by Ian Ross
Castus stared at her, speechless for a moment, the last shreds of sleep whirling from his mind. This was no dream... Hope, sudden and powerful, rushed through him. Sabina gripped his arms, urging him towards the couch.
‘We have to wait,’ she said. ‘Don’t do anything to draw their attention...’
She was right, of course. Castus took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. But the thought of escape was a spur at his nerves. They sat together on the couch, silent for a moment as they listened to the rain slackening from a rush to a steady drip. Faint wet moonlight shone across the room.
‘Well,’ Sabina said. ‘We do meet in some unusual places.’
Castus was intensely aware of her presence beside him; for the first time in many months they were truly alone together. He remembered what Fausta had told him, and the bizarre offer of marriage she had made.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your loss,’ he said, feeling the clumsiness of his words as he spoke. ‘Your husband and father.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, and drew a long shuddering breath. In the faint light Castus saw her shoulders rise. She let out a sigh, and it turned into a sob.
‘It was a shame about Flavianus,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘But I expected it, I confess. My father, though... I didn’t even know he’d been arrested.’ She covered her face with a shaking hand, and Castus sat beside her feeling heavy and awkward, not knowing what to say or do.
‘He was a senator of Rome,’ she said through her tears, ‘and the Praetorians just butchered him like an animal.’ She turned to Castus suddenly, clasping his shoulders, and in the faint rainy light her face was washed with anger and grief.
‘He’ll be avenged though, won’t he?’ she said. ‘Constantine will march on Rome and slaughter Maxentius and all his supporters... And you’ll help him! Promise me you’ll help him!’
‘I promise,’ Castus said, feeling the words like something thick on his tongue.
She threw herself forward again, embracing him fiercely. For a moment they clung together, and then fell back onto the couch. Distant thunder boomed across the city, and far-off lightning flickered through the window slot. Castus felt himself plunging down into her embrace, lost in the sensation of her body, the perfume that surrounded him, the taste of her mouth.
‘Wait,’ he said, breaking away from her and glancing towards the door. ‘Wait.’
His heart was beating quickly, his body felt full of blood and his mind glazed with desire, but he needed to stay ready for the moment of escape. He could not afford to lose himself now. Sabina was nodding, scrambling up to kneel on the couch and pulling her shawl back around her shoulders. They sat again, silent, both breathing hard.
‘Your hands are bleeding,’ she said.
‘I was trying to punch my way out of here earlier.’
He heard her laugh quietly, then she gently massaged the grazes on his knuckles and the roughened welts on his palms.
‘I’ve never known anyone with hands like yours,’ she said in a whisper. Her thumb traced circles on his skin, and he could tell that she was shivering, nervous. ‘I don’t have anything now,’ she went on, her words hesitant. ‘All my family property in Rome has been seized, and I...’ Her voice caught and she sniffed back tears. ‘I have some jewellery, some clothes I could sell...’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘But what I mean is... if you want me, I can be yours. I can love you and be your wife... I can’t offer much in return...’
‘Stop,’ Castus said. He raised his hand, lifted her head and ran his calloused thumb across her cheek. He wanted to believe her, wanted to believe in her offer of love, but he was not fooled. She wanted him for the protection he offered, for the chance of revenge against those who had attacked her family. He wanted her too, for herself. But he barely knew her, and he was all too aware that she knew nothing of him.
Sabina leaned forward again and kissed him slowly on the lips. She sat back, and he saw her smiling. It was almost enough to convince him that her words were genuine.
A noise came from the next room, through the thick wooden door. A choking gasp, a muffled cry. Castus was up off the couch at once.
‘Get back against the wall,’ he told Sabina.
He barely had time to cross the room before the lock shuddered and the door banged open. Light slashed the room, cut by the crooked shadow of a soldier holding a knife in one hand, a flask in the other.
‘What’s this, bitch?’ the soldier cried, and hurled the flask at Sabina. ‘Trying to poison us?’
