Swords Around the Throne (44 page)

Not fast enough. A spear darted in from his unguarded right. Castus arched his back and sucked breath, feeling the speartip jolt off his belt, slice a searing line across his flank and catch in the bunched folds of his tunic. He slashed, the flat of his blade sliding up the spearshaft to strike the attacker's arm. The man dropped his weapon and fell back.

A moment to breathe. The mob on the steps behind him was hanging back, and in the low-ceilinged chamber of the tower Castus saw three men – no, four – arrayed against him, and a fifth still trying to crawl up from his bedroll as he groped for his sword. Bad odds. But he had a shield and they did not. He was in a cold fighting frenzy, and they were still stunned and confused, uncertain what was happening. He threw himself forward into the chamber, bellowing.

Punching with the rim of his shield, Castus struck one man across the chest and knocked him down. His opponents had spears and knives, better for fighting in close quarters than Castus's dull, notched broadsword. But he stamped forward, hearing the noise of his own yell echoing back at him, and saw the terror in their eyes. One dodged in fast, striking upward with a knife, and Castus stabbed straight and hard and felt his blade pierce the man through the shoulder. He kicked, the man went down, and then a blast of air rushed into the chamber. The two other two soldiers had thrown open the door to the rampart walkway and bolted out into the night.

‘
You!
' Castus screamed, pointing his blade down at the panicking man on the bedroll. The soldier's sword fell from his hand. ‘
Who's the emperor?
'

‘Uh,' the soldier said, his mouth working. ‘Constantine?'

‘Secure the prisoners!' Castus shouted to the civilians packing the doorway. The man he had knocked down with his shield was crawling away across the floor, feebly raising his hand. ‘And get that outer door shut and barred!'

The press of bodies parted to let him through. Castus's ears were ringing, and the first waves of pain were rising from the spear-gash in his side. He could feel blood coursing hot and wet down his hip and left leg, but the energy of battle was carrying him now and he ignored the pain. What hour was it? With any luck the sentries would already have fired the beacon on the ramparts, a summons for help but also the signal to Constantine's troops outside. But first the portcullis that barred the gate tunnel would need to be raised.

Past the stairs and through the next door, Castus saw the narrow chamber above the gates. Windows to both sides, and the massive drum and windlass of the portcullis filling half the space, cables reaching up and over the roof beams. He froze in the doorway, panic flaring in his head. There was a soldier in the chamber, one of the sentries from the ramparts, and he was raising his sword to chop through the cables.

‘Stop him!' The shout rushed from his throat, and a heartbeat later he was leaping forward. He was too slow; the blade would fall... Then the soldier jerked upwards, his back arched, and he let out at strangled cry. The sword fell ringing from his grip and he toppled sideways with a javelin jutting from his spine.

Brinno was grinning from the far door.

‘Good thing I'm faster than you, brother!'

In all the chambers of the gatehouse, men were dying. Castus stepped over a sprawling body, and recognised Hermius the leatherworker. Blood was spattered on the whitewashed walls, looking black in the lamplight. In the chamber above the gates, Nazarius and half a dozen other men were heaving at the windlass bars, bringing the cables taut and the heavy portcullis grunting upwards. Most of the surviving soldiers were trying to surrender now, but the mob seethed around them, implacable. Castus saw a woman – the black-haired prostitute Ofilia – lashing a kneeling soldier over the head with a heavy stick.

‘Spare them if they surrender!' he cried. He turned and grabbed somebody by the shoulder, surprised to find it was a boy of about thirteen. ‘Get down to the tunnel,' he told the boy, ‘and make sure somebody opens the outer gates, as soon as the portcullis is raised. Understand?'

The boy nodded and darted away down the stairs.

A shriek came from overhead, then a clatter. A gang of civilians had pushed up the next flight to the upper chamber and the ramparts; as they fell back Castus saw their leader speared and bleeding. They took him by the ankles and dragged him down, his skull knocking on the steps.

‘Out of the way,' he said, and the crowd shrank back against the walls to let him through. Getting his shield up in front of him, Castus clambered over the bleeding man and stamped up the steps, his body primed for the first attack. He had almost reached the top when a spear came stabbing down at him, thudding loud against the shield boards. Castus angled his blade out from below the shield and pushed on upwards, almost tripping on the narrow steps. The spearman struck again, and the force of the impact almost sent Castus staggering off his feet. But then he was up, bursting from the steps into the upper chamber of the tower, two soldiers falling back before him.

‘Surrender!' Castus yelled, but his opponents were already lunging at him again. He smacked the spear away with his sword, then rolled himself into a low crouch with his shield lifted, sweeping a horizontal cut that chopped the spearman's legs from under him. The man toppled, screaming, as the second soldier's swinging blow thundered onto Castus's shield. Castus flinched from the impact, then straightened and hurled the shield towards his opponent. It collided with the man's body, and before he could regain his balance Castus had closed the space between them and stabbed the blade of his sword up under his ribs. The soldier choked blood, fell against Castus, and was dead before his body folded to the floor.

Up the last flight of steps, no more than a wooden ladder this time, and Castus dragged himself up onto the flat roof of the tower. Not yet sunrise. Sagging against the rampart wall, he heaved air into his lungs. His legs felt numb, and the wound in his side was throbbing, pain shooting up into his left armpit. When he looked back he saw that he had left a trail of blood behind him. The land to the north was still hazy in the pre-dawn darkness. No sign of approaching troops. No movement at all. From the city Castus could hear cries of alarm and the brassy blare of horns.

Brinno raised his head from the ladder. ‘Brother – the beacon hasn't been fired yet.'

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!
'

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.