Marius' Mules: Prelude to War (6 page)

‘We all thought that, Publius,’ laughed one of the others, and Clodius nodded. ‘Time to get back to the city, though. It’s warmer and better provisioned and who knows what that knob-nosed fat man Pompey has been up to while I’ve been away for a day.’

Up ahead, a voice rang through the chilly afternoon air, cutting through the background hubbub of general town life in Bovillae.

‘Make way… make way for Titus Annius Milo!
Make way, I said
.’

Schola raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What in Venus’ shapely arse is Milo doing out here?’

Clodius, his jaw suddenly set firm, snorted into the cold air in a manner reminiscent of his horse. ‘Whatever he’s up to, he’s got another thing coming if he thinks
I’m
going to make way for him!’

* * *

Paetus leaned on the wooden rail of a balcony that belonged to one of the few two-storey buildings that fronted onto the Via Appia this far from the centre of the town. He’d felt sure this was the place to be, roughly at the point where the side road forked from the main way and ran up to Clodius’ villa. Plus, if his plans happened to go awry, he could always skirt round and ride on to Lanuvio, carrying out his assigned tasks.

Since his ignominious departure from Caesar’s army in Gaul he had changed immeasurably, both inside and out, but the one thing that never altered was the dead weight he carried in his heart. The weight of his family, dead because of Caesar’s reneging on a promise and because of Clodius’ vicious criminal activity. Between the pair they had utterly ruined any hope of a future for Paetus and so he had filled that empty hole with revenge.

In those early days, back in Rome and hollow, lost and seething, he had known that for now, Caesar was out of his reach, either surrounded by the army or tucked away in the palace at Aquileia, but Clodius had been a viable target in the city. And he had tried. Oh, how he had tried. Again and again he had attempted to get close enough to the villainous scum to end his bile-and-hate filled life. But for all his newfound energy and physique, the burning need for vengeance and the funds of his family, it had gradually become apparent that he was on a fool’s errand. He was simply one man, while Clodius commanded a virtual army from a townhouse with the aspect of a fortress.

He had realised after two years of attempts that he needed allies. As the money had run out, he had signed on as one of the hired thugs in Milo’s faction, knowing that with the bottomless pit of animosity that Milo harboured for Clodius, he was more likely to find an opportunity with him than without.

But if anything, Clodius was even more guarded whenever Milo was in close proximity, and despite their mutual hate, neither man was willing to start trouble in Rome’s streets, given their high political profiles. And so things had settled once more into a hell of inaction, waiting for the impossible opportunity to present itself.

As the months stretched agonisingly on, Paetus had ingratiated himself with Milo, moving higher up the perceived ranks of the hired thugs until he had become one of the more important and influential men in the private army, with control over a small group of men. Not the gladiators who formed the bulk of Milo’s force, of course. They had their own loyalties and would never take well to Paetus’ control. But he’d been given a few small tasks to begin with and a few men to help him. Then, as he proved himself again and again, the tasks assigned to him became more and more important or personal, and the number of men he controlled had risen from three to twelve. More importantly, as time progressed, and ‘accidents’ or ‘troubles’ lost him men to the blade or to other, more insidious ends, he had been given the privilege of hiring his own replacements, albeit vetted by his master. Consequently he now controlled a small force of men who, while Milo’s in name, were loyal to Paetus first and foremost.

Additionally, he had managed to pull together a few sources of income skimmed from the top of Milo’s lesser, peripheral business interests, and was gradually acquiring a sizeable pot of coins which he periodically distributed to keep his men’s loyalty secure.

He smiled. All morning he had worried that their timing would be wrong, and it had been so troublesome to set up. It had taken many days of careful eavesdropping, edging around direct questions and prying into incoming and outgoing documents for him to learn the timings and specific details of Milo’s trip. That he had to travel to Lanuvio to appoint a priest was a matter of extreme fortune, given that he would have to pass close to Clodius’ country estate and only outside Rome could there be any hope of direct confrontation.

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 sheaths 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.