Marius' Mules: Prelude to War

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Paetus had managed with ease to have himself appointed to a role in the trip, sent out ahead to prepare the house in Lanuvio. He had entrusted that task to six of his men and sent them on as ordered, where they would be even now, preparing a dinner for Milo and his wife. Another four occupied the landing of the brick insula on whose upper landing he stood, waiting tensely with their leader.

  As for the other two…

  The second part of the plan had been the troublesome part: how to get Clodius to go to his estate and be there at just the time Milo passed through town? In the end, once more, Fortuna had dropped the answer into his lap. The council of Aricia had sent a missive to Clodius, seeking the backing of Caesar now that their erstwhile sponsor Crassus decorated the sands of Parthia with his entrails. They sought his judgment on a simple matter, not really worthy of his time and which they could easily have sorted themselves. But it had been an opportunity to claim an allegiance, and they had taken it.

  By pure chance, the courier bearing the letter had been mugged in the street only fifty paces from Clodius’ door, and Paetus’ men who had been watching the place happened to reach the body first, going through its purse and satchel and taking anything of value.

  They had brought the letter to Paetus, the seal of the ordo of Aricia already broken and, as he had read it, a smile spread slowly across his face. It had been a simple job to write out a direct copy with only a few minor adjustments and fake the wax seal on the altered copy.

  A hired courier was given the new copy and delivered it to Clodius as the council of Aricia had originally intended. For ease and realism, the contents of the missive had been exactly the same, down to the names and the flattery, but Paetus had taken the liberty of adding a date and time to the invitation.

  All that had remained was to watch with a grin as the courier was entertained in Clodius’ guardroom until a reply had been drafted and the man sent back south with it. He had known that Clodius would accept, of course. The monster was currently seeking high office in the city, just like Milo, and everything he could do to improve the public’s perception of him was important.

  And so the encounter had been set up - partially by the hand of Paetus and partially by Fortuna in her blessed wisdom.

  All that had remained was to hope that the timings he had both learned and selected were right and that the two mortal enemies did not simply pass one another unnoticed.

  Paetus grinned.

  The shouts from the Rome direction labelled the approaching column as Milo’s own. He even recognised the voice: Eudamus the Thracian - one of the most feared gladiators ever to walk the sands and undoubtedly the man at the front of the column, along with his ever-present compatriot, the Spanish gladiator Birria…

  … and two others. Tapapius and Gamburio - specially selected by Paetus from his own group.

  Milo‘s men were ordering the public aside and kicking the poor out of the way in a manner unlikely to win the politician many friends in Bovillae. But then he would not be seeking the support of a town that played host to Clodius’ country estate.

  Paetus’ head snapped round. Only a few dozen paces down the street a sizeable group of riders had trotted into the town, many of them with the look of fighters. Even from here, Paetus could see Clodius at their head, all invincible imperiousness and haughty superiority, his pet knight and two plebs with him, a gang of armed ruffians behind.

  In the easy way of a man with a military background, Paetus immediately ran through the situation.

  The ground was good. Unless Clodius decided to veer off and head for his villa, which it appeared he was not about to do, considering how close he was to the junction while still riding purposefully forward, then a confrontation was inevitable. Indeed, given the fact that they were so far from Rome and facing an almost certain meeting, Clodius would no more pass up the opportunity to face off against his opponent than would Milo.

  No other side roads and hardly an alley big enough to fit a fat man down. Just a single wide, long street through the centre of town, and the two opposing forces approaching one another along it. There was simply no way this was going to end without violence.

  Then there were the odds. Paetus had known his employer’s plans. Milo had decided on only a small entourage, mostly of servants and slaves, with just a few bodyguards. Paetus had been theatrically horrified at Milo’s laxity and had persuaded him surprisingly easily to take along a larger group of his murderous gladiators. And just in case, Paetus had filtered his men in among them with specific instructions.

  Clodius had the advantage of numbers. Against Milo’s eight gladiators and numerous harmless servants, Clodius had at least two dozen armed thugs.

