by Ian Ross
‘Who paid you?’ Castus demanded.
‘I don’t know, dominus! I’m a poor man – I don’t know the imperial officers! A soldier, I think... A fine man, such as yourselves...’
Castus looked at the dagger on the table. The hilt was silver, although a little tarnished, but the scabbard had a gold-plated framework. He picked it up and drew the blade. Clean and sharp.
‘Could be a message hidden in the scabbard?’ Sallustius said.
Castus had been thinking the same. If the weapon was for Gorgonius, and came from a soldier, it could be a communication from the troops across the river. He stared down the throat of the scabbard, but there was no folded slip of papyrus hidden inside it. He sheathed the dagger and placed it back on the table again.
‘What do we do with him?’ Brinno asked, sitting on a bench with his elbows on his knees. He stretched his mouth in a long yawn.
‘There are notaries and quaestionarii with Maximian’s staff,’ Sallustius said. ‘We can deliver him to them in the morning. And they, my friend,’ he told the man, ‘will soon use their hooks and irons to drag the truth from you!’
The man had started gasping and shaking again. Castus looked back at the dagger. Something about it was not right. He picked it up again, turning it in his hands, rubbing at the scabbard with his thumb. One side looked fine, but on the other was a line of crude stitching. Inside the flashy framework, the leather of the sheath was just thin rawhide, poorly sewn together.
Drawing the blade again, he slid the tip beneath the brass lug that held the scabbard frame together and twisted hard. Sallustius and Victor were peering at him, perplexed. The rivet broke without much effort, and then it was a simple task to lever open the framework and cut the stitches along the tube of the rawhide sheath.
‘What is it?’ Brinno asked, looking more awake now.
Castus unrolled the tube and flattened it on the table as Sallustius gazed over his shoulder. There were letters painted in black ink on what had been the inside of the sheath. Castus leaned closer, his mouth moving as he carefully read them aloud.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said, frowning in disappointment. Had he read it wrong? His knowledge of letters was still not too good – the terrible weight of his ignorance pressed on his mind. ‘Calvikal Sepihn? What does it mean?’
For a moment he remembered the strange incantations that the sorcerer in the necropolis of Treveris had intoned. A slight flicker of superstitious dread ran through him. Sallustius had snatched up the message and was peering at it in the light of the lamp. His lips moved for a moment, then suddenly his face cleared and he laughed.
‘It’s a date and time!’ he said. ‘The second part anyway. The first must be either a name or a place. Look...’ He took a wax tablet and pen and began tracing the letters, then turned it so Castus could see. For a moment it still did not make sense.
CALV.VI.KAL.SEP.II.HN.
Then Sallustius placed his thumb over the first four letters, and Castus saw the rest jump into recognisable shape.
‘The sixth day before the kalends of September, at the second hour of the night,’ he said. ‘That’s tomorrow night.’
‘Must be an arranged meeting,’ Victor said, leaning closer. Even the man on the bench had ceased trembling and was looking interested. ‘But who, or where, is Calv?’
Castus took the message back from Sallustius. He had known already what he would have to do, although the thought filled him with angry foreboding.
‘Leave this to me,’ he said.
Julius Nigrinus had initially appeared annoyed to be disturbed in his chambers in the dead of night – if not, Castus thought, all that surprised. The lamp had already been burning when he had arrived. Now, with the message before him, the notary seemed his usual devious self.
‘Calvisiana,’ he said, looking up from the message with a knowing smile. ‘It’s a villa, a few miles south-east of Ucetia. A day’s ride from here. If you can get out of the city tomorrow without attracting attention you’ll easily be there by the appointed time.’
‘Then what?’ Castus said. He was standing before the table in the small dimly lit anteroom of the notary’s bedchamber.
‘And then,’ Nigrinus said, casting the message aside and rubbing at his eyes, ‘you can observe, and if possible apprehend, whoever is attending this meeting – this no-doubt treasonous meeting!’
