The Eagles Prophecy

'A legionary?'

'No, I'm a centurion, like your son.'

'Macro a centurion? The good-for-nothing's a centurion?'

'And a good one, ma'am.'

She pointed an elegant finger at him.'My name is Portia. I'd rather you didn't call me ma'am. I'm not your grand-mother and I won't be treated like one, young man.'

'Fair enough.' Cato nodded.'By the same token I'd prefer you to call me Cato, and not young man.'

She glared at him for a moment, before her stern features abruptly melted into an amused smile. 'Well said.'

Portia turned back to her son and ran her fingers through his hair, then paused. She leaned closer.'What on earth…? Is that a scar? Why, it's enormous. It's a wonder the boy's still alive.'

'Yes it is,' Cato replied quietly. 'I was there when it happened. A celt nearly took off the top of his head. He was in the legion's infirmary for months. We shared the same room.'

'You've been in battle? You don't look old enough.'

'I've been in battle. And I've survived, largely thanks to Macro.'

Portia smiled. 'You're very fond of him.'

Cato thought about it for a moment.'Yes. Yes, I am. He's the nearest thing I've had to family since my father died.'

Anobarbus coughed. 'Er…'

'What is it?' Portia resumed her brisk, businesslike mask. 'What do you want?'

'Latrine.'

'Down the corridor, last door on the left. Make sure you clean it after you. I know what you men are like.'

After the merchant had left them Cato wanted to pick up the conversation about Macro but the brief display of maternal feeling had dried up. Portia rose and picked up the bowl with its bloodstained water. She went over to a potted plant in the corner and threw the water on to its soil, and placed the empty vessel beside Macro's couch.

'Keep pressing that cloth to his wound. When he comes round, he'll probably want to throw up. Make sure he gets it in the bowl.'

'Where are you going?'

'To see if my intended has survived your friend's assault. Then I'm going to look over what he's left of my tavern. Is that all right with you?' Portia concluded tartly.

Cato nodded, and she disappeared in the direction of the atrium.

He glanced down and saw that the blood was flowing more slowly and pressed gently against the wound. Macro moaned and rolled on to his side.

'Ohhhh, shit… What the hell hit me? Feels like a bloody house collapsed on my head.'

'Shhh. Lie still.'

Macro's eyes flickered open and his forehead creased into a frown as he tried to identify his surroundings. 'Where am I?'

'Well, you may not like this, but it seems that you're at home.'

'What?' Macro turned round quickly. Too quickly. His eyes rolled up and with a convulsive heave he vomited, completely missing the bowl Cato had snatched up from the floor.

06 The Eagles Prophecy

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

'I made a bit of an arse of myself, didn't I?' Macro groaned.

He sat up on the bed and winced at the light coming in through the window of the officers' barracks. 'Cato! Push that shutter to. The light's killing me.' Cato half closed the shutter and lowered the catch so that it would not swing open in the morning breeze coming off the sea. He returned to the side of Macro's bed and leaned over to inspect the cut on the back of his friend's head. The blood had congealed into an ugly black and purple gum.

'You'll need some kind of dressing on that.'

'Why? I'm not going round looking like some bloody Parthian.' Macro groped a hand over his head and cried out as his rough fingers pressed on the injury.

Cato clicked his tongue. 'That's why. Now leave it alone while I get a bandage.'

Cato left his friend in his room and stepped out into the corridor that ran down the middle of the officers' quarters. The hospital block was on the other side of the parade ground, a fair distance away. Then he remembered Minucius' medicine box and stopped outside the centurion's room, listening at the door. But there was no sound from inside and Cato guessed that he must still be at Portia's house.

Cato sighed. There was going to be bad blood between Minucius and Macro over this business. Just one more complication to add to all the other details and dangers facing them in coming months. Cautiously opening the door, Cato looked in, but there was no one inside, and he entered and scanned the room for sign of the medicine box. The room was neatly kept and he saw the box quickly enough, tucked under the end of the bed. Cato grasped the handle, braced himself, and pulled it out. It was much heavier than he had anticipated and he tightened his grip and gritted his teeth as the box scraped across the floorboards.

Cato bent over the box, unfastened the catch and raised the lid. He ignored the jars of ointments and salves at the top, and sorted through the bandages, selecting a long roll of linen. He closed the lid and shoved the box back under the bed and returned to Macro.

'Hold still; this might hurt.'

'What's new?'

Taking as much care as he could, Cato slowly began to wind the bandage around Macro's skull, and once he had made several passes over the wound and was satisfied that it would be well protected, he tied the bandage to one side of Macro's head and tucked the ends out of sight. 'There. Now don't fiddle with it.'

'Yes, Mum,' Macro mocked him, then immediately wished he hadn't as memories of the previous evening flooded back. He tried to put them to one side and glanced up at Cato. 'How did I get back here?'

'We carried you.'

'We?' Macro asked suspiciously.

'Portia lent me a couple of her slaves.'

'Oh no…' Macro groaned. 'Did anyone see us return?'

'A few people,' Cato replied quickly. 'Probably won't talk.'

'You think so?' Macro asked coldly. 'Where's that bastard Minucius?'

'I imagine he's still with your mother.'

Macro winced at the word and he slumped back down on to his bed. 'What a bloody mess…'

Cato nodded as he crossed to the window and gazed out through the half-open shutter. The officers' barracks looked across the navy harbour to the fortified mole and beyond that the sea, twinkling brilliantly in the late morning sunshine. The sky was clear of clouds and seagulls wheeled overhead, filling the air with their shrill cries. Preparations for the campaign against the pirates were already under way. Several of the triremes had been moored alongside the wharf, and sailors were busy erecting some kind of gangway to the foredeck of each vessel. Cato turned his back on the view and leaned against the wall.

'What are you going to do about it?'

'Besides throttling that randy old bastard and my bitch of a mother? I don't know. I'm not sure what to do right now. I'm too… confused.'

'You know, I'd have thought you'd be a little pleased to see her again after all these years.'

'What do you know about it?' Macro growled. 'You never knew your mother.'

'No,' Cato said quietly, and an awkward silence filled the air.

'I'm sorry,' Macro said at last. 'I didn't mean to say that.'

'Forget it.'

'It's just that she left me without saying a word. Last I saw of her was in the harbour at Ostia. I had gone to fish off the harbour entrance, and was watching a warship pass by, and there she was on the deck, cuddling up to some bloody marine. I called out, but I guess she didn't hear me, or maybe just ignored me. At first I thought it had to be someone else, but she wasn't there when I got home. Sometimes, when my parents had been fighting, she went to her sister's for a day or two. But she hadn't turned up there either, and after a few more days I told my dad what I'd seen. He went mad, and beat me up and then went and got drunk. He came back crying, and beat me up again. That's how it was for years, until I'd had enough and left home to join the Eagles…So I've never forgiven her.'

'I'm sorry.' Cato felt helpless. There were no adequate words of comfort he could offer his friend. At the same time he was aware that there was another side to the story, which Portia had hinted at last night. But now wasn't the time to mention that to Macro.