by Ian Ross
But then he remembered what Fausta had said about Sabina. Despite his anger at the time, the possibility was dizzying. Could that really happen? He had always regarded Sabina as far above him, both socially and in terms of wealth and expectation. Would she ever consent to be his wife? The idea seemed fantastical, absurd. But so much was absurd now. He shook his head. Pointless to even think about it.
Chewing on the last chunk of the tough sausage, he refocused his eyes on the prison window. He could almost trick himself into thinking that shapes were gathered there in the gloom at the base of the wall. But when he blinked there was nothing. He had been a fool, he told himself. Nobody would come. He was wasting the little precious time that remained.
He had almost slipped into a dispirited doze when a figure stepped past him from the forum colonnade, so close that Castus could smell the vague aroma of grilled fish and damp wool. Jolting back into the corner, out of sight, he watched as a second figure followed, and then a third. All of them were dressed in dark cloaks, pulled up to cover their heads, and one carried a basket. Silently they crossed the narrow street and moved along the curia wall, before sinking to a huddle before the cell window.
For a long time Castus watched them as they crouched, apparently immobile. He tried to stay calm and breathe slowly but his mind was rioting. As he listened, he could make out the sound of a whispered conversation, or perhaps some kind of chant. He concentrated on staying still, not making any noise or motion that would draw their attention. The muscles of his calves ached, and his fists were tightly clenched. At last, when he could hardly bear to wait any longer, the little knot of figures broke apart. The three shapes straightened, and once more ghosted back the way they had come. Castus held his breath as they passed, waited a few heartbeats, then eased himself upright and followed.
It was not difficult to keep to the shadows; the city was closed up after nightfall now, only the military patrols and a few scared citizens out on the streets. Here and there lamps burned in wall niches, casting the brick corners of houses, the carved stone of fountains and pediments, the masonry pillars of doorways into stark relief. It was more difficult to stay silent; the three cloaked figures moved with no sound at all, and Castus was very conscious of the noise of his boots on the cobbles.
Tracing around the margins of the agora, the three figures passed into the grid of narrow streets to the north. They were moving fast, not pausing to speak, and Castus guessed this was a journey they had made several times. Around a corner, down another alley crossed by heavy brick arches: he lost them for a moment but caught the flicker of movement from a gateway in the wall of a looming apartment block. Again he followed, feeling his way in total blackness through a covered passage that stank of drains and old cooking oil, before emerging into an enclosed courtyard.
Lamplight shone faintly from windows high in the surrounding buildings, and the open space between them was criss-crossed with washing lines. Castus stood blinking, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Shapes emerged from the dark: a well with a pump; a colonnade of low brick arches. The sound of somebody weeping came from one of apartments overhead; the barking of a dog and a baby’s distant wail carried on the night air. Drawing his cloak tighter around him, Castus peered into the shadows around the margins of the courtyard, alert for any sign of movement. He had lost them, he thought; somehow they had melted into the warren of the city. Then he saw the shape of a cloaked figure pass briefly across a patch of lighted wall, and immediately he was moving again.
A stairway led from the courtyard to the upper storey. Stumbling, reaching out to grab at the wall, Castus took the steps two at a time. He heard the sound of a door closing, the click of the latch. At the top of the steps was a corridor, with a lamp burning in a wall bracket. Marching to the end of the corridor, Castus came to a halt before a heavy wooden door studded with iron nails. He gripped the hilt of his sword and took a deep breath. Then he banged on the wood.
For a while there was no reply. Just as Castus was raising his fist to bang on the door again, he heard the rattle of a chain and the crack of a bolt being drawn back. The door opened a crack. Staring over the chain was an old man with one staring eye and one puckered socket. The single eye narrowed into a squint.
‘The hour is late, soldier,’ the old man said. Warm lamplight came from the chamber behind him.
‘Who is it, Polyphemus?’ a woman’s voice called.
Castus threw back his cloak and drew himself up to his full height.