He stood up, pulling a rough homespun blanket around his shoulders. The night was not cold, but the notary was almost shivering as he paced a few steps to the wall and back. ‘Take only men you can trust – your Frankish friend and the two others in your section. Tell nobody else of this – nobody! I’ll order four of the agentes in rebus to accompany you, plus a few other armed men in case they’re needed. You must act in the name of the emperor, no matter what the rank or station of these conspirators might be...’
‘You’re quite sure this is a conspiracy, then?’ Castus asked. The notary’s nervous excitement was making him wary. Or was it excitement? He had the strong sense that there was more going on here than he was being told. But that was a familiar sensation.
‘Why else would a military officer hire a common beggar to carry a concealed message to Maximian’s chief eunuch? Don’t worry, I’ve been observing things for a long time. I’ve known of the Villa Calvisiana for a while too – it’s been mentioned in correspondence.’
‘I see,’ Castus said. He could well imagine this cold-blooded man sitting up late into the night, reading other people’s mail. The odium he felt for Julius Nigrinus had not diminished at all over the years, he found. Being forced into such close company with the man filled him with a clenched rage all the harder to endure the more he tried to suppress it.
‘Best go and prepare yourself,’ the notary said. ‘And remember – tell absolutely nobody about this.’
Castus nodded once, then turned to go. At the door he paused.
‘Do you never sleep?’ he asked.
‘Night suits me,’ Nigrinus replied. ‘Daylight hurts my eyes, you know. In ten years’ time I will doubtless be completely blind.’ He gave a couple of long slow blinks. ‘And so,’ he said, ‘I must ensure that all my work is done before then. But it is a hard, slow business, soldier. Harder than you will ever know.’
For once, Castus did not doubt him.
18
Clouds covered the moon, and shadow filled the narrow valley. The twelve men picking their way along the track slowed and then paused, disorientated in the total blackness. Castus could sense the river moving to his left, flowing in its deep channel between boulders and shingle banks. He could smell the wild herbs growing between the trees and thick scrub on the upper slopes of the valley. He recalled the last time he had led a party of men through a darkened wilderness, the summer before after the crossing of the Rhine. But that had been different – this was no barbarian frontier, but the heartland of Roman Gaul, and he could fear no sudden onrush of savage enemies from the night. But still he felt the stir of apprehension up his spine.
Then the clouds shifted and moonlight flooded the valley once more, seeming almost unnaturally bright. Castus looked back and saw the massive arches of the great aqueduct that crossed the valley behind them. It looked ghostly, unreal in the midst of this empty forest.
‘We should see the place soon,’ Flaccianus whispered. ‘Just around the next bend in the river.’
Castus had not realised that the man was so close behind him. If he despised Nigrinus, he hated the greasy agens in rebus even more. Flaccianus’s hired bodyguard was no better, a hulking flat-faced ex-wrestler named Glaucus, who said nothing and followed his master around like a loyal mastiff. Hunching his heavy shoulders, Castus moved off once more down the track. They had left the horses beneath the arch of the aqueduct, in the care of a couple of slaves; the villa was a mile upriver, but they could approach more quietly on foot, and if they got separated in the dark the aqueduct made a good rendezvous. Even so, without the horses their scanty numbers we
re even more obvious. Not for the first time, Castus had serious misgivings about the planning of the night’s mission.
He had talked little with Flaccianus or the other three agentes in rebus during the journey from Arles. They had left the city in the slumbering quiet of mid-afternoon and ridden hard across the flat open countryside, moving northwards parallel to the river until they reached the great spur of rough wooded country that concealed the valley and the villa within it. They paused there in a grove until after nightfall, then moved up the valley once more. Five slaves had accompanied them, and Glaucus the bodyguard; it hardly seemed enough to tackle and capture a group of highly placed plotters, who probably included military men. But there was nobody else they could trust for the job. Besides, Castus had been the one to find the message hidden in the dagger scabbard, and he felt a sense of responsibility for what had to be done. He remembered the words of his oath. I shall not cease to hunt him down by land and by sea with iron in hand...
