Titus Annius Milo twitched open the curtain on his coach, peering out at the Latin countryside, partially obscured by the endless mausolea and columbaria that lined the Via Appia even this far out - more than ten miles south of Rome. In the mid-Ianuarius weather, the fields lay fallow and untended and a light morning frost had coated the world’s surfaces with a fine white fur, though the cold, bright sun had burned most of it away throughout the morning and early afternoon, leaving only the patches the sun had failed to reach.

‘This is utterly ridiculous. We will miss Canuleia’s gathering, and most of the important personages of the city will be there, Titus. You will miss a chance to build your status, I will miss a chance to talk fashion and the theatre with the ladies, and for what? For a cold, uncomfortable carriage ride into the backside of the country.’

Milo sighed and cast his wife a sympathetic smile. ‘Dear Cornelia, we are political animals all, even you. You know as well as I that the weather and social engagements cannot stand in the way of the running of the Republic.’

‘Pompey runs the republic, Titus, not you - at least not until you are consul.’

The sound of Milo’s teeth grinding was almost audible over the rattling of the carriage. ‘No one man runs the Republic, whatever Pompey or Caesar would wish - not even the consuls.’

‘Caesar is a low-born clot in virtual exile in the north. Everyone knows now that Pompey runs Rome. The senate might as well hand him a crown and be done with it.’

Letting the curtain fall back into place, Milo turned flashing eyes on his wife as he reached out and grasped her by the upper arms. ‘Never, ever, say that out loud. Even when we are alone. Rome will throw off any ruler who tries to take a crown. To even suggest such a thing for our patron is tantamount to treason. Pompey will never wear a crown. No man will.’

Cornelia Fausta simply curled her lip in a humourless smile. Her own father, the infamous dictator Sulla, had twice marched his army on Rome, had been dictator and de facto ruler of the Republic as much as any King. Cornelia had been a young child at the time, but even then had found herself dumbstruck that her powerful, charismatic father had held all the power of Rome in his palm and had voluntarily retired from it all and handed power back to the senate. In her eyes the Republic was already there for the taking and had been for decades. All it needed was a man as strong as her father to take it. And if not Caesar or Pompey, then who? Milo?

‘Pompey needs some nudging in the right direction, husband, but he will take a crown if it is offered, and the senate can be persuaded not to argue. Most of them care more about their purse than about Rome. And if Pompey rules Rome then those close to him can only benefit, and who is closer to Pompey than you?’

‘Enough, woman. No more talk of kings and rulers. We will be back in Rome by tomorrow afternoon. You will find every comfort at the house in Lanuvio, as befits the residence of a chief magistrate of the city. I sent Paetus and his men ahead yesterday, so the place will be fully stocked with provisions, warmed through, with fresh linens and a snack prepared. You will feel all the better after a warm bath and a bite to eat. And later tonight the council of Lanuvio will invite us to a celebration as is customary. Then, tomorrow will be a short affair: the selection of a head priest is a public matter but a quick one, and we will be back in Rome before you know it.’

‘You could have had someone select the priest for you and we could have stayed in Rome. There is no influence of value to be had in administering a rural priesthood. You are candidate for the consulship and should be concentrating on your career in the city.’

‘This is not about power, Cornelia, and not about my acquisition of the consulship. This is about the duty of a public official. It is important for the chief magistrate to involve himself in all affairs of import. I have planned this trip for a month and you have done nothing but complain the entire time. Now change the subject and try to enjoy the relaxing time out of the city.’

Cornelia harrumphed irritably and lapsed into a sullen silence.

The tone of the horses’ hooves on the ground changed, their sound echoing back from close walls, indicating that they were passing through a built-up area now instead of open countryside. Once again, Milo jerked aside the curtain and looked outside.

The two dozen servants and slaves who accompanied the wagon trudged along miserably ahead, the small band of his hired gladiators at the fore, shoving vagrants out of the way and demanding the populace step aside for a noble of Rome.

Urban shop fronts lined the road, rising above a narrow pavement with intermittent tethering posts and more than its fair share of horse muck. Behind the low walls of the buildings, the curved façade of a half-built theatre covered with wooden scaffolding identified their location. Still a good eight miles to go, then.

