by Ian Ross
‘Why haven’t you acted to stop this?’ he said, lowering his voice. He knew well that inaction could be as treacherous as outright treason.
‘Lepidus is still my brother!’ the senator declared, wide-eyed. He glanced nervously at the sponge-stick lying on the floor. ‘It would be impious to turn against my own blood.’
Castus stared at him, disgusted. He saw it all clearly now. Nothing mattered to these men but the fortunes of their own families, their own wealth and prestige. He remembered what Pudentianus had said back in the Gardens of Sallust. Winners and losers. It was all just a game.
‘But now you’ve… extracted the information under duress,’ Latronianus said, with a strained grin, ‘you might perhaps act on it. You must understand that we of the Senate could hardly support your man while there is the possibility of something untoward happening! The tyrant has seen off two invading armies already, and those foolish enough to back his opponents openly have paid the price.’
But Castus was already backing towards the door. Clearly it was vital now that he return to the army as soon as possible, and report what he had heard to Constantine’s officers. Every further day’s delay could give Lepidus the chance to set his plan in motion.
‘One more thing,’ the senator said, slumping back against the marble seat. He drew a long breath, composing himself. ‘Your mission has been compromised, I believe. I don’t know how, but the tyrant’s spies already know of your presence in the city. You and your friends would be advised to get out of Rome while you still can.’
*
By the time Castus returned to the vestibule, Nigrinus and Pudentianus were facing each other, only a head’s distance between them. The notary had pulled on his travelling cloak, but the young nobleman was still dressed only in his dining robes.
‘The meeting is clearly over,’ Nigrinus said through thin lips, ‘and you are coming with us!’
‘You don’t give me orders!’ Pudentianus hissed back. ‘I brought you here, didn’t I? Now I say I will remain. It would be discourteous to leave!’
‘We must return to your house, as we have things to discuss…’
‘Silence,’ Castus said abruptly, pushing his way between them. ‘The notary’s right. We leave as we arrived, together. We go now.’
Pudentianus glared at him, and for a moment seemed inclined to protest further. Then he noticed the commanding urgency in Castus’s eyes. He snatched his cloak from the slave beside him and marched angrily towards the stairs.
Outside, the night was clear, the moonlight turning the narrow streets into a collage of angled shadows, and the party moved quickly. Slaves went ahead of them with burning torches. Pudentianus had withdrawn into sullen silence, and rode with the curtains of his litter pulled closed and his slave, the pockmarked Naso, marching beside it as if to deter anyone bothering him further.
‘You did well back there,’ Nigrinus said, sliding into step beside Castus.
‘It won’t do any good,’ Castus grunted in reply. He realised after he had spoken that he had never heard the notary compliment him before. Or compliment anybody, for that matter.
‘Oh, I’m not so sure,’ Nigrinus said. ‘Sometimes people need further encouragement than mere words.’
Castus glanced at him, but the notary was looking more than usually blank, his face in the moonlight a pale expressionless bar. He had been intending to tell Nigrinus what he had learned, but something in his attitude now made Castus uncertain. The brief sense of trust that he had developed for the man was evaporating once more. Shaking his head, he quickened his pace, the words of Latronianus’s warning still fresh in his mind. Nearing the front of the group, he joined Felix and Diogenes, just behind the torchbearers. The noise of their footsteps rattled down the narrow cobbled lane, and somewhere close by a dog howled.
Across the back of the Esquiline Hill, their route took them through the twisting alleys behind the Porticus of Livia. There were big apartment buildings looming against the sky now; one of them was half-covered with a ragged lattice of wooden scaffolding, intricate in the light of the moon. Up ahead, the street widened slightly where two branching alleys converged.
Castus felt that warm breath up the back of his neck again, this time a certain presentiment of danger. Something was moving in the shadows of the alleyway. He raised his hand, trying to block the glare of the torch in front of him; he had just enough time to think that he should have positioned himself ahead of the torchbearers…
‘Halt! In the name of Maxentius Augustus!’
