Simon Scarrow - The Eagles Prophecy

Portia stared at the leather bag. 'What's in it?'

'Gold, some gems, some silver. More than enough to keep you in comfort. You can still have that small estate in the country.'

Her eyes remained fixed on the bag.'How did you come by this?'

Macro winced. 'It was with him when he died.'

Her eyes flickered up. 'You were there?'

Macro nodded.

'So what happened?'

When her son did not immediately reply a look of horror seeped across her features. 'What did you do to him? What did you do to him?'

She grasped his arms and tried to shake him. Macro looked at her woodenly. 'I offered him a choice. Either I'd kill him, or let him kill himself. He did the best thing. He took his own life.'

Portia looked straight at her son.'Swear you didn't do it! Swear it.'

'I promise you, Mother. I didn't kill him.'

'I hope so, for your sake.' She looked away, shrunken and despairing. 'You've no idea what you would have done.'

Macro frowned, not understanding what she meant. But Portia kept her silence for a little longer, as she stared at the floor. Macro cleared his throat.

'You know, you could come back to Rome with me. It's not far from there to Ostia… Father's still alive, as far as I know.'

Portia looked up at him, and suddenly burst out laughing. The sound was brittle and somehow frightening. For a moment she no longer seemed in control of herself.

'Mother? What's the matter?'

'Oh, it's priceless!' She laughed again.'Quite priceless… You really want me to go back to Ostia, to that stupid, worthless, violent drunk you call a father?'

Macro shrugged. 'It's just a suggestion. I just hoped…' He stared at her, a terrible chill of suspicion gripping him as he dimly grasped that there was something strange about what she had just said.

'What's wrong with my father?'

'What's wrong with him?' Portia's lips trembled. 'He's dead. That's what's wrong with him. Minucius was your father.'

'No…'

She nodded. 'He made me pregnant and ran away. So I had to marry that oaf you called a father. But years later Minucius came back for me. By then you were old enough to look after yourself. Besides, the situation was complicated enough already.' Portia continued wearily. 'I told him I'd miscarried the baby. He never knew about you.'

They stared at each other for a moment. Macro shook his head. It wasn't true. Couldn't be. But deep inside, he knew it was. There was no reason for her to lie to him, and a flood of memories and half-understood comments flooded into his mind. He looked up and met her gaze again. She nodded slowly and stood, gently closed her thin arms around his head and held him close. Macro was too dazed to react, and simply closed his eyes tightly and clenched his fists.

'Oh, my baby… my boy,' Portia said softly. 'What have you done to us?'

06 The Eagles Prophecy

'A fine job all round!' Narcissus smiled happily. 'Couldn't have asked for a better outcome. We've got the scrolls, the pirates have been defeated and the Liberators have gone away empty-handed. Shame that Rufius Pollo and that man Anobarbus have gone to ground. But I'm sure they'll be rooted out and dealt with before long… Oh! My apologies, do please take a seat. I'll send for some refreshments. I assume, after your rather wearisome journey from Ravenna, that you might like a little something to eat and drink, eh?'

Opposite the Imperial Secretary stood three dishevelled individuals. Spattered with mud and sporting several days' growth of beard, they eyed him blearily. Vespasian was the first to respond.

'Yes. That would be nice. Thanks.'

While Narcissus called for a servant and gave the orders, his guests slumped down into the seats arranged in front of the Imperial Secretary's desk. Cato, mindful of his rank, waited until Vespasian and Vitellius were seated before he joined them. As soon as Cato was in place Narcissus leaned across his desk with an excited expression.

'So then, to business. The scrolls – let's see them.'

Vespasian took the small knapsack from his side and undid the strap. Then he flipped the cover back and reached inside. He brought the scrolls out, one at a time, and placed them on top of the desk, then pushed them towards Narcissus. The Imperial Secretary gazed at them in unabashed awe. Then he glanced up at Cato. 'I assume you've worked out what these are?'

'Yes, sir.'

Vespasian stirred for a moment. 'I thought… Never mind.'

Narcissus had returned his gaze to the scrolls and had not noticed the prefect's brief look of surprise.

'The Sybilline prophecies,' Narcissus said quietly. 'I can hardly believe they exist, and yet here they are. It doesn't seem possible.'

'It nearly wasn't.' Vespasian scratched his chin. 'You have no idea how much blood has been shed to retrieve those scrolls.'

'Yes, I'm sure I'll read all about it in your reports.' Narcissus flashed a smile at him. 'You won't find me, or the Emperor, ungrateful for your efforts, I promise.'

'That's so reassuring.'

The comment was lost on Narcissus, whose eyes had been drawn back to the scrolls. It seemed to Cato that Narcissus hardly dared to touch them. It was quite understandable, the young centurion reflected. The scrolls had been penned by the Oracle at Cumae: the sum total of many years of reading the omens and interpreting the will of the Gods, in order to map out the future of the greatest of nations. A little humility in the presence of such revered documents was the least that could be expected.

And yet there was something else in Narcissus' expression, something that troubled Cato. It was like avarice, or ambition or both. It was clear that Narcissus recognised the power that the scrolls conferred. And there was also fear, clearly visible in the hand that stretched out, and stopped just before the tips of the fingers touched the aged leather of the scroll cases.

If there was any prophetic value in the scrolls then knowledge of events to come was a double-edged gift and Cato wondered if – had he been in Narcissus' position – his thirst to know would have won out over his fear of knowing too much; of knowing what fate had in store for the Empire. After all, what would it profit a man to be forewarned of some great calamity to befall the state, or some tragedy more immediate and personal, if he could do nothing to cheat such a destiny? Sometimes ignorance could be a blessing, thought Cato with a wry smile.

He glanced at Vespasian and Vitellius and wondered if they shared his trepidation about the contents of the scrolls. Vespasian perhaps. But it was hard to imagine that the ruthless desire for self-advancement that burned in Vitellius' heart would be able to resist the lure of the scrolls.

Vitellius sniffed. 'Go ahead,' he told the Imperial Secretary. 'They won't bite you.'

Narcissus looked at the tribune searchingly, then leaned forward and drew the scrolls back across the desk towards him.'I'll have a look at them later, when I can give them the time they deserve.'

'Oh, I'm sure they'll make for interesting reading,' Vitellius smiled. 'Assuming the prophecies don't share our soothsayers' predilection for ambiguity and wild speculation. If you need any help…'

'I'll manage, thank you, Vitellius.'

Glancing at Vitellius Cato could not help feeling that it was just as well that Vespasian had taken charge of the operation to retrieve the scrolls, and had taken them into his protection the moment the scrolls had fallen back into Roman hands.

The scrolls, in their knapsack, had not left Vespasian's side for the entire journey from Ravenna to Rome. Cato had watched him as closely as possible and not once had he seen Vespasian even tamper with the straps that fastened the knapsack. Of course, it was just conceivably possible that Vespasian might have risked a quick look, one night as they slept round an open fire, or shared a dormitory of an imperial staging post. But Cato doubted it. Vespasian seemed to suffer from the usual arriviste affliction of wanting to do the right thing. If his orders clearly stated that he was to deliver the scrolls to Narcissus without reading them, then it was hard to imagine that Vespasian had even opened his knapsack to give them a curious glance. Vitellius, on the other hand, could not have been trusted with them. Cato was not fooled by his flimsy explanation for his attempt to retrieve them by himself. As ever, the scheming aristocrat had confected the story to cover his tracks. If Telemachus had not caught him, then Cato was sure that Vitellius would have kept the scrolls for himself.