Cato 06 - The Eagles Prophecy by Simon Scarrow Page B

barman. ‘Keep a tab. I’ll pay when my friend arrives.’
    The barman shook his head.’No tabs. House policy. You pay now.’
    Cato cleared his throat and stared hard at the young barman. He lowered his voice to a rough growl. ‘I said I’ll pay later. Now leave me.’
    The barman opened his mouth to protest. Cato leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms and nodded back towards the rear of the tavern. The barman eyed him coldly, then moved away and settled behind the bar to rinse some cups, and keep an eye on his difficult customer.
    Cato turned his gaze back on to the crowd in the Forum and waited. Hopefully Macro would come to him once the first race was over, if Nepos had won. Then he’d collect his winnings and head for the Forum. An hour passed and the cup in front of Cato had been empty for a long while. He did not dare order another in case Macro did not turn up, and began to worry about how he would talk his way out of the tavern.
    Then, a short distance away, the crowd parted as a patrician woman shrank back with a small cry of disgust. A figure in a centurion’s armour shambled past her. His face was battered and bloody and for a moment Cato did not recognise Macro. Then, as his friend turned towards the tavern, Cato jumped up.
    ‘Macro! Macro, what the hell’s happened to you?’

CHAPTER FIVE
    ‘Out of my way!’ Macro shouted. He brushed Cato to one side and threw himself at the barman, swinging a punch to the young man’s head. The barman had been working the Forum taverns for long enough to know how to react to such attacks. He ducked beneath the blow and stepped to one side, giving the centurion a firm thrust in the back as he swept past. With a splintering crash Macro sent a table and stools flying before he struck the unyielding bar counter with sufficient force to drive the wind from his lungs. He lay there for a moment, shaking his head, and the barman scurried back round the bar to snatch up a heavy club. The other drinkers in the tavern scrambled up from their seats and pushed towards the street, from where they turned back to watch the spectacle.
    ‘Call the watch!’ one of the customers shouted. The call was taken up by some other voices in the crowd that was rapidly gathering outside the tavern.
    The last thing Cato wanted was any attention from the men of the urban cohort that policed the streets. He picked his way round the bar and grabbed Macro’s shoulder.
    ‘Someone’s gone for the watch. Macro, we have to get out of here.’
    Macro glared at Cato. ‘Once I’ve finished with him.’
    ‘Not now.’ Cato glanced round and saw that the barman was staring at them wildly as he raised his club. ‘What do I owe you for the drink?’
    ‘Drink?’ The barman frowned.’Just fuck off. Get him out of here.’
    ‘Right.’ Cato cautiously approached Macro and helped him up, keeping a firm grip on his arm.’Come on. We have to go.’
    Macro caught the note of urgency in Cato’s voice and nodded. Then the two centurions picked their way through the splintered wreckage of the table and stools and out into the street. The crowd instinctively pulled back and gave them some space. Not far off, over the heads of the onlookers, four red horse-hair crests edged towards the tavern.
    ‘This way.’ Cato shoved Macro along the line of stalls on the edge of the Forum and they threaded their way into the bustling crowd of shoppers and sightseers. When Cato felt they had gone far enough he pulled Macro into a narrow alley behind the Forum and the two of them leaned up against the grimy plaster walls of an ancient shrine and caught their breath.
    ‘What the hell was that all about?’ Cato snapped.
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘That fight at the tavern. What the hell do you think you were doing?’
    ‘That bastard was one of Porcius’ supporters.’
    ‘I know. So what?’
    ‘Porcius won.’
    ‘Is that any reason . . .? Oh, shit.’ Cato’s head drooped. ‘The bet. You lost all our money.’
    ‘What