by Ian Ross
‘You’re really ready to do this?’ Castus asked her. He already knew the answer.
‘With all my heart,’ the girl said, smiling widely.
* * *
Nazarius led them through to a side chamber and left them there. Castus had requested a private talk with the girl, but the lady of the house, the plump Antonia Sosibiana, insisted on being present. Stifling his annoyance – what did they think he would do? – Castus sat down on a stool facing the girl.
‘Listen,’ he told her. ‘I need to give you instructions, and I need you to remember them exactly.’
Luciana nodded with a look of grave determination.
‘I’m going to take you to the wall and make sure you get across, but once you’re outside you’re on your own. You need to get to the emperor’s encampment as fast as you can. Don’t speak to anyone except a centurion or a tribune. Can you recognise them?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good. Tell them you have a message for the emperor – only for him. Don’t give the message to anyone but Constantine himself or his prefect, Probinus. Understand?’
‘Yes,’ the girl said. She was beginning to blush now, her eyes shining.
‘I’m going to tell you the message. If I write it down, it might fall into enemy hands...’ Not that I could write it anyway, Castus thought. But then he remembered the torture chamber at Arelate: the hooks and chains, the scourging whip, the fearsome catapult. He tried not to think of this blushing girl being subjected to that.
‘The message is this: tomorrow night, an hour before dawn, I will open the Sea Gate and hold it until Constantine’s men can enter the city. There must be a strong force waiting ready in concealment near the gate, ready to advance at my signal. I will fire the beacon above the gate as a sign to show that it’s ours. Once inside the city there must be no sack, no looting. Got that? Repeat it.’
‘Sea Gate, an hour before dawn. Force waiting ready. You’ll fire the beacon above the gate as a sign, no looting,’ the girl said, and nodded.
‘Good. Another thing – we’ll need a watchword and a response.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Right – the watchword is Sol Invictus, and the response is Lord of Daybreak. Repeat that for me.’
The girl blinked and bit her lip. ‘I cannot,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I cannot... It’s a blasphemy.’
Castus looked away, then scrubbed his fingers across his scalp. For a moment he considered inventing some lewd or obscene alternative.
‘All right... the watchword is Constantine Augustus, and the response is... Ever Victorious. Can you manage that?’
‘Constantine Augustus... Ever Victorious!’
‘Good.’ Castus turned to the woman, Sosibiana, who had sat through the exchange with a look of vague disapproval.
‘But wait,’ the girl said, concerned. Castus looked back at her. ‘How will they know the message is genuine?’ she asked. ‘Why should they believe me?’
Castus frowned heavily. He had not even considered that. Sosibiana raised an eyebrow at him. Think...
‘Here,’ he said, and reached into the pouch sewn into his broad military belt. He brought out a thin vellum scroll, crumpled and almost flattened now.
‘This is an imperial codicil,’ he told the girl, ‘appointing me to the Corps of Protectores. It was given to me by the hand of the emperor himself. Show this to anyone who questions you, and they’ll know you’ve been sent by me.’
Luciana took the codicil and held it in both hands with an expression of reverence. ‘The emperor,’ she said quietly.
‘And all I need now,’ Castus said, turning again to Sosibiana, ‘is a thirty-foot length of strong rope.’
The cocks were crowing in the city as they made their way through the dark streets, and by the time the first faint blush of light was in the eastern sky they were crouching together beneath a wooden lean-to, within sight of the wall.
It had not been an easy journey. Luciana had led the way, moving fast and silently through back yards and alleys, but several times they had been forced to stop and conceal themselves as patrols or gangs of drunken soldiers passed. At one point they had watched from the shadows as four legionaries kicked and beat a civilian at the door of his house, demanding to know where he had hidden his store of wine. Castus had taken a step towards them, his anger flaring, but Luciana stopped him with a hand on his arm. She was right, he knew; whatever protection he could offer would never be enough.
