Anger flared in Castus’s head, and his neck tightened. He eased his hand away from his sword, his fists clenching; he could see that Urbicus was trying to provoke him, and several of his men were watching now. Step away, he told himself. Just turn and walk away.
But already the other Praetorians were closing in, trapping Castus between the two stationary wagons. Surely, he thought, they would not try anything here, in broad daylight in a public street? The look of cold determination in Urbicus’s eyes told him otherwise.
‘Those were some of my men you put down,’ the centurion said, ‘back there at the villa. Reckon that’s three deaths you owe me now.’
Urbicus was only two steps away, rolling his shoulders beneath his cloak. Castus felt the energy of violence roaring through his blood. The other man was shorter, but stocky and heavily muscled. And he was wearing armour… Castus watched him, breathing slowly, waiting for him to move. Some of the men between the carts had turned their backs, raising their shields to screen the confrontation from the crowd passing in the street only a few paces away.
Urbicus lunged forward suddenly, reaching for the broad-bladed dagger hanging from his belt. He was fast, but Castus was faster; whipping out his arm, he seized the centurion’s wrist, trapping his hand over the dagger hilt. His other arm was up, elbow out, ramming against Urbicus’s throat and knocking him back against the cart behind him.
The two men collided, grunting breath, and the timbers of the wagon groaned beneath their weight. From the corner of his eye Castus saw the Praetorians to either side take a step forward. He saw the centurion’s bared teeth close to his face, felt the flex of muscle and the sour hiss of the man’s breath as he tried to wrestle his hand free. At any moment the first blows would fall on his exposed back, the first spear stab between his shoulder blades…
A cry came from over by the gateway, and a jostle of movement. The knot of Praetorians broke apart. Castus shoved himself back, releasing Urbicus and taking two long steps away from him. Now he could see what was happening: two of the slaves loading the chests onto the wagon had lost their grip, and the load had slipped from between their hands and crashed to the muddy cobbles. The wood fractured as the iron restraining bands burst apart. Silver spilled bright in the dirt.
After a brief shocked pause, the crowd surged across the street, many of them dropping to their knees to scrabble at the cobbles.
Urbicus glanced around, squinting, then shoved himself past Castus. ‘We’re not finished yet, you and me,’ he said over his shoulder, then strode towards the wagon.
Coins were scattered in the mud, freshly minted and bearing the profile of the emperor Constantine. At once Urbicus and his Praetorians closed in, kicking and striking at the crowd to drive them back before locking their spears in a barrier around the shattered chest of silver. Castus was pacing backwards across the street, keeping clear of the confusion, watching everything.
Another figure came striding from the gateway, hedged with guards. Castus knew him at once: Scorpianus, the burly Praetorian tribune with the big blue chin, who had often joined Maximian at dinner. He called to Urbicus, and the centurion saluted smartly. With a jolt of realisation, Castus remembered the night on the road beside the Rhine. Urbicus had seen him with Sabina. And now Urbicus reported to Scorpianus. What had Sabina told him? They knew that I had feelings for you. I don’t know how… Urbicus and Scorpianus, he thought. And above them – who? He felt a chill of clarity: the outlines of the plot laid against him were easier to make out now.
Castus counted the wagons again as he backed away across the street, trying to work out how many chests each carried. The big building was surely the imperial mint, second only to Treveris in all of Gauclass="underline" the place must have been almost emptied. And if the Praetorians were guarding it, all that coin and bullion was surely not going to Cularo with the field army.
The tribune stood beside the broken chest, legs spread wide and fists on hips, glaring at the crowd as it shrank away from Urbicus and his men. At his feet, slaves scraped up the gush of silver and poured it into sacks, making sure to find and retrieve every last solitary coin from the dirt.
The following morning, the great convoy moved out of Lugdunum; a day later, at Vienne, it divided. The field army troops led by the dux, Gaudentius, marched eastwards towards the mountains, while a smaller but more diverse retinue continued along the river road to the south. Maximian travelled with his own household and that of his daughter, a column of carriages and carts raising the dust, with the marching Praetorians and their heavy-laden wagons bringing up the rear.
After the slow ten-day journey down the banks of the green Rhodanus, Maximian and his cavalcade appeared before the crumbling walls of the ancient city of Arelate. His arrival, Castus guessed, had been announced well in advance: the city councillors, prominent citizens, the priests of all the cults and the chief members of all the municipal collegia lined the road before the single remaining gateway, crying out joyous salutes and acclamations to their former Augustus.
Maximian and his household rode in through the gates, and behind them, flanked on all sides by marching Praetorians and horsemen, rolled the six heavy wagons with all the coin and bullion from the imperial mint of Lugdunum. The cries of the city notables went on until the last wagon had passed, as if they were greeting one of the gods descended from the heavens to grace their city.
17
Closing one eye, Castus squinted along the shaft of the arrow, trying to keep the head aimed straight at the target on the far side of the meadow. His right biceps ached as he kept the powerful bow at full draw. He exhaled slowly, trying not to let his aim waver, and then released the arrow. The fletching grazed his wrist as it flew. Veering in the air, the arrow skimmed the top of the straw target bale and arced away into the long grass at the far side. Castus could already hear Brinno’s disbelieving laughter.
‘I don’t understand it!’ the younger man cried. ‘You’re a terrible horseman, and now I find you’re an even worse archer!’
Castus frowned at the bow in his left fist. None of his arrows had so far struck the target; somehow he just could not make them fly the way he wanted. Brinno had hit the centre of the target with almost every arrow he had shot.
‘It’s strange,’ Brinno went on, still grinning. ‘With a sword and shield you’re like a fortress. You can throw a javelin fair enough. But give you a bow and you’re like a child! I don’t know what sort of soldiers they make where you come from.’
They picked up their swordbelts and put them on. Castus was glad that some of the warmth had returned to their friendship since their arrival in the south. Perhaps, he thought, Brinno had decided to trust him after all. The shadows were already long across the meadow, and the noise of the crickets was a steady pulse. Slaves were poking through the long grass, collecting Castus’s spent arrows.
Pinning the brooch to secure his cloak, Castus walked across to the far side of the meadow, where the grass sloped down to the edge of the river. The water looked an almost luminous blue-green at this hour, the river curving slowly away to the south, beneath the blackened pontoons of the floating bridge, to lap the stone quays and old wooden pilings of the city. There were figures moving on the far riverbank, and Castus levelled his palm against the low sun to watch them. Soldiers; a lot of soldiers.
Seeing them brought a stab of nostalgia. Envy too – only that morning news had arrived that the Franks had once more broken their treaties and raided across the Rhine, trying to burn the bridge at Colonia Agrippina. Constantine was about to lead his army against them, and Castus dearly wished that he could be there with them.