‘This one’s still alive,’ Castus said. The man slumped at the table groaned and shifted. He was not a threat. Looking back at the bodies on the floor, Castus felt a brief clutch of remorse. These were Roman soldiers, men like himself, men who had taken their oath and done their duty. But there was no time for those thoughts now.
They took weapons and swordbelts from the fallen men, arming themselves quickly and in silence. From the next room Castus could hear the eunuch talking quietly to Sabina, telling her what they had to do. Four cloaks hung on pegs; Castus took one and threw another to Brinno. The only way out was the stairs; the two men took a moment to draw breath and compose themselves, adjusting their belts and pulling the cloaks around their shoulders, then Brinno nodded to Castus and they began to climb.
Wet night air from above, and the taste of rain and lightning. The stairs brought them up to a narrow muddy yard at the back of the baths complex. Castus paused for a moment, gazing up at the night sky: Polaris was bright, the Bear hidden by cloud, but the moon rode near full and low to the west, over the sea ramparts. There were a good few hours of the night left yet.
Quickly, as they paced through the yard and across the kitchen court beyond, Castus told Brinno about his plan for the taking of the Sea Gate. The young Frank listened, bemused.
‘This idea,’ he said. ‘You were drinking when you thought of it?’
‘I don’t remember. Seems a long time ago now.’
They were moving carefully, trying to keep to the deeper shadows, but as they emerged onto the side portico Castus heard the first cry of challenge, then a shout of alarm. He slapped Brinno on the shoulder and they leaped together from the portico and began to run.
Armed men were coming up the stepped path that descended towards the agora. Castus cut to the right, down the slope from the pine grove and through an open gateway into the theatre. Crescent tiers of stone seating stepped into the hillside dropped towards the harbour. Brinno was right behind him, and without a pause they were leaping recklessly down the tiers, arms flung out for balance, their boots skating on the treacherous rain-slick marble.
Castus felt only the plunging energy of escape, the violent motion of his blood propelling him. The speed of their descent was dizzying; within moments the two men were racing across the marble floor of the orchestra and out through the side exit. Still running, they crossed the expanse of open ground between the theatre and the lower end of the agora. Now Castus began to feel the pain burning in his side, his lungs pressing tight against the base of his throat; he did not know how much further he could run.
Ahead stretched the mazes of the silent city, the black dripping streets emptied by the curfew. Brinno was turning to run towards the agora, but Castus caught his arm and dragged him onwards, into the network of alleys along the harbour wall and the docks. The last thing he wanted was to draw the pursuers towards the Sea Gate. At the corner of the first building he halted, the breath heaving from his chest, and looked back. There were men spilling from the theatre, others clambering down the stepped path to the right and a group of horsemen descending the road that curved from the front of the palace.
‘Remember the aqueduct?’ Brinno said, grinning wildly.
Castus nodded. This time they had a better chance. But this time, he knew, capture would mean a certain death.
They split up, Brinno taking an alley that climbed towards the main street and the hill of the acropolis. Castus flung one more glance back at the pursuers, sucked in a deep burning breath, then ran straight on down the narrow thoroughfare towards the docks. The sound of his hammering footsteps echoed off the shuttered facades of the shops and warehouses. At the corner he pulled to a halt, threw himself against the wall and stared back along the street.
The pursuit was still on; he could see six men with spears and military cloaks, and a few more carrying staves and wearing plain drab clothing: men of the city militia hastily raised by Maximian to keep order and enforce the curfew. Someone was shouting to bring torches and search the alleyways, and Castus recognised the voice of Flaccianus. From somewhere behind him he could hear singing, drunken laughter: the city was emptied of its citizens, but there were still plenty of soldiers on the streets.
Slower now and heavier of step as fatigue ached through him, Castus jogged through a transverse alley into the next street. It appeared deserted, with just the sound of water flowing in the gutters and dripping from the eaves to break the silence of the closed city. He paused to get his bearings, meaning to double back around to the agora and throw off the chase, but as he did so a figure stepped from another alleyway a short distance ahead. The man had his back turned, but before Castus could move he looked over his shoulder and saw him. It was Glaucus, the big ex-wrestler. For a moment they stared at each other, then the bodyguard let out a bellow and dropped into a running charge.
There would be other men behind him at any moment, Castus knew. He had already drawn his sword, but if he tried to fight now he would be surrounded. He turned again, his cloak whipping, and threw himself into a narrower alley across the street, little more than a gap between the houses. Slippery stuff underfoot; he collided with first one wall and then another before he was through and into a walled courtyard half piled with festering rubbish. Doors to his left, one with a blanket pulled across it and a light burning somewhere within. He could jump the wall, he thought, scramble across; but already he could hear the big man piling down the alley after him.
Trapped, Castus took two long steps and struck at the bodyguard as he emerged from the dark mouth of the alley. Glaucus yelled, raising his heavy club in both hands, and the blade hit the wood with a chopping blow. Heaving his arm back, Castus steadied himself for a second strike, but Glaucus had already whirled the club up and brought it smashing down onto Castus’s right shoulder. Pain exploded through his torso, his arm went numb, and Castus lost his grip on the sword. The club was broken and the giant tossed it aside; open-handed, the two men circled. In the faint light Glaucus’s great slab of a face was twisted into a grin, his lips curled back from his small crooked teeth. The man was a trained wrestler, Castus remembered.
Two steps back, then another step. Then Glaucus let out a grunt and surged forward, swinging his fist; Castus leaped away from him and collided with the wall of the building behind him. Glaucus was fast on his feet, and had a long reach; already he was aiming another reaping blow. Castus dodged at the last moment and the bodyguard’s fist slammed into the bricks. Driving his arm up, Castus punched the man in the sternum, but Glaucus appeared unaffected. The lighted doorway was next to him, and Castus dragged himself around the doorpost, sweeping the hanging curtain aside.
He was in a narrow plastered corridor with a cell at the far end. An oil lamp burned in a niche near the ceiling. In the shock of the lamp glow Castus saw a bed in the cell, piled with rucked blankets, a blonde woman with a pink and white painted face and big pale breasts, a naked fat man kneeling over her, turning with an expression of shocked dismay… The vision lasted less than a heartbeat, then Glaucus came roaring through the doorway and slammed him against the wall.
Thick fingers closed around his throat. His body was pinned to the wall, the bodyguard’s full weight pressed against him. Castus had seldom met another man who could beat him in a fight, but the ex-wrestler seemed to be built of solid muscle and heavy fat. Fighting for breath, he hardened his neck, but he could feel the unbreakable grip tightening steadily. From the corner of his eye he could see the prostitute kneeling on the bed, her mouth wide open in a scream, her client pressed back into the corner in terror. Glaucus’s face was very close to his own, lips drawn back, and with every hissing exhalation Castus could smell the sour garlic on his breath. His right arm was trapped against his body; he managed to get his left arm free, but his attacker’s grip was too fierce to break. Something shattered against the far walclass="underline" the prostitute was flinging things at them, screaming, ‘Get out! Get out!’