Battle for Rome

by Ian Ross

  Chapter XXIV

  In the grey of dawn the Flaminian Gate loomed huge and dark over the road, the single arch closed and barred, lamps flickering in the two tiers of slot windows overhead. The sky was already bright, outlining the crenellations of the ramparts, and when Castus glanced up he saw the spearpoints and helmets of the sentries on the wall walks. He turned in the saddle and glanced back at the six men who had escorted him down the long straight street from the centre of the city to the walls: mounted troopers of the Horse Guards, wrapped in their cloaks against the morning’s chill. His own mount was a pony, a bristly and intractable beast; compared to the fine mounts of the escorts, he felt as though he was riding a mule. But he knew he was lucky to be alive at all.

  ‘If it were up to me,’ Merops said, leaning from his carriage, ‘you would not be permitted to leave like this. If it were up to me you would not be permitted to live. But the Augustus has spoken. So – return to your Gallic pretender and his army. Inform them of the clemency of the emperor Maxentius, of his mercy, the invincible strength of his army, the impregnable defences of his city. I trust we will not meet again!’

  ‘Likewise,’ Castus said. But the word was gall in his mouth, his whole body creased and bitter with defeat. How could survival and liberation feel so much like failure?

  The gates swung open, iron hinges wailing, and the barred portcullis grunted upwards. Castus dug in his heels, and the little pony trotted forward into the mouth of the arch. For a moment the sound of the hoofbeats echoed under the stone vault, then Castus was out again and the sun was in his eyes, the road stretching long and straight ahead of him across the flat land towards the belt of trees on the far horizon. He heard the creak and boom of the closing gates, the heavy rattle and clash of the portcullis, and Rome was behind him.

  For several hundred jogging paces he dared not look back, expecting at any moment the snap of a ballista and a bolt whining over his head to hurry him on his way. None came, and when he did at last turn and stare back at the walls and gate he saw nobody watching him, nobody following. The early sun slanted across the tops of the ramparts, illuminating the massive brickwork of the walls and the twin drum towers that flanked the gates on the northern side. There was a damp autumnal feel in the air.

  Riding onwards, he followed the straight road between clusters of old tombs half-obscured by undergrowth, ruined walls of old buildings, copses of trees. He could feel the object that Nigrinus had given him pressed tight against his side – he had concealed it inside his tunic, in case he was searched before leaving the city. In his saddlebag, along with the hardtack and cheese he had been given for his journey, was a more ordinary message, a safe conduct issued in the name of Maxentius Augustus, giving him leave to pass through the guarded strongpoints on the road. This was the Flaminian Way, the route to the north, and Castus knew that all he had to do was follow it and he would meet Constantine’s advancing army. Either that, or come upon the scene of their defeat, somewhere in the distant hills that smoked across the horizon.

  This would be the third time, Castus thought grimly, that he had returned alone from a mission. The first had been in Britain, when the Picts had wiped out his century and only he had staggered back from captivity. Again, last winter, he alone had returned of the despatch party sent to the court of Licinius. Did the gods love him, or did they just want to humiliate him? Bleakly, Castus wondered what his reception might be, if he managed to reach Constantine’s army. He had Nigrinus’s ‘report’, peculiar object though it was, but he had lost both the men he had taken with him. Pudentianus was dead and he himself had been captured by the enemy and displayed like a trophy at the games. It would not be an honourable return. But then he thought of Lepidus, the man who had sent killers after them, and who had surely betrayed their mission. The man who had seduced his wife. At least the thought of finding Lepidus and making him pay fired Castus’s blood – but he had no more than his own word as evidence against the man.

  The straight stretch of road ended at the river, the yellow Tiber curving between meadows and thickets of willow. A stone bridge spanned the river, and a detachment of guards was posted upon it. The optio in command scanned Castus’s safe conduct without great interest – he gave the impression that he could not read, but recognised the imperial seal – before waving him on. As he rode across the bridge Castus glanced to his right and saw the river rushing from the arches beneath him. On the far side the ground rose, big bluffs of red rock jutting up, and the road turned sharply to follow the riverbank. A bottleneck, Castus thought, gazing over his shoulder with an instinctive tactical appraisal. He could see the soldiers on the bridge watching him.

