Swords Around the Throne (23 page)

Serapion found him later that afternoon. Castus was in the stone-lined changing rooms of the baths, dressing after a lukewarm soak: Fausta and her retinue had used the suite earlier, and there was little heated water remaining. He pulled his tunic over his head, and when he looked up the eunuch was standing in the doorway that led to the courtyard. A gust of cool air seemed to follow Serapion as he entered the room.

‘You have a habit of appearing at unexpected moments,' Castus said. ‘Is it deliberate?'

Serapion gave a short, cold smile. He stood a few paces from Castus, gazing into the far corner of the room as he spoke. ‘I have a message from my mistress,' he said. ‘She will see you tonight, if you so choose. Do you know the garden house by the riverbank, with the fountain court?'

Castus just nodded. He knew the place well enough. His blood was flowing quickly, but the sweat was cold on his brow.

‘There is a bedchamber at the end of the corridor of the dancers. Go there at the start of the second watch. Do not be late – she is tired and cannot wait long.'

Serapion looked at him directly for the first time, and Castus found it hard to read his expression. Was it amusement in his eyes, or contempt? Then some other thought passed across his face, and the eunuch turned sharply and stalked from the room.

The rest of the day passed in a torment of anticipation. When evening came Castus was pacing the mosaic floors of the main audience hall, glancing repeatedly at the tall water clock that stood beside the main doors. A fascinating mechanism – he had not seen its like before – but he cursed it for the slow regular drip of its hours. Night had fallen by the time he was relieved, and he returned to his chamber to change into the dull red tunic and cloak he had worn on his last meeting with Sabina. He felt uncomfortable with the idea of disguise, and creeping about in the shadows like a spy or a thief did not appeal to him. But it seemed necessary. He picked up his sword, then thought for a moment and laid it aside. Surely that would not be required... but he strapped a military dagger to his waist belt, as a reassurance.

Leaving the villa by a side door at the back of the wing used by the Protectores, he doubled around the building and dropped down into the garden terraces. The night felt thick and humid. Mist had moved up from the river, beading his cloak with moisture. When he looked back at the villa the lamps along the front portico shone though a haze, and he heard the sound of laughter coming from one of the guest suites, quickly muffled by the mist. As Castus paced along the upper garden walk he expected the greyness ahead to form into the shapes of figures.

But the gardens were abandoned to the night. He skirted the long ornamental pool, a gulf of blackness in the mist, passed through a pillared gazebo and down the steps, and then saw the garden house before him with the ground beyond dropping into the dark emptiness of the river. It was a small building, intended for accommodating guests, or the associates of guests, not sufficiently exalted to stay in the main villa. A simple quadrangle of rooms surrounded a courtyard where a dry fountain stood above a cracked stone basin. Castus stepped through the narrow entrance gate, then through the open vestibule into the courtyard.

A single lamp burned in a niche beside one of the doors. Were it not for that, the whole house would have seemed deserted. Crossing the courtyard in ten long careful strides, Castus reached the open door. Another lamp just inside illuminated the end of the corridor: painted girls danced and somersaulted along the length of the wall and away into darkness. At the far end, almost invisible in the shadow, a single door stood partly open. Castus could already smell her scent lingering in the air.

He wanted to call out, speak her name, but the stillness of the night and the empty building around him seemed to forbid all sound. He paced silently along the corridor, running his fingertips over the painted dancers, until he reached the door.

‘Sabina?' he managed to whisper. The word came out as a hoarse croak. He lifted his hand and edged the door open.

Complete darkness inside, or so it seemed at first. Castus felt the prickle of nerves running up his spine. Her scent again, fresh and strong. Then he made out the bed set against the far wall, and the motion in the darkness as she rolled from beneath the covers.

‘Come here,' she said. He stepped into the room and pushed the door closed behind him. His senses reeled: the awareness of danger, of trespass, eclipsed by the surge of desire. He shed his cloak at the threshold; he unbuckled his belt and it fell to the floor. Pulling off his tunic, he crossed the room, into the field of her warmth. There was a shuttered window high above the bed, but enough grey light seeped between the panels of the shutters for him to make out her pale form as she pushed back the covers. Then her arms were around him, drawing him down onto the bed, and there was nothing in his mind but the feel of her body, the taste of her lips and her skin.

