Down below, the base of the wall was boiling with men, the injured and dead tumbled together, shields discarded in the wreckage of ladders, blood flowing in streams down the dusty slope. Up above, one heaving knot of men had managed to struggle up from their ladder and scramble onto the wall parapet. A few desperate moments of combat on the walkway, push of spears and flicker of blades. Castus saw Glyco reeling back, clutching his bloodied face. One of the attackers stood up on the wall, raising his sword as if in triumph; the next moment a javelin struck him between the ribs and he toppled stiffly backwards, his mouth open in a silent scream.
Then it was over. The last of the ladder parties had been battered away from the parapet, and the attackers that remained alive were falling back from the wall, crouched beneath their raised shields.
Castus heard the horns blowing from the far slope of the valley. It was the recall; the attack had failed. The shattered remnants of the assault columns were scattering back down the slope at the run, many of them dragging their injured comrades between them. For a few long moments there was a strange stillness and quiet. Leaning against the wall parapet, dry-mouthed and dazed, Castus stared into the sunlit dust cloud at Constantine’s retreating soldiers. His fists were clenched, knuckles grinding against the stone, and his heart was beating fast.
Then the first cheers came from the defenders down at the Rome Gate, and in moments the ramparts were ringing with the cries of victory.
23
‘Visitor for you, dominus,’ the slave said, and motioned towards the door of the bedchamber.
Castus paused only briefly to frown and clear his throat. ‘Bring water,’ he told the slave. Whoever this visitor was, they could wait.
Removing his belts, he ripped open the lacing of his armour and dragged the heavy scale cuirass from his body. His tunic was drenched with sweat and clinging to his torso. His skin and hair were caked with dust, and his throat was dry. He had eaten nothing since dawn, and drunk only a few cups of stale water.
All day he had been on the ramparts, enduring the heat of the sun and the slaughterhouse stink of clotting blood from the mangled corpses piled at the base of the wall, waiting for a second assault that had never come. At noon Constantine’s troops had pulled back to their encampment on the hill, but still the defenders on the city wall had remained in their positions as their dead and wounded were removed, and the debris swept from the walkways. Only when the sun had begun to sink over the sea to the west had the order come to stand down.
Castus wondered whether Brinno had returned yet from his position near the Valley Gate. That section of wall had not been attacked, as far as he knew. He had a strong desire to drink wine.
The slave returned with a jug and basin. Stripping off his stinking tunic, Castus bent over the basin and plunged his face into the water. Then he tipped his head back and drank from the jug, swigging heavily. The feel of the water coursing down his body was blissful. Scrubbing a towel over his neck and shoulders, he picked up his scabbarded sword and went through into the bedchamber.
His visitor stood in the centre of the room with his back turned, as if he were studying the blank plaster of the far wall. Hearing Castus enter, he turned.
‘What do you want, eunuch?’ Castus said.
Serapion smiled, that same softly bland smile that Castus had come to distrust so much. Whose side was he on now?
‘I come with a summons, once again,’ Serapion said. ‘Although I promise you that there will be no unpleasant surprises this time, for either of us.’
Castus flung the towel down on the narrow bed. He went to the trunk, found a clean tunic and put it on. ‘No surprises?’ he asked as he buckled his belt.
‘No unpleasant ones, I said. Have you lost your two Praetorian shadows?’
‘One of them got his face split open and the other caught an arrow through his wrist. So far nobody’s suggested I find replacements.’
‘Good. Then come.’
The eunuch stepped past Castus, keeping his distance, and paced silently out of the room. Castus paused only to sling the sword baldric over his shoulder before following.
The house that Maximian had commandeered as his palace had two wings on the upper storey, one above the kitchens and baths and the other, more spacious, above the private apartments. The two wings were connected only by a broad rear portico that looked out over the sea. Leading Castus from the anteroom outside the bedchamber, Serapion passed along a narrow corridor and out onto the portico. A cool salt breeze blew between the pillars, and the view was a wide expanse of perfect blue, sea and sky blending in the radiance of evening.
‘I will leave you here,’ the eunuch said, stepping aside and gesturing for Castus to continue along the portico. At the far end was a vestibule, with a marble bench set against the wall facing the sea. On the bench a woman sat with a deep blue shawl covering her head and shoulders.
Castus advanced cautiously down the portico. The vestibule at the end had no other entrances; it was a quiet and private place. He halted a few paces from the woman. Without looking up, she gestured to the bench beside her.
‘Be seated,’ she said.
He paused a moment, then took the last few steps and eased himself down beside her.
‘Nobilissima,’ he said quietly. She pushed the shawl back from her face and he saw the thick necklace of pearls at her throat, the hanging earrings of gold and lapis. Those deep-lidded eyes, giving nothing away. He was trying to breathe slowly, but his mind was whirling. He remembered the garden house of the Villa Herculis. Surely she did too – but did she remember him?
‘The domina Domitia Sabina believes that you are to be trusted,’ Fausta said.
‘I’m glad of that.’ His words sounded crude, almost a grunt.
‘So – are you?’ She turned her head to look at him for the first time, the earrings swinging. Her face was round and her lips full and petulant. Her eyes were cool, searching.
‘That depends, nobilissima.’ He had spoken more harshly than he intended, and saw her expression shift slightly as she registered the discourtesy.
‘My apologies,’ he said, but his voice still grated. ‘I’ve just spent the day watching hundreds of my brother-soldiers being smashed to pulp in front of my eyes. I’m in no mood for subtlety.’
‘I’m asking about your loyalties,’ she said.
Castus sat back against the wall and stared out at the sea. Gulls wheeled and cried, dark against the evening sky. Why had he been brought here? It made no sense, unless… He decided to take the risk.
‘My loyalties are to Constantine Augustus, and always have been,’ he said. ‘He’s my emperor, for better or worse.’
He noticed her slight nod. She had turned to look at the sea again. Such a peaceful scene in the soft autumn light, Castus thought; nobody would imagine that a hard and bloody battle had raged all day not a mile from this place. He could see the low rocky islands off the harbour mouth, dark silhouettes in the sea. There were ships moving between them, a pair of single-decked galleys and a merchant vessel.
‘Those are Constantine’s ships,’ Fausta said. ‘He captured the islands this morning – did you know that?’
‘No,’ Castus replied, startled. Maximian had been careful to clear anything larger than a rowing skiff from the harbours of the Rhodanus.
‘My husband sent riders east along the coast to Telo Martius and Forum Julii,’ Fausta said. ‘They returned with ships from those ports, and now they have the harbour blockaded.’
So Maximian could not leave, Castus thought. And his son Maxentius – if he ever did send aid or reinforcements – would have to fight his way in.