The King of Rome

by Francis Mulhern

  Javenoli frowned at the words. “Titus, consider what would happen if you went toe to toe with Capitolinus. The streets would run with blood, the plebeians would have a champion to lean on who is promising them everything their tribunes have been requesting for years. Acting alone would see us lose everything. We must act within the law, show that Capitolinus is not seeking to be the benefactor of the plebeian class, but is striving to be the only leader in Rome. Any other course of action will fail, believe me.”

  Cincinnatus tightened his jaw. “So, I just sit back and allow my men to be beaten in the street, for my businesses to be destroyed by his gangs?”

  Javenoli placed a hand on his shoulder, then stood. “I have other plans, Titus. Capitolinus has a weakness. His overwhelming desire for power will be his downfall and I know just how to push the right bruise to give him the most pain” he smiled.

  ********

  Istros looked dumbfounded by the request, but he accepted it without much more than a jerk of his shoulders. “Tonight?”

  “Yes” replied Javenoli as he handed across a small wooden object.

  Istros looked at the crudely carved wings and single eye of the object in his hand. Javenoli had asked him to do a simple job for him, two named men to be attacked but not killed. The wooden eagle to be left close to the bodies as if an attacker had had it ripped from him during the fight.

  As he nodded and slipped away to find a couple of Javenoli’s men to join him, he looked down at the crudely carved wooden eagle and wondered what the significance of the little item was.

  ************

  Marcus pushed the small wooden eagle he wore around his neck back under his tunic. Dust swirled around him as the men charged forwards, heading for the breach. Calls from the left and the right from centurions who told the men to keep the formation tight, keep the spears to the front and to give the line ahead enough space to wield a sword, rang out as the men ran. Feeling the elation of battle overcome him, Marcus had joined the fourth line, much to the anger of Vascius. He found himself rubbing the eagle for luck as he ran, but knowing that the sacrifices he’d made in front of the officers were all good, he felt confidence in his actions. He spat as he ran, dust clawing at his throat. Ahead he could see lines of helmets, feathers denoting rank and leather straps oiled to a glistening brown. Through the dust the grey-white city walls loomed. He wondered how the attack to the right was going. He glanced in that direction, but saw nothing more than the bodies of the men running along beside him. He shook away the thoughts that he should be sat on his horse watching and manoeuvring the men as the battle took place. In his heart, he knew that the fight on the right would stall, the army of Etruscans would be unable to defend against both those holding the town and the attacks of Valerius’ horse. If his planning was right, and he was convinced it was, then that force would be trapped against the walls. He trusted his cavalry commander, and knew that he would hold the right.

  The pace slowed, the front ranks had hit the walls and were deploying through the breach just as Marcus had planned. Part of him wanted to be there in the front line, but he knew his old muscles weren’t what they used to be, soldiering was a young man’s game. He adjusted the heavy shield, rounded edges allowing him to look across the ground in front to ascertain any movement. The men to his sides had turned to face outwards, all watching nervously in case of cavalry charge, a foot-soldier’s worst nightmare. Thankfully none appeared. Shouts announced that his cohort were to move forwards, their legs drumming the ground as the daylight in front of them suddenly glared off the white-washed walls. An arm, bloody at the elbow, lay strewn on the ground as if discarded by its owner. More blood was spattered across the rubble as he climbed through, hearing his own breathing as he laboured up the stones which had fallen in a heap from the felled wall. Dust continued to claw at his throat, making him cough as he climbed. Legionnaires looked at him out of the corners of their eyes, not sure why he was climbing into the city with them.