The Sea Gate stood at the furthest western end of the land walls, only a few hundred paces before the city fortifications angled southward to follow the shoreline. It was the smallest of the city’s three gates, and the only one without a deep ditch beyond it; the ground outside was too low and sandy for excavation, and the defenders had contented themselves with digging up the causeway that carried the road up to the gates. Castus had determined all this days before, during his tour of the walls with Brinno. But now, staring at it, the gate appeared formidable enough. Sixteen men in the garrison, more or less, with probably another four in each of the towers along the wall to either side. The idea of trying to take and hold it with only a rabble of poorly armed civilians, most of them with a moral disgust for violence, seemed like the wildest madness.
But the plan had been desperate from the start, and it was too late to give up now. Squatting against the mossy brick wall at the back of the lean-to, Castus tried to remain alert. Gods, he was tired. Every time he closed his eyes he felt sleep massing in his head. The girl beside him seemed entirely awake, her eyes gleaming in the dark.
‘You’re very brave,’ he muttered. ‘Volunteering for this.’
‘Maximian killed my parents,’ she replied. ‘Or his governors did. When you were talking back there... I agreed with all you said. I would do anything to defeat him.’
‘Even so,’ Castus said, shrugging. He felt the ache in his shoulders. ‘Listen,’ he went on. ‘When you get outside the walls, you have to be careful, understand? Some of the men out there... well, they aren’t good men.’
‘I know what you mean,’ the girl told him. ‘But I’ll be all right.’ She looked up at Castus and whispered, ‘The Lord Jesus Christ will be my shield and my guide!’
Castus just grunted. He was watching the wall, trying to make out the movements of the sentries. There were two of them, each pacing a slow and weary route between the towers. They crossed in the middle, and for a short space of time both of them were walking away, before they reached the towers and turned back again.
‘See the steps there?’ he whispered, pointing. ‘As soon as the guards cross, we have to get to them, quick as we can. We go up to the walkway, and you climb over the parapet. I’ll lower you down on the rope and then drop it after you. Then you run, understand?’
He saw her nod in the darkness. Then he took the rope and looped it loosely around her body, beneath her arms.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked as he secured the rope in a firm knot over her chest. ‘I mean, why you out of all the soldiers in the city?’
Castus bunched his forehead. ‘It’s my job.’
He coiled the rest of the rope and slung it across her shoulder; once she was over the other side she could slip easily out of the noose.
‘You’re a good man, aren’t you?’ she said, and he paused in his work and gazed at her. He remembered the last time a woman had told him that: Marcellina, the envoy’s daughter, back in Eboracum many years before. He just grunted again, checking the knot.
‘I’ll pray for you,’ she said, with sudden passion in her voice. ‘And I’ll pray that one day your heart is opened to the love of God.’
‘If you like,’ Castus said, sitting back against the mossy bricks. He peered into the dark, trying to pick out the moving shapes of the sentries on the wall.
‘Get ready,’ he said. He eased himself into a crouch, and then stood. Luciana took his hand and pulled herself up beside him.
The two sentries met in the mid
dle of the walkway, and for a few maddening heartbeats they seemed to pause. Castus heard the sounds of their voices, a snatch of laughter. Then they were moving apart again. He waited, counting their steps.
‘Go!’
Luciana grabbed his hand again and they ran together, bolting from the shelter and across the strip of dusty open ground to the black shadow of the wall. Castus reached the steps first, climbed the first few and then turned to seize the girl and lift her. Raising her over his head, his muscles burning, he sat her on the walkway and then scrambled up after her as she crossed to the wall parapet.
A quick glance back along the wall: the two sentries were still moving away, oblivious. But the light seemed to have grown suddenly, and the land outside the wall was no longer lost in night’s blackness.
Luciana jumped up onto the parapet, sitting between two of the merlons, then slid herself across and dropped her legs down on the far side. Castus took the rope, wrapping the end of it around his waist and uncoiling the rest onto the walkway beneath him. He took the girl by the shoulders.
‘The gods guide you,’ he whispered.
