Reaching up and to his left, Castus felt the edge of the niche cut into the wall. He twisted his hand, then flinched as the flame of the lamp scalded his fingers. The grip on his neck was not slackening; he could feel his windpipe constricting, his consciousness shrinking to a single struggling point. Twisting his hand again, his fingers found the clay bowl of the lamp. He flicked it closer, into his grip, ignoring the flame dancing around his fingertips. Then it was in his grasp, his palm cupping the bowl, and he brought his arm down and pressed the burning lamp against the side of Glaucus’s head.
The big man flinched; then he roared as the flame touched his ear. He released his grip, but before he could pull himself away Castus swung the lamp hard against his skull. The clay shattered and the flame snuffed out; black smoke whirled in the confined space, and the corridor was filled with the stink of singed hair as Castus stabbed the shards of broken pottery into the bodyguard’s head.
Glaucus was reeling, clutching his bleeding ear and letting out a high keening shriek. Planting his back firmly against the wall, Castus kicked. His boot caught the man in the gut. Thrashing, Glaucus ripped the blanket down from the doorway and toppled out into the blackness of the yard, and Castus was right behind him.
In the trampled mud, moonlight gleamed faintly along the blade of his fallen sword. He snatched up the weapon; Glaucus was still staggering, shaking his head and shoulders like an angry bull, and Castus swung first one chopping blow and then another at the back of his head. The bodyguard grunted, dropped to his knees and then slumped forward in the dirt. Castus raised the sword and hacked down a third time. Bone cracked, and he smelled fresh blood in the darkness.
Stepping back slowly towards the alleyway, breathing hard, he kept his eyes on the fallen man, almost expecting him to get up again. His neck felt stripped raw. From the doorway of the prostitute’s room came a steady gasping sob, and the sound of a man muttering prayers to Juno the Preserver.
A shadow moved behind him, and Castus levelled his sword as he turned. Flaccianus was in the mouth of the alley, shrinking back towards the darkness as he took in the scene in the yard. He fled, his sharp cry echoing down the alley’s narrow culvert. Castus was at his heels; he saw the bar of blue moonlight at the end of the alley, Flaccianus’s running form silhouetted against it. Then a dark lumbering shape blocked the exit. There was a shout, the sound of a heavy object dropping to the cobblestones, and Castus emerged from the alley to see Flaccianus sprawled over a large wooden tub lying in the street. Two figures in stained tunics were shuffling anxiously away along the wall. Castus had barely glanced at them before the rank stink from the tub struck him: stale urine, collected from the city’s latrines.
Flaccianus tried to stand, and the side of the tub slipped beneath him, slopping foul liquid. He was trying to say something as he rolled onto his back, his mouth gaping.
‘Spare me… I have money!’
‘I want nothing you’ve got,’ Castus said.
He stepped across the fallen body, raised the sword in both hands, then stabbed it down.
Blood spread in a lake across the cobbles as he walked away.
His left hand was stinging with burns, his torso felt pummelled and his legs were almost locked with fatigue, but already he could feel the reserves of strength building inside him. At the far end of the street he could make out the crenellated towers of the Sea Gate, solid black against the deep blue sky. It was nearly an hour until dawn; he had escaped; he had thrown off his pursuers and arrived on time. Now only the most difficult and dangerous part of the strategy lay before him. He could hear the voices as he jogged the last distance up the street towards the portico of the coppersmiths.
‘That’s him… He’s here…’
Figures were moving in the deep shadow behind the pillars of the portico. Brinno appeared at his side, clapping Castus on the shoulder, bolting out questions. Was he injured? Was he being following? Castus shook his head as he stumbled the last few steps into the shelter of the portico and sank down against one of the pillars. Somebody passed him a waterskin and he drank deeply.
‘But, brother,’ Brinno said in a harsh whisper, ‘where’s your army? Is this all?’
Castus blinked into the gloom, then felt cold despair stab his chest. There were only a handful of men crouched along the far wall, less than a dozen; half of them looked like slaves, most of the rest barely older than boys. Nazarius, his face more than usually sombre, was kneeling beside him.
‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ the Christian said. ‘There were more, but they… Fear took them. And some of my brothers-in-Christ sought to persuade others against coming…’
Castus shook his head. He should have known.
‘But I am here, and Fortunatus, his son, three of his slaves… and there are more scattered around. They didn’t know if you would come…’
For a moment Castus let the wave of angry despair roll over him. He let his head drop back against the pillar and closed his eyes. Perhaps it was not too late; perhaps he could send another message telling the troops outside that the plan had failed…
But Brinno was nudging him. When Castus turned to look he saw men gathering from the shadows of the surrounding buildings, slipping from alleys and doorways, converging slowly on the dark shelter of the portico. There were many of them, and at first he snatched at the hilt of his sword, thinking himself surrounded by some silent army. But as the figures took form from the darkness he saw they were civilians, citizens, dressed in the rough tunics and breeches of labourers and craftsmen. Another figure crouched beside him, thickset and dressed in a heavy apron.
‘Hermius, of the leatherworkers’ collegium,’ the man said, seizing Castus by the hand. ‘I’ve got ten of my boys with me. If you’ll lead us against the soldiers, we’re with you.’
All around him now there were milling bodies, packing into the portico with a steady subdued whisper. Most were men, a few women among them; some had their faces blackened, and many carried weapons: staves, knives, adzes, a few hunting spears. Castus counted a score, then double that, and more of them gathering in the shadows along the street. A third man greeted him, then a fourth.
‘Nicephor, of the Lacydon stevedores’ collegium. There are twelve with me. We’re sick of the siege, and sick of Maximian. Command us, and we’re your men.’
‘Virianus, collegium of the agora marble-cutters. Six men with me.’
‘I’m Ofilia,’ said a woman with curling black hair and a broad, handsome face. ‘I’m just a whore, and I’m on my own, but I’ll help if I can.’
Nazarius was shaking, his nerves clearly on edge. ‘All day I’ve been spreading the word through the city,’ he explained. ‘There are… channels, outside our congregation. People I could trust. I hope I did the right thing.’
‘You did,’ Castus told him. ‘You did.’ But even as he spoke he felt the icy breath of fate up the back of his neck. The risk had been terrible.
The sound of whispering was growing now, the shuffle and scrape of many people packed together, strangers, maybe rivals or enemies, all united in a common purpose. For a moment Castus almost felt he could weep. He tightened his jaw. The joy of relief was flooding through him, and a fresh and fierce determination. It would happen now. They would do this.
‘Your bishop would be proud of you,’ he told Nazarius.