Swords Around the Throne (41 page)

The two sentries met in the middle of the walkway, and for a few maddening heartbeats they seemed to pause. Castus heard the sounds of their voices, a snatch of laughter. Then they were moving apart again. He waited, counting their steps.

‘
Go!
'

Luciana grabbed his hand again and they ran together, bolting from the shelter and across the strip of dusty open ground to the black shadow of the wall. Castus reached the steps first, climbed the first few and then turned to seize the girl and lift her. Raising her over his head, his muscles burning, he sat her on the walkway and then scrambled up after her as she crossed to the wall parapet.

A quick glance back along the wall: the two sentries were still moving away, oblivious. But the light seemed to have grown suddenly, and the land outside the wall was no longer lost in night's blackness.

Luciana jumped up onto the parapet, sitting between two of the merlons, then slid herself across and dropped her legs down on the far side. Castus took the rope, wrapping the end of it around his waist and uncoiling the rest onto the walkway beneath him. He took the girl by the shoulders.

‘The gods guide you,' he whispered.

As he spoke he realised his mistake, but he saw her smile. She leaned and kissed him quickly on the forehead. Then she dropped, clinging to the edge of the parapet until he pulled the rope taut and took her weight.

He drew in a deep breath and held it, leaning back from the wall, forcing himself to pay the rope out gradually through his palms and not let the girl drop too fast. A rattle of loose stones came from somewhere below, and Castus clenched his teeth tight.

A shout from his left, and the sound of running feet. Castus bunched his shoulders, fighting the urge to let go of the rope. Suddenly he felt it slacken in his grip, and threw himself forward into the embrasure. The ground below the wall was a dense tangle of grey and black, but he caught the darting shadow of the girl as she ran for the open ground, and hurled the rope down after her.

‘Who's there?' came the voice from the walkway. ‘Identify yourself!'

‘
Strength of Hercules!
' Castus said loudly, glad he remembered the night's watchword.

The sentry moved closer, his shield raised and his spear levelled. Castus stood away from the parapet, flicking his cloak back to show the markings on his tunic.

‘Somebody went over the wall?' the sentry said in a thick Spanish accent.

‘Just a girl,' Castus said, forcing himself to grin. ‘I tried to grab her, but she got away...'

The sentry relaxed his guard and grounded his shield with a thud. ‘Slippery as eels, these young ones!' he said, and Castus noticed the gaps in his teeth as he smiled. ‘I guess one of those bastards out there'll be enjoying her before long, eh?'

‘Maybe, brother,' Castus said, and gave an entirely genuine yawn. When he glanced out over the walls he could see no sign of Luciana. Cold remorse plunged through him suddenly: had he sent her out there to her death? Her god would protect her, she had said.
May mine protect her too
.

Stumbling, weary beyond thought, he climbed back up the stepped path towards the palace. No sun yet, only a misty grey half-light, the world still lost in monochrome. As he climbed, Castus pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. He needed to stay awake, stay sharp. Given the choice, he would not return to the palace at all, but he needed to find Brinno and tell him about the plan. Needed, perhaps, to find Nigrinus too; however much he detested the notary and his assistants, he wanted to enlist all the men he could for the following night. But his throat was dry and his body felt racked, and all he wanted to do was lie down for a few hours and rest.

When he reached the top of the path he crouched and dodged to his right, through the pine grove and the dry scrub to the service wing of the palace. Silently he moved across the portico and into the quiet gloom of the kitchen courtyard. Passing through it, he climbed on up the steps; he would find Brinno in his room, then perhaps allow himself a few hours' sleep...

The shout startled him, echoing through the antechamber, and then a flare of lamplight burst whirling spots across his vision. He was turning, already drawing the sword from his scabbard, but strong hands seized his wrists and suddenly there were men all around him rushing from the reeling shadows.

‘We've got him!' somebody cried, shouting into Castus's ear. He was trying to fight but his body was slow with fatigue and everything seemed to be happening very fast. He heard a roar, and realised that it was the sound of his own voice. Twisting, he flexed his right arm and managed to throw off the man who was gripping him on that side; then a fist punched hard into his sternum and drove the air from his lungs.

Cold steel at his throat. Another blade pressing into his back. He was down on his knees, choking breath, with men grappling him on both sides. Blinking, he brought the room back into focus.

Flaccianus was standing before him, with the burly ex-wrestler Glaucus leering over his shoulder. The men around him wore military uniforms and belts.

