by Ian Ross
‘You know he must die,’ Castus said. ‘If we win.’
Fausta just shrugged slightly, and her brief pout made her appear once more the child she had once been. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘All my life I’ve had to accept these things. I’d just rather it was decided… fairly.’
Back at Massilia, Castus had realised that Fausta had made a decision to support her husband over her father. That was where she saw her best interest. But now, he realised, she was undecided. What would she do if her brother was victorious, and her husband was defeated? What future would there be for her then? She still had no child by the emperor; rumour was that Constantine continued to prefer the company of his concubine Minervina to his wife. He could set Fausta aside at any time. If she had chosen to leave matters to the will of the gods, Castus could not blame her.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to speak with you since my father died,’ Fausta said. Castus felt a brief flicker of surprise at her cool candour. He reminded himself that this young woman had never known love, or been loved herself. ‘I understand you played an important part in what happened at Massilia. I should have thanked you for that.’
Castus inclined his head. ‘There’s no need, domina.’
She gave a quick laugh, and her smile had a capricious look. She was lounging on the couch now, no longer so regal. ‘No doubt my husband will be grateful once more if you succeed in your mission to Rome.’
‘The Augustus…’ Castus began, then paused, uncertain how to continue.
Fausta laughed at his discomfort. ‘He’s still very angry with you, yes. He thinks you’re a very insubordinate soldier.’ She widened her eyes a little. ‘If only he knew,’ she said.
Castus felt the heat rush to his face, but Fausta was still smiling. A private, knowing sort of smile. Since entering the room he had been trying not to think about that night in the garden house of the Villa Herculis, the darkened bedchamber where she had played the role of Sabina. But she surely knew he was thinking about it now. For a couple of heartbeats he allowed himself to meet her gaze. The distance between them felt suddenly very slight, but it was an unbridgeable chasm. Memory kindled desire; desire brought shame.
‘Your wife is being foolish,’ Fausta said, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘But perhaps don’t judge her too harshly until you know the truth.’
‘What is the truth?’ Castus said, his voice thick.
‘That’s what you have to discover,’ she told him, with another sly flicker of a smile. ‘Maybe in Rome you’ll find out?’
*
They camped on the beach that evening, in the shelter of a low headland that broke the straight ribbon of the shoreline. The sailors brought the Thetis in under oars, then ran her up onto the beach; as soon as the keel grated onto the sand Castus jumped over the side and waded through the surf. Clumsy on dry land after two days at sea, he stamped up the beach and through the fringe of coarse grass to the pines that covered the flat land inshore. No sign of habitation: this entire coast seemed deserted. No sign of a sail out on the horizon either: war had emptied the sea lanes. Content that their landing had been unobserved, and no concealed enemies lay in wait for them, Castus swung his arm, and the rest of the party came ashore.
The sailors secured the ship with anchors high on the beach, then gathered driftwood and cut branches from the myrtle bushes for a fire. The sun was low over the sea to the west, and evening was gathering beneath the pines. Insects flickered in the warm light as the sailors lashed oars together and covered them with sail canvas to make tents in a clearing between the trees. Pudentianus, the young nobleman, sat on a folding stool on the sand, drinking wine and admiring the last glow of the sun over the sea while his two slaves waited on him.
In the woods above the beach Castus cut two short straight sticks. He handed one to Felix, and they stripped off their tunics and went down onto the sand to practise their armatura drill. It was different fighting without a shield, and without the reach of a spatha, but Castus knew that any fighting they did over the coming month would be like this. When they closed to spar together, both men instinctively shifted into wrestling stances, sword-sticks drawn back to stab, their left hands stretched out to grab and grapple. Felix was much smaller than Castus, but fast and agile, and his unnaturally long arms gave him a killer’s reach. Circling, kicking up sand, they fought until both were breathing hard.
‘A good show!’ Pudentianus cried, as Castus pulled Felix to his feet for the last time. He and his slaves had gathered in a circle with the sailors, as if they were watching a gladiators’ bout. Castus spat in the sand and wiped a forearm across his brow. He had not intended to create a spectacle, but on an open beach there were few places to exercise discreetly. Besides, he thought, perhaps it was better to let the civilians know there were real fighters defending them.