As he spoke he realised his mistake, but he saw her smile. She leaned and kissed him quickly on the forehead. Then she dropped, clinging to the edge of the parapet until he pulled the rope taut and took her weight.
He drew in a deep breath and held it, leaning back from the wall, forcing himself to pay the rope out gradually through his palms and not let the girl drop too fast. A rattle of loose stones came from somewhere below, and Castus clenched his teeth tight.
A shout from his left, and the sound of running feet. Castus bunched his shoulders, fighting the urge to let go of the rope. Suddenly he felt it slacken in his grip, and threw himself forward into the embrasure. The ground below the wall was a dense tangle of grey and black, but he caught the darting shadow of the girl as she ran for the open ground, and hurled the rope down after her.
‘Who’s there?’ came the voice from the walkway. ‘Identify yourself!’
‘Strength of Hercules!’ Castus said loudly, glad he remembered the night’s watchword.
The sentry moved closer, his shield raised and his spear levelled. Castus stood away from the parapet, flicking his cloak back to show the markings on his tunic.
‘Somebody went over the wall?’ the sentry said in a thick Spanish accent.
‘Just a girl,’ Castus said, forcing himself to grin. ‘I tried to grab her, but she got away...’
The sentry relaxed his guard and grounded his shield with a thud. ‘Slippery as eels, these young ones!’ he said, and Castus noticed the gaps in his teeth as he smiled. ‘I guess one of those bastards out there’ll be enjoying her before long, eh?’
‘Maybe, brother,’ Castus said, and gave an entirely genuine yawn. When he glanced out over the walls he could see no sign of Luciana. Cold remorse plunged through him suddenly: had he sent her out there to her death? Her god would protect her, she had said. May mine protect her too.
Stumbling, weary beyond thought, he climbed back up the stepped path towards the palace. No sun yet, only a misty grey half-light, the world still lost in monochrome. As he climbed, Castus pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. He needed to stay awake, stay sharp. Given the choice, he would not return to the palace at all, but he needed to find Brinno and tell him about the plan. Needed, perhaps, to find Nigrinus too; however much he detested the notary and his assistants, he wanted to enlist all the men he could for the following night. But his throat was dry and his body felt racked, and all he wanted to do was lie down for a few hours and rest.
When he reached the top of the path he crouched and dodged to his right, through the pine grove and the dry scrub to the service wing of the palace. Silently he moved across the portico and into the quiet gloom of the kitchen courtyard. Passing through it, he climbed on up the steps; he would find Brinno in his room, then perhaps allow himself a few hours’ sleep...
The shout startled him, echoing through the antechamber, and then a flare of lamplight burst whirling spots across his vision. He was turning, already drawing the sword from his scabbard, but strong hands seized his wrists and suddenly there were men all around him rushing from the reeling shadows.
‘We’ve got him!’ somebody cried, shouting into Castus’s ear. He was trying to fight but his body was slow with fatigue and everything seemed to be happening very fast. He heard a roar, and realised that it was the sound of his own voice. Twisting, he flexed his right arm and managed to throw off the man who was gripping him on that side; then a fist punched hard into his sternum and drove the air from his lungs.
Cold steel at his throat. Another blade pressing into his back. He was down on his knees, choking breath, with men grappling him on both sides. Blinking, he brought the room back into focus.
Flaccianus was standing before him, with the burly ex-wrestler Glaucus leering over his shoulder. The men around him wore military uniforms and belts.
‘What are you doing?’ Castus managed to say. ‘Get Nigrinus... get your master. I need to speak to him.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Flaccianus said with a greasy smile. Then his expression soured. ‘Julius Nigrinus has been arrested for treason against the emperor Maximian. As one of his confederates, you too are accused.’
Castus gaped at him, his brow knitting. Then he began to understand.
‘Personally,’ Flaccianus said, stepping closer to breathe into Castus’s face, ‘I’ve had about enough of Nigrinus’s treacherous little schemes. As for you...’
