Swords Around the Throne (39 page)

And now, he told himself, I wait. He had brought a chunk of sausage and a flask of watered wine with him, expecting that the night would be long. Squatting against the wall, staring into the darkness at the cell window, he ate and drank and tried not to think about what he was doing.

Fausta's words came back to him.
You must find men who are not afraid of death
. It occurred to him that he had no idea whether the Christian priest was still imprisoned beneath the curia. Perhaps he had been moved to a different cell? Perhaps he had already been executed, or even released? Castus knew almost nothing about the Christian cult either; he had always found the idea of it distasteful. The only Christian he had ever known was the imperial agent, Strabo, who had been murdered by the Picts in Britain. Strabo at least had been a brave man. But there had been plenty of them in the palace at Treveris, and they seemed to spend most of their time muttering prayers and gazing at the ceilings. From what Castus had heard, they denied the existence of the gods, and believed the world was ruled by the ghost of a dead Jew. Surely an insane concept. Until a few years ago the cult had been outlawed; Constantine and Maxentius had recently legalised it, but Maximian had persecuted it savagely in his day. Who could say what the loyalties of these Christians of Massilia might be...?

A pair of soldiers came down the street, swaggering and unsteady, passing a heavy wine jug between them. Their hobnailed boots crunched and grated on the cobbles. One slipped, and the other caught him, barking a laugh. How easy it would be to join them, Castus thought. How easy it would be to forget all this, surrender to fate and let things happen as they would. Let the gods decide.

But then he remembered what Fausta had said about Sabina. Despite his anger at the time, the possibility was dizzying. Could that really happen? He had always regarded Sabina as far above him, both socially and in terms of wealth and expectation. Would she ever consent to be his wife? The idea seemed fantastical, absurd. But so much was absurd now. He shook his head. Pointless to even think about it.

Chewing on the last chunk of the tough sausage, he refocused his eyes on the prison window. He could almost trick himself into thinking that shapes were gathered there in the gloom at the base of the wall. But when he blinked there was nothing. He had been a fool, he told himself. Nobody would come. He was wasting the little precious time that remained.

He had almost slipped into a dispirited doze when a figure stepped past him from the forum colonnade, so close that Castus could smell the vague aroma of grilled fish and damp wool. Jolting back into the corner, out of sight, he watched as a second figure followed, and then a third. All of them were dressed in dark cloaks, pulled up to cover their heads, and one carried a basket. Silently they crossed the narrow street and moved along the curia wall, before sinking to a huddle before the cell window.

For a long time Castus watched them as they crouched, apparently immobile. He tried to stay calm and breathe slowly but his mind was rioting. As he listened, he could make out the sound of a whispered conversation, or perhaps some kind of chant. He concentrated on staying still, not making any noise or motion that would draw their attention. The muscles of his calves ached, and his fists were tightly clenched. At last, when he could hardly bear to wait any longer, the little knot of figures broke apart. The three shapes straightened, and once more ghosted back the way they had come. Castus held his breath as they passed, waited a few heartbeats, then eased himself upright and followed.

It was not difficult to keep to the shadows; the city was closed up after nightfall now, only the military patrols and a few scared citizens out on the streets. Here and there lamps burned in wall niches, casting the brick corners of houses, the carved stone of fountains and pediments, the masonry pillars of doorways into stark relief. It was more difficult to stay silent; the three cloaked figures moved with no sound at all, and Castus was very conscious of the noise of his boots on the cobbles.

Tracing around the margins of the agora, the three figures passed into the grid of narrow streets to the north. They were moving fast, not pausing to speak, and Castus guessed this was a journey they had made several times. Around a corner, down another alley crossed by heavy brick arches: he lost them for a moment but caught the flicker of movement from a gateway in the wall of a looming apartment block. Again he followed, feeling his way in total blackness through a covered passage that stank of drains and old cooking oil, before emerging into an enclosed courtyard.

