Maximian’s other bodyguards were drawing back, closing ranks again. Castus kept his eyes on his opponent, but could sense the soldiers massing behind him. Both sides watched their champions: this would be a single combat, a bout of gladiators. Urbicus swung his shield up as he edged closer, already in a fighting stance with his blade levelled.
Castus focused on the man before him, trying to still the thunder of blood in his head and clear his mind of everything but his adversary. The morning sun was bright; death lay on every side. From the deepest well of his body he dredged up the last reserves of strength, of speed.
In silence they circled, edging and feinting, their boots scraping on the stone paving, and the troops gathered all around them were silent too, breathless as they watched.
Urbicus lunged suddenly, his blade darting out. Castus took the strike on his shield and turned it, but the older man kept up the attack. Another blow hammered down, then two more in quick succession. Castus kept his shoulder hunched into the hollow of his shield, absorbing the force of the attack, waiting for the other man to tire. But he was being driven back almost to the brink of the quayside. He pushed forward, stabbing with his blade and punching out with the boss of his shield; Urbicus dodged clear, then swung a high chopping blow. Castus got his shield up, realising a moment too late that it was a feint. The other man’s blade skimmed around the rim of his shield and swung in low and hard. Pain ripped through Castus’s body as the flat of the sword slammed into his flank, where the bloodstain on his tunic clearly showed the wound beneath. Crying out, he saw Urbicus snarl in triumph, then punch forward with his shield.
The blow caught Castus off balance, and his left leg gave beneath him. Toppling, he caught himself on one knee as his shield fell from his grip. Urbicus was already sweeping his sword up, then bringing it arcing down. Castus raised his blade just in time, gripping the hilt with both hands as he parried the blow. Steel clashed and shrieked in the sunlight as the blades ground together.
For a moment they struggled, weapons locked. Castus heard the screams of the gulls around them, the shouts of the watching soldiers suddenly loud in his ears. From somewhere in the pit of his chest he found a last surge of energy; roaring, he pushed himself upwards. Urbicus staggered back, his sword already wheeling to strike again, but Castus was on his feet now and drove forward into the attack. With a ragged yell he struck two-handed, his blade hacking shards from the other man’s shield rim.
One blow, and then another. He saw fierce anger in the eyes of his enemy. Urbicus was gathering his strength, but for a few heartbeats he could only retreat under Castus’s assault. A third blow, slashed backhand across the face of Urbicus’s shield, then Castus grabbed at the shield rim with his left hand and pulled, hauling the other man’s arm and body around with it.
His sword was already drawn back; with all the power of his arm he drove it forward, stabbing into the open flank of his enemy. The blade bit deep, and Urbicus screamed.
Muscles burning, Castus dragged his sword back again and lifted it, wheeling the blade in the air before hacking it down into the hard flesh and tendons of Urbicus’s neck.
Blood sprayed from the wound, brilliant in the sunlight. For a moment Castus saw Urbicus gazing back at him, his eyes wide with shock at the blow that had half severed his head. Then the man’s legs folded beneath him and the body dropped to the smooth stones of the quay.
Heaving breath, Castus sank to one knee in the spreading lake of blood. He grounded his sword before him and leaned on it, fearing he would lose consciousness at any moment. Around him, Constantine’s men were advancing again, but the remnants of the bodyguard gathered around the landing steps were throwing down their weapons now. Several of them covered their haggard faces as they began to weep, but most just slumped to the ground, too weary to care if they lived or died.
Turning his head, Castus gazed across the sunlit water at Maximian’s departing galley. There were others packed into the boat: he could see the eunuch Gorgonius, and Fausta and her ladies, Sabina doubtless among them. Then he raised his eyes from the galley and looked towards the harbour mouth. Edging in beneath the bastions of the sea fortifications, oars beating in time, were two double-banked liburnians. The galleys’ decks were packed with troops, and both had heavy ballistae mounted in the bows, aimed down at Maximian’s fragile craft.
The two ships slowed as they entered the harbour. Raising a palm to shade his eyes, Castus watched as Maximian stood up in the stern of his own vessel. The oarsmen ceased moving, and the motion of the light galley slackened as it turned slowly with the tide. A man in a linen cuirass was calling orders across the water from the bigger of the two liburnians, but Maximian paid him no attention.
Slowly, with careful dignity, the usurper slipped the gold-embroidered purple robe from his shoulders, lifted it and folded it. Then he raised his arms and cast the folded robe into the waters of the harbour.
‘Will they let us take a bath and change our clothes before we meet the emperor?’ Brinno asked. He was licking the blistered fingers of his shooting hand. Ofilia was trailing behind him, a smile on her broad, tanned face.
Castus shrugged, snorting. All three of them were bloodied and filthy, but the whole city of Massilia looked racked and battered. Soldiers were staggering everywhere, most of them drunk, but many of the citizens appeared drunk too. Maximian was beaten, the battle was over and soon the emperor Constantine would make his triumphal entrance into the city. Surely that was cause enough for happiness?
Stepping through the shade of the colonnades, Castus looked out over the agora. After the night’s rain the morning was fresh and the sky cloudless, and all across the open space there were soldiers and civilians mingled together, cheering and laughing. Castus had not seen the prisoners being brought ashore after Maximian’s surrender. He had seen nothing of Fausta, or Sabina. Even Hierocles had disappeared immediately after the surrender to take possession of the former palace.
In the corner of the agora a gang of soldiers was running, yelling with laughter. They were from one of the Spanish legions, Castus noticed as he heard their accents. As they ran they were kicking something between them; a heavy ball it looked like. Their game moved closer, and one kick sent the dark object spinning between the colonnade pillars to land with a dull thud near Castus’s feet. It was a severed head, beaten and almost black with dirt and blood. Leaning closer, he could not for a moment make out the broken and swollen features. Then he recognised the big stubbled chin of Scorpianus, Maximian’s prefect. He stepped away from the head, and two of the soldiers ran up and booted it back out into the agora again.
Leaning back against a pillar, Castus stared up into the wide brilliant blue of the sky. He was starving, he realised, and very tired. The crowd in the agora had started chanting again, and their voices echoed along the colonnades. Castus closed his eyes and listened.
‘Constantine Augustus! Ever Victorious!’ they were chanting. ‘Constantine! Constantine! Constantine…!’
28
The prisoners were led out into the evening sunlight with their hands bound behind them. They were barefoot, but still wore their richly embroidered tunics. There were four of them, the only men of Maximian’s inner circle who had not managed to flee the city or take their own lives before capture. Perhaps, Nigrinus wondered, they had hoped for mercy? Perhaps they had trusted too much in the Sacred Clemency of the emperor Constantine?
Gorgonius was brought out first, the chief eunuch’s heavy jowled face pale grey and quivering. Behind him was the army commander, Gaudentius, stiff-necked with either pride or fear, Nigrinus could not tell. The former curator of Massilia looked especially woeful; this building had once been his house.