Marius' Mules: Prelude to War (7 page)

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 bear 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.

The tavern’s few patrons had retreated to the edges of the room, as far from the action as they could get without moving out into the street where things were all the more dangerous. The barman cowered behind his counter with the huge pots of olives, garum, bread and other nibbles and the amphorae of wine as a rampart. Chairs had been knocked out of the way and upturned and one table had been pushed back against the counter, leaving a wide thoroughfare across the centre of the room.

The tavern was filled with the curious, heady scent of sweat and blood, cheap wine and fermented fish entrails, but Paetus’ senses were seeking one thing only. Even as he broke into a run to catch the two enemies at the bottom step, the thug let go of Clodius, propelling him up the stairs with a shout of warning as he turned to face the threat.

Paetus had to hand it to the man. He was alone, unarmoured and with only a stout length of ash for a weapon, facing four clearly very motivated killers, each with a naked blade - two of which already ran with blood, and yet his first priority had not been his own safety, but to look to the security of his employer.

Paetus waved for Saufeius to fall in at his shoulder, and the four men slowed, approaching the thug with an air of focused menace. Behind him, Clodius was moving up the stairs relatively slowly, holding one arm tight over his shoulder wound and using the other to haul on the bannister. For the first time, the mettle in the hireling’s eyes started to waver but, to his credit, he simply slapped the ash club into the palm of his hand.

‘Alright,’ he grinned humourlessly, ‘who’s first?’

Saufeius lifted his sword and made to step forward, but Paetus simply held out his arm to keep his lieutenant still and returned the man’s smile with one that contained even less mirth.

‘You can die here, cut to slices in order to buy ten more heartbeats for that sack of shit, or you can step out of the way and sign on with my lads. You’ll either spend tonight feeding the stray dogs from your belly-rope, or looking forward to a pay increase, a warm room and a jar of wine. Your choice.’

Paetus saw the indecision in the man’s eyes and for a moment seriously wondered whether the man would fight but finally, with a nod, the man lowered his club and stepped aside. Clemens moved next to him and nodded up the stairs.

Leaving his comrade with the club man to be certain of no attack from the rear, Paetus planted a booted foot on the bottom step and began to climb the staircase, slowly, implacably.

There was no safe way to leave the inn from the top floor. No doorways leading to outside stairs. Just windows with a twelve foot drop to hard stone. A fit man could manage it. Not Clodius with his wounded shoulder, his blood spattering across the timbers with each step. He was trapped. Paetus knew it and so did Clodius, yet his prey had no option but to keep climbing.

Time was pressing, of course. Soon the fight in the street outside would end one way or another and people would be coming into the building. If Milo’s gang won out, which was both Paetus’ fervent hope and solid expectation, then they would be chasing down the fleeing Clodius to make sure they ended him, now that things had come this far. If they did so and found Paetus and his men at the scene, things might go badly for him. And on the slim chance that Clodius’ men won in the street, then Paetus and his few might suddenly be surrounded by a far larger force and in serious trouble. But still, despite any restrictions some things in life had to be savoured. This moment had been so long in the making, Paetus had earned the right to relish it.

Keeping his footsteps deliberately unhurried and loud, he moved implacably up the steps, matching Clodius’ slow, wounded pace… hunter and prey. Inexorable. Monomaniacal. Deadly.

The light leaking in between the battered, peeling shutters from the street outside glinted menacingly on Paetus’ reddened blade as he climbed.

Clodius threw a frightened glance over his shoulder and his attempts to ascend redoubled. Taking his hand from his wound and allowing the blood to flow freely once more, the former master of killers and criminals - who had held Rome in a grip of iron for nearly a decade with the patronage of great men - staggered up the stairs in terror, both hands hauling on the bannister despite the agony it caused in his shoulder.

Paetus heard Saufeius and his companion on the stairs behind him, but his eyes remained locked on Clodius as his wounded prey reached the top step and staggered out of sight to the right.

With silent, grim determination, Paetus clomped on up the stairs shifting a little to his left as he neared the top in case the unarmed Clodius attempted some kind of surprise attack. He need not have worried. As he reached the top and peered to the right, he could see that the stairs opened into a simple, straight, empty passageway that ran the width of the building with a window at each end to let in light and two doors leading off in each direction, forming a square of rooms with the stairs at the centre.

Only a choice of two, then. There had been no loud bang of a door slamming, so Clodius had regained at least a little of his subtlety, leaving it unclear through which door he had sneaked. But while the man had been subtle and quiet and was no doubt cowering, hiding behind some item of furniture, holding his breath in order to prevent easy discovery, the trail of blood droplets he had left behind exposed his path to his hunter as clearly as any foot prints in the muddy forest floor might.