‘My name is Aurelius Castus,’ he said, loud enough for anyone in the next room to hear him. ‘I am a Protector of the Sacred Bodyguard, and I need to talk to you about your priest.’
The single eye blinked, then widened. The door swung closed, and through the heavy studded wood Castus heard voices in rapid debate. Then the chain rattled again, and the door creaked wide open.
‘Welcome,’ the doorman said.
24
He had made a mistake. So he thought as the one-eyed slave led him through the dim passage and into the lighted chambers beyond. Castus had been expecting a cramped apartment, a huddle of desperate-looking conspirators. Instead, he found himself in a suite of high-ceilinged rooms, opening onto a wide portico and a garden courtyard. He had entered through the back door, the slaves’ entrance, he realised; this was no humble dwelling, but the residence of a wealthy citizen.
There were about a dozen people gathered in the main chamber, sitting or reclining on dining couches, and Castus stood before them in his parade-ground posture and recited the short speech he had been rehearsing in his mind. As he spoke, stumbling over the words, he scanned the faces of his listeners. One was a heavy-jowled middle-aged woman in a flowing embroidered tunic, another a tall and vigorous-looking man with a balding head and a sombre expression; then there was an older man with a fleecy white beard. These three were richly dressed, the others around them less so, but all appeared to be equals here. When Castus had finished speaking they gazed at him for a moment in silence, then turned to look at each other. This is a mistake, he thought again. I’ve come to the wrong place. These are the wrong people.
‘You want us to aid you in surrendering our city to a besieging force?’ the white-bearded man said at last. ‘To take up arms – with our followers, as you put it – against the soldiers of Maximian and help you seize the city gate and hold it until Constantine’s troops can enter?’
‘That’s right,’ Castus said. The burning oil lamps made the room hot. He was perspiring freely. The older man was frowning into his beard, shaking his head.
‘Let us think clearly, Arcadius,’ the tall, sombre-faced man said. ‘This is... an unusual situation after all...’
‘We have known worse,’ the heavy-jowled lady broke in. ‘The struggles of the rulers of the earth are not our struggles.’
‘Sister, we must listen to what the soldier says,’ the tall man insisted. ‘If we do not act, Maximian will win this fight. Our dear Bishop Oresius will be executed, and quite possibly the persecution will begin once more. If there is anything that we can do to avoid that...’
‘But not by force of arms!’ the elder man, Arcadius, broke in. ‘That is not our way! Bloodshed is forbidden to us – scripture clearly states this. Did not Our Lord take the sword from Peter in the garden? We fight against the beast through our prayers, not with our hands...’
For a moment it seemed as if everyone was about to speak at once. Castus felt his heart shrinking in his chest. How could he ever have imagined that this plan would work? Now a fourth man was on his feet – Castus noticed the dark cloak piled beside him on the couch.
‘Brothers and sisters!’ the new speaker cried. ‘When I spoke with our bishop less than an hour ago, he said that he had received a message from the Lord. He said that God would send us a sign... And now this soldier appears. I ask you, is that not a sign?’
‘A sign from somewhere, Fortunatus,’ Arcadius mumbled into his beard. ‘Perhaps not from heaven...’
Sudde
n uproar, everyone’s voice raised. Castus ground his teeth, rocking on his heels. From the corner of his eye he could see through the doors of connecting rooms: figures were moving, other people talking and departing. How many were in this house? For the first time he realised the full danger of his position. It would only take one person to send a message out, and his treason would be reported. At any moment he could hear the hammering on the doors, the tramp of the soldiers forcing their way into the house. But the assembled people seemed oblivious, lost in their debate.
‘Nation must not take up arms against nation!’ the white-bearded man was crying, ‘Nor will they train for war!’
‘But think of Gideon, of David – mighty warriors! Were they not loved by God?’
‘As the blessed Cyprianus says, the hand that has held the sword shall not receive communion...!’
‘...But Jesus told his disciples to sell their cloaks and buy swords! Surely it is right to wage war if the ultimate cause is just, brother? Through persecution we have been made strong – why would the Lord give us that strength if we are not to use it?’
