Scrambling down the slope, he reached the stepped path that led from the front portico of the palace around the upper curve of the theatre to the rear of the curia building and the agora below. There were no sentries on watch here; since the siege had commenced, all the guards had been placed on the walls or in the palace itself.
With his army cloak wrapped around him, the hood pulled up to cover his face and the hem concealing his sword, Castus hoped he could pass for an ordinary soldier returning to his billet. The sound of his boots was loud as he jogged down the steps, kicking at loose stones. A dog barked from the houses just below him, and he tensed for the cry of challenge. None came, and he moved on.
He was trying to remember the exact time that he had passed this way before. Surely the hour was about right? So much now rested on chance, or on the will of the gods. Castus fought the temptation to pray: later for that. He would need plenty more divine assistance yet, if his half-made plan were to succeed.
Dropping down around the curve of the theatre wall, he descended the last few steps and turned the corner into the narrow paved alley that ran along the side of the curia. His pulse jumped as he looked along the alley, but there were no figures crouching at the low barred grille of the prison cell. He forced himself to move slowly, walking casually through the deep shadow and past the cell window. When he glanced down, he saw nothing in the darkness behind the bars. At the end of the alley he paused beside the entrance to the forum colonnade. Drawing back into the corner between a pillar and the wall, he pulled his cloak around him and sank down onto his haunches.
And now, he told himself, I wait. He had brought a chunk of sausage and a flask of watered wine with him, expecting that the night would be long. Squatting against the wall, staring into the darkness at the cell window, he ate and drank and tried not to think about what he was doing.
Fausta’s words came back to him. You must find men who are not afraid of death. It occurred to him that he had no idea whether the Christian priest was still imprisoned beneath the curia. Perhaps he had been moved to a different cell? Perhaps he had already been executed, or even released? Castus knew almost nothing about the Christian cult either; he had always found the idea of it distasteful. The only Christian he had ever known was the imperial agent, Strabo, who had been murdered by the Picts in Britain. Strabo at least had been a brave man. But there had been plenty of them in the palace at Treveris, and they seemed to spend most of their time muttering prayers and gazing at the ceilings. From what Castus had heard, they denied the existence of the gods, and believed the world was ruled by the ghost of a dead Jew. Surely an insane concept. Until a few years ago the cult had been outlawed; Constantine and Maxentius had recently legalised it, but Maximian had persecuted it savagely in his day. Who could say what the loyalties of these Christians of Massilia might be…?
A pair of soldiers came down the street, swaggering and unsteady, passing a heavy wine jug between them. Their hobnailed boots crunched and grated on the cobbles. One slipped, and the other caught him, barking a laugh. How easy it would be to join them, Castus thought. How easy it would be to forget all this, surrender to fate and let things happen as they would. Let the gods decide.
But then he remembered what Fausta had said about Sabina. Despite his anger at the time, the possibility was dizzying. Could that really happen? He had always regarded Sabina as far above him, both socially and in terms of wealth and expectation. Would she ever consent to be his wife? The idea seemed fantastical, absurd. But so much was absurd now. He shook his head. Pointless to even think about it.
Chewing on the last chunk of the tough sausage, he refocused his eyes on the prison window. He could almost trick himself into thinking that shapes were gathered there in the gloom at the base of the wall. But when he blinked there was nothing. He had been a fool, he told himself. Nobody would come. He was wasting the little precious time that remained.
He had almost slipped into a dispirited doze when a figure stepped past him from the forum colonnade, so close that Castus could smell the vague aroma of grilled fish and damp wool. Jolting back into the corner, out of sight, he watched as a second figure followed, and then a third. All of them were dressed in dark cloaks, pulled up to cover their heads, and one carried a basket. Silently they crossed the narrow street and moved along the curia wall, before sinking to a huddle before the cell window.
For a long time Castus watched them as they crouched, apparently immobile. He tried to stay calm and breathe slowly but his mind was rioting. As he listened, he could make out the sound of a whispered conversation, or perhaps some kind of chant. He concentrated on staying still, not making any noise or motion that would draw their attention. The muscles of his calves ached, and his fists were tightly clenched. At last, when he could hardly bear to wait any longer, the little knot of figures broke apart. The three shapes straightened, and once more ghosted back the way they had come. Castus held his breath as they passed, waited a few heartbeats, then eased himself upright and followed.
It was not difficult to keep to the shadows; the city was closed up after nightfall now, only the military patrols and a few scared citizens out on the streets. Here and there lamps burned in wall niches, casting the brick corners of houses, the carved stone of fountains and pediments, the masonry pillars of doorways into stark relief. It was more difficult to stay silent; the three cloaked figures moved with no sound at all, and Castus was very conscious of the noise of his boots on the cobbles.
Tracing around the margins of the agora, the three figures passed into the grid of narrow streets to the north. They were moving fast, not pausing to speak, and Castus guessed this was a journey they had made several times. Around a corner, down another alley crossed by heavy brick arches: he lost them for a moment but caught the flicker of movement from a gateway in the wall of a looming apartment block. Again he followed, feeling his way in total blackness through a covered passage that stank of drains and old cooking oil, before emerging into an enclosed courtyard.
Lamplight shone faintly from windows high in the surrounding buildings, and the open space between them was criss-crossed with washing lines. Castus stood blinking, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Shapes emerged from the dark: a well with a pump; a colonnade of low brick arches. The sound of somebody weeping came from one of apartments overhead; the barking of a dog and a baby’s distant wail carried on the night air. Drawing his cloak tighter around him, Castus peered into the shadows around the margins of the courtyard, alert for any sign of movement. He had lost them, he thought; somehow they had melted into the warren of the city. Then he saw the shape of a cloaked figure pass briefly across a patch of lighted wall, and immediately he was moving again.
A stairway led from the courtyard to the upper storey. Stumbling, reaching out to grab at the wall, Castus took the steps two at a time. He heard the sound of a door closing, the click of the latch. At the top of the steps was a corridor, with a lamp burning in a wall bracket. Marching to the end of the corridor, Castus came to a halt before a heavy wooden door studded with iron nails. He gripped the hilt of his sword and took a deep breath. Then he banged on the wood.
For a while there was no reply. Just as Castus was raising his fist to bang on the door again, he heard the rattle of a chain and the crack of a bolt being drawn back. The door opened a crack. Staring over the chain was an old man with one staring eye and one puckered socket. The single eye narrowed into a squint.