  Beyond the bluffs the road curved again, before heading straight across an open expanse of meadowland enclosed by a wide bend in the river. There were still a few tombs along the verges, massive old things encrusted with vegetation, one of them almost the size of a fortress tower. To the left, away from the river, the high ground dropped in a steep escarpment that edged the plain. Castus slowed, glancing around at the land in the low sun and the lingering vapour of early river mist. The place was a natural killing field. If I was going to trap an army marching on Rome, he thought, I’d do it here. He felt a slight shiver up his back, a breath of presentiment. Then he kicked at the pony and rode on.

  All morning he continued northwards along the Flaminian Way. The road ran into hilly country, with the river coiling in its green valley away to the right. On the rolling summits pines stood proud against the sky, lifting fleecy dark heads on slender trunks. The only traffic on the road was heading south: heavy bullock carts laden with animal feed, tanned hides, vegetables and grain. Once Castus passed a line of soldiers tramping back towards the city, ragged exhausted-looking spearmen who marched by with barely a glance at him. He rode on, counting the milestones as he passed.

  At the thirteenth stone he paused, dismounting to eat and swig water from his flask. His thighs and buttocks ached from the saddle, and he left the pony cropping grass while he paced up and down, flexing his legs. The road here had climbed to a hilltop, and he had a long view in all directions, the countryside hazy in the sunlight. To the north an isolated ridge rose steep and massive, crested with bare rocky peaks and fringed with dense woodland. The river lay on the far side, and beyond it Castus could see the blueish line of the mountains, the Apennines that ran down the spine of Italy.

  Then he turned to look southwards, and saw the group of riders far away on the distant road, coming in his direction.

  Eight of them, their horses moving at a rapid trot. They were still a mile or two distant, but as Castus shaded his eyes and peered into the sun he could make out the spears and javelins the riders carried. He had no weapon, not even an eating knife, and the riders were moving with a sense of purpose.

  Back in the saddle, he hauled the pony away from the grassy verge and set it cantering over the brow of the hill and down the far slope. Open country on either side of the road here, fields and scattered copses of small trees, not even a farmhouse that might give him some cover or concealment. For another couple of miles he kept up the pace, on across the valley and up the far slope as the road climbed again. His legs were burning, and a tide of sweat was running down his spine. At any moment he expected the first shout behind him, or the thunder of hooves on the road. All he could hear was the pony’s maddeningly slow thud, the clink of the bridle as the animal tossed its head and the water slopping in the flask tied to the saddle horn.

  From the top of the next hill Castus could see the wooded broken country off to the right, stretching away towards the flanks of the big rocky ridge. A glance back, and he saw the eight riders closing the distance fast. Setting his teeth, he urged the pony on into a gallop, down the slope on the far side of the hill. The animal was labouring under his weight, blowing hard, and he was bouncing in the saddle as he rode. Up ahead of him, Castus could see a solitary rider on a mule; the man paused and turned to stare back at him.

  As the g
round levelled Castus hauled on the reins, and the pony jolted and plunged to the right, off the road and across the dry ditch into the scrub on the far side. Come on, he hissed through his teeth, kicking with his heels. Come on, move… His breath was hot in the back of his throat. When he looked up he could see the trees ahead, but he had misjudged the distance: he would never reach them before the riders crested the hill behind him. Cursing, he bent low over the saddle horns and slapped at the animal’s flanks with the reins, willing it to speed. He had a good idea now who was pursuing him so intently.

  Halfway to the trees Castus let out a cry of triumph: the gully of a stream bed crossed the open ground ahead of him, thick green foliage rising from its banks. If he could reach it before he was spotted from the road he could hide it there… But as he risked a glance back he saw the eight riders silhouetted on the hilltop. He heard one of them shout, and then all eight dropped into a gallop down the slope after him, their cloaks billowing out behind them.