The valley curved, wrapping around the narrowing trench of the river, and now the great aqueduct was hidden behind them. Up ahead, Castus could see a low wall through the trees, and an arched gateway. He motioned to the men following him, and together they moved up to the wall and crouched in the long grass. All of them were wearing dark clothes, with no ornaments that might catch the light.
‘Once we get inside the walls,’ Flaccianus said, ‘we should split up. The Protectores should circle individually around the sides of the villa, while the agents and I move in close and try and observe what’s happening...’
‘Why does this small man give us orders?’ Brinno hissed from the darkness.
‘I don’t like the sound of it,’ Castus said. ‘I’ve had about enough of skulking about in the dark for one night already.’
‘Oh, really? And what do you noble Protectores suggest instead?’ Flaccianus said in an acid voice. ‘Rushing in through the front doors, waving your swords about?’
‘He’s right,’ Sallustius said quietly. ‘We need to circle the perimeter, stop anyone getting away.’
Castus exhaled slowly, leaning back against the rough stone wall. ‘Whatever we’re doing, we need to do it fast,’ he said, ‘and work together.’
‘Ah, good!’ Flaccianus said. ‘What a splendid idea – so, as I said, we split up and take individual positions...’
‘We stay together in pairs,’ Castus broke in. ‘Me and Brinno go round to the left of the villa, Sallustius and Victor to the right, along the river. You and your agents creep in close and find out what’s happening inside. As soon as you have them in sight, whistle twice and we’ll get in there. The slaves stay here and hold the gateway.’
He looked around quickly at the gathered men: a few heads nodded in the moonlight; the rest stayed silent; Flaccianus just shrugged. Castus took that for agreement.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
* * *
Inside the wall of the estate they moved through an orchard, the close-planted trees giving them good cover right up to the bank and ditch that screened the villa buildings. Lying on the bank, Castus peered out between the trunks of a row of poplars and saw the back of the tile-roofed house, the squat columns of a brick rear portico and the low whitewashed half-domes of a bath-house. There were lamps burning inside – Castus could make out the faint glow thrown between the pillars of the portico – but otherwise there were no signs that anyone else was there. The villa was not a lavish place, by the look of it, more a hunting lodge combined with a farm. That was some relief at least. Perhaps nine armed men would be enough to surround it effectively.
From the low scrub and fields on the far side of the villa came the steady, constant chirruping of insects in the darkness. No sign of anyone on watch; or, if they were, they were well concealed.
‘I don’t like this,’ Castus said quietly. ‘Why are there no guards? All too open... like they’re waiting for us.’
‘Afraid of the dark?’ Flaccianus said with a sly grin. ‘We’re out in the middle of nowhere – why would they need guards?’
Biting back an answer, Castus slid his sword from its scabbard. He wished he had brought a shorter weapon. His broad-bladed infantry spatha was a formidable tool in a pitched battle, but awkward for the sort of work the night promised. He noticed that Flaccianus and the other agents had armed themselves with short ring-pommelled swords, which looked far handier.
‘Remember,’ he whispered harshly, ‘two whistles – right?’
‘That’s right,’ Flaccianus said. ‘And remember to come when I call!’ He ran forward at a crouch with the other agents and Glaucus behind him. Sallustius and Victor had already moved off to the right, towards the riverbank. Castus motioned to Brinno, and the two of them scrambled up the bank and jogged towards the left-hand corner of the villa.
He was tensed for the barking of dogs, but only the rhythmic pulsing sound of the insects disturbed the quiet of the night. Halting, he dropped to a crouch with his back against the wall of the villa. Brinno ran up and crouched beside him.
Senses alert, his body primed, Castus listened intently. He almost thought he could hear the sound of voices from somewhere inside the building: men speaking quietly. Tapping Brinno on the shoulder, he moved forward again, following the wall until he reached the corner of the building. To his left was what looked like a stable block; ahead of him, steps led up to the garden terrace at the front of the villa.
