by Ian Ross
Flaccianus tried to stand, and the side of the tub slipped beneath him, slopping foul liquid. He was trying to say something as he rolled onto his back, his mouth gaping.
‘Spare me... I have money!’
‘I want nothing you’ve got,’ Castus said.
He stepped across the fallen body, raised the sword in both hands, then stabbed it down.
Blood spread in a lake across the cobbles as he walked away.
His left hand was stinging with burns, his torso felt pummelled and his legs were almost locked with fatigue, but already he could feel the reserves of strength building inside him. At the far end of the street he could make out the crenellated towers of the Sea Gate, solid black against the deep blue sky. It was nearly an hour until dawn; he had escaped; he had thrown off his pursuers and arrived on time. Now only the most difficult and dangerous part of the strategy lay before him. He could hear the voices as he jogged the last distance up the street towards the portico of the coppersmiths.
‘That’s him... He’s here...’
Figures were moving in the deep shadow behind the pillars of the portico. Brinno appeared at his side, clapping Castus on the shoulder, bolting out questions. Was he injured? Was he being following? Castus shook his head as he stumbled the last few steps into the shelter of the portico and sank down against one of the pillars. Somebody passed him a waterskin and he drank deeply.
‘But, brother,’ Brinno said in a harsh whisper, ‘where’s your army? Is this all?’
Castus blinked into the gloom, then felt cold despair stab his chest. There were only a handful of men crouched along the far wall, less than a dozen; half of them looked like slaves, most of the rest barely older than boys. Nazarius, his face more than usually sombre, was kneeling beside him.
‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ the Christian said. ‘There were more, but they... Fear took them. And some of my brothers-in-Christ sought to persuade others against coming...’
Castus shook his head. He should have known.
‘But I am here, and Fortunatus, his son, three of his slaves... and there are more scattered around. They didn’t know if you would come...’
For a moment Castus let the wave of angry despair roll over him. He let his head drop back against the pillar and closed his eyes. Perhaps it was not too late; perhaps he could send another message telling the troops outside that the plan had failed...
But Brinno was nudging him. When Castus turned to look he saw men gathering from the shadows of the surrounding buildings, slipping from alleys and doorways, converging slowly on the dark shelter of the portico. There were many of them, and at first he snatched at the hilt of his sword, thinking himself surrounded by some silent army. But as the figures took form from the darkness he saw they were civilians, citizens, dressed in the rough tunics and breeches of labourers and craftsmen. Another figure crouched beside him, thickset and dressed in a heavy apron.
‘Hermius, of the leatherworkers’ collegium,’ the man said, seizing Castus by the hand. ‘I’ve got ten of my boys with me. If you’ll lead us against the soldiers, we’re with you.’
All around him now there were milling bodies, packing into the portico with a steady subdued whisper. Most were men, a few women among them; some had their faces blackened, and many carried weapons: staves, knives, adzes, a few hunting spears. Castus counted a score, then double that, and more of them gathering in the shadows along the street. A third man greeted him, then a fourth.
‘Nicephor, of the Lacydon stevedores’ collegium. There are twelve with me. We’re sick of the siege, and sick of Maximian. Command us, and we’re your men.’
‘Virianus, collegium of the agora marble-cutters. Six men with me.’
‘I’m Ofilia,’ said a woman with curling black hair and a broad, handsome face. ‘I’m just a whore, and I’m on my own, but I’ll help if I can.’
Nazarius was shaking, his nerves clearly on edge. ‘All day I’ve been spreading the word through the city,’ he explained. ‘There are... channels, outside our congregation. People I could trust. I hope I did the right thing.’
‘You did,’ Castus told him. ‘You did.’ But even as he spoke he felt the icy breath of fate up the back of his neck. The risk had been terrible.
The sound of whispering was growing now, the shuffle and scrape of many people packed together, strangers, maybe rivals or enemies, all united in a common purpose. For a moment Castus almost felt he could weep. He tightened his jaw. The joy of relief was flooding through him, and a fresh and fierce determination. It would happen now. They would do this.