‘The Lord gave our rulers the sword to execute his wrath against the wrongdoer!’
‘...But scripture tells us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us, so that we may be children of Our Father in heaven...’
‘QUIET!’
Castus’s drill-field bellow instantly silenced the room, echoing through the connecting chambers. The gathering turned to stare at him, open-mouthed. Now that he had their attention, he felt his mouth dry. He had never been accustomed to speaking to civilians, especially in mixed groups. But he had staked everything on this one gamble, and he had only moments to make it work.
‘I remind you of the threat faced by your city,’ he said, keeping his tone harsh, commanding. ‘If there’s another assault and the troops break through the wall, they will plunder and they will sack. That’s the custom of war. But outside the wall is Constantine, the rightful emperor. He has favoured your sect, and ended the persecution against you. Allow him into the city and you limit the violence, and win his gratitude. Allow Maximian to win, and your priest dies.’
He paused a moment to let his words sink in. The people on the couches looked at each other again, pondering, uncertain.
‘I’m not asking you all to take up arms,’ Castus went on, trying for a more civil tone. ‘All I need is a crowd, to make a diversion, and a few people willing to lend some muscle. It won’t be easy, but with your help we could win. But I need you to be united, and to decide soon.’
Merciful gods, he thought as he stared back at them. How had he come to stake everything on the goodwill of a bunch of quarrelling religious extremists? The plump lady in the embroidered tunic drew herself up to address him.
‘You cannot give us orders,’ she said. ‘This is not your house.’
‘I’m not ordering you, domina...’ Castus was trying hard not to grind his teeth in frustration.
‘Brothers and sisters,’ the tall, sombre-faced man said, getting to his feet and raising his hands. ‘Authority in our congregation rests entirely with the blessed Bishop Oresius. He alone can decree what we all should do. But surely, in his absence, individuals among us can decide how the spirit guides them?’ He shot a glance at the white-bearded man.
‘May I remind you that you are only a deacon, Nazarius,’ the plump woman said. ‘Not even one of our Elders. We must summon others of our congregation to discuss this before we make any rash decisions.’
The tall man, Nazarius, nodded and sat down again. Now the assembled people drew together, speaking in hushed voices. An old woman approached Castus and took his arm. She had a kindly face, and a wild straggle of grey hair.
‘Please sit and rest yourself,’ she said with a cracked smile, gesturing to a chair beside the wall. ‘The discussion may take some time!’
Castus nodded, mute, and dropped down heavily onto the chair.
‘I am Epaphra,’ the old woman said. ‘You must forgive my brethren. Many of us lived through the persecution six years ago. We are not inclined to trust soldiers, or greet them warmly!’
‘Fair enough,’ Castus said. Now he was seated he could feel the fatigue soaking through him. His blood was still rushing with energy, and his limbs ached with it, but he had not slept since well before dawn and the day had been long and hard. He wanted to slump forward and put his head in his hands, but dared not show his weakness. The old woman, Epaphra, placed a tray of food and a cup of wine on the low table beside him.
‘Eat, drink,’ she said, still smiling.
Castus looked warily at the food. He had heard that Christians refused to eat the food of normal people; was there something abnormal about their own food? Was it somehow... funny?
‘Don’t worry,’ Epaphra said, widening her eyes. ‘It’s just bread and oil, cheese and olives... not polluted!’
Shrugging, still not entirely convinced, Castus sipped the wine and picked at the bread and cheese. He heard the thud of a door from deeper inside the house, and the sound of voices. Newcomers were arriving, pacing quickly into the main chamber to join the assembly in their muttered debate. At the third or fourth arrival Castus sat up sharply, reaching for his sword. The stocky well-dressed man in the doorway was the magistrate who had tried to shout down the bishop during the demonstration on the quayside. Had they been betrayed so soon?
‘Don’t worry,’ Epaphra said, placing a dry hand on his arm. ‘That is Brother Trigetius. He is on the city council, one of the aediles. But he is also a reader of our congregation. You can trust him.’
