Macer nocked an arrow. The shot would be difficult, but as Vulso told him, “Difficult is not the same as impossible.” He pulled the string back, his chest expanding, and judged the required arc of flight. The young bowman took a breath and then took the shot. The guard’s focus was averted when he heard an arrow, unleashed by one of Macer’s fellow archers, clatter against the stone wall beneath him. But the guard was still not alert enough to see or avoid Macer’s missile. The arrow punched into the guard’s shoulder with such power that it forced the mercenary backwards, causing him to fall off the parapet, into the courtyard below. As Macer’s countenance broke out into a picture of satisfaction, having witnessed his arrow hit its mark, he felt the ground quake beneath him as the squad of praetorians ran by him.
There was a moment of stunned silence as the mercenaries in the courtyard took in their groaning companion, the arrow still lodged in his shoulder. But then it was as though the gates of Hades opened. Vulso was the first to react. The praetorian threw the blanket off his feet, beneath which lay a cache of spears and a couple of swords. First, he grabbed a pilum. The sinewy, scar-faced mercenary standing closest to the wagon took a step backwards, but not quickly enough to avoid Vulso jabbing the point of his weapon through the jelly of his eye and into his brain. Without hesitating, or seeing his victim fall, the soldier launched his spear to cut down the leader of the mercenaries. Piso had just bellowed out an order for one of his men to sound the alarm. As a bell was rung, to call for the rest of his comrades to muster in the courtyard, the pilum skewered the Etruscan. His rasping voice turned into a croak – and then a death rattle. Vulso reached for another pilum and set out his stall to fend off other opponents.
Manius was swift to react too, realising that he needed to remove the threat of the brutal axe-wielding barbarian, whose plate of food had dropped to the floor in his rush to clasp his weapon. Twig-like strands of hair hung down over his bony forehead and black, glowering aspect. He barged one of his fellow mercenaries out of the way, to make a beeline for the wagon. Manius launched his javelin but, through either luck or skill, the barbarian swatted the pilum away with his axe. He then beat his chest and let out a roar cum growl cum howl in triumph – but as he stretched out his arms and raised his head to the skies Manius took the opportunity to unsheathe his dagger and throw it into the soft, sweet spot at the base of his neck. The mercenary staggered around for a few steps, like a drunk, and crashed to the ground, like a giant oak being chopped down.
“Run hard, but not too hard,” Vulso had advised his men earlier. “When you come to swinging your swords, when you get to the courtyard, I don’t want you falling over from exhaustion… Keep a good pace and keep your shape.”
Varro kept pace and remained in the frontline of the praetorians rushing towards the villa. The force was small enough to approach the house, undetected, but large enough to overwhelm the enemy. Varro tried to keep a clear mind and hoped that the beads of sweat running down his brow wouldn’t drop into his eyes. His first objective was to reach Manius. The pair would then commence to search for Pulcher. They could get lucky and Pulcher could come out into the courtyard to join the fight. More likely though, the former agent might try to conceal himself, somewhere in the house. Or he could attempt to escape through the back of the property. But Vulso had posted men there to prevent any retreat - and holed the boat which could be used to cross the river at the rear of the estate.
As much as Varro was dressed differently from the advancing praetorians, the grim determination on his face matched the soldiers’ focus. If anything, his expression was even more determined. Fiercer. He briefly saw his reflection in his polished blade and didn’t recognise himself. Varro would spend his last day, being a spy, as a soldier. Instead of a spy or soldier, however, he yearned to be husband – and father.
Curses rang out on both sides. Vulso, Manius, Ulpius and Ravilla were now surrounded. Vulso noticed one of the mercenaries grab the bridle of one of the lead horses on the wagon. His intention was to pull the vehicle into the courtyard, to allow his confederates to bar the entrance to the oncoming praetorians. The creatures had remained remarkably calm during the storm around them. They were superior specimens, muscular and groomed. If Piso had been paying full attention, he would have realised that the mounts were far too fine to be mere cart horses. Vulso called out a command and Mars duly reared up and felled the mercenary. The sickening crack of the hooves stoving in the Spaniard’s chest could even be heard above the wild cacophony of other the battle. Whilst Vulso was momentarily distracted however, a mercenary thrust his spear forward and the leaf-shaped blade sliced open his calf.