‘Somebody moving out there,’ Brinno whispered, and nodded towards the trees beyond the stables. ‘They see us, I think.’
Tensed, Castus tried not to imagine the whip of arrows from the darkness. He and Brinno would make easy targets against the whitewashed wall. His senses were screaming at him to pull back, get out of this. But he was committed to it now.
Two whistles from the far side of the building. Castus and Brinno were up and running immediately, doubling the corner and leaping up the steps to the terrace.
Trees and hedges in moonlight, the grey rectangle of a dry ornamental pool, and the ranked pillars of the front portico above them. A scream came from the darkness beyond, and suddenly the night was full of men running at them from both directions.
‘It’s a trap – get out!’ Victor’s voice cried out from the far side of the terrace. Men on the portico, spilling from the house; others closing in from the garden.
Brinno grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back, but Castus shook him off. In his mind’s eye he saw the villa mapped out, the terrace and the riverbank. He had no idea who was attacking them, but this was a battleground now. This was tactics.
‘Straight on,’ he shouted, ‘after me, though the middle of them!’
He ran, hoping Brinno was behind him: whoever their attackers were, they wanted to keep the four Protectores apart, cut them off individually. Castus needed to link up with Sallustius and Victor.
The men coming from the house had expected him to flee, expected to pursue him, but instead Castus charged straight at them. At them and through them... He wheeled his blade and slashed at the first man, who dodged too late. The blade slid across the man’s shoulder and bit the back of his neck, and he was down and screaming. No time to finish him; Castus knew he only needed to put his opponents out of the fight. Running, he sidestepped to slam against another figure coming from the shadows. The man flung up his arm, and Castus noticed his ring-pommelled sword before he chopped his legs from under him.
Brinno raced past, bellowing, and shouldered down one of the attackers coming from the garden. Castus saw his blade rise and then stab down. Then he was weaving between bodies, striking out. The darkness was on his side now; his attackers were confused, fearful. He slashed, and felt a brief shock up his blade.
‘My hand!’ a man screamed. ‘Fuck! He’s cut off my hand!’
They were falling away from him, and he was through. At the far wall of the terrace he paused and turned, looking for Brinno. The Frank was right behind him, bodies scattered on the dark turf in his wake, and above, in the fl
are of light across the portico, Flaccianus and his big bodyguard stared back at him, yelling to the others to press the attack.
No time to think. Castus scrambled up onto the wall and across in a single movement. A longer drop on the far side as the ground sloped down to the riverbank; he fell into tangled undergrowth and thick grass, lost his footing and rolled. His cloak caught on something and he ripped it free of his neck. A crash as Brinno came down beside him, but before the men on the terrace could reach the wall they were both on their feet, dragging each other as they stumbled along the riverbank in the direction of the aqueduct.
Victor almost collided with them. ‘Sallustius is down,’ he gasped, and there was panic in his voice. ‘The others – we were betrayed! That bastard Flaccianus and his men...’
‘I know,’ Castus said. ‘Save your breath and run.’
There was pursuit now; men dashing towards the higher ground at the edge of the river slope, aiming to cut them off. Castus could not guess their numbers; he had seen ten or more back in the garden, but there could be twice as many. Who were they? Just Flaccianus and his fellow agents, or were there others? It surely mattered, but Castus had no time to think about that. The deception was clear to him: the fake message in the scabbard, the interview with Nigrinus... all of it designed to draw them out here to this isolated place and pick them off one by one.
They were no fighters anyway, and there was fortune in that. Castus could hardly believe that he and Brinno had somehow woven their way out of the ambush apparently unharmed. The thought gave him a sense of unreality, as if he were running in a dream. Their pursuers had lost time getting back around the side of the villa, and the three Protectores had a good head start on them. Up the dry slope, stamping through the thorny brush, Castus saw the estate wall and the gate before him. His breath was coming in aching heaves – he had not had to run like this in many months.