Swords Around the Throne

by Ian Ross

The two slaves had bolted from the gateway. Castus and Brinno hurled themselves through, but Victor turned and raised his sword towards the pursuers.

  ‘You go,’ he shouted, his voice high and cracking, ‘I’ll hold them off here!’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Castus said, grabbing the young man by the shoulder. ‘We run...’

  He pulled Victor after him, through the grass and bushes and onto the track beside the river. He was still holding his sword; without breaking step, he slammed it back into his scabbard and held it as he ran. Noise of breath, of boots stamping the dry grit of the trackway. Castus could feel his lungs burning, and a stitch was twisting into his flank, but the three of them were still together, still ahead of the pursuit.

  Around the bend in the river, the aqueduct rose before them. Light flared beneath one of the great arches, throwing the shadows of men and horses over the stonework.

  ‘Heh! They’re ahead of us!’ Brinno cried. He turned as he ran, then halted on the track. Dust scuffed up pale in the moonlight. ‘Ahead and behind.’

  Victor was doubled over, braced on his knees and drinking air. From the direction of the villa came the shouts of the pursuers as they ran, answered now by the echoing yells of the men beneath the arch. Castus heard one voice raised above the rest: Flaccianus.

  ‘Throw down your weapons! You’re cut off! Surrender!’

  He could hear Victor sobbing as he retched. To his right, he could make out the thin grey scar of a path climbing the valley side between the trees.

  ‘There,’ he said, but Brinno had already seen it. Castus took Victor by the arm, pulling him upright and leading him after the Frank.

  The path rose steeply almost at once, and they were stumbling upwards, grabbing at branches and spurs of rock. When the leaves closed over them they were fighting their way through total darkness, reaching blindly for handholds. Dry thorny scrub snatched and grabbed at them. Their boots scuffed and kicked at the dry stony soil; Castus half fell, the ground grating out from under him, and he ripped skin from his palms as he dragged himself to his feet. Above him, Brinno toiled upwards without pause, grunting as he breathed. The path turned, doubled back, and the trees broke in places to spill moonlight over them as they looped around outcrops of pitted grey rock jutting from the valley sides. Somewhere below them the pursuers were climbing too, calling out to each other, crashing and scrambling in the dark.

  At another turn of the path Castus paused, sucking down great lungfuls of air. His head was reeling. ‘What happened to Sallustius?’ he said, gasping the words. ‘Was he wounded or dead?’

  ‘He fell...’ Victor said, coming up behind him. ‘I don’t know if he was hit. He said to run and... and I ran. I’m sorry...’ The shame was in his voice. Shame and fear.

  ‘No time for that now.’ Brinno had clambered up the next incline and was waving down to them; Castus could just make out his gesture against the sky.

  Up the last twist of the path, the trees fell away and they stood on an open summit with the aqueduct stretching across the valley before them, massive and pale, as if it were made of moonlight. Castus had not realised they had climbed so far. The slope rose again ahead of them, but it was thick forest now, holm oak and thorns, impassable. He could not see where the path had gone.

  ‘We need to cross there,’ Brinno said, pointing at the aqueduct. Along the crest of the uppermost tier of arches, above the water channel, there was a narrow walkway of flat stone slabs. Castus looked at it: a thin grey ribbon stretching across a vast gulf of air. He felt his heart clench in his chest.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  But Brinno was already pushing his way between the dry bushes towards the end of the aqueduct.

  ‘Come on – if we get across there we’re on the far ridge! We’ll be well ahead of them...’

  ‘No,’ Castus said again. ‘I’m not going across that.’ But Victor was coming up the path behind him; he needed to follow Brinno or move aside. Trying to swallow down the tightness in his throat, Castus moved off after Brinno, down into the hollow where the upper arches and water channel of the aqueduct met the hillside. His calf muscles were burning, but a wild dizzying fear was rising in him.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ he called. ‘I don’t like heights.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Brinno called back. ‘Look – it’s ten feet across on the top. We can run over it easily! Just don’t look down...’

