The Eagles Prophecy

'Centurions Macro and Cato?'

Cato nodded.

'Narcissus wants to see you.'

06 The Eagles Prophecy

CHAPTER SIX

'Bollocks!' Macro shouted, and shot out an arm to where his sword lay against the wall. The Praetorian reacted at once and stamped his boot down on Macro's wrist. Macro gasped as the iron studs stabbed into his flesh, but before he could say another word he felt the point of a sword at his throat.

'I really wouldn't do that, sir,' the Praetorian said reasonably. 'You're outnumbered, you're on the ground and you'd be dead before you could even draw your sword. So don't give us any trouble.' He let the words sink in, and when Macro nodded, he slowly raised his boot, but kept the point of his sword poised over Macro's throat. Keeping his eyes fixed on the centurion he gave an order.'Frontinus, get their weapons.'

One of his men sheathed his blade and took charge of the swords and daggers of the two officers. Only when the man had retreated out of the room did the leader of the squad withdraw the point of his weapon and step away from Macro.

'Get dressed. And get your kit together.'

Cato frowned. 'Our kit?'

'Yes, sir. I'm afraid you won't be coming back here again.'

Cato felt his blood chill. He was numb. So this was what it was like to be led to your execution. A cordial visit from the Imperial Secretary's henchmen and two more names were erased from history. He almost laughed out loud at the pretentiousness of the thought. He and Macro were not even worthy of a footnote. Two minor characters with walk-on parts in some provincial drama was nearer the mark. They were doomed to be forgotten, even within the living memory of the very men who took them to their deaths. That was how it was, and Cato felt the bitter anger of one whose life was fated to end meaninglessly almost before it had even begun. He looked up at the leader of the squad.

'Where are you taking us?'

'Told you, sir. Narcissus wants to see you.'

Cato smiled. No doubt the Imperial Secretary wanted a chance to bid them farewell so that they would be in no doubt who had crafted their doom. That was typical of Narcissus. No matter how small the triumph, he needed to witness it in person. Under more detached circumstances Cato would have been curious to reflect on the flaws of such an insecure personality, but with death seemingly imminent he had nothing but hatred and despair in his heart.

'Now then, on your feet, please, sir. I've got a busy morning; quite a few other appointments to fit in. So, if you wouldn't mind…?'

Cato rose up from his mattress warily, his mind racing with thoughts of fight and escape. He wondered if the Praetorians would finish him and Macro off there and then. But then, he supposed, they would have to carry the bodies away for disposal. They wouldn't like that. Much easier to make their victims take themselves away before being disposed of. Being careful not to turn his back on the Praetorians, Cato put on his boots and laced them up, before packing his clothes and equipment into his blanket. On the other side of the room Macro did the same. There was not much to leave behind: a few scraps of food, and odd items of clothing that had been awaiting repair. It puzzled Cato that the Praetorians were prepared to let them pack their possessions, until it struck him that the worldly goods of the two centurions might fetch a reasonable price back at the guards' barracks.

Cato folded his blanket over his belongings, tied the ends together, and looped the knot over the end of the marching yoke. When Macro had finished, he joined Cato a short distance away from the waiting Praetorians.

He looked down at his boot, as if checking his laces, and whispered, 'Think we should try and make a break for it?'

'No.'

The Praetorian smiled, anticipating the remark even though he had not heard it. 'Please, don't either of you do anything foolish. Me and the lads have had plenty of experience escorting people.'

'Prisoners, you mean,' Macro growled.

The Praetorian shrugged. 'People, prisoners, it's all the same to us, sir. We just collect and deliver. There's others who handle the messy stuff. I'm just warning you not to try and escape. It'd be an unpleasant business for both of us, if you get my meaning.'

Macro glared at him.'I'd get it a lot quicker if you didn't dress it up so much. In the legions we call a spade a spade. We have to deal with the real messy stuff.'

'But we're not in the legions, are we, sir? In Rome things are done with more style.'

'Death's death, lad. There ain't no hiding that.'

'You'd be surprised what we keep hidden.' The Praetorian smiled coldly, then stood aside and gestured towards the door. 'Now, sirs, if you wouldn't mind…?'

With two guards in front and two behind, their swords drawn, the centurions made their way down the narrow staircase and emerged into the stairwell at the bottom of the tenement block. The guardsmen had been seen entering the building and a small crowd of curious onlookers had gathered outside. As the prisoners and escort clattered on to the paved street,Velina emerged from the bakery. Her eyes widened in surprise as she saw Cato and Macro carrying their packs. She stepped out in front of the leading Praetorians.

'Cato! What's happening?'

'Out of the way, lady!' snapped one of the guards.

Velina looked round his shoulder. 'Cato?'

She tried to push past but the guard grabbed her arm and thrust her back against the wall of the tenement and then the Praetorians marched off with their prisoners.

They entered the palace through one of the servants' entrances that opened on to a narrow side street away from well-used thoroughfares. Cato recalled using the narrow gateway a few times as a child, when he had lived in the servants' quarters of the palace. There were few people around to see them taken inside, and Cato realised how easy this made it for people simply to disappear in the city. Once past the guards stationed at the entrance, the Praetorians took them along a corridor until they reached a stairwell, and then they climbed up through the heart of the imperial palace.

Cato turned to the leader. 'You're not taking us to the cells, then?'

The man raised his eyebrows. 'Evidently.' Then he relented and relaxed his stern expression for a moment. 'Look, sir, we were told to take you to Narcissus. That's all the orders we have, as far as you two are concerned.'

'You weren't sent to take us to be executed, then?'

'No, sir. Just to take you to Narcissus. That's all. If he decides you're for the chop, well then, that's different, and we might have to take you to the lads who get that job done.'

'Oh…' Cato looked at the man more closely, wondering how he could be so sanguine about his duties. Maybe the Praetorian had simply become used to it. Cato remembered that under Emperor Caligula the Praetorian Guards had been kept busy arresting and executing people throughout the three years of his reign.

After four flights of stairs they emerged on to a wide corridor with an ornate mosaic pattern flowing across the floor. Large windows, high up, admitted broad shafts of light. Cato had never seen the corridor before and as he felt a warm current of air rise up his legs he realised that the floor must be heated.

Macro pursed his lips.'Our man Narcissus knows how to live well.'

The escorted party marched down the corridor towards an imposing door, almost twice the height of a man. The door was flanked by a pair of Praetorian Guardsmen, and in a niche to the left a clerk sat at a large walnut desk. He was neatly turned out in a soft wool tunic and looked up at the sound of echoing footsteps. The leader of the squad nodded to him.

'Centurions Macro and Cato, as requested by the Imperial Secretary.'

'He's in a meeting with the Emperor. You'll have to wait. Over there.' He pointed across the corridor with his stylus, to where padded benches lined another niche. The party crossed over and the two centurions gratefully lowered their packs, and took a seat. Two guardsmen stood either side of them. In the austere surroundings of the Imperial Secretary's suite of offices, Macro felt self-conscious about his unshaven and battered face. Glancing over at Cato, he saw his friend staring dejectedly at the mosaic floor, wholly absorbed in his misery.