Cato 06 - The Eagles Prophecy by Simon Scarrow

Author:Simon Scarrow
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-09-29T11:40:36+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Cato’s good humour stayed with him as he quitted the naval base by a small side entrance after night had fallen. It was cold and a light wind brought a fine drizzle with it as it gusted through the streets. Cato pulled the hood of the cloak over his head and hunched his shoulders beneath the wool folds. Barely a hundred angry and drunk townspeople were left of the mob outside the main gate, but there was no sense in risking his life by trying to pass through them into the backstreets of Ravenna. Cato had stripped off his uniform and donned a simple tunic and boat cloak with cheap sandals; the typical garb worn by the sailors who thronged the streets of the port. He skirted round the harbour front and made his way into the winding network of thoroughfares and narrow passages in the most run-down quarter of the port.

The street on which the Dancing Dolphin stood was far quieter than the last time Cato had been there. The marines and the navy had been the main source of custom for the myriad bars and brothels of the area. Unoccupied prostitutes sat in their curtained alcoves with sullen expressions, which brightened into laboured seductive looks as they caught sight of Cato approaching down the side of the street. He refused to meet their eyes, or respond to their explicit sexual entreaties, as he strode past, head down.

There was only a handful of customers in the Dancing Dolphin when Cato entered. He kept his hood up for a moment as he glanced round. The only face he recognised was that of the barman leaning on the counter as he waited to serve a customer. He looked at Cato hopefully, and the centurion worked his way through the haphazard arrangement of tables and benches towards the counter. The barman gave him a thin, unconvincing smile of welcome.

‘Evening. What can I get you?’

‘Mulsum.’

‘Right.’ The barman dipped a ladle into a steaming jar and filled a bronze cup, sliding it across the bar to Cato. ‘That’s three asses.’

Cato plucked the small coins out of his purse and slapped them down on the counter. Despite the price, the drink was only just palatable and Cato could feel the sediment in his mouth as he gulped down the first warm mouthful.

The barman returned the ladle to the jar.’Anything else?’

‘Yes.’ Cato took another sip. ‘Portia. I need to speak to her. Let her know I’m here.’

‘And you are?’

‘Centurion Cato. She knows me.’

The barman stood back from the counter and weighed Cato up. He clearly decided that the customer was of little account, and shook his head. ‘You can’t see her. She’s not here.’

‘All right, sunshine. Where is she, then?’

The look of dull preoccupation that crossed the barman’s face as he tried to make up an excuse was eloquent enough for Cato.

‘Uh, she’s, uh, gone to the wine wholesaler.’

‘I see. And he only opens at night, I suppose?’

‘Er, yes . . . no. He’s doing it as a special favour.

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