  Now they were in the hollow, and Castus saw the huge masonry of the aqueduct rising out of the scrub and grass. The big rough stone blocks looked reassuringly solid – it was only when he glanced to his left and saw that stone walkway stretching out like a tightrope into the night that his blood froze.

  Brinno had already clambered up onto the top of the water channel. He reached down and heaved Castus after him, and Victor scrambled up behind them.

  ‘Now,’ Brinno said. ‘We run.’

  He set off at once, jogging easily along the walkway with his cloak pulled up around his left arm. Castus started after him; only a few paces, and the trees fell away to either side. He stepped out into the sky.

  There was a breeze coming across the high ridges and he felt it at once pushing at him. Fixing his gaze on Brinno’s receding figure, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping moving. He thought of Victor coming across behind him; he could not stop or slow down now. But the stone path along the crest of the aqueduct, which had looked so straight and level, seemed to have a subtle curve and chamfer: every few steps Castus found himself veering towards one side or the other, his breath getting tighter and tighter.

  He glanced desperately to his left, and saw the gulf yawning beneath him. The drop must be close to two hundred feet. He could just make out the thin vein of the river in the moonlight far below him. Then a bolt of stark terror went through him so fierce his legs almost buckled. Something whirled close to his head and he flinched: it was just a dry leaf carried on the breeze, but he ducked to let it blow past him and then found he could not straighten up.

  Forcing himself onward in a half-crouch, he moved out onto the central span of the aqueduct. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the pursuers as they boiled up out of the forest. The drop to either side of the stone walkway seemed all-consuming; Castus felt it sucking him over the brink. Again and again he had to close his eyes, then open them again as his senses whirled, convinced that he had slipped off the path and was falling through the empty black air. Again and again he found himself still perched on the veering ledge, precariously balanced above the emptiness.

  May the gods get me out of this, he prayed. Sol Invictus, light against evil, guide in darkness... Jupiter, lord of thunder and rain, Isis, Queen of Heaven, I vow sacrifice to you... carry me safely from this place...

  When he looked up he saw the walkway open before him: Brinno had already reached the far end and vanished into the dark trees. Glancing back, Castus saw Victor standing alone with his sword in his hand, facing back towards the valley slope and the pursuing men.

  ‘Victor!’ he managed to shout. ‘Don’t stop! Keep moving!’

  ‘No – you go!’ the young man called back. He looked firm and steady, his head high. ‘You go and I’ll hold them here – they won’t get past me!’

  ‘That’s madness – come on! Just move!’

  ‘No! I shouldn’t have left Sallustius behind – I shouldn’t have tried to save myself. I failed, brother. Now I have to pay my debt!’

  Already the first of the pursuers were climbing up onto the far end of the aqueduct, edging out along the stone walkway. Victor stood braced, in a fighting stance, waiting to meet them. Castus knew that there was nothing he could do to save him, short of grabbing him and pulling him away by force. There was only room for one man to fight effectively on the narrow ledge.

  This was Victor’s moment, Castus realised. All his training, all his elaborate sword drills, had led to this. The enemy were closing on him now, cautious, weapons ready.

  Castus force
d himself to turn away and push onwards towards the far slope. He heard Victor’s high scream of a battle cry. Then something else: the clink of metal against stone, and a familiar snipping whine in the air.

  Archers. They had archers.

  Even as the yell left his throat he saw the young man jolt and stagger, clutching at the arrow in his hip. As Castus watched, Victor’s leg gave beneath him. He flung his sword wildly upward, but his balance was gone. Breathless, Castus saw the young man topple sideways. Victor made no sound as he fell, his body seeming to fold and then spin like a leaf as it vanished into the depths of the valley.

  ‘Don’t shoot! Idiots! Don’t shoot – take them alive!’

  It was Flaccianus shouting. Castus had dropped to lie face down on the walkway. The stone still felt warm beneath him from the heat of the day’s sun. Raising his head, he could see the men beginning to edge out once more along the aqueduct, coming slowly but surely towards him.

  Had Brinno got clear by now? At least that would be a victory. If Brinno could carry word of what had happened to the north, to Constantine, their enemies would pay with their lives. Nigrinus would die. But Brinno needed time.