‘How many followers does your priest have?’
‘Oh, our congregation numbers nearly a thousand citizens and another thousand again slaves and foreigners,’ the old woman said. ‘Not including catechumens.’
Two thousand? Castus felt a stir of hope in his heart. But it sounded incredible – surely one in ten of Massilia’s inhabitants were not Christians? Then again, if men like Trigetius were among them, they were certainly diverse in their opinions.
‘Where’s your altar?’ he asked, glancing around the room. ‘Where do you... do your rituals?’
‘Oh, no!’ Epaphra cried, amused. ‘This is not our ecclesia! Our congregation gathers in the Basilica of Saint Victor... This is the home of Antonia Sosibiana, whom you see there.’ She pointed towards the plump jowly woman. ‘We meet here to receive word of our blessed Oresius,’ she went on, her expression growing sad.
Castus nodded, then drank more wine. It was strong, and helped him to focus his thoughts. By the sound of it, the debate was also gathering focus now. About time, he thought. It must be approaching midnight already. Every now and again the attention of the room shifted to him; he felt the collective gaze upon him, like a heat on his face.
Then, at last, the hushed conversation died away into silence, and Castus stood up as Nazarius, the tall man they had called a deacon, approached him. His head reeled briefly from the wine.
‘It has been decided,’ Nazarius said, and half turned to also address the people behind him. There are others, sympathetic to our cause although not of our faith, who may also agree to assist.’
Castus nodded. He could see several members of the assembly shaking their heads, their eyes downcast. The white-bearded Arcadius and Trigetius the magistrate were among them. Those two could be dangerous, he thought.
‘So, tell us what you propose,’ Nazarius said.
‘Tomorrow night,’ Castus began, squaring his shoulders and hooking his thumbs into his belt, ‘an hour before dawn, have your people assemble near the Sea Gate. There’s a public portico, about a bowshot down the street...’
‘The portico of the coppersmiths,’ somebody said.
‘Assemble there, and the watchers at the gate won’t see you. But try to be unobtrusive.’
‘Several of our congregation have houses near there,’ Nazarius said. ‘We can go to them in daylight tomorrow, and spend the night in prayer and vigil.’
<
br /> ‘If you want. Any that own weapons can bring them, whether they mean to use them or not. I’ll meet you there, and tell you what to do.’
Nazarius swallowed visibly, nervous, and glanced back at the assembly for confirmation. There were a few nods, some mutters of agreement.
‘One more thing,’ Castus broke in. ‘I need somebody – a volunteer – to go over the walls tonight and warn the emperor of our plans, so he can have a strong force waiting to enter the city when the gates are opened. I’d go myself, but whoever leaves won’t be able to get back in...’
He paused, shifting his gaze from one face to the next. Nobody met his eye. Nazarius was staring at the floor, his face reddening. The white-bearded Arcadius wore a smile of quiet satisfaction.
‘I’ll go,’ a voice said from the back of the room.
It was a boy, Castus thought at first as the figure stood up from one of the rear couches. Then he saw that the figure was female, a girl of about fifteen, plainly dressed, with an oval face and very wide eyes. He recognised her; she had been one of the group gathered at the cell window that first evening he had seen them there.
‘Sit down, Luciana,’ Arcadius said angrily. ‘This is no business for a child!’
‘No!’ Nazarius cried. ‘No, the spirit has moved her... And is it not fitting that the holiest virgin among us should undertake this most dangerous of duties?’
Fantastic, Castus thought grimly as the girl moved forward between the couches. Her face was glowing, wide open, and she appeared slightly breathless. It was a look that Castus had only seen before on the faces of men in the moments before battle.
‘This is Annia Luciana,’ Nazarius told him. ‘She is a ward of the Bishop Oresius, and came to us six years ago from Carthage. Her family were destroyed in the persecution there.’
‘The beast raged most ferociously in Africa!’ said Epaphra.
