‘What was that?’ Brinno asked as Castus returned along the portico.
‘Nothing,’ Castus said. ‘Nothing at all.’
Several times that afternoon and evening Castus resolved to forget the whole thing; it was some trick to mock him, or a mistake. But the goad of curiosity drove him. With the emperor and most of his court away on the expedition to Britain, the chambers of the palace felt unnaturally quiet and empty. Only the occasional slave appeared, sweeping the summer dust from the porticos and mopping the mosaic pavements in the great echoing audience halls.
Castus was on duty for the first watch that night, but it was an easy matter to slip away from the precincts of the Protectores after the sentries changed. The two men standing at the courtyard gate just gave him a knowing smile and a nod when he called out the watchword, assuming he was making a private visit to one of the city brothels. He wore his old buff-brown military cloak, with a plain red tunic and round cap; his baldric he had shortened so that his sword hung high on his left, where it would be concealed by the cloak; Serapion’s instructions had not specified that he was to come to the meeting armed, but he felt unprepared without a weapon. As he paced down the paved alleyway that led to the stable gate, Castus fought down a rising wave of apprehension. He was not sure what he expected of the night ahead, and felt uncomfortably as if he had slipped into a dream from which he might awake suddenly, disorientated.
13
The night was warm, the air clammy on his skin. Just outside the arched portal of the stable gate, a covered two-wheeled carriage stood in the shadow of the palace wall. Light flared as he approached, and Castus saw the carriage driver lift a burning torch above his head. His hand moved beneath his cloak, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword.
‘I thought you’d abandoned me,’ she said, drawing the curtain aside from the carriage door.
Castus shaded his eyes from the torchlight. ‘I came as soon as I could.’ He passed her the slip of perfumed cloth that Serapion had given him, then clambered in beside her. He had not travelled in a carriage before; the chassis rocked beneath his weight and he was thrown immediately off balance, almost falling onto Sabina. He caught himself on the doorpost and lowered himself down to sit beside her on the bench seat. It was narrow; their bodies were pressed close together. Sabina too was plainly dressed tonight, Castus noticed, in a simple dark stola and shawl.
She called to the driver and pulled the curtain across, and at once the vehicle lurched into motion. Castus twisted to glance back through the latticed rear window, and saw the arch of the stable gate vanish into the night.
‘Now maybe you can tell me where we’re going?’ Castus said. He was crushed into the corner of the seat, trying to preserve at least some distance from the woman beside him, although she appeared not to mind the proximity.
‘Not just yet,’ she said quietly, and he sensed her smile in the dark. The carriage wheels jolted over the paving of the street. ‘This is one advantage of living in the provinces,’ Sabina said. ‘In Rome only Vestal Virgins are allowed to travel by carriage. Everyone else must use a litter… But for our purposes this is far more convenient.’
Castus was not sure. The carriage swung from side to side as it moved, pitching him against Sabina, and his sword was digging into his side. He lifted the swinging curtain and saw the dark porticos that lined the streets of the city flashing past. The carriage swung around a corner, passing a fountain carved in the shape of a lion’s head.
‘Are you easily scared?” Sabina asked, almost whispering. Castus had to lean closer to hear her above the noise of the wheels.
‘Depends. Of what?’
‘Oh, of the dark. Of spirits, perhaps. The world of the dead.’
‘Isn’t everyone scared of that?’
‘Maybe. You seem to me less easily frightened than most men. Serapion, for example, would not accompany me tonight.’
‘Serapion’s a eunuch.’
‘Indeed,’ she said. The carriage made another turn, and Castus saw that they were passing the big grain warehouses down by the river. ‘We’re taking a rather circuitous route,’ Sabina told him.
They slowed as they approached the small gate that led out through the wall to the river meadows. Torchlight on the cobbles outside, and the voices of soldiers. Castus kept quiet, barely breathing; wherever this strange journey was leading, he did not want anyone identifying him. But the driver spoke only briefly to the soldiers at the gate, then Castus heard the flick of his goad and the jingle of the horse trappings, and the carriage was moving again, down the slope through the gate and out of the city. A damp warm breeze swept in beneath the curtain, and the scent of the river mingled with Sabina’s perfume.
Another wide turn, but the darkness outside was total and Castus had lost his bearings. Close beside him he could feel Sabina tensing, her body drawing tight with nerves. They were moving along a narrow dirt track now.
‘Whatever happens tonight,’ she said, ‘you must promise to do exactly what I say. Will you do that?’
‘Domina, how can I promise when I don’t know what we’re doing?’
‘Are you afraid of doing things that are wrong? Things that are illegal?’
Castus shoved himself back from her. ‘What sort of things?’ he said warily. ‘I would do nothing dishonourable… not through choice anyway.’
The carriage slowed suddenly, then came to a halt.
‘Quiet now,’ Sabina said. ‘I’ll tell you everything soon enough.’
After the cool breeze of motion the night seemed even warmer. Castus helped Sabina down from the carriage, then he turned and drew a sharp breath. All around him in the moonlight, stretching away into darkness, broken shapes rose up from the tangled grass. Some were the size of houses, others mere slabs of masonry.
‘This is the old necropolis,’ he said. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he could make out gaping empty doorways, the shapes of mouldings, statues and portrait busts mossy and weathered into indistinction.
Sabina was already leading him away from the carriage, along a path roughly traced between the tombs. There were torches moving in the near distance, little points of weaving light, and Sabina seemed to be heading in their direction. Castus paced after her, feeling the dread crawling up his spine. The vast tangled necropolis seemed to breathe a foul black air. He could almost taste it in his mouth, and feel the cold touch of the dead upon his skin.
‘You are frightened, aren’t you?’ Sabina said, drawing close to him. She placed her palm upon his chest, as if to steady his heart.
‘And you’re not?’ he asked her.
She laughed quietly. ‘Of course I am. That’s why you’re here.’
They moved slowly, stepping over fallen stones in the grass. The tombs made fantastical shapes in the moonlight: some rose into tall spires or pyramids, while others were built low and square like houses, their faces thick with crumbling stucco. Every city had its necropolis outside the gates, but this one was older and grander than most. The tombs must be hundreds of years old, Castus guessed; some still had the great slabs blocking the doors, but most had been stripped a long time ago. Everywhere Castus saw faces: the empty eyes of the dead staring back at him from oblivion. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword; not, he thought, that a sword would do much good against a ghost or a demon. But not all the eyes in the darkness were dead stone: there were animals moving in the undergrowth, and perhaps men too. Cemeteries had long been haunts of brigands and thieves.
Sabina paused at the corner of one large structure. She pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Castus leaned against the wall beside her. ‘So,’ he said, trying to keep the nervous irritation from his voice. ‘Tell me what we’re doing here.’