Suddenly the darkness was rushing at them. The two slaves threw down their torches and bolted, and in the spill of flame Castus saw the glint of spears, the shapes of hooded men closing in from all sides.
‘Arm yourselves!’ he cried, and as his command burst back off the buildings around him he heard the shouts, the crash of the litter dropping to the cobbles, a man’s scream. He was fumbling at his tunic, trying to draw his weapon free; a curse, and he grasped the fabric of his collar and ripped it down across his chest. Weapon in hand, he turned to look back, and what he saw drove a grunt of shock from his body.
Nigrinus had stepped away from the litter, his mouth working as he called a command to the men closing in from the alleys. He raised his hand and pointed.
Pudentianus was clambering up from the litter, his voice high and strained. ‘What are you doing? This is a mistake! Let us pass!’
His slave, Naso, had snatched up a fallen torch and was brandishing it before him, scattering sparks. One of the surrounding men threw back his cloak, stepped up to him and then smashed the slave across the face with the flat of his sword. Naso dropped, the torch falling from his hand. Castus saw the coarse red beard, the snarl; then Sergianus drew back his arm and struck again, punching his blade through the throat of the young nobleman.
Pudentianus died without a sound, slumping back against the litter. The other slaves bringing up the rear just stood and stared, paralysed by terror.
It had all happened in three heartbeats, and for that brief time Castus too had been locked rigid with surprise. Beside him, Felix had his short military dagger held in a low grip as he crouched, more like a street-fighter than a soldier. Diogenes too was armed, but clearly confused and disorientated. Then Sergianus dragged his blade from the young man’s neck, and the distinct wet suck and hiss of it jerked Castus back into motion.
‘Let’s go, now,’ he roared. ‘After me!’
Head down, he charged towards the mouth of the nearest alley, scooping one of the smouldering torches from the ground as he ran. He whirled the brand, and the pitch-soaked rags trailed smoke and then burst into flame. No way of telling how many stood against them; six or sixty, the odds were bad. At his heels he could hear Felix and Diogenes, both of them yelling; then he slammed into a pair of figures in the darkness. He knocked aside a jabbing spear with the torch, then plunged the burning ember at a man’s face. Lashing with the sword, he drove the other man back; the figure stumbled and tripped, then Felix was leaping over him with a dagger bared in his fist.
Sheer brutal impetus carried them through the first line of the cordon, but there were more men beyond, faces stretched in angry screams, blades wheeling from the darkness. Castus stabbed and swung, barely conscious of what he was doing, the noise of his own voice ringing back at him from the walls on either side. Rage propelled him now; he slammed one man aside with his shoulder, slashed another down with a backhand blow. Somewhere he was cut, bleeding, but the last of the men blocking his way was falling back, terrified, and Castus was through and running.
The batter of hooves on cobbles filled the street. Gods, they’ve sent cavalry after us. The torch was a hacked stump in his hand, and Castus had no idea of where he was or which direction he was running. Shards of moonlight cut the alley, a flung javelin jarred sparks off the wall, then Castus emerged into a courtyard between tall buildings and saw the mounted men ahead of him, sealing the exit to the next street.
‘Dominus, here!�
� Felix was pulling at his arm and pointing upwards. Scaffolding climbed the side of the building: a mass of timbers lashed together, ladders and platforms rising into the moonlight. Felix had already leaped at the lowest spars and was scrambling upwards, with Diogenes just behind.
Ladders, Castus thought. How I hate ladders. The horsemen were urging their mounts forward down the alley now, into the courtyard. Armed foot soldiers rushed from the opposite side. Castus drew a long breath, stuck his sword through his belt, then ran at the scaffolding and began hauling himself up after Felix.
Timbers wailed and groaned under his weight, the whole precarious structure shuddering as he climbed. Men were on the ladders below him, but Castus was clambering between the lashed spars and uprights, gaining distance on them. He heard ropes straining, wood splintering and cracking, and now he could feel the night’s breeze on his back as he climbed above the trench of the alley.