  Into the stream bed, leaves and spiny branches whipping around him, Castus turned the pony and galloped through the shallow water and up the bank. No chance to hide now; the stream would slow his pursuers, but not for long. As he came out of the bushes on the far side he could see them fanning out along the brink of the gully, urging their horses down after him.

  A last sweating gallop and he was into the trees, crouching low over the pony’s mane. Undergrowth crashed around the animal’s legs, but the ground was uneven here, rutted and steep. The trees were not as dense as they had appeared from the road either: it was a network of copses and thorny hedges, separated by patches of scrubby open ground. But Castus could see the ground rising ahead of him, the trees stacked more thickly. If he could get up between them, he might stand a chance of escape.

  Then the trees fell away on either side and he was on the lip of a grassy dell. The pony shied, snorting, and plunged down the dip. Castus was thrown forward in the saddle, and he had only just regained his seat when the animal gave a sudden jolt. Twisting, Castus had time to see the shaft of a javelin jutting from its haunch before the pony staggered and threw him from the saddle as it went down. For a heartbeat he felt himself flung, helpless, in the air; then he hit the ground with his shoulder and slammed down onto his back with a punch that burst the air from his body.

  For a moment he lay still, a wave of tranquillity washing over him. It was a relief not be jolting around in the saddle, a relief to lie on a bed of soft decaying leaves, staring up at the trees. Then the pain ripped through him and he cried out, baring his teeth. Somehow he had cut his forehead, and there was blood in his eye. He worried that his shoulder was broken. Move, he told himself, get up and run… He screwed his eyes shut, sucked in a breath, and tried to roll onto his side.

  A studded boot came down on his chest, pressing him to the ground; then he felt the sharp iron point of a spear against his neck. He opened his eyes and saw the figure standing over him, the rusty red beard and the shining skull.

  ‘Looks like we’ve run you to ground, bastard,’ Sergianus said.

  Two of them grabbed his arms, hauling him up and dragging him, a dead weight between them. Castus struggled to focus his mind, to fight against them, but he was still stunned. At least, he thought, none of his bones were broken. He kicked at the ground, and one of the men let out a high, whinnying laugh.

  At the far side of the dell was a fallen tree, crusty with moss, and they hurled him down against it. All eight of the men, Castus now saw, were wearing military belts and tunics under their cloaks. Praetorians, although he had guessed that already. One of them, a big man almost as brawny as Castus himself, had drawn his long, broad-bladed spatha and was swinging it in the air, the metal singing. Another was gathering sticks; a fire-pot smoked on the ground beside the heaped kindling.

  ‘Your emperor let me go free,’ Castus managed to say. He knew it would do no good. The whinnying man laughed again. ‘I have a safe conduct…’

  ‘The emperor Maxentius is a merciful man,’ Sergianus said. ‘But we are not. You killed our brother Mikkalus, knifed him in a dirty alley, and we reckon you haven’t paid the price for that yet.’

  Castus bit down on his words; there was no point trying to speak now. He flexed his arms, but the two men on either side were gripping him tightly. He felt their calloused hands, smelled their sweat and their stale breath.

  ‘However,’ Sergianus went on, ‘as you say, the emperor promised to let you live, and return to your army. We are loyal soldiers of the emperor, and so cannot disobey him… But first we want to make sure that you can’t bear arms against us again…’

  One of the soldiers had Castus in a grappling headlock, holding his left arm and torso pinned against the fallen tree. The other man, the one with the whinnying laugh, seized his right arm and dragged it out straight. The swordsman moved closer, his blade flashing in the sunlight.

  ‘No!’ Castus cried. Horror lanced through him. He realised now what they were going to do. Blood was beating fast in his neck.

  Sergianus was grinning, his teeth glinting through his beard. ‘Don’t struggle,’ he said. ‘My friend here might miss and give you a cut on the head! You’d look even uglier without an ear. Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be going back to your army all right, just as the emperor promised. But without your hands! Let’s see you saluting your beloved Constantine with a pair of stumps…’

  The swordsman lifted his blade, and the whinnying soldier gripped Castus’s forearm tightly, holding the hand stretched out. Castus closed his fingers into a fist, heaving against the man gripping his neck. His legs were kicking, heels beating against the turf, and the soldier was laughing breathily in his ear. On his exposed wrist, Castus noticed the leather thong with the bright blue bead that Ganna had given him shining in the sunlight. If he ever needed protection, it was now; but already it was too late.