Diogenes passed him a flask of watered vinegar wine, and Castus drank deeply. After so long aboard ship it was good to stretch his muscles and feel his blood flowing. Even the sting of sweat in his cuts was invigorating. Further down the beach the sailors were grilling fresh fish over the charcoal, and the smells of the smoke and the sea mingled with the scent of the pines. Castus breathed it all in, and felt his spirits rise. Just for a moment he allowed himself to imagine Ganna on that beach, with his son in her arms, both of them gazing out over the waves.
‘They tell me you’re a tribune,’ Pudentianus said, appearing beside him. Castus blinked away the brief reverie. He nodded curtly.
‘I’ve never really met any soldiers before,’ the young man said, with the faintest note of apology, ‘so I wasn’t entirely sure.’
He was about eighteen or nineteen, Castus guessed, and his face still had an adolescent look, rather thick-lipped and pimply. Nigrinus had told him that the youth came from one of the most highly placed families in Rome, but Pudentianus had never spoken directly to him before, and seemed to find conversation with his social inferiors difficult. He was looking sideways at Castus now, as if dubious about his status.
‘It’s good to know that a warrior of your experience is accompanying us to Rome,’ he said, with an awkward smile. ‘Although I hope there won’t be any occasion for fighting…!’
‘I hope so too,’ Castus said. If the youth was going to drop the formal address, so would he.
‘Tell me something,’ the youth said, pacing across the sand towards the trees, hands clasped behind his back. ‘What do you make of our friend, the notary?’
Castus realised that he was expected to follow. He lingered a moment, pulled on his tunic, then tied his belt as he strode to catch up with Pudentianus. Nigrinus was still sitting on the sand near the fire, well out of hearing.
‘I mean,’ Pudentianus went on, ‘do you trust him?’
‘I wouldn’t trust him beyond the reach of my arm,’ Castus said in a low tone. ‘But I think he’s on our side, if that’s what you mean.’ Even as he spoke, it occurred to Castus that he was only assuming they were all on the same side.
‘I suppose that’s what I was asking, yes.’ Pudentianus paused, scuffing the sand with his foot. He gazed over at Nigrinus and frowned. ‘It’s just… he seems such a crude sort of person. I wonder why the emperor would trust him with a mission of such delicacy?’
Castus snorted a laugh. ‘He’s delicate enough when he want to be.’ Like a surgeon, he thought, and remembered the torture chamber Nigrinus had shown him in the cellars beneath the city of Arelate. No, he did not trust the notary at all: he had seen and experienced enough of his work over the years.
‘When we reach Rome,’ the youth went on, ‘I’m concerned that the meetings with the aristocracy should be left in my hands. I mean, my father was Consul, and I’m personally acquainted with many of the best people. I… I was on the board of the Centumviral Court last year; I can expect entry into the Senate very soon… But I fear that the notary might wish to take control of things, and his… his more abrasive attitudes might cause offence…’
Castus tightened his lips against a sneer. It was all politics, he thought. This puking lad, who’d spent the last ten days either complaining, sleeping or sick, was making a bid for control, and wanted Castus to back him. Perhaps he had a point – no doubt Nigrinus lacked the charm for diplomacy – but the idea that this boy could do any better was almost laughable. Was that really how things worked in Rome?
‘My only business at the moment is getting you both to the city alive,’ Castus said, stepping closer and speaking quietly. He was a head taller than Pudentianus; the young man nodded quickly, swallowing. ‘Once we’re there,’ Castus went on, ‘you can thrash things out between yourselves.’
He did not rate the young man’s chances if he pitted himself against Nigrinus. Then again, the city was Pudentianus’s home territory. Shaking his head, Castus left him and strode back to the fire, where the sailors had finished preparing the evening meal.
The sun had still not set, but the sea to the west was glowing. Castus stood just above the surf, eating grilled fish and chewy flatbread and washing it down with watered wine. From behind him he could hear Diogenes and the Christian priest, still locked in their intractable debate.