At the bottom, the scaffolding had been sturdy timbers, but as he reached halfway Castus’s hands found only slender poles lashed together. He dragged himself up onto a wooden platform. Felix was just above him, hurling broken bricks down at the Praetorians climbing below. A quick glance down, and Castus felt his stomach dive and his muscles tighten. The narrow alley was flowing with men, alight with torches, and it looked a long way down.
‘In here!’ Diogenes cried, and Castus rolled onto his side on the platform to see the secretary leaning from an open window. Gripping the slender uprights, he dragged himself around until he could clamber in through the gap. Felix was already ahead of him, disappearing into the darkness of the building, but at the window ledge Castus paused and held himself back. The pursuers were coming up quickly behind them, shouting and clattering on the scaffolding.
Sitting on the sill, Castus turned to face the gulf of the street. He braced his arms against the window opening to either side, jammed his boot heels against the uprights of the scaffolding and pushed. Ropes groaned and popped, wood cracked, and then he felt the upper part of the structure begin to sway from the wall of the building. Men were already screaming below him, some of them jumping from the lower levels. Castus stretched his body from the window, his legs driving out hard against the wooden uprights, muscles burning as he heaved. A grating crash from above, a fountain of collapsing bricks and rubble dust, then the creaking structure of the scaffolding pulled away from the building and crashed down into the dark pit of the alley below.
Hands at his shoulders dragged him back through the embrasure of the window. Felix was there, hard determination in his eyes as he pulled Castus to his feet and led him on into the gloom of the building. They were on the third or fourth floor, puddles of lamplight exposing a narrow corridor, walls of cracked plaster, the rail of a stairway beyond. The air was close and thick, smelling of boiled food and latrines. As Castus edged along the corridor a door opened to his left, and in the brief spill of light he saw a fat woman in a grease-stained stola, with two small children peering past her knees. The woman let out a gasp; then the door slammed closed again.
Nearing the stairs, Castus could already hear the noise of the men climbing. Hobnailed boots smashed up the stairwell, and when he glanced over the rail he saw the raised face of Sergianus three flights below him. The Praetorian snarled, then yelled to the men behind him and charged on upwards.
Felix was at the entrance to the next corridor, crouched and ready to move. No sign of Diogenes. Just beyond Felix, in the darkness of an archway, a small girl in a ragged tunic stood with a knuckle pressed to her mouth, staring at the two men.
‘Roof?’ Castus asked the girl, and the word was a hoarse bark.
The girl widened her eyes for a moment, then lifted her hand and pointed. In the shadows at the far side of the stairway, a wooden ladder rose towards a faint rectangle of moonlight.
‘Where’s Diogenes?’ Castus said as he pulled himself up the ladder. Felix shook his head. The Praetorians were charging up the last flight of stairs now.
At the top of the ladder, a narrow wooden hatch gave access to the roof of the building. Castus shoved his way through, dragged Felix after him and pulled up the ladder. Diogenes was beyond their help now; he would do better on his own anyway.
Gulping breath, the two men paused and gazed around them. The roof of the apartment block was flat, with a low coping surrounding it. From the open hatchway came the racket of shouting men, women’s screams, the thunder of pounding feet.
Castus paced towards the edge of the roof, drawing back involuntarily as he neared the brink. The wind caught him, soft and wet, and when he raised his eyes he saw the roofs of the city spreading around him, a terrain of tiles and flat terraces under the moon. Away to the left were the tall arches and domes of one of the big imperial bathhouses. Beyond them, picked out against the dark mass of the city, Castus could see the summit of the Capitoline Hill and the shape of the great temples at its crest.
But none of the surrounding roofs met the building; none were close enough that a man could leap the gap. They were trapped, and the pursuers would take only moments to find another ladder.
‘We could kill them as they come up,’ Felix said, squatting down with the dagger in his hand.