‘Where are we now?’ snapped the bitter tones of Cornelia as she sulked among her cushions.

‘Just passing through Bovillae. The theatre is coming along nicely. Looks like they’ll have finished it by the summer.’

‘Who cares what rustic entertainment these provincials attend?’

Milo rolled his eyes. Provincial! One of the most important towns of Latium and mere miles from Rome, and as far as Cornelia was concerned they might as well be in Africa. He was heartily sick of her current mood and found himself praying that Paetus and the party he’d sent on ahead had the house in a state that would ease her aggravation.

 

* * *

 

Publius Clodius Pulcher, politician of note, pater familias of one of the largest and most dangerous private armies in Rome and loyal (insofar as loyalty were within his mental makeup) client of Julius Caesar, clicked his tongue and turned his horse’s head back to the main road. It was cold and dismal out here and he wanted nothing more than to return home and relax.

The preceding couple of months had been fraught and constant, what with carrying out every tiny instruction that came down from Caesar in Aquileia, continually bothering with blocking the moves of Pompey’s creatures in the senate and the forum, spreading malicious gossip and maintaining a tight watch on that snake Milo and, of course, campaigning for his own praetorship.

When the town council of Aricia had petitioned him - as a notable figure in Rome and a close associate of Caesar - to give them a ruling on a small matter, he had seen it as a chance to get away from the grind of the city and into the countryside for a time. An opportunity to relax briefly before the race for power heated up and the election of the praetors was called. And, of course, he owned a sizeable estate at Bovillae, to which he could retire after the official business in Aricia was done with. A short journey of four and a half miles and he could have been in the villa he had confiscated - by force - from an unfortunate impoverished senator.

Now that he had reached the town, though, he was already chilled, uncomfortable and bored and the thought of settling into the estate and enduring the chilling cold while the house was warmed through and goods brought in was less than enticing. By the time the villa had heated enough to thaw his bones, he could just as easily be back in Rome where his town house would be welcoming, warm, and stocked with all manner of appetizing goods.

Glancing at the side road ahead which led to the villa, he confirmed his decision. He would press on to Rome, and damn the countryside.

As they approached the edge of the town, Clodius’ eyes were drawn to the fields off to the right and the sprawling complex that surrounded the temple of the Bona Dea some fifty paces from the road. He shuddered at the memory of that night a decade ago when he had drunkenly infiltrated the sacred, women-only rites on the understanding that Caesar’s wife lusted after him, only to be discovered, unmasked, tried and face the very real possibility of execution. Only judicious bribery, sneak tactics and a hastily assembled alibi had seen him acquitted. Stupid. He should have left well alone.

Still, all that was far behind him. As a close client of Caesar now, he stood to gain ever more power and influence as that great rising star of the Roman world gradually outgrew and outlived his peers. Soon Caesar would have sole control of the Republic and then only the Gods would outdo him.

‘Problem, Publius?’

Clodius turned to the speaker. His three travelling companions rode abreast directly behind him, with his two dozen henchmen each mounted at the rear, swords, axes and clubs in open evidence - the roads of Latium were not always safe to travel, especially for a man with as many enemies as he.

‘No problem, Caius,’ he smiled at Schola, one of the few men in the world he trusted intimately - a man who had supplied spurious evidence to save him after the Bona Dea scandal. ‘Roxana here thinks we are bound for the villa.’

‘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.

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.

Without turning, he made gestures over his shoulder, indicating that the others should remain at the stairs. Even if Clodius found a weapon, which was unlikely, he was a hirer of killers, not one himself, and Paetus was confident that any engagement between them would be a foregone conclusion. Besides, some of the things he wanted to say were best shared only by he and his victim.

Slowly, he stepped along the corridor and turned to face the door. A small shapeless mark of blood indicated a spot near the handle where Clodius’ hand had rested. Paetus was reaching for the handle when he paused, changing his mind. Not only had his last such manoeuvre been rather a failure, but Clodius for all his weakness was an ophidian foe, and one to watch closely. Unpredictable.

Stepping back, Paetus raised his leg and brought his boot down hard on the timbers close to the handle. The door, old and not of the best construction, smashed inwards, the catch ripping off and one of the hinges coming away from the frame, so that it rocked back and forth at an odd angle, half obscuring the room.