  But that was all they were: thugs. They were slaves and ruffians with clubs and cheap blades. Not the trained killers of the arena that walked before Milo. For all the difference in numbers, Paetus would put his money on Milo every day.

  And then he himself was here above the scene, with his four most dangerous men just in case. Years in the making, this was likely a once-in-a-lifetime chance to bring down Clodius, and if it meant his own death, he would see it happen this day.

  Clodius would feed the crows tonight, even if Paetus had to lie dead beside him.

  ‘Hope nothin’ happens to the dominus,’ one of the men behind him muttered, approaching the window as he picked at a thumbnail with a wicked sharp knife.

  ‘If he’s in trouble, we’ll step in to help,’ assured Paetus, and strangely, he meant it. Milo had been nothing but good to him, giving him a place in his household and inordinate trust in a time when that commodity was extremely hard to come by. He would not see Milo fall today if the choice were his to make. But Clodius’ death was still the highest priority, even if he had to sacrifice all others.

  Paetus turned to his men.

  ‘Be ready. If that piece of camel shit manages to slip out of the combat, the man who lets him get away gets flayed, but the man who guts him gets a month’s wages above the norm.’

  He turned back to the street. The two forces were closing on one another. Eudamus was bellowing for Clodius’ party to clear the street, while Clodius was sneering and demanding they move aside for him. It would have been comical had Paetus not had such a vested interest in the meeting.

  Both groups slowed. There was a build-up of tension in the air. The inhabitants of the town, right down to the beggars and the thieves, stepped away from the street. Shutters closed over windows and doors were slammed shut and bolted. A tavern nearby remained open, though the men lounging at the tables outside hurried indoors and peered from the windows at the events unfolding in the street.

  The world held its breath.

  Silence. Even the two groups had stopped demanding each other move, and had slowed to a crawl as they neared one another. They were perhaps thirty paces apart now - a distance that could be closed by a running figure faster than some men could draw a blade.

  Clodius was starting to realise his danger now, and his horse slowed further, the armed thugs at his rear picking up the pace slightly in order to ride down the side of the group and protect their master. Time was running out. The moment Clodius was fully protected, what might have been a simple execution could turn into a bloodbath.

  What were Tapapius and Gamburio up to? They should have acted by now.

  Paetus felt his pulse begin to race. This was an opportunity not to be missed.

  His relief was almost audible as he saw Tapapius - tall and thin and scarred by flame and blade - lean close to the lead gladiators and mutter into Eudamus’ ear. Whatever Paetus’ man had said to the killer had the desired effect immediately. Paetus could have laughed at the expression of fury that suddenly crossed the gladiator’s face.

  Milo’s killers raced forward, without the customary insults and posturing that accompanied all gang-related fights in Rome. Silent and angry, they simply burst into spontaneous movement, racing at Clodius and his men, weapons of every imaginable variety ripped from s
heaths as they pounded along.

  It was perfect. Paetus heaved a satisfied sigh of relief. Tapapius had timed it perfectly, after all. Had things kicked off when he’d wanted, the two groups would have been just too far apart for the full effect, but Tapapius, a man who had grown up on the endemic violence and death among the street gangs of Rome, knew exactly what he was doing. It was the main reason Paetus had slipped him among the gladiators: Tapapius was a man who had started three of the biggest street fights in Rome’s recent history, almost instigating a city-wide riot on one occasion.

  Clodius panicked.

  The enemy had run at him so suddenly they’d taken him completely by surprise; off-guard. The silent charge had been such a shock, he hadn’t even drawn his own dagger by the time Milo’s murderous gladiators were on him.

  Two of Clodius’ thugs managed to pull alongside him, trying to break into a charge even as Milo’s men struck, but the gladiator Eudamus simply threw a knife which sank to the hilt in one horse’s throat and then threw himself at the other rider with his curved sica sword in his free hand. As he hacked at the second thug’s leg mercilessly, the mortally wounded horse bucked, throwing its rider sideways, where he fell, smashing his head so hard on the curb that there was an audible crack and the gutter began to fill with blood. Clodius found himself facing the infamous Birria without the support of his men and bellowed for aid.

