‘The hour is late, soldier,’ the old man said. Warm lamplight came from the chamber behind him.
‘Who is it, Polyphemus?’ a woman’s voice called.
Castus threw back his cloak and drew himself up to his full height.
‘My name is Aurelius Castus,’ he said, loud enough for anyone in the next room to hear him. ‘I am a Protector of the Sacred Bodyguard, and I need to talk to you about your priest.’
The single eye blinked, then widened. The door swung closed, and through the heavy studded wood Castus heard voices in rapid debate. Then the chain rattled again, and the door creaked wide open.
‘Welcome,’ the doorman said.
24
He had made a mistake. So he thought as the one-eyed slave led him through the dim passage and into the lighted chambers beyond. Castus had been expecting a cramped apartment, a huddle of desperate-looking conspirators. Instead, he found himself in a suite of high-ceilinged rooms, opening onto a wide portico and a garden courtyard. He had entered through the back door, the slaves’ entrance, he realised; this was no humble dwelling, but the residence of a wealthy citizen.
There were about a dozen people gathered in the main chamber, sitting or reclining on dining couches, and Castus stood before them in his parade-ground posture and recited the short speech he had been rehearsing in his mind. As he spoke, stumbling over the words, he scanned the faces of his listeners. One was a heavy-jowled middle-aged woman in a flowing embroidered tunic, another a tall and vigorous-looking man with a balding head and a sombre expression; then there was an older man with a fleecy white beard. These three were richly dressed, the others around them less so, but all appeared to be equals here. When Castus had finished speaking they gazed at him for a moment in silence, then turned to look at each other. This is a mistake, he thought again. I’ve come to the wrong place. These are the wrong people.
‘You want us to aid you in surrendering our city to a besieging force?’ the white-bearded man said at last. ‘To take up arms – with our followers, as you put it – against the soldiers of Maximian and help you seize the city gate and hold it until Constantine’s troops can enter?’
‘That’s right,’ Castus said. The burning oil lamps made the room hot. He was perspiring freely. The older man was frowning into his beard, shaking his head.
‘Let us think clearly, Arcadius,’ the tall, sombre-faced man said. ‘This is… an unusual situation after all…’
‘We have known worse,’ the heavy-jowled lady broke in. ‘The struggles of the rulers of the earth are not our struggles.’
‘Sister, we must listen to what the soldier says,’ the tall man insisted. ‘If we do not act, Maximian will win this fight. Our dear Bishop Oresius will be executed, and quite possibly the persecution will begin once more. If there is anything that we can do to avoid that…’
‘But not by force of arms!’ the elder man, Arcadius, broke in. ‘That is not our way! Bloodshed is forbidden to us – scripture clearly states this. Did not Our Lord take the sword from Peter in the garden? We fight against the beast through our prayers, not with our hands…’
For a moment it seemed as if everyone was about to speak at once. Castus felt his heart shrinking in his chest. How could he ever have imagined that this plan would work? Now a fourth man was on his feet – Castus noticed the dark cloak piled beside him on the couch.
‘Brothers and sisters!’ the new speaker cried. ‘When I spoke with our bishop less than an hour ago, he said that he had received a message from the Lord. He said that God would send us a sign… And now this soldier appears. I ask you, is that not a sign?’
‘A sign from somewhere, Fortunatus,’ Arcadius mumbled into his beard. ‘Perhaps not from heaven…’
Sudden uproar, everyone’s voice raised. Castus ground his teeth, rocking on his heels. From the corner of his eye he could see through the doors of connecting rooms: figures were moving, other people talking and departing. How many were in this house? For the first time he realised the full danger of his position. It would only take one person to send a message out, and his treason would be reported. At any moment he could hear the hammering on the doors, the tramp of the soldiers forcing their way into the house. But the assembled people seemed oblivious, lost in their debate.
‘Nation must not take up arms against nation!’ the white-bearded man was crying, ‘Nor will they train for war!’
‘But think of Gideon, of David – mighty warriors! Were they not loved by God?’
‘As the blessed Cyprianus says, the hand that has held the sword shall not receive communion…!’
‘…But Jesus told his disciples to sell their cloaks and buy swords! Surely it is right to wage war if the ultimate cause is just, brother? Through persecution we have been made strong – why would the Lord give us that strength if we are not to use it?’
‘The Lord gave our rulers the sword to execute his wrath against the wrongdoer!’
‘…But scripture tells us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us, so that we may be children of Our Father in heaven…’
‘QUIET!’
Castus’s drill-field bellow instantly silenced the room, echoing through the connecting chambers. The gathering turned to stare at him, open-mouthed. Now that he had their attention, he felt his mouth dry. He had never been accustomed to speaking to civilians, especially in mixed groups. But he had staked everything on this one gamble, and he had only moments to make it work.
‘I remind you of the threat faced by your city,’ he said, keeping his tone harsh, commanding. ‘If there’s another assault and the troops break through the wall, they will plunder and they will sack. That’s the custom of war. But outside the wall is Constantine, the rightful emperor. He has favoured your sect, and ended the persecution against you. Allow him into the city and you limit the violence, and win his gratitude. Allow Maximian to win, and your priest dies.’
He paused a moment to let his words sink in. The people on the couches looked at each other again, pondering, uncertain.
‘I’m not asking you all to take up arms,’ Castus went on, trying for a more civil tone. ‘All I need is a crowd, to make a diversion, and a few people willing to lend some muscle. It won’t be easy, but with your help we could win. But I need you to be united, and to decide soon.’
Merciful gods, he thought as he stared back at them. How had he come to stake everything on the goodwill of a bunch of quarrelling religious extremists? The plump lady in the embroidered tunic drew herself up to address him.
‘You cannot give us orders,’ she said. ‘This is not your house.’
‘I’m not ordering you, domina…’ Castus was trying hard not to grind his teeth in frustration.
‘Brothers and sisters,’ the tall, sombre-faced man said, getting to his feet and raising his hands. ‘Authority in our congregation rests entirely with the blessed Bishop Oresius. He alone can decree what we all should do. But surely, in his absence, individuals among us can decide how the spirit guides them?’ He shot a glance at the white-bearded man.
‘May I remind you that you are only a deacon, Nazarius,’ the plump woman said. ‘Not even one of our Elders. We must summon others of our congregation to discuss this before we make any rash decisions.’
The tall man, Nazarius, nodded and sat down again. Now the assembled people drew together, speaking in hushed voices. An old woman approached Castus and took his arm. She had a kindly face, and a wild straggle of grey hair.
‘Please sit and rest yourself,’ she said with a cracked smile, gesturing to a chair beside the wall. ‘The discussion may take some time!’
Castus nodded, mute, and dropped down heavily onto the chair.
‘I am Epaphra,’ the old woman said. ‘You must forgive my brethren. Many of us lived through the persecution six years ago. We are not inclined to trust soldiers, or greet them warmly!’