‘…but what about the bodies of those who’ve been cremated, or dismembered in battle? Will they be stuck back together, at this resurrection of yours?’
‘After the Day of Judgement the righteous will take on heavenly bodies, yes – they will be resurrected in the incorrupt flesh, as they were in life, and those bodies will be immaculate…’
‘So how was it that when your Jesus came back to life he still had wounds upon him? Didn’t he tell his followers to stick their fingers in his scars? And he had to eat and drink too – doesn’t it say that in your books? How come he needed earthly nourishment, if he had an immaculate heavenly body? No, this is clearly childish nonsense! Plato, on the other hand—’
‘I’m afraid you are an extremely ignorant man…’
Finishing the last of his meal, Castus paced along the beach. Philosophical debates had always confused him; how could people spend so much time arguing about things they could not see or feel? When he looked out towards the horizon, he saw the sun sinking towards the rim of the sea. That was god, surely. The light of the world. Beyond that light there was nothing. Castus kissed his fingers lightly, then raised his hand in salute to the sun. Sol Invictus. Lord of Daybreak.
The headland above the beach was lit by the evening glow, and Castus had a sudden desire to climb up to the heights and survey the surrounding country. He wished he had done it earlier, but if he hurried he knew he could get up and back before nightfall. Doubling back quickly to the camp, he took the shortsword from his bedroll and threw the baldric around his shoulder. Felix glanced up from his meal and then made to stand; Castus gestured for him to stay where he was.
Moving away from the fire and the voices, he crossed the sand and jogged up the rise through the grass. There was a track between the trees, he noticed, but still no other sign of human life. He started climbing, the slope growing steeper and more rocky as he pushed his way through the dry scrub. Then, before he had expected, he was at the summit of the low headland, clambering through a last screen of tangled bushes and out onto the stony ridge above the sea. The air smelled strongly of thyme, and now he was no longer moving Castus could hear the noise of the insects from the darkening land behind him.
Down on the beach, the camp fire was a glowing ember. Beyond it stretched the pale ribbon of empty sand and the ranked trees, following the shallow curve of the coastline as far as the distant hills. But when Castus glanced down to the other side of the headland, he caught his breath. On the beach about half a mile to the north, another vessel was pulled up on the sand. It was small, with oars piled across the thwarts and a lowered mast, but Castus felt almost sure that it was the same one he had seen in Genua, and in the bay of Luna. The ship with the triangular sail.
It must have crept in along the coast under oars, he realised, screened by the headland. Peering at the distant shape, he could make out one or two figures sitting on the sand beside the beached craft. There had surely been more, to work the oars, but there was no sign of them now. No fire either, or any encampment.
Castus had already reached for the hilt of his sword. He slid the blade free a short way, then tapped it back into the scabbard. Then, slow and smooth, he eased down into a crouch in the bushes; no watchers on the beach would see him silhouetted against the evening sky. Keeping low, he began to edge back through the scrub bushes. Almost at once he paused; now that he was listening more carefully he could clearly make out the sounds of men moving in the near distance. At least six of them, he estimated, and no more than a couple of hundred paces away. The dry bushes and scrub crackled and hissed as they crossed the ridge and descended into the pine woodlands behind the beach, and all the time Castus stayed still, tensed and hardly breathing.
When the last of the men seemed to have passed his position he eased himself back into motion, stepping carefully over the tangled bushes and picking his way down the steep stony track. The sun had long gone now; only a trace of light remained in the western sky, and the hillside was being consumed by the darkness. Insects rustled and rasped on all sides.