  Inside, the Romans had lined up in a deep phalanx, with Vascius motioning for small groups of men to head left and right, his urgent shouts responded to with the military precision that Marcus had come to expect from his soldiers. As he stepped down on to the hard-packed dirt of the road the phalanx began to move forwards. At his shoulder were the eleven men that Vascius had assigned, against his will, as his bodyguard. “Wait” he said to them as he turned and climbed back up to the lower edges of the rubble. Vascius had sent runners into the streets to warn the townsfolk of the arrival of the Romans, and the enemy were clearly so intent on plundering the town, that they hadn’t yet raised the alarm in this part of the city. Shaking his head in wonder at the foolishness of their leaders, Marcus scanned the city, as far as he could see it. He had a rough understanding of the layout, and even had a good knowledge of where the main square would be as one of his scouts was a trader who had dealt with family in the city for many years. Looking back up at the walls he noted that the city, like most in the area, was made of blocks of Tufa, the thick porous stone which proliferated the delta. Above him ran a walkway, damaged where the wall had been breached but fully intact to both sides of the gaping hole.

  “You” he snapped to a watching guard. “Get up there are tell me what you can see.” The man threw his shield to the floor and headed across towards the nearest ladder, which despite being broken, he easily scaled. Upon reaching the walkway, he ran backwards and forwards, squinting into the low evening sunlight and dipping, then stretching as he looked in every direction. He then leant out over the wall, his legs coming off the wooden boards as he attempted to get a better vantage point.

  “Defenders have barricaded every road, sir” he pointed over Marcus’ head to where the Romans were disappearing into the streets. “The Etruscans are trying to climb the houses to get to them, but the bulk of their army looks like they’re ransacking every house, they’re all over the streets in small gangs.” This made Marcus grin.

  “You” he snapped to another man. “Get to Vascius, now, and tell him this. Tell him to split the men in to groups and scour the houses, keep a main force and hold the roads. Do not, repeat, do not attack the main enemy army. Tell him we need to spread panic amongst them first and then to block the roads so that they are trapped.” The man nodded. “Repeat it” Marcus said. Once the guard had done so, he was sent running off into the streets. “What else?” Marcus shouted to the man up on the walkway.

  “The attack on the walls has stalled” he said, just as a tremendous roar from the far end of the city cascaded across to them. He leapt to the wall again, his head bobbing up and down as he craned his neck. Turning his face back towards the men below him he shouted, “it’s the townsfolk” he waved a hand. “They’ve seen the cavalry and have started doubling their efforts. I can see rocks” he laughed as he turned back to look at Marcus “a table, all sorts of things being thrown down at the Etruscans.” He went silent for a moment as he watched, all the men with Marcus staring up expectantly at the guard above them as they waited for his news. He winced, but chortled at the same time, shouting down to the men who watched from below. “Cavalry just took out a few hundred in a charge into their rear, sir.”

  “Right, get back down here, soldier. Well done.” Taking his shield he turned to the other men. “Time to go and see if this end of town can be saved” he said with a scowl. “Come on.”

  The run to Vascius’ troops took a few minutes. He was pleased to see that the first spear had done exactly as he had requested, halting the main body of troops and covering every road with a shield wall. The unmistakable sound of fighting in the houses and streets ahead of them echoed off the high sided buildings around them. A sudden crash made him look to his left, where a door burst open and a mad-eyed Etruscan, with a bright red leather chest protector came screaming out of a house. Three spears struck him, one knocking his head back as it entered his temple and spattered his brains onto the wall of the house from which he’d appeared. The Etruscan was followed by t
wo Romans, both of whom stopped in their tracks and raised their hands, just in case a twitchy legionary might think them an enemy. One of the men then quickly knelt and started to unbuckle the leather chest protector, his mate standing at his back. Marcus nodded at the scene and turned to Vascius, who had now come across to where he stood.

  “I got your message, sir” the centurion said formally, clearly not happy about being held in the streets. “Permission to move out?” he asked coldly.

  Marcus took a moment to respond, taking in the scene around them. The senior officers were standing watching, waiting for Vascius’ orders. The men’s faces were eager, determined. “The enemy are ransacking the town ahead of us” Marcus said, looking into the eyes of every man as they listened. “We move slowly through the streets. We clear every house of Etruscans. No prisoners” he emphasised the point by letting a moments silence hang in the air. “Make as much noise as you can, but remember that the people we have come to protect will have to go back to their homes. Do your best to restrain your men, gentlemen. I don’t want to see houses ransacked by our own soldiers. These people need Rome, and I want them to know that they have nothing to fear from us. We are not barbarians” he said. “Understood?”

