Cato 06 - The Eagles Prophecy by Simon Scarrow Read Free Book Online

Amongst them prowled the bet-takers, accompanied by a heavy or two to make sure that the money was kept safe. Macro swallowed nervously, stood up, and made for the nearest; a swarthy-looking Hispanic, clutching a bundle of waxed slates tied together. Behind him lurked two huge men, powerfully built and horribly scarred, as most ex-gladiators tended to be. Each man carried a money box on a strap across his shoulders, and had a thick wooden stave to hand.
    ‘Let me guess,’ smiled the bet-taker as he sized Macro up and calculated his worth. ‘You’ll have a gold piece on Porcius, to win.’
    ‘Er, no.’ Macro felt embarrassment burning in his cheeks. He glanced round and continued in a low voice, ‘Five denarians on Nepos, to win.’
    ‘Five denarians?’ The bet-taker looked disappointed. He quickly reappraised the centurion, and continued sarcastically, ‘Sure you can afford it?’
    Macro stiffened. ‘Yes, of course I can. Five on Nepos, like I said.’
    ‘Nepos? You know the odds are ten to one?’
    ‘That’s what I’m counting on.’
    ‘Well, it’s your money. If you’re sure . . .?’
    Macro frowned. ‘Do you want to take the bet, or not?’
    ‘I’m happy to take your money. Just a moment, please . . . sir.’ The bet-taker opened his tablets and prepared to make a new entry with his stylus. He began to press some tiny notation into the wax, muttering as he wrote. ‘Five den. on Nepos to win . . . Your name?’
    ‘Centurion Macro.’
    ‘Macro. Fine, now if I can just have your payment.’ Macro handed him the silver coins from his purse and the bet-taker dropped them into one of the boxes carried by his heavies. The coins fell through the slot with a dull chink on to the money already taken in. The bet-taker nodded to the man carrying the chest. ‘That’s tally one hundred and forty-three.’
    The ex-gladiator raised a large metal hoop from his side and fumbled amongst the small wooden pegs until he reached the right number and then worked it free and handed it over to Macro. The bet-taker smiled at him. ‘Pleasure doing business with you, though I doubt we’ll meet again. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’
    Macro tucked the wooden tally into his purse and hurried back to Cato.
    ‘How much did you place on Nepos?’
    ‘Enough,’ Macro replied easily, then pointed across the heads of the spectators towards the imperial box. ‘Look, there’s Claudius’ flunkies. He must be on his way.’
    ‘How much?’ Cato persisted.
    ‘Oh, five denarians, or something.’
    ‘Five den-Macro, that’s pretty much all we have.’
    ‘Actually, it is all we have.’ Macro shrugged an apology. ‘It’s a risk, but I got odds of ten to one.’
    ‘Really?’ Cato responded sourly. ‘And why do you think that’s good news? He’s got nine chances in ten of losing.’
    ‘Look here,’ Macro lowered his voice, ‘our man said it was a sure thing. We stand to win fifty silver pieces when it’s over.’
    ‘I can do the maths, thank you. Fifty pieces, if Nepos wins.’
    ‘He will, trust me. I have a feeling for these things.’
    Cato shook his head and glanced away, letting his gaze turn to the imperial box. The household slaves were busy setting up a table of snacks and wines to the side of the Emperor’s seat. Even at a distance of fifty paces, Cato could make out a platter of ornately arranged fowl glazed in what looked like honey. His mouth began to water at the sight and he felt his stomach churn with hunger.
    The imperial household began to emerge from their private entrance to take their seats. A handful of favoured senators eased themselves down on to plump cushions set on the stools each side of the imperial dais. They were followed by some of the Emperor’s freedmen and scribes, who stood at the back of the box. At last the white tufts of hair and the gilded wreath on top of Claudius’ head came into view and a great roar of greeting swelled up from the crowd and echoed around the Great Circus.