  Castus could taste blood in his mouth. As he raised himself to kneel, and then to stand, he felt a new strength in his limbs. The drop to either side no longer dragged at him, no longer sucked his courage or his nerve. He took two steps forward, braced his legs and drew his sword.

  ‘Come on then!’ he cried. ‘Come on, you goat-fuckers!’

  His opponents slowed as they approached, bunching together on the narrow walkway. Castus recognised the man in the lead: one of the agents who had accompanied them from Arelate, a man named Delphius. His face was a blanched mask of terror. Behind him were two others armed with spears.

  Castus waited until they were only a few strides away from him, then he launched himself forward. He closed the distance quickly, yelling, stamping ahead with his right foot in a lunging blow. Delphius gave a strangled cry, thrashing with his shortsword to try and parry. Castus feigned a high cut, then swung his blade in a wheeling arc and sliced up behind Delphius’s knee. He pulled the blade, and the man screamed as his hamstring parted. Throwing out his arms, Delphius tried to keep his balance, but his body buckled and he pitched sideways over the stone brink.

  The falling man let out a harrowing shriek, but Castus was already pressing his attack against the spearmen. The wind whined all around him.

  One blow, and he hacked through the first man’s spearhead, leaving him with a splintered stave. The second man darted in, and Castus knocked his weapon aside. The two attackers were crowding each other now, shrinking close to keep back from the edges of the walkway.

  Another feint to the left, flicking his sword at the face of the man with the broken spear, then Castus took a long step forward and stabbed out with his arm straight. The man gasped, trying to fend off the blow, lost his footing and fell back sprawling on the stone slabs. The second made another weak lunge with his spear, and Castus dodged it, seized the shaft of the weapon in his left hand and pulled.

  Stumbling, the second man tripped over the sprawling body of the first, letting go of his spear and grabbing wildly for a handhold to stop himself tumbling over the edge. Castus flipped the spear in his left hand and threw it – bad aim, but it made the man flinch and slip. He spilled off the side, fingers scrabbling, but managed to cling on before he fell.

  The first man had crawled to his hands and knees now: Castus booted him in the ribs, then drove his sword through the back of his neck. He heard the crunch of bone as the man died, then without looking down he knelt and heaved the body over the side. Striding forward, Castus flicked his blade at the man clinging to the far side of the ledge. The man’s desperate pleading cries cut off suddenly, and he was gone.

  Three down: how many more were there?

  From the edge of his vision Castus caught movement below him and glanced over the side of the precipice. There were narrow ledges running along the sides of the next tier down, outside the span of the arches, and Castus could see men edging their way carefully along, clinging to the stones. Trying to get behind him, he realised. For a moment he wondered whether he could somehow swing himself down onto the lower tier, but the drop was twelve feet or more and the ledge only wide enough for a single man to stand pressed against the wall. Besides, the brief glance downwards made his guts roil and his head spin. He straightened up again quickly.

  Shouts from behind him now. Castus looked back over his shoulder, and saw more men emerging from the dark scrub at the far end of the aqueduct. A stab of painful dismay: how long had they been there? Had they caught Brinno before he could get clear? They were moving out onto the stone walkway now, the man in the lead carrying a trident over his shoulder and swinging a weighted net, like a gladiator.

  But the enemy were closing in again from the other direction too, and the man in the lead was the giant bodyguard, Glaucus. He strode along the summit with a heavy wooden club in his fist, as if he were walking down a city street and not perched two hundred feet above a dark valley.

  Castus backed up, shuffling, keeping his eyes on the ex-wrestler. Blood was spattered over the stone ledge where the three men had died, but Glaucus paid no attention to it. He began swinging the club, wide swipes in the air. Castus waited, staying braced in his crouch with his sword levelled. He knew that the bodyguard could fight; no point trying to distract him with feinting attacks.

  The gap between them narrowed. Castus risked another glance backwards and saw the net-man closing in, slow and cautious, with others coming up behind him. He was right out in the middle of the aqueduct’s span now, directly above the river.