  The gladiator leapt, bounding into the air as though gravity had no hold on him and only Clodius’ prized instinct for survival saved him. Just as the gladiator rose into the air, aiming for the Clodius, his razor-sharp blade held forth, his victim simply unhooked his right leg from his horned saddle and allowed himself to fall sideways from the horse. No grace, no poise, just an urgent fall out of harm’s way.

  The well-trained and skilled gladiator attempted to adjust his thrust even as his target slipped away before him, but the blow, aimed for the point where collar bones met and an instant death, simply tore into Clodius’ shoulder, slicing deep into the muscle and ripping away flesh as he fell.

  A wound, and an agonising one. But not a mortal one.

  Paetus watched, his breath held, as the initial blows became a scuffle, and then a full fight, rapidly gaining the aspect of a battle, thugs from Clodius’ retinue riding down the men of Milo and then leaping from their horses to join the melee as Milo’s trained killers arrived at the thriving mass and began to cut and stab indiscriminately.

  Urgently, Paetus’ eyes jerked this way and that, trying to ascertain what had happened to the lead gladiators, his own men, and the villain Clodius.

  Even as he watched, one side of the fracas opened up and two men in simple brown tunics appeared from the roiling mass, dragging the bloodied, yelling form of Clodius between them. As Paetus watched in disbelief, the pair adjusted their grip, holding their master by the ankles and beneath the shoulders, heedless of the wound that was causing him to cry out so shrilly, and scuttled away from the fight, bearing him aloft.

  ‘The slimy shit!’

  He watched intently as the two men scurried across to the side of the street only two doors down from the balcony occupied by Paetus and, skirting the external tables and benches, carried their burden into the building and out of immediate danger.

  Paetus turned. His four men were standing poised, their weapons bared.

  ‘What now, sir?’

  ‘They’ve taken him into the inn. He must not escape. Saufeius? You take two men out into the street and get into that inn door. Don’t under any circumstances get involved in the fight. And try not to get seen by Milo or the lead gladiators. There’s a good chance they’d recognise you, and then we’d have some uncomfortable questions to answer. Just get into the inn and sweep through it until you find Clodius. Don’t miss him and don’t let him escape. Clemens and I will go around to the back door of the inn and work our way through, trapping him against you.’

  Marcus Saufeius, the oldest and most trusted of Paetus’ men, nodded his understanding and turned, waving on two of the others and pounding down the stairs.

  Paetus took another look out from the balcony. It was extremely risky. If Milo were to discover that he and his men were here and not in Lanuvio chopping vegetables and heating the baths then they would have to explain themselves, probably under torture. Better for everyone if this meeting had all the hallmarks of an unfortunate chance encounter.

  With a deep breath, he gestured to Clemens, drew his own gladius and moved into the stairwell hot on the heels of the first three men.

  At the ground floor, Saufeius had turned and taken the others out the front, where they could dash along the pavement close to the wall and straight into the inn. Paetus and Clemens instead ducked straight out through the low doorway and into the narrow alley that ran between tall insulae, parallel with the main road, packed with ordure and the detritus of urban life. Ahead, they could see the rear doors of the inn. Surely Clodius was still inside - he couldn’t have yet had time to emerge into the alley and escape into any side passage.

  ‘Come on.’

  Down a narrow canyon of chipped and discoloured red brick walls with the smell of ammonia assaulting their nostrils the two men ran, their eyes darting down each narrow alley they passed between buildings. All they could hear was the muted sound of combat from the Via Appia on the far side of the insulae, though through the subdued din they could just hear the clanging gong from the great temple of Vesta that dominated the town. The sky above, a leaden grey, threatened snow as it had for days, though Paetus and Clemens felt no urge to shiver in the cold. Adrenaline warmed them.

