little savings he had on drink.

The narrow stairwell was lit by openings in the wall on every second landing and Cato, with his hands full, had to pick his way down the ancient creaking boards with care. Around him he could hear the sounds of other tenants rising: the bawling of young children, the intemperate shouts of their parents and the low sullen murmurs of those who faced a long day's employment somewhere in the city. Although he had been born in Rome and raised in the palace until he was old enough to be sent to the legions, Cato had never had cause to visit the slum areas, let alone enter one of the towering tenement blocks packed with the capital's poor. It had shocked him to realise that freeborn citizens could live like this. He had not imagined such squalor. Even the slaves in the palace lived better than this. Far better than this.

At the bottom of the stairs Cato turned into the heart of the building and emerged into the gloomy yard where the block had its communal cooking hearth. A wizened old man was stirring a large blackened pot on the griddle and the air was thick with the smell of gruel. Even at this early hour there was someone ahead of Cato in the queue, a thin pasty woman who lived with a large family in one room on the floor immediately below Macro and Cato. Her husband worked in the warehouses; a huge surly man whose drunken shouting and beating of his wife and children could be heard clearly enough in the room above. At the sound of Cato's nailed boots tramping across the flagstones she turned and looked over her shoulder. Her nose had been broken some time ago and today her cheek and eye were heavily bruised. Still a smile flickered across her lips and Cato made himself smile back, out of pity. She could have been any age between twenty and forty but the back-breaking labour of raising a family and the strain of tiptoeing round her brutish husband had reduced her to a wasted streak of despair as she stood barefoot in a ragged tunic, bronze pail in one hand and a sleeping infant clutched against her hip in the other.