Castus stood solidly in the doorway. He knew the man at once: the hair curled with thick grease, the rings on his fingers and the smug half-smile. Flaccianus was clearly pretending not to recognise him, but Castus was tired and hungry, and in no mood for games. ‘I’m here on the orders of Nicomachus Cassianus, magister dispositionum,’ he announced, ‘to collect a package of imperial despatches and take them to Antunnacum.’
Flaccianus stirred slightly, but did not rise. ‘I have the despatches,’ he said. ‘As a courier of the agentes in rebus, I have responsibility for them. No need to worry – I’ll leave tomorrow morning and give them to your man Cassianus myself when I get to Antunnacum.’
Castus took a few strides across the floor, pushing back his cape to show the patches on his tunic and the sword at his side.
‘As a Protector of the Sacred Bodyguard,’ he growled, ‘I outrank you. The despatches now, and I’ll be on my way.’
The agent slid his boots off the table. He shot a glance towards the far end of the room, where a pair of slaves were working at a desk, compiling accounts. Swift oily apprehension slid across his face; he hid it quickly, but Castus had noticed the nervous flicker of the man’s eyes. An image came to him of the dead man in the river at Colonia, and he had the unnerving intuition that this man had been somehow connected to that death.
‘Do I need to tell you again?’ he said slowly.
With a sigh Flaccianus got to his feet, brushing the residue of the walnuts from his hands. The heavy rings on his fingers clicked together.
‘Wait here,’ he said, then made for the far end of the room. Castus stamped after him, and the agent paused and glanced back with a baffled smile.
‘I’m not waiting anywhere,’ Castus told him.
The agent went to a doorway; he tried to shut the door after him but Castus trapped it with his foot and pushed his way through. The chamber beyond was small, and the light fell dimly through a latticed window high in the wall beneath the eaves. Flaccianus was already shuffling together the tablets and scroll tubes that lay on the central table. He turned quickly, but Castus closed the distance between them in one long stride, forcing the agent back against the table as he brought the edge of his heavy broadsword up to the man’s throat.
‘What are you doing?’ Flaccianus managed to gasp. His face drained of colour, and his mouth stretched into a terrified grimace.
‘Next time a senior officer gives you an order,’ Castus said quietly, holding the honed blade against the agent’s windpipe, ‘don’t think about making excuses.’
‘You wouldn’t dare harm me!’
‘Want to find out?’ Castus tugged slightly at the blade, and Flaccianus let out a tight hiss as the edge nicked his skin. Then Castus stepped back, reversing the sword and slamming it back into his scabbard.
Flaccianus dodged quickly around the table, scrabbling for the documents. Castus could see that many of them had been opened and read. After stuffing the documents back into the leather despatch bag and tying the seal, Flaccianus shoved it across the table towards Castus.
‘I apologise if I seemed… disrespectful,’ he said with a tight smile, trying to regain his composure. ‘Please forgive me. In fact I have some information for you. From Nigrinus.’ Even with the table between them he still seemed nervous.
‘What information?’
‘Ah, well,’ Flaccianus said. He was clearly relishing the reversal of power. ‘Very soon,’ he said, ‘our emperor Constantine will be departing on a journey to Britain. You won’t be accompanying him…’
Castus made no comment. His hand idled on his sword hilt. Flaccianus noticed, and his fingers went to his throat, where a tiny spot of blood still showed against his pallid skin. ‘It’s been decided,’ he went on quickly, ‘that it would suit the dignity of the former emperor Maximian for a small personal guard of Protectores to be attached to his household during the absence of the imperial retinue, and quite possibly also after their return. You’ll be one of them.’
Castus shrugged, digesting the news without expression.
‘So you see,’ the agent said, ‘you’ll be ideally placed to observe the activities of Maximian’s retinue… and report any suspicions you might have!’
‘Tell your master,’ Castus growled, picking up the leather despatch bag, ‘that he can find another spy.’
He turned to leave, but at the door he paused, as if a thought had just occurred to him.
‘That dead man at Colonia,’ he said. ‘You know anything about how he died?’
The bead of blood on the agent’s throat jogged slightly. He took a moment before he could answer.
‘Nothing at all,’ he said, with a bland smile.
But he did. Castus was certain of it.
11
The sun was low to the west, and the road along the riverbank was in deep shadow. Across the water, the forested eastern shore glowed gold and green in the last of the light. Castus rode heavily, the bag of despatches slung over his saddle horn, but the horse seemed to sense the end of the day’s journey and kept up a smart pace. They passed around a tight bend of the river, where the road was clasped between the water and the trees; Castus’s senses had grown so dulled by the motion of riding and the slow quiet of the evening that he would have missed the carriage completely had a shout not drawn his attention.
‘Glory to the gods! I prayed to Lady Isis to send us deliverance, and it has arrived!’
For a moment he thought it was a woman calling out. He reined in his horse and drew closer, one hand going instinctively to his sword hilt.
It was not a woman, but neither was it a man. As the figure came towards him Castus saw the silver collar winking in the shadow, the unnaturally smooth face. Serapion, they had called him, he remembered.
‘We have a broken axletree, it seems,’ the eunuch said, clasping his hands before him. If he recognised Castus, he did not show it. ‘We thought it might be spliced, but the repairs will take some time. The commander of the rearguard was supposed to send riders to help us, but there’s been nobody… I see by those patches on your cloak and tunic that you are a Protector, however…’
Castus glanced at the carriage. It was small, a closed box of lattice-sided wood mounted high on a wagon chassis. The front nearside wheel was off, the axle propped on timbers. The draught horses had been released from their traces and stood cropping the verge, while three slaves sat by the fallen wheel, one of them chewing on a stem of grass while the other two tried to light a fire.
‘I can’t help you,’ Castus said. ‘I’m carrying despatches, and they need to be in Antunnacum before nightfall.’ He looked up at the sky; already the first stars were showing.
‘How far is it from here?’ called a voice from inside the carriage. A curtain screened the interior.
‘Two or three miles. I’ll send someone back to you when I get there.’
Castus tugged on the reins and nudged the horse into motion.
‘Wait,’ the voice called, commanding.
Castus turned, saddle leather creaking beneath him. The curtain was drawn aside, the door of the carriage opened and a woman stepped down from inside.
‘If it’s only two miles I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘Anything’s better than spending a night on a wet riverbank with only slaves and a eunuch for company.’
Castus knew her at once, but it was a few moments before he saw the slightest flicker of recognition on the woman’s face, swiftly dispelled. She wore deep red instead of the yellow gown, with a shawl of fine white wool draped around her shoulders and drawn up over her hair.
‘Domina Sabina,’ the eunuch was saying, ‘the road, as you see, is very muddy, and soon it will be dark. I really think…’
Castus was looking at her shoes: soft red leather openwork, not much good for walking long distance. The woman caught his eye and gave him a cool smile.