  Vascius’ nods were followed by everyone who stood within earshot. “Pass the word” the first spear growled, before turning back to Marcus. “Permission to move out, sir” he said with a sly grin. Marcus nodded, and instantly several small groups of men disappeared into the streets, their armour stripped down to the minimum and carrying daggers, small shields and a short sword. Marcus looked to Vascius. “You did send the message just a moment before” said the centurion, grinning. Marcus turned to see the main body of the force around him was already blocking every roadway and was silently watching him. He nodded his appreciation and thanked the centurion before he walked to the front of the soldiers and said.

  “What would you advise now, Vascius?”

  The Centurion eyed the roadway ahead, his keen senses almost sniffing the air as he turned left and right. “The main square is this way”, he nodded in the general direction of a wide road with two deep track lines worn into the stone paving slabs. “I’d suggest a small group ahead to clear the road and move slowly towards the square. I’m guessing the Etruscans will soon know we are here and will attempt to come at us down this road, so we make sure that we block it effectively and kill every one of them that chooses to stand against us. If we make it to the square we deploy into lines and slice them apart.”

  Marcus nodded, but stood silently, awaiting further comment as Vascius looked at him dumbly. The centurion narrowed his eyes as he turned to consider the streets, and then back to his men to see what he might have missed. Shrugging his shoulder slightly before he spoke he faced his commander and asked, “is there anything else you think we should do?”

  With a slight lift of his chin, Marcus motioned towards the building tops. “I’ve been in a few street fights, centurion. We could do with some support up there. Men with bows if we have any spare. And don’t forget to cover the rear, you never know if the hunters will become the hunted if they get behind us. My guess is that they won’t, but we must prepare for every eventuality.” Vascius’ eyes were drawn to the roof tops and then back along the road to where the breach was just visible, several guards having been left, but now looking like children playing on a street corner rather than a force guarding their own retreat. He tightened his lips into a hard line at the comment, but acknowledged it with a nod. “Have some of the men return to Valerius and keep a line of communication open between us. If the enemy run from the walls we need to know. Once we get into the city it will be very difficult to know what is happening on the outside.”

  “Yes, sir” replied Vascius, his face hardening further as he barked orders at the men around him. “And will you be remaining here, sir?” he asked. “I’d prefer to know where my commander was if we need additional orders, or support.” he added.

  Marcus understood the man’s frustration. There was nothing worse than having a superior officer standing over your shoulder checking your every move. Acceding the point, he nodded to his bodyguards. “I’ll stay with these men at the rear of the legion. The battle is yours centurion. Bring me the heads of the Etruscan leaders” he replied coldly.

  Vascius saluted more smartly than he had done in all the time that Marcus had known him, his scowl turning into a beaming smile. “Yes, sir” he shouted before he turned and swept his sword towards the road ahead of them, his footsteps echoing off the walls as he set off towards the town square.

  ***********

  Chapter 26

  A dog barked somewhere along the alleyway as Istros pointed two fingers in the direction of several men who had appeared, noisily chatting, from a low-roofed wooden building. Each of the men shouted back towards the face at the doorway from which they had emerged, their ribald words causing hoots of laughter from the inebriated leavers. “The man in the green and the tall one with the beard” Istros said. “We try and get them alone, if not” his mouth twitched at the corners as if to say that each of his men should prepare for a hard fight. The whites of the eyes of his followers all turned from him to stare at the group of men whom they were to follow. “You three, ahead to the marsh road crossroads, we’ll meet you there. If there are less than five by then, we take them” he said smartly. These men sauntered off as he nodded to another small group. “Go along the fields by the goat track, you know it?” he asked one of those who were listening, he nodded his reply. “Good. Meet us at the crossroads from the other direction. If there are people coming, make sure we know, I don’t want anyone else walking into this.” The man flicked his head and three others followed him, all loping along as if on a leash behind the leader.