By the time Castus had scrambled down to the beach, he estimated that the group of men ahead of him would have almost circled around through the trees behind the camp. Lifting his sword clear of his waist, he started running along the hard wet sand at the edge of the surf. The camp seemed further away than he had anticipated. He could make out the fire, still burning down to embers on the sand, and the dim shapes of the makeshift tents just below the trees. He was running hard, yet trying to conserve his strength: if he could get to the camp in time he could warn Felix and Diogenes, perhaps counter-attack before the newcomers could spring their ambush…
A shout reached him, then a scream from the camp. Castus doubled his stride, a curse bursting from his lips. Swerving up the beach and across the dry sand, he saw the figures running in the trees, one of them outlined briefly against the light of the embers. Smoke swirled, and Pudentianus’s two slaves dashed from the closest tent. Castus could see a body on the ground, the dim shapes of struggling men.
Stooping as he ran, he snatched up the three-pronged fishing spear from beside the fire. The man on the ground was one of the sailors; the combat between the trees was indistinct, frenzied. Castus yelled out a battle roar; his sword was in one hand, the trident in the other. There were pale faces in the darkness, a haze of kicked-up dust, incoherent shouts. Then suddenly the attackers seemed to melt back into the darkness; Castus saw one man turn and flee, his cloak whipping behind him. He canted back the fishing spear, aimed at the fleeing man’s legs, and threw.
The man screamed as the blow knocked him down. ‘Get him!’ Castus shouted. ‘Get him alive!’ He was closing fast, sword in hand; but one of the sailors was faster. Standing over the fallen attacker he raised a club in his fist.
‘They killed Fish-hook!’ the sailor yelled, then smashed the club down on the head of the wounded man with a meaty chopping sound.
Light rushed between the trees, flinging shadows. Diogenes had a flaming torch in each hand, and passed one of them to Pudentianus.
‘Who were they?’ the young nobleman was saying, clearly shaken as he stared into the reeling shadows between the pines.
The sailor stepped back from the body of the fallen man, flinging down his bloodied club as Castus approached. The attacker was quite obviously dead: the harpoon had struck him in the thigh, but the club had crushed the side of his skull.
‘Bring the torch closer,’ Castus said, still heaving breath after his run along the beach. He considered going after the other attackers; but, no, that would be disastrous.
Diogenes stepped up with his torch, and Castus shoved the dead man over onto his back. What was left of his skull was shaved bald. Castus leaned closer, studying the ruined features in the flickering light of the flames. Then he stepped back.
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‘Can you tell who he was?’ Pudentianus said, wincing.
Castus just shook his head. But he had a good idea all the same. He was sure that he had seen this man before, back at Mediolanum, and he had been dressed in a sky-blue tunic.
Chapter XVIII
‘I believe we’re in luck, dominus,’ Diogenes said, emerging from the stairway.
‘Don’t call me that,’ Castus told him.
‘Sorry!’ Diogenes said. Sardinia had declared for Maxentius, and the port of Olbia was enemy territory; they all knew it was important to keep to their assumed roles here. Floorboards creaked as he crossed the room to join Castus by the window. From this vantage point on the upper storey of the harbourside inn, they could see the high curving gooseneck stern of the big ship moored at the far end of the quay.
‘She’s the Fortuna Redux,’ Diogenes said. ‘Left Carthage two days ago. She sails tomorrow for Portus and Rome, and there’s room aboard for passengers.’
Castus nodded in satisfaction. The gods were smiling on them once more, it seemed. They had only arrived at Olbia a day ago, and here already was the means for their onward journey… There was no sign of the ship that had followed them from Genua either; Castus had scoured the stone quays and the wooden jetties, and peered out over the long reach of the harbour, but had seen nothing of that distinctive triangular sail or low hull.
The master of the Thetis had assumed that the men who attacked them on the beach were common pirates, taking advantage of the chaos of war to prey on travellers. A reasonable explanation, although Nigrinus had clearly not been convinced. Castus had said nothing about recognising the dead man. He did not trust the notary enough to share his suspicions, and if Lepidus was behind the attack, Castus would keep the information to himself for now. Surely, he thought, he could not have been the target himself; there had been plenty of opportunity for Lepidus to strike against him in Mediolanum. Which left only the possibility that his rival was intending to destroy the mission, for reasons of his own. Was Lepidus an agent of the enemy, then? Castus remembered Fausta’s parting words. Maybe in Rome you’ll find out…