‘What are you doing?' Castus managed to say. ‘Get Nigrinus... get your master. I need to speak to him.'

‘I'm sure you do,' Flaccianus said with a greasy smile. Then his expression soured. ‘Julius Nigrinus has been arrested for treason against the emperor Maximian. As one of his confederates, you too are accused.'

Castus gaped at him, his brow knitting. Then he began to understand.

‘Personally,' Flaccianus said, stepping closer to breathe into Castus's face, ‘I've had about enough of Nigrinus's treacherous little schemes. As for you...'

He drew his head back, then spat. Castus turned his face away, and felt saliva spray his cheek.

‘Sometimes you just have to choose whose side you're really on, don't you!'

Gripping the bars, Castus hauled himself up to the narrow slot window at the top of the wall and peered out. If he twisted his head against his shoulder he could just make out the line of the sea-wall fortifications, and a narrow strip of rocky shoreline. Gulls were wheeling and screaming, and the sky had an unnatural yellowish tint. He released his grip and let himself drop, landing on his toes.

The noise of the gulls had been tormenting him all day; they sounded so much like human voices crying in agony. Pacing back across the floor he slumped onto the broken dining couch that served as his bed. It was the only piece of furniture in the room. Aside from the couch and a few empty amphorae near the door, the chamber was empty, a bare stone-floored storage room with rough-plastered walls and a heavy wooden door. There was a jug of water and a crust of bread beside the door, a latrine pot in the opposite corner. Castus guessed he was in the basement of the palace, below the kitchens or the baths. The yellow light through the barred window threw distorted stripes on the wall above him.

It must be evening now, he thought. He had been imprisoned for most of a day. At first he had slept, plunging down into unconsciousness, dejected beyond all hope. But he had woken in a fury, jumping up to pound at the door, haul at the window bars, kick and punch at the walls until the plaster fractured to bare brick. It was no use: the door was solid, the walls thick, and the window would barely be wide enough to get his head through, even without the heavy iron bars. Slumped back on the couch, he had clasped his head in his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp in an agony of frustration and remorse. Not only had he allowed himself to be captured, but he had doomed all those who had agreed to help him. Had they already been arrested? Were they too in some prison cell, awaiting death? But he had failed not only the civilians: the troops that Constantine would send to wait outside the gate could easily be deceived by a false signal and lured to a slaughter. Then there was the brave girl that had carried his message: she could be executed as a traitor.

Fighting his way back from despair, Castus forced himself to think clearly. Flaccianus had ordered his capture and confinement. Perhaps it was only because of his meetings with Nigrinus? Perhaps the imperial agent and his new masters had not yet discovered anything more? That at least was a hope. But still, if he remained in this cell the plan had failed before it had even begun.

From outside came a low sustained roll of thunder. The light had faded to a dull brownish orange now, dipping into a stormy autumnal twilight, and soon afterwards the first heavy drops of rain spattered between the window bars. Lightning flashed, splitting the room in sudden illumination. Castus stood and stared up at the window, into the dark rush of the rain. Anger of the gods, he thought, and hunched as a shiver ran through him.

The storm gathered force as night fell, passing right over the city. In his cell Castus lay on the broken couch staring at the low ceiling and counting the spaces between thunder roll and lightning flash. The air felt heavy and damp, charged with fierce energy. Time passed, the storm moved further away but the rain continued, and the steady hiss and splash of the water falling outside the window lulled Castus into a fitful sleep.

He awoke to a rattle from the door and the sound of harsh voices. Lamplight spilled into the room, and he reached for a sword that was not there. Then there were figures in the doorway, a low guttural laugh, and the door thudded closed once more. Castus was on his feet, facing the dark-draped figure that stood just inside the cell door. He could smell the lingering trace of perfume: musk and saffron.

‘Sabina?'

She came towards him, throwing the shawl back from her face, and just then a distant flash of lightning lit the room in harsh blue-white. Castus saw her face thinned by fatigue, the darkness under her eyes. She was plainly dressed, in widow's attire. Then the blackness closed around them again, and she fell into his arms.

‘I bribed the guards to let me come,' she said, quickly and quietly. ‘I gave them an
argenteus
each, and a flask of wine between them.'

‘Good to know how much I'm worth!'

‘No, listen,' she said, pulling back from him slightly. ‘It wasn't just wine in the flask...'

‘Poison?'

‘A sleeping draught, that's all, but a powerful one. Serapion gave it to me. He'll wait until the drug takes effect and then come and unlock the door from the outside.'

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.