“Bastard,” he exclaimed, as he parried a second attack, aimed at his thigh. As much as the soldier was willing to slay anyone in front of him, Vulso knew that the tactic should be to just hold the enemy off and ensure that the door remained open. There was still a chance that the attack could fail, if the entrance was barred. His men would be caught in a killing zone, if they were locked out. Spears and arrows could rain down upon them from the parapet if the mercenaries organised themselves. The enemy could also retreat in numbers through the back of the villa – and Pulcher could slip through their fingers. Ulpius let out a howl of pain as a mercenary plunged a sword point into his midriff, albeit it was swiftly succeeded by the crunching sound of Manius punching his sword through the attacker’s collar bone.
Vulso realised that that they wouldn’t be able to hold out for much longer. But they wouldn’t need to. The cherished, familiar sound of armour rhythmically clinking together grew louder. A wave of iron was about to crash into the villa. Vulso reached down and flicked the reins once more. The wagon fully entered the courtyard, so his men could freely pour through the entrance. The praetorians swarmed through. A number of mercenaries formed themselves into a line – but that just gave the frontline soldiers a greater target to launch their volley of javelins at. A few of the enemy decided it would be wise to surrender at this point. But their blood was up - and the praetorians executed the unarmed men. The dead and dying were trampled on as the soldiers rushed to get to those mercenaries who were attempting to retreat, realising that to battle on was hopeless. They were not interested in prisoners. Vulso, funded by Varro, had offered a significant reward for anyone who cut down the owner of the house. As they didn’t know what Pulcher looked like, everyone was fair game. If the former gladiators could contest the soldiers individually then they would have backed themselves, but the trained soldiers were greater than the sum of their parts. They advanced together, killed together – stabbed necks, faces and groins together. Some of the enemy might have been classed as barbarians, but it was the civilised Romans who fought with greater savagery.
A breathless Varro joined Vulso and Manius, as they clambered down from the wagon. Blood spotted their battle-weary countenances, but thankfully it wasn’t theirs. The agent noticed the unpleasant gash on the praetorian’s calf, however.
“You okay?”
“Call this a wound?” the veteran scoffed. “I’ve had whores put scratches in my back which have hurt more. We’ll finish things off here. Go inside and get the bastard. Ravilla, follow our friends here and watch their backs. Ulpius, stop mewling. It’ll have to be a more accurate spear thrust than that to find and cut of your small cock.”
The praetorian’s voice was dust-dry but he still barked out a couple more orders as Varro and Manius made their way towards the house. He glanced at the wagon and felt like smashing open one of the large amphora of wine and dunking his head into it. He surveyed the courtyard and allowed himself a moment of respite - and thanked the gods. It appeared that he would be carrying a few injured men back to the barracks, but no corpses.
Night was descending, like a veil being pulled over a widow’s pale face. The blood, slickening the flagstones, appeared more brownish than red. Varro experienced a few twinges of compassion, and horror, as he witnessed a sobbing mercenary writhing on the ground, attempting to put his intestines
back into his stomach. Every time he thought he was close to completing the task they would wriggle free, like eels.
They walked up the flight of steps outside the house, but Varro felt like he was descending into the underworld. Death or deliverance awaited him. Few lamps were lit in the interior. Vulso squinted in the gloom and watched his friends enter the villa, the darkness swallowing them up.
The screams from the courtyard pierced his ears, but not his heart. Pulcher judged that he had paid Piso and his mercenaries well. It was their job to spill their blood for him. When he heard the alarm Pulcher had sped to the nearest first floor window, which overlooked the front of the house. His stomach churned, with fear or bile, as he witnessed the horde of praetorians advancing. He also spotted Manius in the courtyard – and judged that Varro couldn’t be far away. A shocked Pulcher spat out a curse, like a cobra spitting venom, but the mystery of how his enemy had found him could wait. Questions could be answered later – although his immediate thought was that Maecenas had betrayed him. Killing was second nature to soldiers, but treachery was second nature to the spymaster.
