But now the mob was filling the confined tunnel, their shouts deafening. Castus snatched up a fallen shield, flung a last pitying glance at the surrendering soldier as the bodies closed around him, then pushed his way between the milling crowd to the low doorway that led into the tower. Brinno was lost somewhere behind him, but there was no time to pause now. Every moment counted.
Through the doorway into a dark, dank-smelling vestibule. Narrow steps rose steeply to the right. Castus lifted the shield above him and began to climb. There were others coming up behind him, their whoops and yells ringing. An arrow darted from above, jarring off the wall and raising a trail of sparks. Castus lowered his head behind the shield rim and charged on upwards, roaring.
Another arrow as he neared the top, shot at close range, the iron head punching through the leather and wood of the shield to jut a hand’s-span short of his face. Stumbling on the steps, shoving himself away from the walls, Castus stormed up the last few steps before the archer could draw again. Throwing his shoulder into the hollow of the shield he leaped, slamming into the archer’s body and knocking him off his feet. Castus angled his sword to strike, and the fallen man snatched wildly, his hand closing around the blade. Castus pulled back his arm, the sword shearing off the archer’s fingers. Then he was through the next doorway and into the tower chamber, heaving the shield around his body to defend himself.
Not fast enough. A spear darted in from his unguarded right. Castus arched his back and sucked breath, feeling the speartip jolt off his belt, slice a searing line across his flank and catch in the bunched folds of his tunic. He slashed, the flat of his blade sliding up the spearshaft to strike the attacker’s arm. The man dropped his weapon and fell back.
A moment to breathe. The mob on the steps behind him was hanging back, and in the low-ceilinged chamber of the tower Castus saw three men – no, four – arrayed against him, and a fifth still trying to crawl up from his bedroll as he groped for his sword. Bad odds. But he had a shield and they did not. He was in a cold fighting frenzy, and they were still stunned and confused, uncertain what was happening. He threw himself forward into the chamber, bellowing.
Punching with the rim of his shield, Castus struck one man across the chest and knocked him down. His opponents had spears and knives, better for fighting in close quarters than Castus’s dull, notched broadsword. But he stamped forward, hearing the noise of his own yell echoing back at him, and saw the terror in their eyes. One dodged in fast, striking upward with a knife, and Castus stabbed straight and hard and felt his blade pierce the man through the shoulder. He kicked, the man went down, and then a blast of air rushed into the chamber. The two other two soldiers had thrown open the door to the rampart walkway and bolted out into the night.
‘You!’ Castus screamed, pointing his blade down at the panicking man on the bedroll. The soldier’s sword fell from his hand. ‘Who’s the emperor?’
‘Uh,’ the soldier said, his mouth working. ‘Constantine?’
‘Secure the prisoners!’ Castus shouted to the civilians packing the doorway. The man he had knocked down with his shield was crawling away across the floor, feebly raising his hand. ‘And get that outer door shut and barred!’
The press of bodies parted to let him through. Castus’s ears were ringing, and the first waves of pain were rising from the spear-gash in his side. He could feel blood coursing hot and wet down his hip and left leg, but the energy of battle was carrying him now and he ignored the pain. What hour was it? With any luck the sentries would already have fired the beacon on the ramparts, a summons for help but also the signal to Constantine’s troops outside. But first the portcullis that barred the gate tunnel would need to be raised.
Past the stairs and through the next door, Castus saw the narrow chamber above the gates. Windows to both sides, and the massive drum and windlass of the portcullis filling half the space, cables reaching up and over the roof beams. He froze in the doorway, panic flaring in his head. There was a soldier in the chamber, one of the sentries from the ramparts, and he was raising his sword to chop through the cables.
‘Stop him!’ The shout rushed from his throat, and a heartbeat later he was leaping forward. He was too slow; the blade would fall… Then the soldier jerked upwards, his back arched, and he let out at strangled cry. The sword fell ringing from his grip and he toppled sideways with a javelin jutting from his spine.
Brinno was grinning from the far door.
‘Good thing I’m faster than you, brother!’
In all the chambers of the gatehouse, men were dying. Castus stepped over a sprawling body, and recognised Hermius the leatherworker. Blood was spattered on the whitewashed walls, looking black in the lamplight. In the chamber above the gates, Nazarius and half a dozen other men were heaving at the windlass bars, bringing the cables taut and the heavy portcullis grunting upwards. Most of the surviving soldiers were trying to surrender now, but the mob seethed around them, implacable. Castus saw a woman – the black-haired prostitute Ofilia – lashing a kneeling soldier over the head with a heavy stick.
‘Spare them if they surrender!’ he cried. He turned and grabbed somebody by the shoulder, surprised to find it was a boy of about thirteen. ‘Get down to the tunnel,’ he told the boy, ‘and make sure somebody opens the outer gates, as soon as the portcullis is raised. Understand?’
The boy nodded and darted away down the stairs.
A shriek came from overhead, then a clatter. A gang of civilians had pushed up the next flight to the upper chamber and the ramparts; as they fell back Castus saw their leader speared and bleeding. They took him by the ankles and dragged him down, his skull knocking on the steps.
‘Out of the way,’ he said, and the crowd shrank back against the walls to let him through. Getting his shield up in front of him, Castus clambered over the bleeding man and stamped up the steps, his body primed for the first attack. He had almost reached the top when a spear came stabbing down at him, thudding loud against the shield boards. Castus angled his blade out from below the shield and pushed on upwards, almost tripping on the narrow steps. The spearman struck again, and the force of the impact almost sent Castus staggering off his feet. But then he was up, bursting from the steps into the upper chamber of the tower, two soldiers falling back before him.
‘Surrender!’ Castus yelled, but his opponents were already lunging at him again. He smacked the spear away with his sword, then rolled himself into a low crouch with his shield lifted, sweeping a horizontal cut that chopped the spearman’s legs from under him. The man toppled, screaming, as the second soldier’s swinging blow thundered onto Castus’s shield. Castus flinched from the impact, then straightened and hurled the shield towards his opponent. It collided with the man’s body, and before he could regain his balance Castus had closed the space between them and stabbed the blade of his sword up under his ribs. The soldier choked blood, fell against Castus, and was dead before his body folded to the floor.
Up the last flight of steps, no more than a wooden ladder this time, and Castus dragged himself up onto the flat roof of the tower. Not yet sunrise. Sagging against the rampart wall, he heaved air into his lungs. His legs felt numb, and the wound in his side was throbbing, pain shooting up into his left armpit. When he looked back he saw that he had left a trail of blood behind him. The land to the north was still hazy in the pre-dawn darkness. No sign of approaching troops. No movement at all. From the city Castus could hear cries of alarm and the brassy blare of horns.
Brinno raised his head from the ladder. ‘Brother – the beacon hasn’t been fired yet.’