by Ian Ross
‘That’s the way I’d guess it, yes.’
‘And you have an idea who these people might be? Or rather, who might have sent them after us?’
‘I thought that was your province, notary.’
Nigrinus stretched his mouth in a humourless smirk. ‘I suppose it should be,’ he said quietly. ‘But at this stage, I need all the help I can get.’
*
All through that day they sailed across a rolling sea with a steady breeze from the west. Evening was coming on again when Castus first noticed the glimmering light on the eastern horizon. He climbed up to the sloping bow, leaning from the gilded stempost and peering off into the greyness. The light remained fixed, unmoving as it floated just above the horizon.
‘The Pharos of Portus!’ Diogenes declared, joining him. ‘Bigger even than the famous lighthouse of Alexandria, so they say, which is one of the wonders of the world. We’re approaching the port of Rome at last!’
As they drew nearer, Castus could clearly make out the flaming beacon; closer still, and he could see the dark line of the shore, the reaching arms of the massive harbour moles and the tall lighthouse standing on its artificial island at the mouth.
‘We’ll anchor in the outer harbour before dark,’ the shipmaster said, ‘and go into the dock basin at dawn tomorrow. I suggest that nobody mentions the unfortunate events of last night.’
Nobody seemed eager to do so. As the ship approached the harbour mouth, everyone on deck could see the sleek triple-banked warship pulling out towards them. The light of the beacon fire flashed on the oars as they dipped and rose, picking out the marines assembled on the long narrow deck, the ballistae mounted at bow and stern. Backing her sails, the Fortuna Redux slowed and came around as the trireme moved up alongside.
Everyone stay calm, Castus said to himself, praying that the men aboard the warship had not already been alerted to their presence. He could see the boat putting out from the galley, the marine optio standing up at the bow, his helmet plume streaming in the breeze as his men pulled across the choppy waves.
The passengers were assembled on deck with their baggage as the boat hooked onto the ship’s side and the marines clambered aboard. Squatting down in the scuppers behind Pudentianus, who had dressed himself in his finest embroidered tunic and patterned cape, Castus tried to look unobtrusive. Casting an appraising eye over the marines, he was not impressed: none wore armour, and their equipment was old and worn. A lazy-looking set of men, bored and aggressive, they spread out across the deck as the ship’s owner and the sailing master came forward with the cargo documents for inspection. A couple of them dropped down through the hatches to search below decks, while the rest idled with their spears readied, staring at the assembled passengers with open disdain.
‘You there,’ the optio said, catching sight of Castus. ‘Where’d you get those scars?’
‘In the arena at Theveste, dominus,’ Castus replied, trying his best to keep the Pannonian inflection from his voice.
‘You’re a gladiator?’
‘Was, dominus.’
‘He’s my bodyguard,’ Pudentianus declared promptly. ‘A freedman.’ Castus thanked him silently.
‘I am Publius Pomponius Bassus Pudentianus,’ the young man went on, drawing himself up to his full height. For a moment he managed to look impressively confident, although the optio still towered over him. ‘My father is a senator of Rome, and I have already been too long delayed on this voyage.’
‘Have you indeed?’ the optio said. He turned back to Castus. ‘If you ever fancy getting a proper job,’ he said, ‘consider the navy. We take freedmen in the marines, you know.’
Castus just shrugged lightly. A shout came across the waves: a flag was waving from the trireme. For a moment Castus’s pulse jumped, and then he saw a second cargo ship moving slowly towards the harbour mouth.
‘We’re done here,’ the optio called to his men. The marines came clattering up the ladder from the hold and the bilges, and with a last sneer and a spit they clambered back into their boat and set off towards the second incoming vessel.
Pudentianus exhaled hugely and wiped his brow. Already the sailing master was shouting to his crew, and moment later the big mainsail bellied in the wind and the Fortuna Redux was under way once more. As the last glow of sunset faded to the west, the ship moved through the narrow channel beneath the burning beacon of the lighthouse, past the massive gilded statue of Neptune standing at the end of the mole, and entered the outer harbour.
