Simon Scarrow: The Eagles Prophecy

'Put the bag down.'

'If anything happens to me, it'll break her heart.'

'PUT THE FUCKING BAG DOWN!' Macro didn't wait to hear any more. He crouched, turned the shoulder of his sword arm towards Minucius and closed in on the traitor.

'Wait!' Minucius cried out. 'What does this prove? We both know you're the better fighter! I don't stand a chance!'

'Then you'll die.'

Minucius dropped the bag, and slumped on to his knees, stretching his arms out towards Macro.'For pity's sake! Think of your mother!'

Macro raised his sword, determined to kill him there and then. For a moment he stood over the wretched traitor, then he clenched his teeth and lowered the blade.

'On your feet!'

Minucius glanced up, his eyes wide and burning with hope. 'You won't regret this, Macro.'

'Get up!'

Minucius scrambled to his feet, smiling nervously. 'Bless you! I knew you were a good man. A good son. We'll never forget this, your mother and I.'

'You want to help my mother?'

'What? Yes! Of course. Of course I do. I love her.'

'All right. You love her.' Macro nodded. He leaned over to the side of the tower and glanced down. The wall fell away in a sheer drop over the cliffs below, straight down into the sea, where the waves foamed white against the rocks. There would be no chance of surviving a fall from this height. He straightened up and stared at Minucius. 'If you love her, then jump.'

'What?'

'Either way you die. I'll kill you and spare you a very public and humiliating execution. Or you can jump and I'll do my best to conceal just what a treacherous little cunt you've been.' Macro forced a smile. 'For my mother's sake, you understand.'

'You're not serious?'

'Perfectly. Now there's not much time. The others will be up here any moment to see what's happened. If you're still on the roof then I'll hand you over to them. You know what that means.'

Minucius bit his lip and clasped his hands together.'Macro, I'm begging you.'

'Do us all a favour. Jump.'

'I-I can't. I'm afraid.'

'Tough.'

A faint shout echoed up the staircase. Then again. Cato's voice calling out to Macro. Without taking his eyes off Minucius, Macro shouted, 'Up here!'

The sound of boots echoed in the stairwell. Macro nodded meaningfully towards the wall of the watchtower and raised his eyebrows. Minucius' face wrinkled into an agony of despair and he shook his head.

'Your choice.' Macro shrugged, stepped a few paces back and turned towards the staircase. He strode over to it as Cato came scrambling through the doorway, sword raised.

Macro raised a hand. 'Easy there! All sorted out downstairs? '

Cato nodded, catching his breath.

'Did you find the scrolls?' Macro asked.

'Yes… Where's Minucius?'

Macro turned round. The traitor had vanished. All that remained was the leather bag lying in a crumpled heap by the wall. Macro stared at the wall for a moment before answering.

'Minucius? He was there just now.' Macro shook his head. 'Guess the old bastard must have winged it…'

06 The Eagles Prophecy

Six days later the fleet returned to Ravenna. At first the townspeople had been overjoyed when news that the sails had been sighted spread through the streets. Crowds rushed down to the harbour front and out on to the moles to wave their greetings as the fleet approached. Relatives of the sailors and marines massed outside the gates of the naval base, anxious to be reunited with their menfolk. As the fleet made the final approach to the harbour entrance, the sails were furled and the crews unshipped the oars and rowed the warships in, passing the dense mass of merchant shipping before they entered the naval harbour.

The wounded had been loaded on to the triremes at the head of the fleet and these, the largest vessels, manoeuvred in towards the wharf and heaved their mooring lines ashore to the men waiting to receive them at each berth. As soon as the triremes had been made fast, the gangways were lowered on to the wharf and the unloading of the wounded began. A continuous flow of stretchers laden with the injured was taken to the hospital block, and then the bloodstained stretchers were hurried back to the ships to collect more casualties. There were so many stretcher cases that the walking wounded were left to make the short march across the base to the hospital unaided.

As the scale of the losses became apparent the mood of celebration and relief in Ravenna quickly turned to a horrified despair and a shrill wailing began amongst the relatives and friends waiting outside the gates. Once each of the triremes had disgorged its cargo of injured men, the vessel was eased away from the wharf and rowed slowly out to drop anchor in the naval harbour. Then it was the turn of the other ships to unload their exhausted marines and seamen, and these tramped across the parade ground towards their barracks, looking forward to the chance of a hot meal and a long spell of relaxation in the bathhouse. Those with families were anxious to let them know they were safe, but until their kit was cleaned and properly stowed away their officers would not permit them to leave the base.

Last ashore were the prisoners: long lines of men, women and children chained together. They were led up from the dark stinking holds of the warships and goaded down the gangplanks towards one of the warehouses that was to act as their temporary prison, there to wait for the agents from the slave dealerships who would come to inspect the goods and prepare bids for the best stock in the auction that would follow a few days later. The proceeds of the sales, together with the plunder taken from the pirates' citadel would make some of the men, mostly officers, wealthy men. Others would bank their share of the proceeds, saving towards retirement, or increasing the size of their stake in the funeral club. Many of the men were keenly looking forward to blowing a small fortune on drink and whores the moment they were given permission to leave the base.

Macro and Cato watched as the last of the prisoners was unloaded. At the end of the line of filthy men in chains was Ajax, trying to stand proud and defiant as he was led off to a hard and uncertain future. He had shown no sign of emotion as his father, and the surviving trierarchs of the pirate fleet had been crucified; nailed down through the wrists and ankles before being bound to their timber frames and hoisted up along the headland opposite the citadel. On the other side of the bay great clouds of smoke billowed up from the fires set by the marines in the ravaged ruins of the citadel.

As the Roman fleet pulled away from the bay Cato had lingered a moment at the stern rail of his ship, hearing the faint cries of agony from the men hanging from their crossbeams on the headland, and the dull roar of flames. Then he had turned away with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and refused to look back.

Ajax met their gaze as he stepped ashore, and hesitated for an instant, so that Cato was tempted to try to offer him some crumb of comfort. Then the marine at the tail of the desultory column thrust him forward and he stumbled after the other prisoners.

'Don't go and feel sorry for him,' Macro said gently.'He's a pirate. He knew the score.'

'I don't feel sorry.'

Macro smiled. He knew his friend well enough to know better. 'If you say so. Just remember, if our fortunes were reversed I doubt he would have shown us any mercy.'

'I know.'

'Besides, he'll do all right. He's got the spirit to make a decent bodyguard, or gladiator perhaps. Don't you worry about him.'

'I'm not,' Cato said firmly, turning towards Macro. 'It's you I'm concerned about. Are you sure you want to go through with it? You know it's going to break her heart.'