Lamplight shone faintly from windows high in the surrounding buildings, and the open space between them was criss-crossed with washing lines. Castus stood blinking, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Shapes emerged from the dark: a well with a pump; a colonnade of low brick arches. The sound of somebody weeping came from one of apartments overhead; the barking of a dog and a baby's distant wail carried on the night air. Drawing his cloak tighter around him, Castus peered into the shadows around the margins of the courtyard, alert for any sign of movement. He had lost them, he thought; somehow they had melted into the warren of the city. Then he saw the shape of a cloaked figure pass briefly across a patch of lighted wall, and immediately he was moving again.

A stairway led from the courtyard to the upper storey. Stumbling, reaching out to grab at the wall, Castus took the steps two at a time. He heard the sound of a door closing, the click of the latch. At the top of the steps was a corridor, with a lamp burning in a wall bracket. Marching to the end of the corridor, Castus came to a halt before a heavy wooden door studded with iron nails. He gripped the hilt of his sword and took a deep breath. Then he banged on the wood.

For a while there was no reply. Just as Castus was raising his fist to bang on the door again, he heard the rattle of a chain and the crack of a bolt being drawn back. The door opened a crack. Staring over the chain was an old man with one staring eye and one puckered socket. The single eye narrowed into a squint.

‘The hour is late, soldier,' the old man said. Warm lamplight came from the chamber behind him.

‘Who is it, Polyphemus?' a woman's voice called.

Castus threw back his cloak and drew himself up to his full height.

‘My name is Aurelius Castus,' he said, loud enough for anyone in the next room to hear him. ‘I am a Protector of the Sacred Bodyguard, and I need to talk to you about your priest.'

The single eye blinked, then widened. The door swung closed, and through the heavy studded wood Castus heard voices in rapid debate. Then the chain rattled again, and the door creaked wide open.

‘Welcome,' the doorman said.

He had made a mistake. So he thought as the one-eyed slave led him through the dim passage and into the lighted chambers beyond. Castus had been expecting a cramped apartment, a huddle of desperate-looking conspirators. Instead, he found himself in a suite of high-ceilinged rooms, opening onto a wide portico and a garden courtyard. He had entered through the back door, the slaves' entrance, he realised; this was no humble dwelling, but the residence of a wealthy citizen.

There were about a dozen people gathered in the main chamber, sitting or reclining on dining couches, and Castus stood before them in his parade-ground posture and recited the short speech he had been rehearsing in his mind. As he spoke, stumbling over the words, he scanned the faces of his listeners. One was a heavy-jowled middle-aged woman in a flowing embroidered tunic, another a tall and vigorous-looking man with a balding head and a sombre expression; then there was an older man with a fleecy white beard. These three were richly dressed, the others around them less so, but all appeared to be equals here. When Castus had finished speaking they gazed at him for a moment in silence, then turned to look at each other. This is a mistake, he thought again. I've come to the wrong place. These are the wrong people.

‘You want us to aid you in surrendering our city to a besieging force?' the white-bearded man said at last. ‘To take up arms – with our
followers
, as you put it – against the soldiers of Maximian and help you seize the city gate and hold it until Constantine's troops can enter?'

‘That's right,' Castus said. The burning oil lamps made the room hot. He was perspiring freely. The older man was frowning into his beard, shaking his head.

‘Let us think clearly, Arcadius,' the tall, sombre-faced man said. ‘This is... an unusual situation after all...'

‘We have known worse,' the heavy-jowled lady broke in. ‘The struggles of the rulers of the earth are not our struggles.'

‘Sister, we must listen to what the soldier says,' the tall man insisted. ‘If we do not act, Maximian will win this fight. Our dear Bishop Oresius will be executed, and quite possibly the persecution will begin once more. If there is anything that we can do to avoid that...'

‘But not by force of arms!' the elder man, Arcadius, broke in. ‘That is not our way! Bloodshed is forbidden to us – scripture clearly states this. Did not Our Lord take the sword from Peter in the garden? We fight against the beast through our prayers, not with our hands...'

