‘I need to speak to the emperor at once,’ he declared.
Castus looked at him, impassive. The man took a step towards the doors of the tablinum; Castus stepped forward too, blocking his way.
‘I told you, I need to speak to the emperor. It’s very important!’
The man appeared nervous, jumpy. His thin top lip quivered as he spoke, and Castus could see his tongue darting inside his mouth.
‘No,’ Castus said. He stood with feet braced, thumbs hooked in his belt.
Angling his body left and right, the man made a show of looking around Castus at the sealed doors. His nostrils flared. He took a quick step, and Castus blocked him again. There was only the breadth of two palms between them.
‘Listen,’ the man hissed, weaving his hands and then knitting his fingers. ‘I have information… for the ears of the Augustus alone! Vital information, concerning the wellbeing of our Sacred Dominus… I can make it worth your while to admit me.’
He was already reaching for his belt pouch. Castus hardened his jaw, placed one hand on the hilt of his sword and leaned in close to the man’s face.
‘I said no.’
‘Oh, yes, you have your duty, don’t you!’ The man’s whisper was harsh, echoing. ‘Easy for you, I suppose, with your big stupid face… I’m telling you the emperor is in danger!’
Castus blinked, uncomfortably reminded of that midnight meeting with the notary back in February. Nearly two months had passed since then, and he had heard nothing more of Nigrinus or his secretive investigations. Could this be a test? He was careful now not to let his interest show.
‘If you want to see him,’ he said, slowly and heavily, ‘you must speak to the Master of Admissions, who will give you an appointment. If he feels it justified.’
‘The Master of Admissions! And how do I know that he isn’t one of the plotters? In fact, how do I know that you aren’t? What’s your name?’
Castus glowered, breathing slowly into the man’s face, saying nothing.
‘Well… well, you can’t force me to leave. I shall wait!’
The man retreated to a carved wooden bench beneath the painting of the battling gods and giants. Castus shrugged. How had the man even got into this part of the palace anyway?
A few moments passed, and then came the sound of footsteps from behind the doors. Castus stepped aside as the bronze rings turned and the doors swung open. First two slaves stepped over the threshold, holding the doors, and then a small boy walked calmly out into the atrium, followed by an old man, his tutor. The boy was about six years old, curly-haired and smartly dressed in an embroidered dark blue tunic and breeches; he had something of his father’s face, but softened by youth and milder blood.
Flavius Crispus was Constantine’s son, by his concubine. Castus knew of the lady too – the domina Julia Minervina was a Greek woman, and she had been with Constantine for over ten years; Sallustius had told him that the emperor still loved her and doted on the child. Since the emperor’s marriage to Maximian’s daughter, Minervina had lived in a house just outside the palace compound, with a covered passage and door leading to the emperor’s own apartments. Already Castus felt he knew more than enough about that.
Looking at the boy now, Castus had a sudden recollection of another child: the son of Cunomagla of the Picts. What would that boy be doing now? At least, Castus thought, he would never have to recite Virgil to his father.
But Crispus walked with a proud step; presumably his father had been pleased. The boy passed through the atrium and out into the portico, slaves all around and his tutor following behind, and the doors of the tablinum swung closed after him. Castus moved to stand in front of the doors, but the small man had already leaped to his feet and darted out after the boy and his party.
The man’s words lingered in Castus’s mind, unsettling him. There was no action he could take, but even so it was his duty to report what had happened. And not, he thought, to Nigrinus either, or his odious assistant. He waited another half an hour, the time lagging. His leg muscles were beginning to ache slightly, and he reminded himself that he had been a much younger man when he had stood sentry watch as a legionary.
Finally he heard steps from the portico, and Brinno entered the atrium. The young barbarian gave a casual salute, and then slapped Castus lightly on the shoulder.
‘Greetings, brother!’ he whispered. ‘Is he still in there?’
‘Yes, but I need to go and see the chief,’ Castus told him, speaking from the corner of his mouth. ‘Can you take the door until I get back?’
Brinno nodded, falling easily into a guard posture.
‘There’s a man roaming about trying to get in there – I’ve sent him away once but he might come back.’
‘Don’t worry about him,’ Brinno said, and lowered his brow.
Afternoon sun threw stripes between the pillars of the colonnade. Castus paced quickly through the light and shade, around the curve of the portico and through the vestibule, saluting the two fellow Protectores who stood sentry there, into the central court. It was quite possible, he knew, that the small man had been a mere fantasist, seeking attention or preferment from the emperor for some concocted tale. But something about the man’s nervous desperation had seemed genuine – he had feared more than just rejection. Perhaps he had even feared for his life? Castus had always been good at reading character from the signs that others inadvertently revealed, but in this case he could not trust his judgement.
Hierocles, Primicerius of Protectores, was a stern and humourless man, once a senior centurion but now carrying rather more fat than muscle, and Castus suspected that his mask of rigid discipline concealed the fear of a faint heart. He found the primericerius in the archive room of his offices, and stood at attention before him as he narrated briefly what had happened in the Atrium of the Giants.
‘Did you take the name of this man, his position?’ Hierocles asked. He had barely glanced up from the codex in his lap.
‘No, dominus!’
The primicerius appeared to consider the matter for a moment. ‘No matter, then,’ he said. ‘I shall pass your information to the relevant officials, and they will investigate. No doubt this man will be traced and questioned appropriately. You may return to your station.’
‘Yes, dominus!’
Castus turned crisply and paced from the room. Out in the portico of the central court again he rubbed a knuckle across his scalp. He had expected no great reaction from his chief, but even so Hierocles’ apparent disinterest was startling. Perhaps, he thought, people frequently brought him this sort of allegation? Perhaps he had been stupid to give it any credence at all?
Heavy with disquiet, Castus retraced his steps through the vestibule and around the curved portico. To his left, between the pillars, the semi-circular garden was green in the spring sunlight, a statue of Triton rising from the pool at its heart, but Castus felt his mood darkening
There was a fountain between the pillars, water gushing from a lead pipe in the mouth of a stone dolphin, and Castus paused to dip his head and take several thirsty gulps. He straightened up, eyes closed, and stretched his back until he felt the cartilage in his neck crack.
‘Ah,’ a voice said sharply. ‘Just what I’m looking for!’
Castus turned quickly, blinking at the figure standing in one of the bands of light between the pillars.
He seemed to have come from nowhere. Of indeterminate age, compactly built like an athlete or a dancer, he was neatly dressed and wore a silver collar. His face had the bland smoothness of a child but his eyes were sharp with wry intelligence. Another eunuch, Castus realised, and thought of Sallustius’s tales of the warm bath, the bench and the pliers. The man bowed slightly, as if remembering his position.