Simon Scarrow: The Eagles Prophecy

When the messenger boy returned there was a quiet exchange of words with the Praetorian Guardsman before he turned round and beckoned to the two centurions.

He nodded at Cato.'Seems you were right, sir. Demetrius will see you now.'

'Oh, he will, will he?' Macro sniffed.'That's bloody good of him.'

The Praetorian made a wry smile. 'You can't imagine. Anyway, follow this boy.'

They marched through the entrance portico, across a small yard and into the main body of the palace. Inside, the iron nails on the bottom of their thick leather boots echoed sharply off the high walls on each side of the passage. They passed wide doorways through which they could see the scribes and the clerks working at the endless record-keeping that kept the wheels of the Empire turning. The walls of the offices were lined with racks of scrolls and slates, every pigeonhole neatly marked with a numeral. Light poured into each room through latticed windows high up on the wall and Macro wondered what it must be like to spend long years working in such a confined space, with no view of the outside world.

They reached a narrow staircase at the end of the passage and climbed four flights before taking another corridor. The rooms leading off this corridor were bright and spacious, and most had windows that must provide fine views across the city. The slave boy drew up outside a wide doorway and rapped on the wooden frame.

'Enter!' a high-pitched voice called out.

Before they passed through the door Cato quickly whispered to his friend, 'Let me do the talking. I know my way round these palace types.'

The slave boy led the two centurions inside and they found they were in an ante-room. Two benches were arranged along the wall opposite three windows that let in plenty of light and air. Too much, thought Cato, as he felt the chill. At the far end of the room was a closed door. To one side of it was a large desk made of some dark wood, and behind it sat the clerk Cato had met briefly the day before. Demetrius was a slight man in a plain but freshly laundered tunic. He had the classic Greek profile and his thinning hair was carefully arranged in dark oiled curls. His whole bearing spoke of the power and influence he thought he wielded. Beside him stood a brazier, glowing warmly. Three other officers were sitting on the bench nearest to the heat.

Demetrius glanced up from a scroll and beckoned to them.'Centurions Macro and Cato? You're late.'

Macro puffed out his cheeks, but Cato responded before his friend could protest. 'We were held up at the entrance. The guard had no record of our meeting.' Cato smiled.'You know what they're like. I hope we're not too late for our meeting with the procurator.'

'You've missed it,' Demetrius said tonelessly.

'Missed it?' Macro jabbed a finger at him. 'Now, just you look here-'

'Come back tomorrow.'

'Not on your life.'

Demetrius shrugged. 'Your loss.' He glanced at the messenger boy. 'Please show these two gentlemen the way out of the palace.'

'We're staying!' Macro growled. 'And we will see the procurator. You'd better make sure of that.'

'The procurator's a busy man. You should have been here at the appointed time.'

Macro leaned over the desk and glared at the clerk. 'And you should have made sure our names were on that list.'

'Not my problem.'

'Then I'll make it your problem.' Macro reached for his sword, and Demetrius glanced down at the pommel as the first length of blade emerged from the scabbard. He flinched and his eyes flickered back to meet Macro's cold, determined expression.

'You wouldn't dare.'

'Try me.'

For a moment Demetrius wavered, and glanced to the other officers in a silent appeal for help, but they just smiled back and didn't move. 'I'll call the guards.'

'You can,' Macro nodded.'But long before they get here, I'd have lobbed your scrawny arse out of the window. Must be a long way down…' He smiled at the clerk. 'Now can we please have our meeting with the procurator?'

Demetrius swallowed and fumbled for a waxed slate on his desk. 'Yes, er, let me see. He could spare you a few moments at the end of his current meeting, I suppose.' He looked up desperately. 'If you'll just take a seat…'

Macro straightened up and nodded with satisfaction. 'Thank you.'

As he and Cato joined the other officers on the bench he glanced at Cato and winked. 'I'll do the talking from now on. Think I've got the measure of these palace types.'

The other officers craned round to introduce themselves. Two of them were veterans; grizzled and scarred beneath coarse hair that was going grey. They each had a chest full of medallions on their harnesses and one wore a gold torque on his wrist. The third officer was a young man, recently kitted out and with not one decoration on his harness. He looked awkward and uneasy in the company of the vastly more experienced men.

One of the veterans nodded over towards Demetrius. 'Nice job, Centurion… is it Macro or Cato?'

'Macro. Lately of the Second Legion Augusta. Same as Cato here.'

'I'm Lollius Asinius. This here's Hosidius Mutilus. Waiting for travel warrants to join the Tenth Legion. The youngster's Flaccus Sosius. Looking for his first appointment.'

The young officer smiled quickly as he fixed his attention on the new arrivals. 'The Augusta? You've been in Britain then? What's it like?'

Macro concentrated for a moment before he replied, remembering the two years of the most intense fighting he had ever witnessed. So many men had died – good men he had known for years, and some he had barely had a chance to know before they were killed. Then there was the enemy: brutal and brave, and led by those deranged druid devils. What was it like? 'Cold.'

'Cold?' Sosius looked confused.

Macro nodded. 'Yes, cold. Don't ever go there. Get yourself a posting somewhere comfortable. Like Syria.'

Cato shook his head in despair. As long as he had known Macro he had had to put up with the constant refrain that Syria was the best posting in the Empire. It was Macro's lifelong ambition to wallow in the fleshpots of the east.

'Syria?' Asinius laughed. 'We've just come back from there. Been training some auxiliary units at Damascus.'

Macro leaned closer to Asinius, eyes bright with intense concentration.'Tell me about it – Syria. Is it as good as they say?'

'Well, I don't know about that, but-'

The door to the procurator's office swung open and a man strode out into the ante-room. At once Cato and Macro rose up and stood stiffly to attention, quickly followed by the others. Demetrius rose last of all, taking just long enough to register his lack of obeisance. The man was wearing the full ceremonial toga of a senator, with a broad purple stripe running along the hem. He nodded briefly to the centurions and strode out of the ante-room as Demetrius stepped into his master's office.

'Centurions Licinius Cato and Cornelius Macro to see you, sir.'

'Are they on my list?'

'An oversight, sir. I'll punish the scribe responsible.'

'Oh, very well. Send 'em in.'

Demetrius stood by the door and closed it behind them the moment the two centurions had entered the procurator's office.

They found themselves standing on a thick rug, one of several that filled the large room. It was situated on the corner of the palace and had windows on two sides. Glazed windows, Macro noted with scarcely hidden astonishment at the luxurious furnishing of the procurator's office. On the far side, behind a marble-topped desk, sat the procurator, a fat man with a thick head of dark hair and a fistful of gold rings on the pudgy fingers of each hand. He glanced up with an irritable expression.

'Well, get over here, then! Smartly now!'

Macro and Cato marched over and stood to attention in front of the desk. The procurator snorted, and leaned back in his chair, revealing a rolling belly that stretched the wool fabric of his tunic. 'What are you here for?'