Castus turned fast, snatching up one of the empty amphorae from the corner. The soldier took a step into the room, Sabina screamed, and Castus raised the heavy clay jug and then brought it smashing down across the back of the soldier’s head. The man dropped.
‘Stay there!’ Castus called to Sabina. Then he was out of the room.
He blinked, squinted: a white-walled chamber in lamplight, one man on his hand and knees, retching. Another slumped over a table. A third soldier rising from the table with a snarling cry, a naked sword in his hand.
A heartbeat to think about going back for the fallen knife. No time. The soldier was already lurching across the room, sword raised. Castus swept his arm down and seized a fallen stool, whirling it up into both hands. Somebody was hammering at a door, yelling. The man came on with the sword, but he was sick, weakened. He slashed wide, and Castus easily parried the blow with the stool.
Stepping in fast, he swung at the soldier; the stool cracked into the man’s head and sent him reeling back across the room. The sword dropped from his hand and clattered onto the floor, and Castus snatched it up before it stopped spinning. Two long strides and he was across the room; one short savage hack at the man’s neck and he buckled and fell.
The retching soldier was trying to get up, groping a sword from his scabbard. Castus stepped over him, dragged his head up by the hair and pulled the blade across his throat. The body jolted and then collapsed, blood spouting across the flagstone floor.
Stairs to the right, and the sound of footsteps descending. A barred door to the left, shuddering as someone threw themselves against it. Castus turned towards the stairs, dropping into a braced crouch, his blood-streaked blade held low. The lamplight throbbed with the rhythm of his breathing, and he felt the energy of killing racing through his body.
‘I see I’ve come too late,’ the eunuch said, stepping from the stairway into the light. His expression shifted only slightly as he took in the sprawled bodies, the spreading spill of blood.
‘The domina’s in there,’ Castus told him, flicking the sword towards the cell door. ‘Get her out of here. Get her to Fausta’s chambers and keep her there. Bar the doors and don’t let anyone in until this is over. Understand?’
He caught the eunuch’s curt nod as he turned to the door at the far side of the room. Another crash from the far side, and a muffled shout. Stepping across the bodies, Castus readied his sword and then kicked away the locking bar. At once the door burst open, and Brinno stood squinting in the lamplight.
‘Brother!’ Brinno grinned and threw his arms around Castus in a fierce embrace. He had a bruise on his forehead, dried blood on his tunic, and one of his teeth was missing: he had not been taken without resistance. ‘Heh!’ he said, and gave a low whistle as he gazed at the scene in the room. ‘Trust you to kill every bastard in the place...’
‘This one’s still alive,’ Castus said. The man slumped at the table groaned and shifted. He was not a threat. Looking back at the bodies on the floor, Castus felt a brief clutch of remorse. These were Roman soldiers, men like himself, men who had taken their oath and done their duty. But there was no time for those thoughts now.
They took weapons and swordbelts from the fallen men, arming themselves quickly and in silence. From the next room Castus could hear the eunuch talking quietly to Sabina, telling her what they had to do. Four cloaks hung on pegs; Castus took one and threw another to Brinno. The only way o
ut was the stairs; the two men took a moment to draw breath and compose themselves, adjusting their belts and pulling the cloaks around their shoulders, then Brinno nodded to Castus and they began to climb.
Wet night air from above, and the taste of rain and lightning. The stairs brought them up to a narrow muddy yard at the back of the baths complex. Castus paused for a moment, gazing up at the night sky: Polaris was bright, the Bear hidden by cloud, but the moon rode near full and low to the west, over the sea ramparts. There were a good few hours of the night left yet.
Quickly, as they paced through the yard and across the kitchen court beyond, Castus told Brinno about his plan for the taking of the Sea Gate. The young Frank listened, bemused.
‘This idea,’ he said. ‘You were drinking when you thought of it?’
‘I don’t remember. Seems a long time ago now.’
They were moving carefully, trying to keep to the deeper shadows, but as they emerged onto the side portico Castus heard the first cry of challenge, then a shout of alarm. He slapped Brinno on the shoulder and they leaped together from the portico and began to run.