‘Your bishop would be proud of you,’ he told Nazarius.
‘I’m not sure... It depends what you want us to do.’
The leaders of the collegia, the trade guilds and workers’ collectives were gathering around Castus now, kneeling and crouching, waiting for his instructions.
Brinno stepped back into the portico. ‘Whatever you’re planning, do it quickly,’ he said. ‘There’s light in the sky already.’
Castus raised himself up against the pillar. Until this moment, he had possessed only the haziest idea of what might happen next. His plan had carried him this far, but the last stage of it had been a blank. Peering at the faces of the men around him, he willed himself to think quickly, clearly. Willed the gods to aid him. He cleared his throat.
Then, even as the idea formed in his mind, he began to tell them what he needed them to do.
26
As the first sounds of tumult rose from the streets behind them, the sentries on the towers of the Sea Gate turned and stared back over the inner ramparts, across the space of open ground within the walls and into the darkened city beyond. A warm clammy breeze was gusting in from the sea, and for a few moments the sounds were indistinct. Then, as the noise rose in volume, it became clearer: angry shouting, the clatter of staves on cobblestones, the stamp of feet.
Crouching in the shelter of a broken cart beside the last of the buildings, Castus watched the sentries silhouetted against the growing light in the sky. The sound at his back gathered rapidly, the shouts rising to a roar, echoing along the shuttered street. The boldest among the citizens had been first to raise the clamour, but the others were joining in now, shrugging off their fear. Flung stones rattled across the street, sticks clashed off the brick pillars of the portico. A woman was screaming, her arms raised to the sky. It sounded real, and Castus could see that the guards in the gate towers were taking notice.
Brinno was beside him, both men tensed and ready to spring as soon as Castus gave the word. How far was it to the gates? Between one and two hundred paces of open ground, Castus reckoned, the paved road running right up to the double arches. He tried to recall everything that he had seen during his inspection of the walls days before: there were inner and outer gates, both firmly closed and barred from the inside, with a vaulted passage running between them and a chamber above. Flanking towers, four storeys high beneath the flat rampart roofs. The only entrances to the towers were inside the tunnel between the gates; with the doors sealed the gatehouse became a fortress, able to withstand attacks both from outside the walls and from the city itself. Without knowing the watchword for the night, there was no way that he and Brinno would get in. This ruse, this desperate stratagem, was their only hope.
Light flared in one of the upper windows of the tower as a lamp moved through the chambers. Come on, Castus hissed, come on... He was braced, ready, leaning on his naked sword. The feel of the worn bone grip was a reassurance. He ran his thumb down the blade: it was dull, and notched from the fight with Glaucus. His shoulder still ached from the blow of the bodyguard’s club, and when he breathed deeply he felt the flare of pain in his ribs. Beside him, Brinno looked even more battered, but the lean young barbarian wore a fierce grin. He was poised like an athlete at the start of a race.
There would be archers in the towers. Castus had warned Nazarius and others that once they moved they had to keep running, not make themselves an easy target.
The archers would be shooting blindly into darkness, but some of their arrows were bound to find a mark. Behind him now Castus could hear the shouts swelling in a chant. ‘Massilia... Massilia...’ He nodded to himself, his jaw set. These people were about to throw themselves into deadly danger, but not for him. Not for Constantine or for Rome, but for themselves, and for their city.
Come on... A sliver of light showed beneath the gates. There were men in the vaulted passage between the arches now, others peering from the slot windows of the upper chambers and leaning from the tower battlements. A few moments more... Castus held himself back, but his heart was racing and sweat was tiding down his back. Fear uncoiled in his belly.
‘Ready?’ he said to Brinno. The young Frank’s savage grin did not falter.
‘Ready!’
Reaching back, Castus swung his arm and heard the men crowding the portico give a yell. Brinno was already on his feet, and Castus bolted after him, the two of them swerving out from behind the cart and racing together towards the gates as the noise of the crowd swelled behind them.