  “Keep in two’s” Istros said as he moved out into the street, taking another man by the shoulder and half pushing him into the street. The roads here were packed dirt, not the smooth stones of the central streets of Rome. The wooden houses were roughly built, with very little space between them, some had even been developed to the height of two stories, though the quality of the carpentry was, in many cases, poor. These latter developments stood out like a boil on a beggar’s nose as they shone with the bright hue of newly cut wood placed on the old, sun-bleached, timbers. Along the road some of the houses had large copper pots outside, with children sat idly stirring thick stew which was for sale. The aroma of rabbit or some other gamey meat drifted along the road. Two of the group they followed stopped and started haggling over the price of a bowl of stew with a small girl, who was obstinately telling them that the price was the price and couldn’t be changed. The others, now down to five, waved at them as they carried on, his two targets amongst the five. Istros smiled and silently thanked his gods for their continued support. A group of women carrying bundles of woven wool appeared from a house, their laughter rising into the cooling night air. Further along the road a man was pushing a dog turd into the gutter with a stick, the grey furred animal which had deposited it, limping badly as it wandered away from its owner. A movement to his right caught his eye. A blackbird swooped to the floor and pecked at some unseen bug before disappearing back to the rooftops. Their trail took them around a slow bend, with the lower hills of the Quirinal to his right. The olive tree groves and wicker fences of the small holdings on the hillside were now visible above the houses despite the quickly draining light from the closing of the day. ‘Too many people’ thought Istros as he frowned at the men ahead of them, still chattering as they strolled. Glancing behind he saw the rest of his men wandering along in groups of two or three as he’d asked. He knew that it would be difficult to make the strike where there were too many people. It would be the natural instinct of the locals to either call for help, or get involved. He also knew that with more people came the possibility of one of his men being identified. The marsh crossroad was still six or eight minutes’ walk away, but with the streets as busy as this he’d have to call off the attack u
nless fate gave him an opportunity.

  As they neared another food outlet fortune turned her smile on him. Menenius turned a head towards those he travelled with and called that he fancied some food after all, only one other man stopping to wait for him. Istros turned to the groups behind and waved quickly at them, beckoning them to catch up. The opportunity had presented itself perfectly. Menenius and Sicinius were just paying for a small wooden bowl of brown stew as his group strolled past them. He took in every detail, looking for evidence of weapons under their tunics or people watching. Handing the man next to him a copper coin he said “go and get a bowl of stew, talk to them, make them talk to you and join them along the road. There” he pointed along the street “start throwing up as if you’ve been poisoned, get into the alley by that basket weavers.” The man looked up and nodded, his white teeth showing through his beard. “Drag them into the alley if you have to” Istros said as he moved away, waving quickly to them and sending another along the road to the marsh crossroad to bring the rest of his gang back together.

  The alleyway was dark as the group hid within the walls between the weaver’s house and a low fronted wooden fence which surrounded one of the few stone buildings along the road. The weaver was obviously doing well, his house was two stories tall and his fence was built of solid wood with no gaps between the panelling. Istros was happy that the group wouldn’t be seen if they were lucky enough to get the two plebeian tribunes into the alley. Voices soon announced that the three men were now approaching, the voice of his own man loudly castigating the lack of land that plebeians were granted to keep the two tribunes engaged. As ordered, the moment he came within sight of the alley he started to clutch his guts and moan, bending and gripping Sicinius by the lower half of his tunic, spilling his stew on the floor as he pretended to retch. Menenius laughed cruelly, but looked to his own bowl in disgust for a second as Istros’ man pulled the other plebeian leader towards the alley, arm now across his shoulder as if leaning on him for support. To his credit Sicinius was trying to keep the man upright.