‘We’re here,’ Diogenes said with quietly suppressed awe, as the anchors plunged down into the oily-smooth waters. ‘I can hardly believe it…’
The land was lost in darkness, but there was a smell on the breeze: dust and smoke. The smell of civilisation, Castus thought as he breathed it in. The smell of Rome.
Chapter XIX
Gold and glittering mosaic glass above him; cool marble beneath his feet.
Castus tipped his head back and gazed up at the ceilings of the vast bathing hall. Around him was noise, the voices of thousands of men, the splash and gush of water, laughter and singing, even the words of a poet declaiming his latest work in one of the side chambers, all of it echoing together under the soaring vaulted roof into a single rushing roar. Castus was oblivious to the noise. Although this was not the first time he had been here, he had still not lost his sense of mute wonder.
But as he paced slowly between the milling crowds of naked and semi-naked bathers, he was naggingly aware of a single chattering voice at his elbow, an occasional touch on his arm.
‘Yes, dominus, whatever you desire – whatever in the world you require – I, Apelles the Mouse, will provide! Merely name what you want, dominus. You need food? Drink? Lucanian sausage, maybe? Very spicy! Honey cakes...?’
The little rodent-like man had followed him in from the palaestra, talking constantly, trying to catch his attention. Castus continued to ignore him.
He looked up and saw painted figures on the ceiling: gods and giants. He saw tall columns of purple and green marble, mosaics in yellow and blue, statues in blinding white and gold. The hall in which he was walking was larger, he thought, than the imperial basilica in Treveris, but this was only the centrepiece of the baths complex. To either side, through enormous arched portals, were other chambers, thermal rooms, changing rooms and halls for oiling and massage. There were twin palaestrae for exercise, and a huge open-air swimming pool. This was the newest and most sumptuous bath in all of Rome, dedicated only six years before in the name of Diocletian; Pudentianus had claimed it was the biggest in the world, and Castus could believe him.
‘Perhaps the dominus wishes for company, or for sport? I, Apelles the Mouse, can introduce him to the finest wits, the boldest players in all this district! Yes, indeed, for a small consideration…’
During his years in the army Castus had travelled from one end of the empire to the other. He had seen mighty Antioch, Ctesiphon, the imperial capitals of Nicomedia, Mediolanum and Treveris. He was not, he thought, easily impressed. But these last six days since his arrival in Rome had tested his idea of himself as a man of the world. So much here was far beyond anything he had expected.
Rome was vast. When Diogenes had told him that the city had a million inhabitants, Castus had assumed he was exaggerating. Now he suspected the figure was higher. Half the human race seemed to live here, teeming and swarming in the streets and the fora, covering the hills with houses and apartment blocks as far as the eye could see. On every hilltop were enormous mansions, temples and porticoes; in the valleys between were streets narrower and more squalid than any Castus had known. It seemed absurd, even insane, to imagine that their small party of men could hope to have any influence on a city of such size and energy.
On the first morning, after their journey up from Portus, Castus and the rest of the party had passed through the centre of the city. Crossing the Tiber, Castus had seen the imperial palace rising from the summit of the Palatine Hill, the temples of the Ca
pitol opposite. Pudentianus, riding in an open litter, pointed out each monument as they passed, as if he owned the whole town and was displaying it to his guests. As they entered the ancient forum, Diogenes leaned closer. ‘Look up,’ he said, and when Castus raised his eyes he had seen a multitude of statues thronging the pediments and pillars all around him, a legion of figures, painted and gilded, glowing in the autumn sunlight.
He remembered that this was Sabina’s home. All those times she had described the place, the houses the size of palaces, the temples of gold and marble, Castus had thought it a mere fantasy. Now he knew the truth, and was not surprised that she missed it so keenly.
‘Or is it a girl the dominus desires, hmm, yes? A girl, or a boy? Nothing could be simpler for Apelles the Mouse! Which do you prefer – a young virgin girl, eh? Twelve or thirteen maybe, but so skilful in the arts of love…’
Castus turned suddenly on his heel, causing the little man to jump back a step and almost skid on the polished floor.
‘I want nothing from you!’ he growled. ‘Do I look like a wealthy man? Do I have a slave following me with a money pouch?’