Her thighs were parted, and he eased his body down onto her. He could hear her breathing, loud and rapid. She seemed nervous. For the first time since he had entered the room a knot of alarm twisted at the back of his skull. Sabina had never seemed nervous before, not even in the necropolis. He raised himself on one arm and looked down at her, seeing only the curves of her body in the faint light. He laid a palm on her breast: it was full and round. As he blinked he could almost make out the shape of her face changing from the image in his mind to something else.

‘Gods below, what is this?' he said from the back of his throat.

He reared up onto his knees, stretching an arm to grab at the shutters. One heave, and the catch burst; the shutters swung open and the grey misty light fell over the bed. The girl beneath him let out a cry and rolled, covering her face. But Castus had already seen that it was not Sabina in the bed with him.

Ice filled his veins, and his heart slammed against the top of his chest. He was gripping the girl by her arm, turning her, hardly believing what he had seen.

‘Don't hurt me,' she whispered, with a sob in her voice. ‘Please... this wasn't what I wanted. I didn't do this... they made me...'

Up off the bed in one bound, Castus staggered immediately and fell to the floor. His breeches were still tangled around his knees, and he hauled them up. Gasping breath, he pulled on his tunic and cloak, then snatched up his belt and dagger from the floor. When he glanced back he saw only the bunched covers, and the shape of the girl hiding beneath them.

There was a figure in the passageway as he threw open the door. The shadow darted across the painted frieze of dancers, but Castus moved faster. One lunging grab, and he had the fugitive by the arm, spinning him and slamming him against the wall. The big knife was already bared in his fist.

‘If you kill me now,' Serapion said in a choked gasp, ‘others will know of it.'

Castus shoved harder against him, his forearm pressed into the eunuch's throat and the dagger pricking the skin beneath his jaw. ‘Who will know?' he hissed. ‘Who arranged this?'

‘I cannot say,' Serapion whispered. In the glow from the lamp at the end of the corridor his face was sheened with sweat. Castus jolted him by the throat. How had he allowed himself to be so stupid? Desire had blinded him – he had been led by the nose. Or maybe not the nose... Despairing anger burned through him.

‘Who was that girl in the bed?' he demanded, although in his heart he already knew the truth.

Serapion twisted his mouth into a smile. ‘You really couldn't tell?' He almost sounded genuinely perplexed. Animal passion was surely alien to him, Castus realised. ‘I told you,' the eunuch said, ‘that my mistress was waiting for you...'

‘That was not Sabina.'

‘The domina Valeria Domitia Sabina is not my mistress,' Serapion said. Castus almost admired his calm self-control. ‘I serve another. I serve the nobilissima femina Fausta, wife of our Augustus.'

The shock of his words wrenched through Castus's body. He wanted to ram the knife hilt-deep in the eunuch's throat, but a sickening dread was stealing his anger, stealing his killing resolve.

‘Where's Sabina now?'

‘Oh, she left in a closed carriage, shortly after noon. She was safely back in Treveris long ago.'

Castus remembered the words she had mouthed to him on the steps: had she tried to warn him? But then she must have known. She must have been aware of what would happen...

‘Believe me,' the eunuch said, ‘this was not my plan, not my intention. I am a slave, and I must do what I am ordered...'

‘So people keep telling me. Why should I let you live?'

Serapion took a moment to answer. His eyes flickered towards the far end of the corridor. ‘There are three men in the courtyard outside,' he said, quietly and clearly. ‘They will try to kill you as you leave. If you run, you might evade them.'

Castus slackened his grip slightly; the eunuch sagged against the wall, breathing deeply. ‘Why warn me?' Castus asked him.

‘You think I'm just a eunuch?' Serapion said bitterly. ‘You think I'm a clay figure, a homunculus? I am just as human as you, and perhaps you can help me if I help you. We are both slaves in this affair. Perhaps I think you deserve a chance.'