He drew his head back, then spat. Castus turned his face away, and felt saliva spray his cheek.
‘Sometimes you just have to choose whose side you’re really on, don’t you!’
25
Gripping the bars, Castus hauled himself up to the narrow slot window at the top of the wall and peered out. If he twisted his head against his shoulder he could just make out the line of the sea-wall fortifications, and a narrow strip of rocky shoreline. Gulls were wheeling and screaming, and the sky had an unnatural yellowish tint. He released his grip and let himself drop, landing on his toes.
The noise of the gulls had been tormenting him all day; they sounded so much like human voices crying in agony. Pacing back across the floor he slumped onto the broken dining couch that served as his bed. It was the only piece of furniture in the room. Aside from the couch and a few empty amphorae near the door, the chamber was empty, a bare stone-floored storage room with rough-plastered walls and a heavy wooden door. There was a jug of water and a crust of bread beside the door, a latrine pot in the opposite corner. Castus guessed he was in the basement of the palace, below the kitchens or the baths. The yellow light through the barred window threw distorted stripes on the wall above him.
It must be evening now, he thought. He had been imprisoned for most of a day. At first he had slept, plunging down into unconsciousness, dejected beyond all hope. But he had woken in a fury, jumping up to pound at the door, haul at the window bars, kick and punch at the walls until the plaster fractured to bare brick. It was no use: the door was solid, the walls thick, and the window would barely be wide enough to get his head through, even without the heavy iron bars. Slumped back on the couch, he had clasped his head in his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp in an agony of frustration and remorse. Not only had he allowed himself to be captured, but he had doomed all those who had agreed to help him. Had they already been arrested? Were they too in some prison cell, awaiting death? But he had failed not only the civilians: the troops that Constantine would send to wait outside the gate could easily be deceived by a false signal and lured to a slaughter. Then there was the brave girl that had carried his message: she could be executed as a traitor.
Fighting his way back from despair, Castus forced himself to think clearly. Flaccianus had ordered his capture and confinement. Perhaps it was only because of his meetings with Nigrinus? Perhaps the imperial agent and his new masters had not yet discovered anything more? That at least was
a hope. But still, if he remained in this cell the plan had failed before it had even begun.
From outside came a low sustained roll of thunder. The light had faded to a dull brownish orange now, dipping into a stormy autumnal twilight, and soon afterwards the first heavy drops of rain spattered between the window bars. Lightning flashed, splitting the room in sudden illumination. Castus stood and stared up at the window, into the dark rush of the rain. Anger of the gods, he thought, and hunched as a shiver ran through him.
The storm gathered force as night fell, passing right over the city. In his cell Castus lay on the broken couch staring at the low ceiling and counting the spaces between thunder roll and lightning flash. The air felt heavy and damp, charged with fierce energy. Time passed, the storm moved further away but the rain continued, and the steady hiss and splash of the water falling outside the window lulled Castus into a fitful sleep.
He awoke to a rattle from the door and the sound of harsh voices. Lamplight spilled into the room, and he reached for a sword that was not there. Then there were figures in the doorway, a low guttural laugh, and the door thudded closed once more. Castus was on his feet, facing the dark-draped figure that stood just inside the cell door. He could smell the lingering trace of perfume: musk and saffron.
‘Sabina?’
She came towards him, throwing the shawl back from her face, and just then a distant flash of lightning lit the room in harsh blue-white. Castus saw her face thinned by fatigue, the darkness under her eyes. She was plainly dressed, in widow’s attire. Then the blackness closed around them again, and she fell into his arms.
‘I bribed the guards to let me come,’ she said, quickly and quietly. ‘I gave them an argenteus each, and a flask of wine between them.’
‘Good to know how much I’m worth!’
‘No, listen,’ she said, pulling back from him slightly. ‘It wasn’t just wine in the flask...’
‘Poison?’
‘A sleeping draught, that’s all, but a powerful one. Serapion gave it to me. He’ll wait until the drug takes effect and then come and unlock the door from the outside.’