For a moment it seemed as if everyone was about to speak at once. Castus felt his heart shrinking in his chest. How could he ever have imagined that this plan would work? Now a fourth man was on his feet – Castus noticed the dark cloak piled beside him on the couch.

‘Brothers and sisters!' the new speaker cried. ‘When I spoke with our bishop less than an hour ago, he said that he had received a message from the Lord. He said that God would send us a sign... And now this soldier appears. I ask you, is that not a sign?'

‘A sign from somewhere, Fortunatus,' Arcadius mumbled into his beard. ‘Perhaps not from heaven...'

Sudden uproar, everyone's voice raised. Castus ground his teeth, rocking on his heels. From the corner of his eye he could see through the doors of connecting rooms: figures were moving, other people talking and departing. How many were in this house? For the first time he realised the full danger of his position. It would only take one person to send a message out, and his treason would be reported. At any moment he could hear the hammering on the doors, the tramp of the soldiers forcing their way into the house. But the assembled people seemed oblivious, lost in their debate.

‘Nation must not take up arms against nation!' the white-bearded man was crying, ‘Nor will they train for war!'

‘But think of Gideon, of David – mighty warriors! Were they not loved by God?'

‘As the blessed Cyprianus says, the hand that has held the sword shall not receive communion...!'

‘...But Jesus told his disciples to sell their cloaks and buy swords! Surely it is right to wage war if the ultimate cause is just, brother? Through persecution we have been made strong – why would the Lord give us that strength if we are not to use it?'

‘The Lord gave our rulers the sword to execute his wrath against the wrongdoer!'

‘...But scripture tells us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us, so that we may be children of Our Father in heaven...'

‘QUIET!'

Castus's drill-field bellow instantly silenced the room, echoing through the connecting chambers. The gathering turned to stare at him, open-mouthed. Now that he had their attention, he felt his mouth dry. He had never been accustomed to speaking to civilians, especially in mixed groups. But he had staked everything on this one gamble, and he had only moments to make it work.

‘I remind you of the threat faced by your city,' he said, keeping his tone harsh, commanding. ‘If there's another assault and the troops break through the wall, they will plunder and they will sack. That's the custom of war. But outside the wall is Constantine, the rightful emperor. He has favoured your sect, and ended the persecution against you. Allow him into the city and you limit the violence, and win his gratitude. Allow Maximian to win, and your priest dies.'

He paused a moment to let his words sink in. The people on the couches looked at each other again, pondering, uncertain.

‘I'm not asking you all to take up arms,' Castus went on, trying for a more civil tone. ‘All I need is a crowd, to make a diversion, and a few people willing to lend some muscle. It won't be easy, but with your help we could win. But I need you to be united, and to decide soon.'

Merciful gods
, he thought as he stared back at them. How had he come to stake everything on the goodwill of a bunch of quarrelling religious extremists? The plump lady in the embroidered tunic drew herself up to address him.

‘You cannot give us orders,' she said. ‘This is not your house.'

‘I'm not ordering you, domina...' Castus was trying hard not to grind his teeth in frustration.

‘Brothers and sisters,' the tall, sombre-faced man said, getting to his feet and raising his hands. ‘Authority in our congregation rests entirely with the blessed Bishop Oresius. He alone can decree what we all should do. But surely, in his absence, individuals among us can decide how the spirit guides them?' He shot a glance at the white-bearded man.

‘May I remind you that you are only a deacon, Nazarius,' the plump woman said. ‘Not even one of our Elders. We must summon others of our congregation to discuss this before we make any rash decisions.'

The tall man, Nazarius, nodded and sat down again. Now the assembled people drew together, speaking in hushed voices. An old woman approached Castus and took his arm. She had a kindly face, and a wild straggle of grey hair.

‘Please sit and rest yourself,' she said with a cracked smile, gesturing to a chair beside the wall. ‘The discussion may take some time!'

Castus nodded, mute, and dropped down heavily onto the chair.

‘I am Epaphra,' the old woman said. ‘You must forgive my brethren. Many of us lived through the persecution six years ago. We are not inclined to trust soldiers, or greet them warmly!'