And yet here he was, still alive, accompanying the former emperor Maximian southwards to his new home at Arelate. Castus did not bother himself with the reasons behind the move – it was enough for him to be away from the villa, far away from Treveris, the emperor, and the emperor’s wife.
The worst thing about that night, now, was the sourness that remained between himself and Brinno. He had given the young barbarian a suitable story, a suitable lie – an assignation with the wife of a palace official, killers hired by the cuckolded husband – and Brinno had pretended to believe him. But it was clear to Castus that his friend no longer entirely trusted him. Sometimes he caught Brinno watching him with the flicker of a frown, and that pained him even more than the lie.
As he wiped a chunk of bread around the rim of his dish, mopping up the last of the rich meat sauce, Castus wondered if he should have told Brinno the truth from the first. But taking anyone into his secret could be dangerous. Besides, he had no wish to confess his own stupidity.
He lay back on the cushioned couch. Victor was helping himself to more stew, while Sallustius rattled dice in his empty cup. Behind them, across the low wall of the tavern garden, the ground dropped towards the river. The city of Lugdunum spread along the slopes of the valley and across the hilltop, its grid of tile-roofed houses looking placid in the midday sunlight. But between those roofs the streets were in turmoil; Maximian’s household had been accompanied on their trek south by a field force made up of detachments from the Rhine army: four thousand legionaries and support troops under the command of the tribune Gaudentius, appointed dux to guard the western Alpine passes against any invasion from Italy. The troops would be leaving them at Vienne and marching south-east to Cularo; from Vienne onwards Maximian’s military retinue would consist only of the cohort of Praetorians detached to support him, and by the eight Protectores of his bodyguard.
Castus’s gaze wandered, and a movement from the far side of the terrace caught his eye. A young man had entered through the gate from the street, a slave in a plain tunic, passing into the tavern. It took Castus only a moment for the memory to leap into focus: the broad, youthful face, the pug nose. Cinna, was he called, or Petrus? One of Sabina’s personal slaves.
Startled, Castus remained staring at the door of the tavern until the young slave emerged once more, carrying an amphora of wine. He had seen and heard nothing of Domitia Sabina since the incident at the Villa Herculis; he wanted nothing more to do with her. And yet the memory of her stalked him.
‘You’re leaving just when the game’s getting started?’ Sallustius said as Castus rolled to his feet. He shook the dice again and dashed them onto the stone table.
‘Doesn’t want to get beaten!’ Victor said.
‘Got to use the pot,’ Castus told them. The slave with the amphora had left again by the street gate, and Castus forced himself to walk slowly and casually back towards the tavern door. Only when he reached the shade of the portico did he glance back – Brinno was shaking the cup, engrossed in the game. Castus made a quick step to his left, then dodged out through the gate into the street.
There was no sign of the slave, but the narrow lane to the right led uphill into a warren of packed houses. Castus moved quickly in the other direction, and when he reached the next turning he saw the young man walking downhill, towards the river, with the amphora cradled in his arms. Keeping him in sight, Castus unpinned the gold brooch at his shoulder and reversed his cloak, then pinned it again with the patches that identified his rank concealed on the inside. Head down, walking fast, he set off after the slave.
He did not have far to go. Around the next corner the street opened into a small square, and Castus saw carriages drawn up in the shade of a temple wall opposite. The slave – Cinna, or Petrus – approached one of them. Castus only had time to step back into the open doorway of a shop before the carriage door opened and Sabina climbed down into the street.
She appeared unchanged, and her travelling dress was almost identical to what she had been wearing that evening on the banks of the Rhine. Only now, as he stared at her, did Castus realise how much the thought of her had come to obsess him over these last months. He realised too what had drawn him here: anger, a fierce desire for the truth, but yearning too. Peering from the shop doorway, while the shopkeeper ducked and weaved at his elbow, Castus watched Sabina speaking briefly to the carriage driver. Then she set off along the street, stepping carefully across the worn cobbles with four slaves following after her, one carrying the amphora while another held a red linen parasol over her head.
She would not be going far, Castus knew. He had learned enough about the ladies of the aristocracy to realise that they seldom gone any distance on foot, if they could help it. He shrugged off the shopkeeper and marched quickly across the square, past the carriages, after Sabina. A crowd filled the mouth of the street, and he shoved between them. He did not care about trying to conceal himself himself now.
The street was narrow, running between the high walls of public buildings, and Sabina and her party had almost reached the far end before Castus outpaced them. He turned, confronting her. Immediately, all four of the slaves gathered close around their mistress.
Light fell through the parasol, dyeing Sabina’s face, but Castus could see that she was blushing. A shawl of ivory silk draped her head, and she raised the hem to cover her mouth. For a few heartbeats they faced each other in silence while the traffic of the street moved around them.
‘Domina,’ Castus said, and took a step forward. One of the slaves, a thick-set older man, immediately moved to block him.
‘It’s quite all right, Phlegon,’ Sabina said calmly, dropping the shawl and looking at Castus. She had regained her composure now. ‘I do not believe the Protector wishes me harm.’
There was an open gateway in the wall to their left, leading into a courtyard at the rear of one of the public buildings. Sabina made the slightest of gestures towards it. Castus nodded curtly, and walked ahead of her. The slaves followed, and then gathered around the gateway after they had passed through.
Sabina tugged the shawl back over her head; after that first challenging stare she would not look directly at him. Castus stood in the sunlight, pushing his cloak back and hooking his thumbs into his belt. The courtyard was small, deserted, with the curved brick wall of an apse filling half of it.
‘Why are you here?’ Castus said. His voice sounded rough, demanding, but he did not care.
‘We arrived this morning,’ Sabina said, nervously fingering the amber beads of her necklace. ‘Fausta and all her household. We’re to join Maximian at Arelate. He requested that his daughter keep him company, and the emperor had no complaint…’
Castus felt a leaden weight plummet in his gut. Everything that he had been so glad to escape had somehow followed him… He stood with teeth clenched, saying nothing, waiting for her to speak.
‘I never knew,’ Sabina said abruptly, stumbling on the words. ‘I never knew they would try and kill you… I’m sorry.’
‘Then what did you know, domina?’
She stepped closer, and then leaned back against the wall of the apse. Castus could see that she was struggling to maintain an appearance of dignified calm, but her hands were shaking and she clasped them at her waist.