Armed men were coming up the stepped path that descended towards the agora. Castus cut to the right, down the slope from the pine grove and through an open gateway into the theatre. Crescent tiers of stone seating stepped into the hillside dropped towards the harbour. Brinno was right behind him, and without a pause they were leaping recklessly down the tiers, arms flung out for balance, their boots skating on the treacherous rain-slick marble.
Castus felt only the plunging energy of escape, the violent motion of his blood propelling him. The speed of their descent was dizzying; within moments the two men were racing across the marble floor of the orchestra and out through the side exit. Still running, they crossed the expanse of open ground between the theatre and the lower end of the agora. Now Castus began to feel the pain burning in his side, his lungs pressing tight against the base of his throat; he did not know how much further he could run.
Ahead stretched the mazes of the silent city, the black dripping streets emptied by the curfew. Brinno was turning to run towards the agora, but Castus caught his arm and dragged him onwards, into the network of alleys along the harbour wall and the docks. The last thing he wanted was to draw the pursuers towards the Sea Gate. At the corner of the first building he halted, the breath heaving from his chest, and looked back. There were men spilling from the theatre, others clambering down the stepped path to the right and a group of horsemen descending the road that curved from the front of the palace.
‘Remember the aqueduct?’ Brinno said, grinning wildly.
Castus nodded. This time they had a better chance. But this time, he knew, capture would mean a certain death.
They split up, Brinno taking an alley that climbed towards the main street and the hill of the acropolis. Castus flung one more glance back at the pursuers, sucked in a deep burning breath, then ran straight on down the narrow thoroughfare towards the docks. The sound of his hammering footsteps echoed off the shuttered façades of the shops and warehouses. At the corner he pulled to a halt, threw himself against the wall and stared back along the street.
The pursuit was still on; he could see six men with spears and military cloaks, and a few more carrying staves and wearing plain drab clothing: men of the city militia hastily raised by Maximian to keep order and enforce the curfew. Someone was shouting to bring torches and search the alleyways, and Castus recognised the voice of Flaccianus. From somewhere behind him he could hear singing, drunken laughter: the city was emptied of its citizens, but there were still plenty of soldiers on the streets.
Slower now and heavier of step as fatigue ached through him, Castus jogged through a transverse alley into the next street. It appeared deserted, with just the sound of water flowing in the gutters and dripping from the eaves to break the silence of the closed city. He paused to get his bearings, meaning to double back around to the agora and throw off the chase, but as he did so a figure stepped from another alleyway a short distance ahead. The man had his back turned, but before Castus could move he looked over his shoulder and saw him. It was Glaucus, the big ex-wrestler. For a moment they stared at each other, then the bodyguard let out a bellow and dropped into a running charge.
There would be other men behind him at any moment, Castus knew. He had already drawn his sword, but if he tried to fight now he would be surrounded. He turned again, his cloak whipping, and threw himself into a narrower alley across the street, little more than a gap between the houses. Slippery stuff underfoot; he collided with first one wall and then another before he was through and into a walled courtyard half piled with festering rubbish. Doors to his left, one with a blanket pulled across it and a light burning somewhere within. He could jump the wall, he thought, scramble across; but already he could hear the big man piling down the alley after him.
Trapped, Castus took two long steps and struck at the bodyguard as he emerged from the dark mouth of the alley. Glaucus yelled, raising his heavy club in both hands, and the blade hit the wood with a chopping blow. Heaving his arm back, Castus steadied himself for a second strike, but Glaucus had already whirled the club up and brought it smashing down onto Castus’s right shoulder. Pain exploded through his torso, his arm went numb, and Castus lost his grip on the sword. The club was broken and the giant tossed it aside; open-handed, the two men circled. In the faint light Glaucus’s great slab of a face was twisted into a grin, his lips curled back from his small crooked teeth. The man was a trained wrestler, Castus remembered.