‘We can’t kill the whole Guard,’ Castus replied, his breath heaving. He could feel the blood running down his leg, the pain pulsing up from the gash in his thigh, his bruised chest and arms. For all the time they had been running and climbing he had barely thought about what would happen next. The fierce need to escape had driven him on. But now the truth struck him: he had failed. Pudentianus was dead; Diogenes lost; he and Felix were hunted fugitives in a hostile city. And Nigrinus… Nigrinus had been the betrayer. He felt the hope draining out of him, his confusion turning to futile rage.
Felix got up and took three steps to the edge of the roof, peering down. ‘There’s a way,’ he said. ‘Down there, climbing.’
Castus felt his heart clench in his chest, and his limbs turned cold. ‘No,’ he said.
‘You can’t?’
‘I won’t.’
‘We fight, then.’
Felix snatched up a length of wood and weighed it in his left hand, keeping the dagger in his right. He was still breathing fast, but appeared fearless. Castus’s legs were trembling, the energy of the chase dying out of him. He knew there was no way he could climb down the side of the building. He limbs would freeze, his fingers lock and then fail; he would fall, and take the other man with him.
‘You go – now!’
Felix stared at him, his brow knotting. ‘Dominus?’
‘Move! That’s an order. I shouldn’t have to tell you twice, soldier.’
A heartbeat, then Felix nodded. He dropped the club, clasped the knife between his teeth and was over the edge of building almost before Castus saw him move.
Alone now, Castus stood in the sigh of the wind, sword in hand, waiting as the men in the building below him pushed up through the hatchway and onto the roof. There was a time to fight, he thought. A time when it was possible to win. But not now. No chances remained to him.
As they advanced he peered over his shoulder at the city. At least he had seen Rome. When he looked back there was an arc of men around him, all of them with levelled spears. Sergianus walked from between them.
‘Hello, boys,’ Castus said, and drew one side of his mouth up into a grin as he dropped the sword.
Sergianus kept walking. ‘Got you now, bastard,’ he said. ‘This is for Mikkalus.’
The dead man in the alley, Castus had time to realise. The one who followed me from the baths.
Then Sergianus smashed a fist into the side of his head, and the night whirled around him.
PART FOUR
Chapter XXII
Ariminum, October AD 312
The waves rolled long and flat onto the dun-coloured beach. Further out, the glow of sunset reflected in pale bands across the sea. Just above the last hissing wash of surf the party of ladies and eunuchs picked their way along the sand, while
behind them, on the dunes amid the windblown grasses, stood the line of litters with their hangings streaming in the breeze. Bodyguards lingered discreetly.
‘Which sea is that?’ Fausta said, flinging out an arm to the east.
‘The Adriatic, domina,’ one of the eunuchs replied.
‘And what’s on the far side?’
‘The shore of Dalmatia, domina. Part of Illyricum.’
‘Ah!’ Fausta said. She was still walking. Sabina struggled to keep up with her, but the damp sand was filling the toes of her slippers. She suspected the emperor’s wife only brought her household on these pointless excursions to discomfort them.
‘And Illyricum is part of the domain of Licinius, yes?’ Fausta went on in the same blithe tone. ‘Or is it the other one who controls it – Daia or Daza or whatever he’s called?’
‘Licinius, domina,’ the eunuch said, but Fausta was not listening.
‘So many emperors these days,’ she said, as if to herself. ‘Mind you, I expect there’ll be one less soon, at least!’
Sabina had grown accustomed to the younger woman’s often callous attitudes, but even so she was shocked. Was it her brother’s death that Fausta expected, or that of her husband? She seemed to regard either with complete indifference. Even after all these years in her company, Sabina could not decide whether Fausta was genuinely as heartless as she often appeared, or whether it was an act designed to conceal her fear and insecurity.
Night was gathering over the sea now, the light of sunset fading from the shredded clouds, and the wind was picking up. Fausta stood facing the waves, her silk shawl drawn tight over her mouth. Sabina moved closer to her, until they could speak without being overheard.
‘Is there any news?’