Pushing Serapion back against the wall, Castus stepped away from him.

‘Don't try to follow me,' he said.

Outside the air was as thick and still as before, but the night seemed darker. Castus lingered in the doorway, trying to blink the after-image of the lamp glow from his eyes. There was no other way from the building, unless he went back into the bedchamber and tried to force his way out through the window, and that would certainly make enough noise to summon trouble.

He took a breath, then exhaled slowly, feeling the strength mass in his limbs. Drawing up his cloak, he wrapped it around his left arm. In his right hand he held the dagger in a low grip. A slight sound from outside, a shuffle of feet on paving, and Castus threw himself through the door.

Two running strides took him to the fountain, and he turned at bay. There were three of them, just as the eunuch had said: two held shortswords, and the third carried a club that looked like an axe handle. Plainly dressed, but they knew how to use their weapons. Soldiers, Castus guessed; perhaps Praetorians.

He was still disorientated, stunned by the shock of what had happened in the bedchamber. His heart was beating fast, and he willed himself to calm.

The swordsmen moved to either side of him, while the clubman advanced head on with his weapon raised. Crouched, the dagger drawn back in his fist, Castus knew that he could not wait for them to make the first strike: once the first moved, the others would be on him. He considered making a dash for the gate, or perhaps the wall – he could fight with his back to something, at least. But then they would just surround him and use the longer reach of their weapons... His only chance was to keep moving, close the distance and tackle them individually. Three heartbeats, three rapid breaths, then he jumped up onto the stone rim of the fountain basin.

His attackers came on at a rush. Castus leaped to the left, flinging out his wrapped as the swordsman drove a stab at him. The blade passed through the folds of the cloak, and Castus felt the burn of a gash along his forearm before he dragged the sword aside. The momentum of his leap carried him crashing against the man, his dagger already striking up and out. The man screamed, his legs giving beneath him as the dagger blade slashed through his tunic and dug into his shoulder.

Castus fell with him, the trapped sword dragging his arm and pulling him off balance; then the axe handle came down. The blow struck the arch of his back, and he felt the blast of it in his ribs and lungs but he did not buckle. He rolled, ripping the cloak free of his neck. He needed to get back on his feet; the second swordsman was already above him, blade drawn back to strike.

Rage gripped Castus: he refused to die like this. A wheeling kick, and his boot caught the swordsman behind the leg and tripped him. Up on one knee, the dagger raised, Castus glanced around for the other two attackers. The wounded man was over by the fountain, clutching his shoulder; his friend with the club was circling for a clear strike. Castus twisted himself upright, feeling the blood running hot down his arm. Still no sense of clarity or coordination; he was driven only by a blind desire to survive. The second swordsman had recovered his balance now.

They came fast, and together. First the clubman, striking out with his weapon levelled at Castus's face. The man with the sword dodged in from the right. Castus ducked the club, stepped in at a crouch and came up hard beneath the man's reaching arm. One upward blow and the dagger stabbed through the man's armpit; Castus twisted his grip and felt the blade enter his heart. The clubman gasped, coughing blood as Castus spun the body and hurled it towards the man with the sword. The club clattered to the ground as the swordsman dodged out of the way of the toppling corpse.

Snatching up the club, Castus switched the dagger to his left hand. His palm was wet and slippery with blood. He could see the wounded man by the fountain creeping to his feet, sword still in hand. The third attacker was still unhurt, bouncing on his toes as he circled with his blade low and level. Castus swung the club in wide sweeps, but the man refused to give ground.

One more wide swing, then Castus suddenly hurled the club into the swordsman's face and darted in after it. He grabbed the man's right wrist, dragging his arm out; the dagger almost slipped from his bloody grip, but he raised it high and then punched down twice with his left hand, driving it into the man's exposed shoulder and then into his neck. Something moved fast behind him: the third attacker closing in, and he tensed himself for the killing blow between his shoulder blades; then a scream, and another body sprawled across the paving of the courtyard.

Castus turned. The third man lay dead at his feet, and Brinno stood over him, stripped to the waist, a bloody blade in his hand.