‘Kill him now!’ Brinno cried, stamping down from the stairway with his trident aimed at the prisoner.
‘I can understand your unhappiness…’ Nigrinus said. Castus had his knee on his chest, and was still gripping his hair in his fist.
‘Heh! He understands our unhappiness! Kill him!’
‘Let me speak first, I beg you.’
Castus twisted his fist, and felt hair rip from the notary’s scalp. ‘Ten more words, then you die.’
Nigrinus rolled his eyes to one side, thinking fast. His mouth barely moved as he spoke.
‘I have… saved your… lives… you pair… of brainless… imbeciles.’
Brinno let out a grunt, leaning closer with his trident. ‘Kill him! No – make him show us the way out, and then kill him!’
‘What a tempting offer,’ the notary said.
Castus reversed his knife, and cracked the pommel against the man’s head. Nigrinus flinched and hissed through his teeth.
‘Say what you mean,’ Castus told him.
‘Maximian’s people planned to have you murdered in your beds last night. I needed to get you out of the city and far away, so I could take you into my custody. They believe I’m part of their conspiracy, but I needed to prove my allegiance… What better way than breaking the oaths of Constantine’s most loyal men? That performance in the torture room was for their benefit, of course…’
‘But the villa,’ Brinno said, ‘the aqueduct – that was real. It was no game. Victor died!’
‘Of course it was real – it had to be! I hadn’t anticipated that you would defend yourselves so robustly, though. As it was, you cost me a dozen expensive gladiators and several members of the imperial courier service. Delphius in particular was a very effective agent…’
‘And you couldn’t have just told us all this beforehand?’ Castus felt his mind swinging between pained belief and outraged denial.
‘Excuse me,’ Nigrinus said, grinning, ‘but I didn’t rate your abilities as actors. Far more convincing if the anger was real, no? And I couldn’t risk you giving anything away – I mean, you might actually have been put to torture, and then what?’
Castus exhaled heavily, then eased his weight off the notary’s chest and released his hair. Nigrinus let out a sob of relief, apparently involuntary. Then he sat up and brushed his hair into place with his fingers.
‘You knew about Constantine’s death too?’ Brinno said. He had not lowered the trident. ‘Did you plan that as well?’
‘Constantine isn’t dead, you barbarian oaf! Gorgonius sent killers to Treveris, but they failed, I don’t know how. So now – understand this, and please stop waving that trident at me – now the emperor needs us alive! Maximian and his supporters think I’m one of them, but I can’t work alone. I need muscle. I need men I can trust, men Constantine trusts. You’ll have to do, in the circumstances.’
‘And how can we trust you?’
‘When you get out of this place, look above the main gate of the city. You’ll see the heads of two of your fellow Protectors decorating spikes there. The other two agreed to shift their loyalties to Maximian. As did your friend Sallustius: Maximian bought his allegiance months ago. And besides, if you can’t trust me, whom do you have left? Or would you rather have your heads on spikes too?’
Castus looked at Brinno, who slowly lowered the trident. The notary was sitting on the ground between them, massaging his chest with stiff fingers.
‘Swear upon the gods that this is the truth,’ Castus said, raising the knife again.
‘I swear upon the gods that this is the truth,’ Nigrinus said, in the tone of a man with little belief in either.
‘If he’s wrong…’ Brinno said. ‘May the gods help us!’
‘If he’s wrong,’ Castus replied, ‘I think we’re beyond their help.’
‘Maximianus Augustus! Eternal Augustus! The gods preserve you for us! Your salvation is our salvation!’
Again and again the massed acclamation rang out from the crowds packing the stands of the circus, all the people of Arelate on their feet, all of them saluting, all of them repeating the ritual formulas as the crowd-leaders raised their batons.
‘Maximianus Augustus! Eternal Augustus! The gods send you to us! The gods grant you triumph!’
Noon sun turned the swept sand of the racecourse into a glaring yellow plain. Trumpets sounded from the balustrades above the starting gates, and from the blue shade of the arches below the procession marched forth.
At its head came the new military commanders of Maximian’s army: Scorpianus, dressed in silvered cuirass and peacock-plumed helmet in his new role as Praetorian Prefect, and beside him Gaudentius, the former commander of the Alpine force, now holding the rank of comes rei militaris, Companion in Military Affairs. Behind them the prefects of the legions from Spain, the centurions of the Praetorian Cohort and the tribunes of the legionary and auxilia detachments that Gaudentius had led down from Cularo.
Behind the officers, marching in glittering array with their standards proudly adorned with images of the newly restored emperor, came the troops. First the Praetorians, then the troops from Spain: four thousand men of Legion VI Hispana Maximiana and Legion VII Gemina Maximiana. After them were the mixed detachments from the Rhine army, with their small cavalry force. To the cheers of the crowd, they marched down the length of the circus, around the curve at the far end and back up the course to form in their units before the imperial podium that overlooked the finish line.
Eight thousand men, Castus thought. They made a fine sight, worthy of a better emperor. He knew that the soldiers had already been paid their acclamation donatives: a gold piece and two pounds of silver per man. He wondered how much was left now of the hoard taken from the mint at Lugdunum. But the soldiers looked happy, as rich men often do.
Castus was standing before the lowest tier of the seating, facing out over the assembled troops with his back to the imperial podium. The altar constructed on the sand below was still smoking; the priests from the sacred fraternities of Arelate were still gathering the meat of the sacrificial animals. On the seats just behind Castus, the city councillors and the provincial governors were sitting together, all of them now pledged to Maximian’s cause. No mention had been made of the emperor’s son, Maxentius.
The new emperor himself sat high in the podium, red faced and impassive. Eternal Augustus, Castus thought to himself: that was the message of the new regime. Maximian had never abdicated with Diocletian: that had been a mere administrative error; he had been emperor all along, the Senior Augustus, entitled to rule over the entire empire… The citizens of Arelate seemed impressed anyway. But they had already benefited from the golden rays of the emperor’s favour.
Castus had seen Fausta seated some distance to her father’s right, dressed now in muted clothes befitting her supposed widowed status. Somewhere among those gathered around her would be Sabina, but Castus did not have time to look. Besides, he did not want to see her, did not want her to see him. It was shameful enough just having to appear in public.
Sallustius was standing four paces to his left. He had tried to apologise to Castus and Brinno already. He had been born in Rome, he had told them, he had family there. He wanted to return to his home city one day, and not with a hostile army. Brinno had just turned away in disgust. But Castus tried to forgive the man, or at least feign forgiveness. Were they not all feigning loyalty, after all?
Only the day before he had gone dutifully to the shrines of Jupiter, Isis and Sol Invictus and given sacrifice, as he had promised, for having escaped alive from the aqueduct. Perhaps, he thought, it would have been easier to have died, like Victor. But another part of him felt that his escape had been an illusion: in his soul he was still perched on that high and veering precipice, still trying to pace that narrow path above a vast and yawning void.