Castus shoved himself away from the wall and jogged back to the ladder, following Brinno down to the walkway above the gates.
The beacon had not been fired, he discovered, because the stack of straw and tinder in the iron basket had been soaked by the night’s rain and not replaced. Beneath it, under cover, the clay lamp still burned, but that small flame alone would not be enough to send a clear signal.
‘Get down to the chamber below,’ Castus ordered, not even sure who was listening. ‘Bring bedding, straw mattresses, anything else dry that’ll burn.’
He sank down to sit beside the crenellated wall. Brinno knelt beside him, calling for water as he pulled the folds of bloody tunic cloth away from his wound.
Castus closed his eyes, feeling the rapid ebb of his strength. Still no sound from the dark land outside the walls. Soon the city troops would muster to retake the gates; the civilian mob could never stand against them. Keeping his eyes closed, gritting his teeth, Castus remained seated as Brinno washed the wound in his side. Then somebody was binding it – the prostitute Ofilia, he noticed. No trace now of the killing frenzy that had possessed her only moments before. Quick and deft, she bound clean linen around his torso, padding it over the wound and tying it tight. Castus thanked her with a grunt, then pulled himself up against the wall. His guts burned, but he could stand, and when he raised his arms he felt only the dullest ache.
The iron basket of the beacon was piled with blankets and dry straw now. Brinno lifted the lamp from beneath it, then, shading the flame carefully with his palm against the damp gusting breeze, brought the fire to the heap of tinder. Straw crackled, smoke twisted, and then the flame burst upwards. A cheer came from the people thronging the tower doorways.
Fire-warmth lit his face for a moment, then Castus turned and stared out into the darkness beyond the gateway. Still nothing, no sound of marching boots, no shouted order to advance. He eased himself down again, sitting against the rampart. Had the message even got through? Above him, he could see Brinno on the top of the tower, standing on the rampart with a bow in his hand. As Castus watched, the Frank aimed and shot, then shot again. He was picking off the men advancing along the wall walkway below.
Then, just at the edge of hearing, Castus made out a familiar sound. He hauled himself up, gripping the merlons and staring into the grey gloom. The steady crunch of hobnailed boots, marching fast. Then, with a wave of euphoric relief that almost made him shout, Castus heard the voices of the centurions as they urged their men on. He could see them now, a tight column of infantry advancing at the jog up the road that led to the gates. He saw the standards swaying above them as they flowed across the breach dug in the causeway, the curling tail of a draco streaming in the sea breeze. Then he made out their shields: the winged Victory emblem of the Sixth, his old legion.
‘Constantine Augustus!’ came the shout from the head of the column.
Castus raised his sword, the flame from the beacon fire flashing off the blade, and shouted hoarsely into the morning mist.
‘Ever Victorious! Ever Victorious!’
27
The vaulted passage between the gates stank of blood and filth, and was thunderous with the noise of men. Castus emerged from the doorway to the stairs and saw shields and helmets and armoured bodies packed close in the torchlight. Six spears were immediately levelled at his face.
‘Weapons down!’ their centurion cried. ‘Let him through!’
Beneath the helmet rim and nasal guard were the dark features of Rogatianus. The African pushed through his men and threw an arm around Castus’s shoulders, punching him lightly on the chest.
‘Good to see you, brother!’
‘Good to see the Sixth in the vanguard again,’ Castus said. He was shouting – everyone was shouting.
‘We didn’t volunteer. Somebody thought we might be the only ones to recognise you!’
‘Buggers in the other legions might have taken you for the enemy and killed you.’ Castus recognised Modestus, and grabbed him by the hand.
‘They might have tried,’ he said.
Now Rogatianus was re-forming his men in the tunnel before the inner gateway, throwing out a screen of skirmishers to watch the approaches from the city. Castus stood swaying, drinking in the scene. The noise, the faces, the shouts of command: they were music to him. Music and wine. All pain was gone from his body, and he felt strong, ready for anything.
The troops behind him parted, and a squat man in a gilded breastplate and gem-studded helmet came striding between them. It took Castus a moment to recognise his chief, Hierocles, Primicerius of the Corps of Protectores. Two tribunes of the horse guards followed him.
‘Dominus!’ Castus shouted, saluting.
Hierocles acknowledged the salute with a brief nod. ‘What do you know of the forces arrayed against us?’ he snapped.
‘Dominus, there are men in the towers along the wall to either side. We’ve seen nothing from the city so far, but Maximian has his reserves garrisoned around the temple of Apollo on the heights to the east of here, and half a cohort of Praetorians at the palace above the western docks. If they heard the alarm they should be moving against us already.’
‘Very good,’ the primicerius said. He was glancing down; the bandage wrapping Castus’s torso was already spotted with blood. ‘Are you fit to fight?’ he asked.
Castus squared his jaw and nodded.
‘Then fall in behind me. I may need you to guide us once we’re into the streets.’ He turned to the troops massing in the tunnel, his cry echoing under the stone vaults. ‘Centurions: battle formation! And somebody get this rabble of civilians out of the way…’
They moved out in a tight column, light infantry of the auxilia screening their flanks. First came the men of the Sixth, then a cohort of Legion I Minervia. Despite Hierocles’ order, the civilians moved forward too, flowing along either side of the advancing column. Castus saw Nazarius run out of the throng.
‘Praise be to God,’ the deacon cried, taking Castus by the hand. Tears were flowing down his face. ‘Praise be to God!’
‘Praise be to us,’ Castus told him.
The column had advanced only two blocks down the narrow street towards the agora when the enemy appeared before them. A solid wall of shields, Praetorians and men of the Spanish legions, blocked the street ahead. Castus heard the horns blowing, and the Constantinian column broke at once into an attack charge. Boots clattered on the cobbles, a couple of men slipped and fell, then the leading wedge of the column smashed into the wall of Maximian’s men and the din of colliding shields volleyed along the street.
At once men were screaming, spears lashing and stabbing. The enemy line gave a little, staggering back under the weight of the Constantinian charge, then the Spanish centurions yelled and soldiers bellowed a cheer, locking their boots to the cobbles and shoving back against the pressure of their attackers. Flung darts whirled in the air above them. Beside him, Castus saw Brinno calmly lofting arrows over the battle lines into the rear ranks of the enemy.
‘Heh!’ his friend cried as he reached for another arrow. ‘I’d forgotten how much fun it is to kill men with this thing!’
Craning up from his position near the back of the fight, Castus saw the solid mass of Maximian’s men beginning to push forward. Spears clashed together. Swords swung, battering against the shields of the opposing line. Slowly, slowly, the momentum of the Constantinian charge was being turned, men in the front ranks falling.
Then a ripple went through the enemy formation. Looking up, Castus saw people scrambling across the roofs of buildings on either side of the street, pelting tiles down into the massed soldiers beneath them. Others appeared at the upper windows, hurling bricks. A cauldron tipped from a window ledge, dropping a steaming torrent of boiling water onto the frenzied men below. The advance of Maximian’s troops faltered as panic spread from their rear. Then their line broke, and a wedge of Constantine’s legionaries surged forward through the breach, driving the enemy before it.