Two steps back, then another step. Then Glaucus let out a grunt and surged forward, swinging his fist; Castus leaped away from him and collided with the wall of the building behind him. Glaucus was fast on his feet, and had a long reach; already he was aiming another reaping blow. Castus dodged at the last moment and the bodyguard’s fist slammed into the bricks. Driving his arm up, Castus punched the man in the sternum, but Glaucus appeared unaffected. The lighted doorway was next to him, and Castus dragged himself around the doorpost, sweeping the hanging curtain aside.
He was in a narrow plastered corridor with a cell at the far end. An oil lamp burned in a niche near the ceiling. In the shock of the lamp glow Castus saw a bed in the cell, piled with rucked blankets, a blonde woman with a pink and white painted face and big pale breasts, a naked fat man kneeling over her, turning with an expression of shocked dismay... The vision lasted less than a heartbeat, then Glaucus came roaring through the doorway and slammed him against the wall.
Thick fingers closed around his throat. His body was pinned to the wall, the bodyguard’s full weight pressed against him. Castus had seldom met another man who could beat him in a fight, but the ex-wrestler seemed to be built of solid muscle and heavy fat. Fighting for breath, he hardened his neck, but he could feel the unbreakable grip tightening steadily. From the corner of his eye he could see the prostitute kneeling on the bed, her mouth wide open in a scream, her client pressed back into the corner in terror. Glaucus’s face was very close to his own, lips drawn back, and with every hissing exhalation Castus could smell the sour garlic on his breath. His right arm was trapped against his body; he managed to get his left arm free, but his attacker’s grip was too fierce to break. Something shattered against the far wall: the prostitute was flinging things at them, screaming, ‘Get out! Get out!’
Reaching up and to his left, Castus felt the edge of the niche cut into the wall. He twisted his hand, then flinched as the flame of the lamp scalded his fingers. The grip on his neck was not slackening; he could feel his windpipe constricting, his consciousness shrinking to a single struggling point. Twisting his hand again, his fingers found the clay bowl of the lamp. He flicked it closer, into his grip, ignoring the flame dancing around his fingertips. Then it was in his grasp, his palm cupping the bowl, and he brought his arm down and pressed the burning lamp against the side of Glaucus’s head.
The big man flinched; then he roared as the flame touched his ear. He released
his grip, but before he could pull himself away Castus swung the lamp hard against his skull. The clay shattered and the flame snuffed out; black smoke whirled in the confined space, and the corridor was filled with the stink of singed hair as Castus stabbed the shards of broken pottery into the bodyguard’s head.
Glaucus was reeling, clutching his bleeding ear and letting out a high keening shriek. Planting his back firmly against the wall, Castus kicked. His boot caught the man in the gut. Thrashing, Glaucus ripped the blanket down from the doorway and toppled out into the blackness of the yard, and Castus was right behind him.
In the trampled mud, moonlight gleamed faintly along the blade of his fallen sword. He snatched up the weapon; Glaucus was still staggering, shaking his head and shoulders like an angry bull, and Castus swung first one chopping blow and then another at the back of his head. The bodyguard grunted, dropped to his knees and then slumped forward in the dirt. Castus raised the sword and hacked down a third time. Bone cracked, and he smelled fresh blood in the darkness.
Stepping back slowly towards the alleyway, breathing hard, he kept his eyes on the fallen man, almost expecting him to get up again. His neck felt stripped raw. From the doorway of the prostitute’s room came a steady gasping sob, and the sound of a man muttering prayers to Juno the Preserver.
A shadow moved behind him, and Castus levelled his sword as he turned. Flaccianus was in the mouth of the alley, shrinking back towards the darkness as he took in the scene in the yard. He fled, his sharp cry echoing down the alley’s narrow culvert. Castus was at his heels; he saw the bar of blue moonlight at the end of the alley, Flaccianus’s running form silhouetted against it. Then a dark lumbering shape blocked the exit. There was a shout, the sound of a heavy object dropping to the cobblestones, and Castus emerged from the alley to see Flaccianus sprawled over a large wooden tub lying in the street. Two figures in stained tunics were shuffling anxiously away along the wall. Castus had barely glanced at them before the rank stink from the tub struck him: stale urine, collected from the city’s latrines.