  Taking a steadying breath, the pair closed on the rear door of the inn, weapons at the ready. The outward-opening wooden door was shut, and the dead, half-chewed rat that lay on the step outside confirmed that it had not been opened recently. Clodius was, indeed, still inside.

  It came down to this.

  For six long years Paetus had dreamed of revenge, hungered for it, longed for it. Two men had ruined his world and he had vowed with spite and venom that he would see both of them dead for it. Caesar might be out of his reach for now, but Clodius’ end was so close he could almost taste the blood.

  Six years!

  Turning, he mouthed a silent question at Clemens. His companion tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and nodded his readiness.

  His heart pounding, blood rushing through his veins like a runaway horse, Paetus steadied his right hand, knuckles tightening on the shaped ivory handle of his own weapon as his left reached up for the latch that would swing open the door.

  His thumb flicked the catch and his fingers closed on the iron handle.

  The door smashed open without warning, propelling the dead rat into Paetus’ shin, almost breaking his fingers and narrowly avoiding smashing his face to a pulp. Staggering backwards through necessity, desperately trying to hold on to his blade, Paetus collided with Clemens who was the only thing that kept him from sprawling backwards into the filth of the alley.

  Paetus found himself staring into the face of one of Clodius’ armed thugs, his eyes registering the same surprise as Paetus at what he’d found on the other side of the door. He had only a moment to notice the man’s master a few feet further back, being supported by the other armed brute, clutching his shoulder and with his tunica soaked in dark crimson. And then the immediate threat in the doorway regained his composure and reached up with his short sword to strike out at the interloper blocking their escape route.

  The man was big… looked strong too. Bull-necked and with a torso of a powerful triangular shape, the man was probably reckoned a dreadful killer in the streets of Rome. A man who bullied honest citizens and enforced the will of unpleasant criminal overlords. A thug.

  Paetus had seen thugs come and go - had tested and hired a number of them himself - and had come to instinctively recognise the types. This man he would not have hired. Powerful and dangerous, and possibly even fast, yes - the speed with which he’d brought his blade to bea
r was testament to that last. But he was also unimaginative, and Paetus could see that in his face in that split second. He was used to a straight fight against men weaker than him.

  As the thug’s blade jabbed towards his chest in a straight and predictable move, Paetus simply ducked, reversing the grip on his sword sharply just in time to slam it down point first.

  The thug’s blow whipped through the air above him, almost taking Clemens in the throat and forcing him to step back. Paetus’ blade, as he dropped into a crouch, sliced down onto the bridge of the big man’s foot, angled across such that the width of the blade almost matched the width of the foot.

  Only the stone doorstep beneath prevented the blow from completely severing the foot into two neat halves. The point smacked into the hard surface and grated with a noise that sent a shiver up his spine. But, despite failing to sever the foot, the damage was immense and crippling. It was also agonising and unexpected.

  So shocked was he by the sudden manoeuver, the brute pitched forward with the unimpeded momentum of his own thrust, his balance destroyed by the sudden loss of a foot.

  Paetus remained crouched as the big man fell forward over the top of him and out into the alley, and then stood once more, ignoring the disabled threat behind him. Clemens would deal with that. Straightening and peering in through the door, he could see the other thug desperately helping Clodius back in the other direction, where they headed for a seasoned wooden staircase that ran up at the centre of the tavern’s main room.

  Even as he started in through the portal, he saw the street-front door at the far side of the building slam open and the shape of Saufeius, his lieutenant, crashing in, another man immediately following.

  Behind him, Paetus heard a crunch and a cry of intense pain, followed by footsteps trailing him into the building. Without glancing back he kept going. It was Clemens, and he knew it from the slight whistle of the man’s breathing - a condition he’d suffered since his nose had been broken some years previously. The first thug was either dead already, then, or bleeding out his last among the half-eaten vermin in the muck-filled alley.