among the women where you belong.’
Corvinus turned away with a look of sheer hatred, but Valerius didn’t care. Falco had been right. He should have killed him.
Only then did he notice the battering ram had stopped, and that the silence was more ominous than anything that had gone before.
XXXVII
‘Fire!’
Lunaris pointed to the narrow gap below the door. Valerius looked down and saw a glowing red line along its length and at the same time the room began to fill with choking black smoke. He knew it was something he should have anticipated when it became clear that no amount of battering would defeat the massive temple door. They would have stripped the copper away along with the mask of Claudius to give the flames a better chance to work on the oak. It didn’t matter how thick the wood was. First it would char, then it would glow. Eventually it would burn.
It was only a matter of time.
At the first sign of flames Corvinus’s wife let out a terrified scream and clutched her son tighter to her breast. Like a ripple across a pool, the scream spread panic among the other women, turning the inside of the chamber into a smoke-filled Tartarus inhabited by wailing Furies. Valerius shouted for calm, but his voice was lost in the echoing cacophony of sound. Blinded by fear, Gallus rushed from his place on the floor and began beating at the door and scrabbling desperately at the bar, seeking some way out of this hell. Lunaris reacted first. He knew that if Gallus succeeded they were all dead. He stepped up behind the shopkeeper and smashed the pommel of his sword down on the man’s skull, dropping him like a stone.
‘If anyone else tries to open the door, I’ll kill them,’ he said, and no one disbelieved him.
Gradually, the screams lost their intensity. Gallus’s wife crawled across the floor to her husband and began wailing over him until Numidius and another man dragged his unconscious body back to its position. In the corner, Corvinus whispered urgently to his woman, alternately stroking her hair and his son’s head.
Valerius placed the palm of his hand against the inner surface of the door, attempting to gauge the heat. So far, it was only warm, but that would change. From time to time over the next hours he repeated the exercise. Eventually, it became too hot for him to touch and he ordered an amphora of precious water poured over the wood and under the gap at the base of the doorway, where it hissed and steamed.
Petronius, ignored by the wall, stirred himself and attempted to reassert his authority by protesting at this misuse of their most valuable resource, but Valerius snapped back at him, all protocol forgotten. ‘Don’t be a fool. If this door does not hold, do you think any of us will live long enough to die of thirst?’
At intervals, the besiegers tested to see if the flames had weakened the doors sufficiently, for the ram would begin its work again, but, always, they were forced to return to the fire. At first it seemed those trapped must be suffocated by the fumes or driven into the arms of the enemy. Fortunately, the temple roof was so high that the smoke rose to be lost in the gloom above and apart from the initial terror and some mild discomfort it did no lasting harm. But as the hours passed the heat in their crowded tomb became stifling and there was so little air they lay gasping like fish stranded in a dried-up pond, fighting for each breath. Even Valerius slumped exhausted against the wall by the door, his energy close to spent.
It seemed only minutes before a sharp cry woke him from his stupor. His hand immediately went to his sword, but it was Numidius and the engineer’s eyes were bright with triumph. ‘It’s done,’ he crowed exultantly. ‘The tile is ready to lift.’
Valerius’s fatigue vanished and he felt a resurgence of hope. He followed Numidius to where a little group stood around the loosened tile as if they were attending a burial, with the former builder in pride of place. ‘We thought we’d leave the last bit to you, your honour.’ Thick lines of dust surrounded the marble where it had been chipped away. He could see a distinct gap now, wide enough to take the blade of a knife or a sword. Valerius accepted a dagger from the man who had spoken and knelt, placing the point of the knife deep in the gap and attempting to gain some leverage. When he found it, he placed all his weight on the hilt. The stone rose a hair’s breadth… and the knife blade snapped at the hilt. A massed groan followed the failed attempt, and Valerius looked up to discover he was now surrounded by twenty or thirty anxious faces. ‘Get me two swords,’ he said urgently. ‘We need stronger blades, one to each side.’ This time it was Luca and Messor who did the lifting and the marble tile gradually rose clear, allowing Valerius to push it to one side and reveal the gap below.
The effort was greeted by disbelieving silence.
The opening they had created was eighteen inches square where the tile had fitted, but below it the soot- coated tunnel of the hypocaust flue narrowed by two or three inches. A child might fit into the gap, but no child would ever overcome the terror of slipping into that stygian gloom and where would a child go if it could? Certainly no adult could pass through. Valerius looked down into the darkness and saw a mirror of the despair in his heart.
‘I will try.’
He looked up into Messor’s youthful, determined features. Was it possible? The young legionary quickly stripped off his uniform to reveal the skinny, iron-muscled physique that had led his comrades to nickname him after the silver fish they caught from the wharfs at Ostia and Neapolis and Paestum. If he could get his shoulders inside the entrance, there was a chance. But Valerius studied the gap again and felt a wave of claustrophobic panic. What if the tunnel narrowed at some point?
He shook his head. ‘I can’t order you to go, Pipefish.’
Messor steadily returned his gaze. ‘I would still like to try, sir,’ he repeated, and Valerius wondered at the courage it took to say those words.
Still he hesitated. But if the boy could reach Roman territory… ‘Very well,’ he said.
As Messor crouched over the intimidating black square Valerius passed on the information Numidius had given him. ‘You’ll eventually reach a small room at the rear of the temple podium where the fire pit is. It is probably two full hours till dark, and if you make it before then you must wait.’ Messor nodded in understanding, eyes bright in the boyish face. Valerius handed him a small tight-wrapped bag, the contents of which had been persuaded from one of the trapped Britons. ‘Celtic clothing and a dagger. There will be many thousands of the rebels still out there, but in the darkness you should be able to pass among them freely. Pick up a weapon if you can, it will make you less conspicuous, but do not risk discovery. Make for the gate. That is where you will be in most danger, but once you are through it you should head north — not west, north — until you reach the far side of the ridge. Only then can you make for Londinium or Verulamium. The country must be thick with Roman cavalry patrols by now, and with luck you will run into one within a few hours. Tell them they must hurry. Colonia holds, but it cannot hold for much longer.’
He scoured his mind for anything that would help the boy. Messor sat with his legs over the edge of the hole. It seemed impossible that even his slim body could fit into the constricted space below.
‘Wait! Lunaris, the olive oil.’ The thick, viscous oil would help protect Messor’s body from the abrasive sides of the tunnel and perhaps ease his way through the shaft.
The young legionary waited until his comrade had covered every inch of his skin with the liquid, and when he looked up Valerius could see him struggling to conquer his fear. He met the boy’s eyes and nodded. ‘May Fortuna guide you,’ he said. Messor slipped forward into the darkness.
At once it seemed the attempt would be futile, for his shoulders became wedged between the two surfaces. The chamber held its collective breath, but with a wriggle Messor was gone, slipping away like a pale, gleaming eel until finally the soles of his feet disappeared. They waited what seemed an eternity for the inevitable shouts when he became trapped, the screams for help as he fought the implacable force that held him, which would turn to shuddering gasps as his strength ran out. Each of them endured the awful reality of being buried alive in the suffocating darkness below the Temple of Claudius. But the shouts never came, and as the hours passed they allowed themselves to feel something they believed had deserted them for ever. Hope.
Valerius ordered a ration of the precious water distributed before the remaining contents of the amphora were poured over the door and the bar, which had turned dark with the intense heat. The state of the doors