‘Open the gates!’ Castus yelled as he ran. ‘The city’s rising! Open, in the name of the gods!’
He snatched a glance over his shoulder and saw the first of the mob spilling between the houses at the top of the street, a mass of running men brandishing staves and knives, stones and raised fists. A broken brick smashed against the cobbles just ahead of him.
‘Save us!’ Brinno screamed. ‘Help us!’
Come on... Castus stared at the gates ahead, the doors still firmly closed. A hundred paces left, then fifty. The sound of his boots on the paved road was loud in his ears. Archers were shooting down from the towers now: behind him Castus heard a scream of pain. He glanced back again, and his boot slid from beneath him. The world swung, and then he was down on his back, sliding on the wet stones. For a moment fear gripped him: the pursuing crowd was nearly on top of him, their screams of rage so loud he could almost believe they genuinely wanted to kill him. Then he was up again, getting his legs beneath him and running, staggering, towards the gate.
Open up... come on...! Brinno had turned to raise his sword at the mob. A grate and a crash as the locking bar was raised, then the gate on the left creaked open. Castus let out a shout of gratitude.
There were three soldiers in the spill of light from the gate tunnel, an optio and two of the men from the towers. Helmets, but no armour, and their shields bore the blue and white blazon of VI Hispana Maximiana. The same numeral as Castus’s old legion. They were Roman soldiers; they were his brothers. But now they were his enemies.
Brinno rushed up beside him and together they sprinted the last stretch, the optio gesturing wildly from the open gate. Stones clattered against the wall and the arches; then Castus was shoving himself between the shields with the sword still in his hand. Brinno was right behind them, and they staggered beneath the arch, into the close damp stone smell of the vaulted tunnel. Already the optio was shouting for his men to close and bar the gate behind them.
Gods forgive me. Without drawing breath Castus turned on his heel, levelled his sword and punched it up into the optio’s unguarded flank. The man stiffened, flinging out his arm to grab at the wall before his legs crumpled beneath him. One of the other soldiers was already down, Brinno’s blade slicing him across the chest.
Screams echoed beneath the high stone vault as Castus wrenched his sword from the body of the fallen optio and swung it at the man wrestling with the bar of the gate. The soldier managed to get his shield up, and Castus’s blade glanced off the curved surface and swung wide, the metal singing. Castus steadied himself on his back foot. With his free hand he grabbed at the shield rim and dragged it down; then he reversed his sword and punched the pommel into the soldier’s face. As the body collapsed to the ground he could hear the gates heaving wide, the mob raising a furious cheer as it surged through the archway.
One soldier remained, backing away along the tunnel with stark terror in his eyes. Wild shadows reeled in the lamplight, and Castus saw the grille of heavy iron-studded beams blocking the passage between the gates. The last soldier threw down his spear and shield, pressing himself back against the bars of the portcullis with his hands raised.
But now the mob was filling the confined tunnel, their shouts deafening. Castus snatched up a fallen shield, flung a last pitying glance at the surrendering soldier as the bodies closed around him, then pushed his way between the milling crowd to the low doorway that led into the tower. Brinno was lost somewhere behind him, but there was no time to pause now. Every moment counted.
Through the doorway into a dark, dank-smelling vestibule. Narrow steps rose steeply to the right. Castus lifted the shield above him and began to climb. There were others coming up behind him, their whoops and yells ringing. An arrow darted from above, jarring off the wall and raising a trail of sparks. Castus lowered his head behind the shield rim and charged on upwards, roaring.
Another arrow as he neared the top, shot at close range, the iron head punching through the leather and wood of the shield to jut a hand’s-span short of his face. Stumbling on the steps, shoving himself away from the walls, Castus stormed up the last few steps before the archer could draw again. Throwing his shoulder into the hollow of the shield he leaped, slamming into the archer’s body and knocking him off his feet. Castus angled his sword to strike, and the fallen man snatched wildly, his hand closing around the blade. Castus pulled back his arm, the sword shearing off the archer’s fingers. Then he was through the next doorway and into the tower chamber, heaving the shield around his body to defend himself.
