Cato 06 - The Eagles Prophecy by Simon Scarrow Page A

me there, afterwards.’ He rose, snatched up his helmet and hurried up the steps towards the exit.
    Behind him, Macro stretched out a hand. ‘Cato! Wait! Oh, sod you, then!’
    Cato scrambled down the steep steps into the arched gallery that ran around the Circus, under the banked seating. From there a wider flight of steps led down into the street, and his nailed boots echoed sharply off the columns and curved ceiling of the gallery. Above the dulled noise of the crowd he thought he could hear more footsteps, more nailed boots and a shout. He ran down the steps, three at a time, risking an injury in his bid to escape the Circus before Narcissus’ men could stop him. At the bottom of the stairs he emerged from the shadows of the building and saw that there were still plenty of people ambling along the wide thoroughfare that ran beside the Great Circus. Cato knew if he ran he was sure to stand out from the crowd. He drew a breath and then moved in amongst the passers-by, filtering diagonally away from the steps towards an opening in the line of shops opposite, where a small side street ran down towards the Forum. Behind him he heard the clattering of boots on the steps, but, with iron will, he forced himself not to turn and look, but to keep walking steadily towards the side street. As people crossed his path, or barged into him, Cato refused to meet their gaze and moved on, all the while waiting for a shout from behind that would mean his doom. At last he reached the street corner, and ducked down the narrow alley, pausing only briefly to glance back towards the Great Circus. Four guardsmen were standing a few steps above the street, scrutinising the crowd, but none of them was looking in his direction.
    Cato hurried down the alley, which was one of the older streets in the city, winding its way down the slope, becoming evermore narrow until the sky was only visible as a jagged line overhead, crowded by the eaves of the tightly packed tenement blocks rearing up on either side. Behind him the roars of the vast crowd in the Circus were gradually muffled. The atmosphere of the alley was thick with the rank odour of rotting food and sewage. He passed few people as he walked quickly along. A few surly-looking women watched him from open doorways and he had to squeeze past a small band of drunken youths, heading uphill towards the Great Circus. In the gloomy alley there were no landmarks for Cato to steer by, only where the slope led, and the broad sense of the direction in which he needed to move. Then, at last, he turned a corner, and the alley ran into a wider street, filled with people. To the left lay the Forum and, with a deep breath, Cato turned towards it and walked on at a steadier pace, trying not to look like the wretched fugitive he had become.
    He found the tavern easily enough, and took a seat inside, close to a wall so that he could keep watch on the crowds outside and lean back into the shadows if he needed to avoid anyone’s searching gaze. The young barman came over, drying his hands on a filthy rag. A flicker of recognition crossed his face and he grinned.
    ‘Didn’t go to the races then?’
    ‘We did,’ Cato replied quickly before he realised that his quitting the Circus so soon would look suspicious unless he could explain it.’But I remembered I was supposed to meet someone here. My friend will join me later.’
    ‘I see.’ The barman shrugged. ‘Well, that’s a shame. What’ll you drink?’
    ‘Drink?’
    ‘This is a tavern, friend, not a clients’ waiting room.’
    ‘A cup of wine. Heated wine.’
    ‘Just a cup?’
    ‘That’s all I want, for now.’
    ‘Right.’ The barman threw the rag over his shoulder and headed back to the large wine jars set into the counter. He returned and placed a steaming cup down at Cato’s table.
    ‘That’s one sestertian.’
    With a sick feeling Cato realised that Macro had charge of all their money, and he was back at the Circus. He glanced up at the