  He closed his eyes, raging despair filling his body as he waited for the whip of the descending blade and the shock of blinding pain. To be caught like this, after so many escapes. So many glances at death. It was absurd, hilarious – he felt nervous laughter heaving in his chest, punching at the back of his throat.

  A sharp crack, and Castus opened his eyes to see the big swordsman sway and reel, his eyes rolling upwards and blood bursting from his nose. Then his legs folded beneath him and he toppled forward. The sword fell from his grip and jabbed into the turf, stuck upright.

  The soldier holding Castus by the wrist had flinched, his grip slackening; Castus wrenched his arm free and swung his fist, cracking it into the face of the man pinning him down. He felt the man’s nose break, and wrestled him aside. Then he flung out his arm again and seized the hilt of the sword. Twisting, he stabbed backwards and drove the blade between the ribs of the soldier with the whinnying laugh. Blood spattered across him as he pushed himself to his feet.

  Five men standing; the soldier next to him still on the ground, clasping his broken nose. Another slingstone arced from the trees and struck the man beside Sergianus on the leg; he yelped and dropped to one knee. Castus got the sword in a two-handed grip and stabbed downwards, killing the soldier on the ground. Then he vaulted the fallen log and started running for the trees. A javelin flew past his shoulder.

  He could hear the confused fury of the men behind him. One of them screamed as another slingstone found its mark. Powered by the wild energy of escape, Castus scaled the slope and threw himself forward between the trees. They were coming after him now, and they had spears and javelins, but he had a good lead on them and he was charging, leaping through the thorn thickets, slamming the undergrowth aside as the forest closed around him and the sounds of pursuit died away.

  Castus ran until he could run no more, then he hurled his back against a tree and stood with the sword in his hand, breathing like an ox, waiting. Thorns had scratched his face and hands, and his shoulder and ribs ached from his fall from the horse, but he was alive, the blood racing in his body. Slowly he shortened his breath, listening to the
sounds of the forest around him. He had no idea how far he had run, and it was dark here, the dense leaves obscuring the sky.

  A man stepped from the bushes ahead of him, and Castus tensed. He crouched against the tree, sword levelled, as the man moved closer. Then he grinned.

  ‘You lost your mule.’

  He saw Felix shrug, his face creasing into a rueful smile. ‘It was borrowed anyway.’

  *

  ‘So did the notary play us false, or did he not?’ Felix said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Both, I think,’ Castus told him. They were sitting beside a tiny flickering fire, in a clearing high on the steep side of the rocky ridge Castus had seen from the road. Beyond the reach of the fire’s fitful glow the night was solid black, the forest silent. Felix was skinning and gutting a hare he had killed with his sling a few hours earlier. Castus watched the man’s big corded hands working with the knife and the blood streaking his fingers.

  ‘He knew the enemy were closing in on us, I think,’ he went on. ‘So he pretended to go over to them, to buy himself time to speak to the senators.’

  ‘What about the young lad, Pudentianus?’

  ‘A sacrifice. Nigrinus hated him anyway, but his death would have shown the senators what they’re up against, I suppose. In case they needed reminding. Anyway, the notary’s got in with the tyrant’s people now, working his usual devious tricks.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Felix said. There was no apparent anger in his voice, but Castus could tell the word was deeply felt. ‘If I see the whore again, I’ll kill him.’

  Castus just grunted, nodding. Felix had already told him, haltingly and in no great detail, about his own flight from the ambush. He had concealed himself in the city, returning to the places he had known as a youth – the slums and the brothels of the Subura district – then slipped out from the southern gate with a party of travelling musicians bound for Capua. One of the musicians would be missing his mule. But Felix had seen nothing of Diogenes during his time in the city’s more infamous quarters.