‘But, dominus,’ the man said, the grin sliding over his face again, ‘I would surely take your word as bond! You are a soldier, I perceive? A noble soldier, yes, one of the brave legionaries of our invincible emperor Maxentius? Why, certainly I would trust your word!’
‘You know nothing about me,’ Castus said, leaning closer. ‘I told you – get lost, or I’ll get angry!’
He raised his fist, flexing the heavy muscles of his arm, and the little man’s grin vanished in a twitch of fear. Apelles skipped back a few steps and made a bizarre and obscene gesture.
‘Go suck a donkey’s cock!’ he said, then scuttled quickly away across the marble paving in search of more willing customers.
Castus continued on across the hall, shrugging off his sense of irritation. The people of Rome, he had noticed, were certainly the rudest he had ever encountered. In every street there were people arguing and shouting, waving their arms at each other, exchanging insults. Even buying a loaf of bread was a confrontation. He supposed it was just the effect of so many people from so many different places living crushed together like this. But it was exhausting all the same.
The fact that the little man had so easily marked him as a soldier did not surprise Castus. He had never been convinced by the idea of masquerading as a former gladiator: whatever Nigrinus and his friends might think, professional sports fighters looked quite different from soldiers. Their muscles developed differently, their stance and posture was quite distinct, and anyone who had been in the army could distinguish them with ease.
At the moment, Castus was surrounded by plenty of men who were obviously soldiers. Just as Pudentianus seemed able to instantly identify a rich man at the baths, even naked, so Castus could pick out a soldier. All around him were bodies marked with the welts and bruises of military training, muscles shaped by marching, by humping shields and kit and hefting javelins. Even without the scars, it was easy to spot them. The massive fortified barracks of the Praetorian Guard was only a short distance away from the Baths of Diocletian, and a good quarter of the bathers thronging the halls would be men of the cohorts. Most of them, Castus knew, had been recruited from the detachments of the Danubian army that had marched south with Severus and Galerius years before. Moving through the crowd at the entrance to the thermal chambers, he picked out the familiar accents of the Illyrian provinces, of Pannonia, Dacia and Moesia. These men spoke like him; they looked like him. Strange to think that they were his enemies, and would kill him if they knew his true identity.
Castus and the other members of the expedition were living in Pudentianus’s sprawling family mansion, a short distance away from the baths along the ridge of the Quirinal Hill. Nigrinus came and went on his own obscure errands; Castus had ordered Felix to accompany him, partly in case the notary needed protection, but mainly to keep an eye on what he was doing. Felix could report little; Nigrinus was obviously keen that his operations remained shrouded in secrecy. Of them all, only Diogenes seemed to be enjoying himself. He was supposed to be accompanying Castus, but instead he spent most of his time in the libraries and bookshops of the city.
He was welcome to that, Castus thought as he lay on a marble bench in an atmosphere of steam and fresh sweat. A slave scraped oil from his shoulders. Diogenes was as likely to find useful information in the library as he himself was at the baths. He was supposed to meeting somebody here, a contact of Nigrinus, although this was his second visit and for the second time there was no sign of the man.
Next, scanning the crowds, he paced through into the hot baths and then to the cold plunge. Easy to get careless; he reminded himself that this was enemy territory, and he was in danger here. With the bathing ritual completed, and still no sign of Nigrinus’s contact, Castus sat on a bench in the circular vestibule of the thermal rooms. Opposite him, a pair of older men stood and observed the younger bathers as they emerged from the steam room, assessing them with a practised eye. A man sauntered in from the main hall, dressed in a silk loincloth and trailed by over a score of slaves carrying towels, scrapers and lotion bottles. Castus watched it all, and his lip curled. This was a fool’s errand.
Out through the pillared portals, he moved into the blaze of sunlight filling the vast open-air swimming court. Above him rose the monumental façade of the main hall, ranks of columns, pedestals and statues standing tall over the water. Such splendour, Castus thought as he peered upwards, to impress a lazy and heedless people. Then he took three long strides forward and leaped from the broad marble steps in a long arcing dive into the water.
