'Cheer up, lad. The wine's ordered.'

Cato turned his head to stare at Macro. 'I have no legionary posting, almost no money left and now, it seems, I'm to be executed in the near future. You really think a cup of cheap wine is going to help me?'

Macro shrugged. 'Well, it ain't going to hurt you. In fact, it has a funny way of making things seem better.'

'You'd know,' Cato muttered. 'Had enough of it over the last three months to lay out an army.'

The barman came back, clunked a pair of Samian-ware cups on the rough wooden table between the two centurions, and filled the cups from a jug before setting that down with a cheap flourish.

'Heard the news?'

Macro and Cato turned towards him with annoyed expressions that clearly invited him to shut his mouth and beat a hasty retreat to behind the counter. The barman was not prepared to give up working for his tip that easily, and leaned against a stout wooden post that held up the three floors above the tavern.

'Porcius is back in town.'

'Porcius?' Macro raised an eyebrow.'Who the bloody hell is Porcius and why should I be remotely interested in him?'

The barman shook his head in wonder at the ignorance of the two army officers. 'Why, he's only the best charioteer ever to have driven for the blues! He's top of the bill this afternoon. Runs his horses like he was born with reins in his hands. Tell you what,' he leaned closer,'you got anything to spare for a bet, and I could get you good odds.'

'Leave 'em be,' a voice growled from the next table, and Macro saw the face of the guardsman from the palace as he turned towards the two centurions.'Porcius is a jumped-up little tosser. Only thinks he's good. If the man had any talent at all he'd be racing for the greens. Sir, save your money. Place it on Nepos. He's racing for the greens.'

'Nepos!' The barman spat on the ground. He looked at the guardsman with contempt and the usual unthinking hostility that ardent supporters of racing teams reserved for each other. Then he strode back to the bar, muttering one last parting shot to the two centurions. 'Might as well piss your money down the Great Sewer as bet on that twat Nepos.'

'I heard that!' shouted the guardsman.

'Racing,' Cato said quietly. 'If anything destroys the Empire, it'll be racing.'

Macro wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on the guardsman. He turned towards him and tapped the man on the shoulder.

'Hello, friend,' Macro smiled. 'These races – any good tips you might be willing to share with a comrade in arms?'

'Tips?' The man glanced round at the other customers, but no one seemed to be listening. 'Yes, I've got one tip for you. Don't bet on that bastard Porcius.' He tapped his nose. 'I know what's what, and I'm telling you, sir, Nepos is your man. Bung a few denarians on him and you'll be laughing. Now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I have to go.' He grated his stool back on the flagstone, rose rather unsteadily to his feet, steered a course out of the tavern and was immediately lost from sight in the flow of people in the Forum.

'Doubt he'll get back to the palace in one go,' Cato muttered. 'All the same, I wish I had his problems.'

Macro turned back to his friend, desperately searching for some crumb of comfort he could offer Cato, but he had never been good at that sort of thing.

'It's rough luck, lad.'

'Rough luck?' Cato laughed bitterly. 'Oh, it's better than that. I mean, after all that we've been through, after all we've done for General Plautius, you can be certain that patrician bastard'll make sure I get the chop. There's something you can safely bet on. Just to make sure that his shining reputation as a harsh disciplinarian doesn't get a mark on it. And the Imperial Secretary will back him up.'

'He might recommend a pardon,' Macro suggested.

Cato stared at him. 'He might not. Anyway, aren't you forgetting something?'

'Am I?'

'You're also under threat. What if the general decides he wants to put you in the frame over the death of Centurion Maximius?'

'I don't think he will. There's no evidence linking me to his murder, just a few rumours put around by a handful of idiots who won't accept that he was killed by the enemy. I'm not worried about that, not really. It's you I'm worried about.' He looked away in embarrassment and his eyes fell on his purse, tied securely to his belt. 'But most of all I'm worried about the fact that we're broke, and we're going to be very hungry in a few days' time unless some back pay comes through. If it doesn't, then we'll be on the bloody streets once the next month's rent is due. All in all, it's not looking too healthy, Cato my lad.'

'No.'

'So we'd better do something about it.'

'Like what?'

Macro smiled, and leaned closer across the table. 'Like taking advantage of that tip, and getting ourselves down to the Great Circus.'

'Are you mad? We're down to our last few coins and you want to throw them away on the races?'

'Throwing 'em away is what mugs do. What we've got is a sure thing.'

'No. What you've got is incurable optimism. Me? I'm a realist. If we place that money on a race we might as well just give it away.'

Macro slapped his hand down on the table, making the cups jump. 'Oh, come on, Cato! What little we've got is as good as gone anyway. If the tip's any use we should get reasonable odds, and, who knows, if the bet comes good we'll be able to keep the lupine pest from the door for a while yet. What have we got to lose?'

'Apart from our senses?'

Macro glared at him. 'Just for once, trust to fate and see what happens.'

Cato thought it over for a moment. Macro was right, he had pretty much lost everything else in his life, and even the latter was almost certainly forfeit. So why worry about a few coins? The general's response would arrive from Britain before the landlord's heavies could pin him to the wall for any arrears. He might as well live a little, while he could.

'All right then, let's go.'

By the time they had pushed their way inside the huge arch of one of the public entrances to the Great Circus there were only a few places left in the section reserved for the army. Most of the stone benches had been taken by Praetorian Guardsmen who were busy drinking from wineskins and making bets. Here and there were small clusters of legionaries – men on leave or, like Cato and Macro, waiting for a new posting. Quite a few were ex-soldiers, pensioned off or invalided out of the legions and taking advantage of their veterans' rights.

Emperor Claudius, in a shrewd move, had changed the seating plan so that the guardsmen were arranged either side of, and behind the grand imperial box. The senators had been shifted further off, much to their chagrin, and spilled out over their benches where they were waited on by their slaves, who served them heated wine in small goblets. Glancing beyond them, Cato saw the enclosure for the vestal virgins, the less spacious seating reserved for lesser nobles, and then the packed ranks of the common citizens, and above them, on the rearmost benches, the freedmen, foreigners and unattached women, many of whom were obviously plying their trade. Macro followed the direction of his gaze.

'Forget them. You can't afford it. Not unless Nepos does his stuff.'

Cato swung his gaze back towards the huge expanse of the track stretching out in front of them. Several race officials were crossing to the central island, while around them scores of slaves raked the sand into a smooth, even surface in final preparation for the first race. The assistants to the priests wheeled a cage of unblemished white goats towards the sacrificial altar in the middle of the island, directly opposite the imperial box.

All around the arena the usual hawkers sold snacks, cushions and brightly coloured scarves for each team's supporters. 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.