He had seen Maximian at the council that morning, along with the members of his new imperial consistorium. They had all gathered in the apsed dining hall of the grand mansion on the hillside above the theatre, which Maximian had taken over as his palace. The house was the finest in the city, and had formerly belonged to Plotius Diadumenus, the curator of Massilia and head of the council. Diadumenus did not appear to mind being evicted; he had been promoted to governor of the Viennensis diocese for his pains. Now he stood with the rest of the assembled dignitaries – the military chiefs Scorpianus and Gaudentius, Macrobius the new Master of the Records, the eunuch Gorgonius, now promoted to Superintendent of the Sacred Bedchamber…
Castus had stood at the side of the imperial podium, scanning the faces of these men, the closest supporters of the new emperor. If they were anxious, they were careful not to let it show. There were nearly a score of new Protectores too, former centurions of the Praetorians and the Spanish legions, keeping a close and forbidding watch over the members of the assembly. Among their number, Castus recognised his old adversary Urbicus. The scarred veteran met his stare and held it for a moment, sneering with open contempt.
Maximian himself had sat, immobile and silent, on his throne of state while Scorpianus read in his iron voice the proclamations of the day. News had arrived by fast ship from Carthage: the troops of Maxentius had crushed the rebellion in Africa and executed the rebel usurper Domitius Alexander. Now Maxentius would be free to send men and supplies to support his father in Massilia. Cheers and renewed acclamations echoed off the marble walls, but Castus thought only of Sabina. Her husband had been one of Alexander’s officials: what had become of him? Did she already know?
There had been other news, but it had not been proclaimed to the council. Instead it had filtered through the city, passed between the soldiers and the civilians. Castus heard it from Brinno. Nearly half the troops ordered to march from Arelate to join Maximian in Massilia had failed to arrive. At first it seemed they had mistaken their route, but the truth soon became clear. Led by their centurions, they had torn the images of Maximian from their standards and diverted their march to Aquae Sextiae, either to keep out of the conflict or turn themselves over to Constantine. Most of the deserters were from the Rhine legion detachments, eager not to have to fight their own comrades. But some had been men from the Spanish legions. The news had run through the city and the palace like a slow current, mixing anxious dread and hopeful possibility. Anything could happen; nothing was certain.
Pacing on down the rampart walkway towards the Rome Gate, Castus stared out once more at the activity beyond the walls. Gangs of men were dragging carts of rubble and debris from the demolished buildings back towards the fortifications, and building a new wall just outside the line of the ditches. It was rough work, no more than a straggling mound of stone, but it would further impede anyone trying to bring up ladders or siege towers to the ramparts.
Castus looked up at the hazy horizon. Somewhere out there was Constantine and his army, getting closer with every passing day. Then another sound reached him, a cry of laughter from among the buildings on the city side of the wall. Stepping across the walkway, Castus looked down into a dirty shadowed yard between the clustered houses and workshops. Children were playing there, boys and girls in ragged tunics running back and forth. They had built their own little wall across the yard, a low pile of stones and broken rubble, and separated into two opposing gangs. Waving sticks, they called out to each other in thin high voices: ‘I’m Constantine! I’m Maximian! I’m the true emperor!’
Castus smiled to himself. Then he stepped away from the edge of the wall, in case one of the Praetorians approached and heard what the children were saying – could they be punished for it? But his smile remained as he walked on down the steps towards the gate.
That’s all we are, he thought to himself. Children playing at war.
Until the killing begins.
Passing back through the city as evening fell, the two Praetorians still dogging his steps, Castus could read the strain of the approaching siege on every face. The broad main street that followed the curve of the harbour between the gates and the agora was still crowded; several of the shops and emporia on either side were still open for business, but many more had heavy wooden shutters firmly bolted across their doors. The majority of the crowd were soldiers, and the few civilians had a harried, uncertain look. From the narrow alleys to the left the sounds of boisterous laughter came from the cheaper taverns and drinking shops along the harbour wall and the dockside. The troops were enjoying their new billets, even if most of them did not know whether the citizens of Massilia were friends or enemies.
As he walked, scanning his surroundings carefully but appearing unconcerned, Castus noticed a small boy weaving along the street to his right, keeping parallel with him. There were plenty of street children in Massilia, just as in every other town and city of the empire, but this boy appeared to have more of a purpose, and was clearly following Castus in particular. Slowing his steps, Castus veered to the right, pretending an interest in the open doors of a silversmith’s shop. He glanced at the boy, who nodded to him and sidled closer. The two Praetorians were still strolling in the middle of the street.
‘Somebody wants to talk to you,’ the boy said, in a tight whisper. Clearly he had been paid as a messenger.
Castus gave him a shrug. ‘Who?’
The boy was keeping his eyes on the two soldiers, not looking at Castus at all. ‘Somebody who sees better in the dark. That’s what he said.’
Castus walked on a few steps, the boy keeping pace with him.
‘Wait for me on the corner over there, by the bakery,’ he said from the corner of his mouth. When he looked again the boy was gone.
The two Praetorians had noticed Castus slowing down; now he walked back to join them in the middle of the street. He knew their names – Glyco and Ursus – but found it hard to tell them apart. Both were squat, muscular, dull-eyed men.
‘I have to go somewhere,’ he told them.
They stared back at him, impassive. ‘Then we’re coming with you,’ Glyco said. ‘That’s your orders.’
Castus feigned a smile, and tried to look crafty. ‘I’m going to find a woman,’ he said. ‘You planning to follow me there too?’
The two soldiers glanced at each other, blank-faced.
Castus reached into his belt pouch and brought out a pair of silver pieces. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you’ve done well for the day. Why not go and find something for yourselves?’
Both men frowned heavily, contemplating.
‘I suppose that sounds right,’ Ursus said.
‘We could do that,’ said Glyco.
The coins vanished into their fists, and the two soldiers marched off together leaving Castus in the middle of the street.
He waited a moment, watching them, then cut across the street to the bakery. It was open at the front, with a selection of half-stale loaves and savoury pastries set out on a table. A crowd of soldiers and civilians gathered on the corner, and it was easy for Castus to slip between them. He had taken to wearing an old military cloak while he was away from the emperor’s household, instead of his distinctive white one, and it allowed him to blend easily into the throng. The boy was waiting at the mouth of the alley at the far side; he beckoned quickly, then turned and set off down the alley towards the docks.
Castus had barely considered what the notary might want with him. He had not spoken to the man since the night he and Brinno had escaped from the cells, although he had seen him often enough hanging around the margins of the emperor’s retinue. But he remembered all too well what had happened the last time he had followed one of Nigrinus’s schemes. As he marched after the boy, he eased the sword slightly from his scabbard and kept his hand upon the pommel.