There were around a hundred other swimmers, and as many again sitting around the edges of the pool, but Castus ignored them for the time being. He was not a graceful swimmer, but his pummelling crawl moved him effortfully from one end of the pool to the other and back a few times with not a thought in his head. Gasping, refreshed, he burst from the water at the far end and strode up onto the steps in the sunlight.
From this angle, he could see the scum of oil on the surface of the water, catching the light in shifting colours. To his left was a group of other men – he marked them at once as soldiers – and as he sat on the steps with the water drying on his skin Castus began to pick out scraps of what they were saying. Their accents were Danubian: one had the flat drawl of a Moesian, another sounded Dacian, and the third was as Pannonian as Castus himself. He caught the word Ariminum, and mention of the usurper. It took him a moment to realise that they were talking about his emperor, Constantine.
‘Hey, brother,’ he said, leaning toward the group of men before his natural reserve could stop him. ‘What was that you said?’
The three men stopped talking and shifted around on the steps to look at him. Castus saw the initial hostility in their eyes, then the recognition: he was a soldier just like them, and his words had carried the same accent.
‘News from the north,’ the Dacian said. ‘The enemy’s on the Flaminian Way. Mutina’s fallen, and they’ve advanced as far as Ariminum.’
Ariminum was on the Adriatic, Castus knew that. For a moment he felt a spur of fierce pride, and tried not to let it show. If only I was with them now…
‘I haven’t seen you before,’ one of the other men, the Pannonian, said. ‘You with the Guard?’
Here it was; the moment he had been dreading. Castus knew that he could no longer pretend to be a gladiator. He knew that he had to lie, although the thought of it disgusted him. I did not ask for this. He remembered that day on the frozen Danube, edging out onto the ice and feeling it creak and fracture beneath him.
‘I’m with the Second Herculia,’ he said. It had been true once, at least.
‘That’s a bad scar on your face there,’ the Pannonian went on, with a calculating squint. ‘Got that in a fight, I’d say. Recent, too.’
‘At Verona,’ Castus told him. The less he could tell them, the better. But he knew t
hat every word he spoke took him further into danger.
‘You fought at Verona?’ the third man said in his flat Moesian drawl. He flicked his head back, impressed. ‘That was some fight, so they say. Not too many lived to talk about it.’
‘We were in the reserves,’ Castus said, gazing back at the water, the splashing swimmers. A knot rose in his throat and he swallowed it down. ‘But the enemy broke through. Cavalry cut us up. We were lucky to retreat in formation.’
The three men had shunted over on the steps now, gathering closer to him. Castus was becoming aware that his discomfort fitted neatly with his story: nobody liked to talk of defeat, and he could tell by their moment of silence that they would not press him for the details.
‘And now?’ the Dacian said. ‘You Herculiani are back here in Rome, or what?’
‘Spoletium,’ Castus said, shrugging heavily. ‘Some of us get to come here on leave, though.’
‘Sounds like you need it, brother!’ said the Moesian, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘Where are you from anyway?’
‘Taurunum originally.’
They knew Taurunum; the Pannonian was from Cibalae, only a short distance away. In a few moments, all three had introduced themselves, shaking Castus by the hand and the shoulder, glad to draw him into their group.
‘I used to be with the Thirteenth Gemina,’ the Pannonian said. ‘Now a proud soldier of the Eighth Praetorian Cohort! Philocles here used to be in the Fifth Macedonica, and our Dacian friend was in the Eleventh.’
‘Castus,’ he told them. He had gone as far as he dared into falsehood. All you had to do, he thought, was open your mouth and speak…
After that it was easy. Only a few moments later, so it seemed, Castus was sitting with the three Praetorians in a shady corner of the palaestra colonnade, where a row of stalls sold snacks and drinks. He was trying not to talk too much, or too quickly – his taciturn act seemed to go down well – but his pulse was racing and he could feel the sweat on his scalp. There were more soldiers gathering around now, and the first three were introducing him all over again to their comrades. Castus sat on a column drum set against the wall of the palaestra, staring out into the sunlight at two fat perspiring men tossing a ball to each other. He tried not to think about the risk he was running.