Not fast enough. A spear darted in from his unguarded right. Castus arched his back and sucked breath, feeling the speartip jolt off his belt, slice a searing line across his flank and catch in the bunched folds of his tunic. He slashed, the flat of his blade sliding up the spearshaft to strike the attacker’s arm. The man dropped his weapon and fell back.
A moment to breathe. The mob on the steps behind him was hanging back, and in the low-ceilinged chamber of the tower Castus saw three men – no, four – arrayed against him, and a fifth still trying to crawl up from his bedroll as he groped for his sword. Bad odds. But he had a shield and they did not. He was in a cold fighting frenzy, and they were still stunned and confused, uncertain what was happening. He threw himself forward into the chamber, bellowing.
Punching with the rim of his shield, Castus struck one man across the chest and knocked him down. His opponents had spears and knives, better for fighting in close quarters than Castus’s dull, notched broadsword. But he stamped forward, hearing the noise of his own yell echoing back at him, and saw the terror in their eyes. One dodged in fast, striking upward with a knife, and Castus stabbed straight and hard and felt his blade pierce the man through the shoulder. He kicked, the man went down, and then a blast of air rushed into the chamber. The two other two soldiers had thrown open the door to the rampart walkway and bolted out into the night.
‘You!’ Castus screamed, pointing his blade down at the panicking man on the bedroll. The soldier’s sword fell from his hand. ‘Who’s the emperor?’
‘Uh,’ the soldier said, his mouth working. ‘Constantine?’
‘Secure the prisoners!’ Castus shouted to the civilians packing the doorway. The man he had knocked down with his shield was crawling away across the floor, feebly raising his hand. ‘And get that outer door shut and barred!’
The press of bodies parted to let him through. Castus’s ears were ringing, and the first waves of pain were rising from the spear-gash in his side. He could feel blood coursing hot and wet down his hip and left leg, but the energy of battle was carrying him now and he ignored the pain. What hour was it? With any luck the sentries would already have fired the beacon on the ramparts, a summons for help but also the signal to Constantine’s troops outside. But first the portcullis that barred the gate tunnel would need to be raised.
Past the stairs and through the next door, Castus saw the narrow
chamber above the gates. Windows to both sides, and the massive drum and windlass of the portcullis filling half the space, cables reaching up and over the roof beams. He froze in the doorway, panic flaring in his head. There was a soldier in the chamber, one of the sentries from the ramparts, and he was raising his sword to chop through the cables.
‘Stop him!’ The shout rushed from his throat, and a heartbeat later he was leaping forward. He was too slow; the blade would fall... Then the soldier jerked upwards, his back arched, and he let out at strangled cry. The sword fell ringing from his grip and he toppled sideways with a javelin jutting from his spine.
Brinno was grinning from the far door.
‘Good thing I’m faster than you, brother!’
In all the chambers of the gatehouse, men were dying. Castus stepped over a sprawling body, and recognised Hermius the leatherworker. Blood was spattered on the whitewashed walls, looking black in the lamplight. In the chamber above the gates, Nazarius and half a dozen other men were heaving at the windlass bars, bringing the cables taut and the heavy portcullis grunting upwards. Most of the surviving soldiers were trying to surrender now, but the mob seethed around them, implacable. Castus saw a woman – the black-haired prostitute Ofilia – lashing a kneeling soldier over the head with a heavy stick.
‘Spare them if they surrender!’ he cried. He turned and grabbed somebody by the shoulder, surprised to find it was a boy of about thirteen. ‘Get down to the tunnel,’ he told the boy, ‘and make sure somebody opens the outer gates, as soon as the portcullis is raised. Understand?’
The boy nodded and darted away down the stairs.
A shriek came from overhead, then a clatter. A gang of civilians had pushed up the next flight to the upper chamber and the ramparts; as they fell back Castus saw their leader speared and bleeding. They took him by the ankles and dragged him down, his skull knocking on the steps.
