Simon Scarrow: The Eagles Prophecy

'Doubt he'll get back to the palace in one go,' Cato muttered. 'All the same, I wish I had his problems.'

Macro turned back to his friend, desperately searching for some crumb of comfort he could offer Cato, but he had never been good at that sort of thing.

'It's rough luck, lad.'

'Rough luck?' Cato laughed bitterly. 'Oh, it's better than that. I mean, after all that we've been through, after all we've done for General Plautius, you can be certain that patrician bastard'll make sure I get the chop. There's something you can safely bet on. Just to make sure that his shining reputation as a harsh disciplinarian doesn't get a mark on it. And the Imperial Secretary will back him up.'

'He might recommend a pardon,' Macro suggested.

Cato stared at him. 'He might not. Anyway, aren't you forgetting something?'

'Am I?'

'You're also under threat. What if the general decides he wants to put you in the frame over the death of Centurion Maximius?'

'I don't think he will. There's no evidence linking me to his murder, just a few rumours put around by a handful of idiots who won't accept that he was killed by the enemy. I'm not worried about that, not really. It's you I'm worried about.' He looked away in embarrassment and his eyes fell on his purse, tied securely to his belt. 'But most of all I'm worried about the fact that we're broke, and we're going to be very hungry in a few days' time unless some back pay comes through. If it doesn't, then we'll be on the bloody streets once the next month's rent is due. All in all, it's not looking too healthy, Cato my lad.'

'No.'

'So we'd better do something about it.'

'Like what?'

Macro smiled, and leaned closer across the table. 'Like taking advantage of that tip, and getting ourselves down to the Great Circus.'

'Are you mad? We're down to our last few coins and you want to throw them away on the races?'

'Throwing 'em away is what mugs do. What we've got is a sure thing.'

'No. What you've got is incurable optimism. Me? I'm a realist. If we place that money on a race we might as well just give it away.'

Macro slapped his hand down on the table, making the cups jump. 'Oh, come on, Cato! What little we've got is as good as gone anyway. If the tip's any use we should get reasonable odds, and, who knows, if the bet comes good we'll be able to keep the lupine pest from the door for a while yet. What have we got to lose?'

'Apart from our senses?'

Macro glared at him. 'Just for once, trust to fate and see what happens.'

Cato thought it over for a moment. Macro was right, he had pretty much lost everything else in his life, and even the latter was almost certainly forfeit. So why worry about a few coins? The general's response would arrive from Britain before the landlord's heavies could pin him to the wall for any arrears. He might as well live a little, while he could.

'All right then, let's go.'

By the time they had pushed their way inside the huge arch of one of the public entrances to the Great Circus there were only a few places left in the section reserved for the army. Most of the stone benches had been taken by Praetorian Guardsmen who were busy drinking from wineskins and making bets. Here and there were small clusters of legionaries – men on leave or, like Cato and Macro, waiting for a new posting. Quite a few were ex-soldiers, pensioned off or invalided out of the legions and taking advantage of their veterans' rights.

Emperor Claudius, in a shrewd move, had changed the seating plan so that the guardsmen were arranged either side of, and behind the grand imperial box. The senators had been shifted further off, much to their chagrin, and spilled out over their benches where they were waited on by their slaves, who served them heated wine in small goblets. Glancing beyond them, Cato saw the enclosure for the vestal virgins, the less spacious seating reserved for lesser nobles, and then the packed ranks of the common citizens, and above them, on the rearmost benches, the freedmen, foreigners and unattached women, many of whom were obviously plying their trade. Macro followed the direction of his gaze.

'Forget them. You can't afford it. Not unless Nepos does his stuff.'

Cato swung his gaze back towards the huge expanse of the track stretching out in front of them. Several race officials were crossing to the central island, while around them scores of slaves raked the sand into a smooth, even surface in final preparation for the first race. The assistants to the priests wheeled a cage of unblemished white goats towards the sacrificial altar in the middle of the island, directly opposite the imperial box.

All around the arena the usual hawkers sold snacks, cushions and brightly coloured scarves for each team's supporters. Amongst them prowled the bet-takers, accompanied by a heavy or two to make sure that the money was kept safe. Macro swallowed nervously, stood up, and made for the nearest; a swarthy-looking Hispanic, clutching a bundle of waxed slates tied together. Behind him lurked two huge men, powerfully built and horribly scarred, as most ex-gladiators tended to be. Each man carried a money box on a strap across his shoulders, and had a thick wooden stave to hand.

'Let me guess,' smiled the bet-taker as he sized Macro up and calculated his worth. 'You'll have a gold piece on Porcius, to win.'

'Er, no.' Macro felt embarrassment burning in his cheeks. He glanced round and continued in a low voice, 'Five denarians on Nepos, to win.'

'Five denarians?' The bet-taker looked disappointed. He quickly reappraised the centurion, and continued sarcastically, 'Sure you can afford it?'

Macro stiffened. 'Yes, of course I can. Five on Nepos, like I said.'

'Nepos? You know the odds are ten to one?'

'That's what I'm counting on.'

'Well, it's your money. If you're sure…?'

Macro frowned. 'Do you want to take the bet, or not?'

'I'm happy to take your money. Just a moment, please… sir.' The bet-taker opened his tablets and prepared to make a new entry with his stylus. He began to press some tiny notation into the wax, muttering as he wrote. 'Five den. on Nepos to win… Your name?'

'Centurion Macro.'

'Macro. Fine, now if I can just have your payment.' Macro handed him the silver coins from his purse and the bet-taker dropped them into one of the boxes carried by his heavies. The coins fell through the slot with a dull chink on to the money already taken in. The bet-taker nodded to the man carrying the chest. 'That's tally one hundred and forty-three.'

The ex-gladiator raised a large metal hoop from his side and fumbled amongst the small wooden pegs until he reached the right number and then worked it free and handed it over to Macro. The bet-taker smiled at him. 'Pleasure doing business with you, though I doubt we'll meet again. Now, if you'll excuse me…'

Macro tucked the wooden tally into his purse and hurried back to Cato.

'How much did you place on Nepos?'

'Enough,' Macro replied easily, then pointed across the heads of the spectators towards the imperial box. 'Look, there's Claudius' flunkies. He must be on his way.'

'How much?' Cato persisted.

'Oh, five denarians, or something.'

'Five den-Macro, that's pretty much all we have.'

'Actually, it is all we have.' Macro shrugged an apology. 'It's a risk, but I got odds of ten to one.'

'Really?' Cato responded sourly. 'And why do you think that's good news? He's got nine chances in ten of losing.'

'Look here,' Macro lowered his voice, 'our man said it was a sure thing. We stand to win fifty silver pieces when it's over.'

'I can do the maths, thank you. Fifty pieces, if Nepos wins.'

'He will, trust me. I have a feeling for these things.'

Cato shook his head and glanced away, letting his gaze turn to the imperial box. The household slaves were busy setting up a table of snacks and wines to the side of the Emperor's seat. Even at a distance of fifty paces, Cato could make out a platter of ornately arranged fowl glazed in what looked like honey. His mouth began to water at the sight and he felt his stomach churn with hunger.