  ‘Lay down your weapon!’ The shout came from the air, or so it seemed, but it was Flaccianus again. ‘Lay down your weapon and surrender – you won’t be harmed!’

  ‘Balls!’ Castus shouted. He found himself laughing suddenly. ‘You want this sword, you can come and get it!’

  With only ten paces between them, Glaucus broke into a charge. An awesome sight; Castus stood his ground, clenching his teeth as the huge man bore down on him. At the last moment he realised that the bodyguard was going to crash into him and try to wrestle him to the ground. He threw himself forward, flinging out his left hand to stop himself from tumbling over the side; the big man’s club whirled over his head, and then Glaucus was right on top of him. Castus levered himself up, colliding with the other man’s chest. For a few heartbeats they struggled together on the brink, trying to shove each other backwards. Castus felt his boots grating and sliding on the smooth stone. His sword was still in his right hand, but the blade was too long to get inside Glaucus’s grip. The big man’s heaving breath was loud in his ear.

  Dropping to one knee, Castus hauled the bodyguard off balance. Glaucus stumbled, and for a moment Castus felt himself hanging over the void, clinging to the other man’s body. He lost his grip on his sword, and heard it clink off the stone before it spun away into the blackness. Then he was rolling himself forward in a low crouch, onto the slabs of the walkway as Glaucus’s momentum carried him tumbling into a face-down sprawl and a slide that almost flung him over the edge.

  Castus was first on his feet. He kicked at the fallen man, but Glaucus lay heavy and inert, hugging the stone slab beneath him. There was a whirling sound, and Castus flung out his arms as the ropes and weights of the net snaked around him from the darkness. Staggering, he tore at the ropes. But when he tried to move, the net dragged at his feet and he felt himself pitching over sideways.

  Helpless, his arms trapped, he saw the vast gulf rearing up at him. Below was only empty air and then the rocks and narrow seam of water. His feet slipped across the brink and he was falling, tumbling into nothing with the roar of the wind loud all around him.

  For three heartbeats, he believed he was a dead man.

  Then the ropes tightened suddenly around him, dragging and swinging him, and he was slammed hard against the rough stones of the aqueduct. Onl
y then did he let out a cry.

  Someone had caught the net from above. When he opened his eyes Castus saw that he was dangling, entangled, head down over the terrible drop.

  ‘Aurelius Castus,’ a voice said. He managed to twist his neck, and saw Flaccianus standing beneath one of the arches of the upper tier, leaning out with an expression of amusement. ‘Aurelius Castus, you are charged with treasonous conspiracy against the emperor!’

  ‘You’re the traitor,’ he managed to say, but the words came as a pained gasp. He felt the ropes creaking, straining. ‘I’m loyal to Constantine Augustus.’

  Flaccianus laughed. He was shaking his head.

  ‘Constantine is dead,’ he said. ‘He fell in battle against the Franks. Maximian Augustus is emperor now!’

  19

  Greasy stone, iron chains, and the echo of dripping water in the dark.

  The sound tormented him. His throat was parched and tight, and his head felt swollen. He could still taste the filthy sacking of the hood they had pulled over his head the night before. Was it only the night before? Castus had no way of telling; no light penetrated his cell. But he remembered a faint radiance from the airshafts in the vaulted chamber outside, when the jailer had last opened the cell door, and guessed that only half a day had passed since his capture.

  Rolling over on the rough straw of his bed, he pressed his face to the stones of the cell wall, trying to lick some of the moisture that sweated from them. But the stones were just oily, sour with moss and old filth. Castus coughed, then spat, then slumped down again on his side.

  His wrists were secured behind his back in iron shackles. His arms and shoulders ached, but his hands had grown numb, and when he flexed his upper body arrows of pain shot through his chest. But it was the thirst that bothered him most. Thirst, the growing pressure in his bladder, and that constant maddening drip of water from somewhere beyond the cell door.

  They had taken him in a cart from the aqueduct. The hood had been over his head by then, and he had seen nothing of the journey, but from the distance and the noises that had penetrated the sacking and the haze of his pain he guessed that they had brought him back to Arelate.