The task now was to escape, survive, Pulcher determined. He duly commanded a number of passing mercenaries to follow him, rather than run out into the courtyard to be slaughtered. Their comrades were all but dead. But that didn’t mean they had to share their fate. The battle was lost, but Pulcher could still win the war. Live to fight another day. If he escaped, he would be willing to pay for an army of assassins to hunt down and kill Varro.
Pulcher ordered his band of mercenaries towards the back of the house. One of the first-floor bedrooms led out to a terrace, which contained steps leading down to grounds which contained a fast-flowing river. The plan was now to reach the sole boat, moored on the small pier, and cross the water. Go where the enemy can’t follow. Pulcher let out another curse however, as a small force of praetorians scrambled out of the woods, which bordered the neighbouring estate, and decamped themselves on his back lawn. They were waiting for him to be flushed out. Pulcher calculated that, although his mercenaries may not be able to defeat the soldiers, they may be able to distract them long enough for him to reach the boat and flee. He cursed his slaves for running away, as they could have been used as a diversion and sacrifice too.
Pulcher briefed him men, spoon feeding them false hope.
“The bulk of the enemy – and their best troops – are at the front of the house. Those men outside are doubtless new recruits, a reserve force. I have every confidence that we can swat them away, like insects. For any man who joins me, crossing the river to make our escape, I will double his pay,” the nobleman exclaimed, drawing his sword in readiness.
Varro and Manius were now halfway up the main, marble staircase. Even in the half-light Varro could see that the house was expensively furnished. Pulcher may have been morally bankrupt, but he could still afford the finer things in life. Agrippa mentioned that the villa had once belonged to Marcus Crassus. He would bring his curvaceous mistresses here, although the only figures he truly appreciated were those which his accountant gave him.
The two men nodded to one another once more, giving the signal to proceed. Even in the gloom Varro could see how his friend’s muscular body was taut, alert – his ears pricked to attention, like Viola’s when she she heard that call that her dinner was ready. They could be ambushed at any moment. An enemy could appear out the darkness in an instant. The murky light only fuelled his fear. But fear needed to be defeated, along with Pulcher. Varro was ready to raise his weapon at any moment, should he witness the glint of polished metal or hear a battle-cry. He observed how Manius’ sword no longer glinted, as blood smothered the blade. Ravilla followed behind, lest they were attacked from the rear.
Ravilla would soon hear the cacophonous noise of his fellow praetorians, entering the lavish property like a plague of locusts. Intent on looting. “When the bastard owner’s gone, he won’t have need have any of his possessions,” Vulso had told him men, during their briefing before the attack. “He’ll just need a couple of coins for the ferryman. Feel free to plunder everything else. But get the job done first.”
Pulcher was just about to lead, or rather follow, his men outside, when he heard a voice coming from inside the house.
“This way.”
The voice was familiar – yet hated. Pulcher involuntarily gripped his sword tighter, to the point where his white knuckles almost shone in the darkness. As the mercenaries made their way down the steps Pulcher turned back. He might never secure such an opportunity again. To have Varro die by an assassin’s hand was fine, but for him to die by his own hand was infinitely finer. More honourable. More visceral. More satisfying. If he killed Varro and was cornered by the enemy, he could still surrender. There was a chance that he could purchase his freedom. The commanding officer could be susceptible to a bribe. Even if he was apprehended and taken back to Rome, all would not be lost. He could afford to hire the best advocates. Testimonies could be refuted, evidence contested. Did he not have a right to murder Varro too, having trespassed in his house? Juries could be bought, or intimidated. The worse that could happen would be banishment. But he could live with not returning to Rome, knowing that Varro would never be returning too.
It’s fate that he’s here. Kill him.
