But the soldiers across the river were not with Constantine either.
‘Who are they?’ Brinno asked, coming to join him.
Castus stared, trying to pick out the emblems on their shields, or to make some estimate of their numbers. ‘Must be the troops from Spain,’ he said. ‘I heard Sallustius mention them yesterday.’
‘Maybe going to join the field army at Cularo?’ Brinno suggested. There was a note of uncertainty in his voice. ‘Could be Gaudentius and his men are going back north, to support the emperor on the Rhine, and these are going to replace them. Strange they should stop here, though…’
‘They’re billeted in the old warehouses over there. Looks like three or four thousand men.’
Brinno whistled between his teeth. The slaves had finished collecting the arrows, and were waiting by the path. Beyond them to the south, the old walls of Arelate were glowing in the evening sun.
It had once been a great city, the oldest in Gaul, though never, Castus suspected, as great as its inhabitants liked to claim. But the place had a tired air, a sense of long privilege and dignified repose. In all its history it had never been attacked by a hostile foe; those three-hundred-year-old walls were sagging and neglected, entirely collapsed or built over in some places, the ramparts and walkways grown with grass in others. Maximian and his entourage had taken up residence in a complex of buildings that stretched along the river, one used by the governors of Narbonese Gaul a century before.
They had only been in Arelate a few days, but already Castus was feeling uncomfortably constrained. There was something in the air here, a gathering threat that he did not like to try and identify clearly. The sense of stagnation and quiet in the city felt deceptive. Seeing the troops assembling across the river, Castus was struck by a sudden intuition, something he felt he had known for a long time but had not wanted to consider directly.
‘What’s on your mind, brother?’ Brinno asked.
Castus shrugged, unwilling to try and answer but not wanting to concoct some plausible lie. He had told Brinno enough of those already. He knew that his friend’s question was not asked lightly. The sound of the crickets rose again into the silence between them.
Brinno turned suddenly, clasping Castus by the shoulder. ‘I am not a fool!’ he declared. His Frankish accent made the words sound harsh. ‘Something troubles you… Something troubles you for many days now!’
Castus squinted and looked away, unwilling to shape his thoughts into speech.
‘Heh!’ Brinno exclaimed, shaking him roughly. ‘We’re not women, always gabbling about things. But if there’s something you need to say… You can trust me, brother.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t speak of it before,’ Castus said. It was hard to utter the words; he felt them in his mouth, clumsy and sour. ‘I don’t know what to believe, but… yes, I think something’s wrong.’
‘Tell me,’ Brinno urged.
Castus glanced back over his shoulder; the slaves were far away, waiting for them at the far side of the meadow. Nobody could hear them.
‘Back in Lugdunum,’ he began, ‘I saw Praetorians loading the silver from the imperial mint onto carts. Those same carts they brought down here.’
Brinno nodded, knotting his brows.
‘At the time I wasn’t sure why, but those troops over there…’ He gestured across the river. ‘You’re right, it’s strange they’ve come so far south. If they were marching to Cularo there would be no need.’
‘Perhaps they come to pay respect to Maximian?’
‘Perhaps. Those Spanish legions served with him in the Mauretanian war ten years ago. Once of them was formed by Maximian himself. But I was thinking… that amount of silver would buy the loyalty of a lot of men.’
Brinno stepped back with a hiss of amazement. ‘Brother, what are you thinking?’ he said.
‘I’m thinking that somebody here wants to use the coin from the mint to pay the Spanish troops. To bribe them. Not just them either – look how much Maximian’s been spending since he got here. Games and shows every night. Banquets in the palace. He’s buying the provincials, the governors and the city councillors. You know he asked Constantine to let Fausta and her household come south with him?’
‘He asked for that? Why? He hates having women around him!’
‘Perhaps so they can’t be used as hostages?’ Castus felt a nervous energy running through him. He had been suppressing these thoughts for so long, it was a heady sensation to put them into words. But he was afraid too, as if by speaking about these things he was giving them substance.
‘But it can’t be true,’ Brinno whispered. ‘Even if those men over there were bought, there’s only three or four thousand of them… Not enough to stand up to the Rhine legions! But then…’ He thought for a moment. ‘If the Rhine army is tied up with this new campaign against my treacherous bastard brethren in Germania, perhaps they might be enough to try something…’
Castus nodded. ‘Maximian was being very friendly to Gaudentius, the commander of the force that went to Cularo. They were always at dinner together, them and that Praetorian tribune, Scorpianus. And Gaudentius left us after Lugdunum…’
‘And another four thousand men with him,’ Brinno said quietly. He was gazing across the river. From the far bank came the distant sound of laughter.
‘Plenty more in Italy too, with Maxentius. If the mountain passes were held for him, he could cross without difficulty.’
Brinno rubbed his palms across his face. He looked jittery, as if he wanted to attack something. ‘So… who do we trust? I don’t know, brother…’
‘I feel likewise,’ Castus said. He had never liked subterfuge and politics. Even considering these things seemed to leave a stain upon his honour. He took a last glance across the river at the assembling troops, then turned back to follow the slaves in the direction of the city.
The path climbed the slope to the road. Ranks of tall dark cypresses threw their long shadows across the gravel, and to either side, beyond the trees, were scattered huts and sheds between cultivated plots and tiny orchards. All this land had once been a northern suburb of Arelate, but as the city had shrunk back inside its old walls so the ruined buildings had become overgrown, populated only by squatters and the poor.
Castus and Brinno walked in silence, with the slaves going on ahead of them. A cool evening breeze came from the river. As the battered arch that marked the northern boundary of the city came into view, Castus heard the rattle of wheels on gravel behind him, and moved off the road. A two-wheeled mule cart was approaching, with a heavy ox wagon and several riders following behind. The cart had a wicker roof over it, and the two men inside were lost in its shade. Travellers from the north were not uncommon, and Castus paid them no attention until Brinno nudged his arm.
‘I know that man,’ he said, his voice tight.
Standing on the verge in the shade of the cypresses, they waited until the cart had drawn level with them. The driver dragged on the reins and the mules came to a halt. Both the vehicle and its passengers were covered in grey dust, and it took Castus a moment to recognise the man who sat beside the driver.
‘A good evening to you both,’ Nigrinus said. He was blinking, his eyes reddened from the dust. He shook at the mantle that covered him like a blanket, and grey plumes rose around him. ‘I had hoped to meet you in Arelate, but it seems some helpful god has directed that our paths cross even sooner…’
Behind the cart the ox wagon had also heaved to a stop. Castus saw that one of the riders following behind it was the imperial agent, Flaccianus. Brinno was staring at the man in the cart in hostile silence.
‘What do you want here?’ Castus said. ‘You’re supposed to be in Treveris, with the emperor.’