Varro moved forward, his boots sounding on the polished, tiled floor. He could feel the breeze grow stronger from the room at the end of the corridor, to the point where it began to chill his sweat-glazed cheeks. He heard a drumbeat of footsteps, retreating downstairs, into the garden. He thought how it was all nearly over. This would be his final day, as a spy. Agrippa had once told him that he accepted his offer of becoming an agent because he was partly damaged.
“You’re not the first spy I have ever recruited to be damaged in some way. Working for the glory of Rome, redeeming yourself, will somehow fix the damaged part of you.”
Perhaps there had been a modicum truth to what Agrippa had said, back then. But his work as an agent hadn’t fixed him. Lucilla had. Should he go back to a life of service to the state, for the glory of Rome, it would be the cause of him being damaged again, not the cure. That much was clear, in the darkness.
Pulcher waited, his razor-sharp gladius at the ready. He willed himself to control his breathing and, at the last moment, he would even hold his breath. His black heart seemed to be pumping black blood. He briefly pictured Lucilla. As much as she was a vision of beauty, the image solidified his animus. Varro had been the author of his rejection. Dejection. But now Pulcher would be the author of his enemy’s end. Another footstep sounded outside the room. One step closer to death. But wait. Let him come to you. The raucous din of the clash of arms beginning to take place outside in the grounds faded into the background.
One more step. Could he hear his enemy breathing?
It was time to strike.
The former assassin smoothly and swiftly appeared at the doorway and turned, to thrust his blade into his enemy’s stomach. The point of the gladius hit its mark - and glided through flesh like a hot knife through butter. Pulcher’s eyes shone with spite and triumph. His lips receded over his gums and his teeth gleamed in the darkness, as did the whites of his enemy’s eyes, as they widened in shock and agony. Pulcher wanted to stare the man in the face, let him know who had bested him. But it wasn’t the face Pulcher expected. Manius’ sword clanged upon the tiled floor. His innards burned, as if he had swallowed hot shards of glass. The house grew even darker.
Varro froze for a moment. Or more than a moment. He noticed the tip of Pulcher’s blade protrude out of his friend’s back. Manius was surely as good as dead. Pulcher hesitated not however, having observed Varro standing just behind his wretched bodyguard. He would unsheathe his gladius from out of the Briton’s body and slay his rival too. But for some reason, which at first confounded him, Pulcher couldn’t dislodge his weapon. Mustering his remaining wherewithal and strength Manius gripped his own hands around his enemies, to prevent him from drawing his
sword. It hurt like the fire of Hades to do so, but it was worth it. Varro’s moment of hesitation passed – and with his face contorted in more malice and violence than he thought possible, he stabbed the defenceless Pulcher through the throat. Blood briefly gurgled from the mortal wound, like a pot boiling over.
Pulcher dropped to the ground and Manius slumped to his knees. The bodyguard’s tunic crimsoned. Varro could see his expression clearer, as it grew paler. Ashen. The agent frantically called out to Ravilla to fetch a surgeon. The praetorian raced downstairs but, having observed the wound, knew that it would be futile. The brave Britain was a dead man, he just didn’t know it yet. Or perhaps he did.
Varro slumped to his knees too and held his friend’s hand. For a moment Manius summoned the strength to squeeze it back. The nobleman felt like the lifeblood was draining out of him, as well as his bodyguard. His brother. Varro wished he could be dying in his place. He deserved to die in his place, he believed. Tears moistened his eyes and then flowed freely. The last time he had cried had been the night after Lucilla had proposed to him. But those had been tears of happiness.
“Well, at least we killed the bastard. You can retire. Although it looks like we’re both be retiring now,” Manius emitted, his voice as weak as his enfeebled body. He raised a corner of his mouth in an attempt at a grin. It was almost his final feat of strength.
“That’s nonsense. We both know that you’ll outlive me. Just stay awake. Stay with me. Please,” Varro replied, sobbing, feeling his friend’s hand grow limp and colder. The agent was broken. Far worse than just damaged.
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