Good. At least Clodius had not been lurking behind the door waiting to strike in some fashion.

Happy that he was safe at least entering the room, Paetus stepped forwards, using his free arm to push aside the hanging door, which groaned against the frame.

‘A good, noble Roman general, when he realises he has lost an important battle, has the grace to throw himself on his sword. It takes boundless strength and bravery I am told, and is the only way, in abject defeat, to uphold the honour that once came as part and parcel of being a Roman citizen, let alone one born to a line of consuls.’

He paused in the room’s entrance. The window’s shutters were closed and the chamber was correspondingly dim. Like all small rooms-for-rent in all back street inns, it consisted of little more than an uncomfortable, utilitarian bed, a small table and chair and two pots - one to wash and one to piss. Certainly not a room to afford cunning places of concealment.

It took only a few moments for his eyes, adjusting to the gloom, to pick out the shape of Clodius huddled by the far side of the bed. Already the blood from his shoulder had begun to soak into the bed’s stained, frayed coverings.

‘Had I even the slightest confidence that you were a man of honour and tradition, I might have been tempted to hand you a blade so that you could take the old path. But you’re not, are you, Publius Claudius Pulcher?’ His usage of Clodius’ birth name, from before his popularity stunt of seeing himself adopted into a plebeian family, would register with Clodius. Few would think of him in those terms these days. He was Clodius: Dominus of a powerful faction and de facto master of the streets. He was no Claudius - son and grandson of consuls - anymore.

‘Whatever Milo is paying you I can afford to outdo it,’ Clodius said in a breathless whisper that somehow carried despite the war on the street outside the shutters. ‘You managed to buy off my man, which surprised me, but then we all know that everyone has their price. Even Crassus - most of all Crassus - knew that. I am Caesar’s man and the fool who takes a sword to me signs a warrant for his own death. Be smart and name your price.’

‘My price?’

‘To turn from Milo and help me from here before that lunatic catches up with me.’

‘Ah Publius, you are assuming that I am Milo’s man.’

Clodius’ face sank into a frown of incomprehension and Paetus smiled his savage smile again. ‘Milo has been good to me and more than just useful, Clodius, but if I’d had to put a blade to his throat to get here, I would not have hesitated in doing so.’

‘So what do you want? Who are you?’

Paetus strolled over to the window and unhooked the shutters with his free hand, swinging them back so that the cold Ianuarius afternoon light filled the room, the dissipating din of a battle in its final stages flooding in with it. The sun illuminated Paetus, and Clodius blinked in the harsh light.

‘Don’t you remember me, Clodius?’

His prey used his clean arm to pull himself up, the other, bloodied, hand going to his shoulder to help staunch his wound once more. His face was starting to take on the rubbery grey look of a man whose blood levels were almost lethally low.

‘Spit it out, then,’ he snarled. ‘Who are you?’

Paetus noted the man’s eyes dart momentarily to the door.

‘I wouldn’t try it if I were you. You’re too weak now. And slow. You’ll never outpace me.’

He rolled his shoulders and idly turned his sword over and over, looking at the flash of the cold light reflecting off the pale watery-red stains on it.

‘It really shouldn’t surprise me that you don’t recognise me. After all, I’ve been dead for years. Besides which, no man who had ruined so many lives and killed so many innocents could ever be expected to remember their names and faces.’

‘You talk in riddles, mercenary.’

‘Think back, Clodius. Think back to the days before you served the Julian bull. To the days when you worked to undermine Caesar rather than for him. Think back to Salonius and your clients. Of course, I was never a client as such, but then old Calidus couldn’t resist a wager and, because his debt to you was of Croesian proportions, then sadly I fell into your evil grip.’

Clodius was frowning and shaking his head.

‘You deny it?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, man.’

Paetus took two steps towards Clodius, who flinched and recoiled against the bed.

‘Allow me to refresh your memory. Someone informed Caesar of the worst of your excesses and revealed to him your network of spies and informants, on the understanding that Caesar would step in and protect his kin from your punishments. But he didn’t. Publius Clodius Pulcher, man of the people, had Calidus, the informant’s old father in law, taken from his bed, his head stoved in with a brick and then cast into the river with the turds and the unwanted babies.’

‘Calidus?’ muttered Clodius in the manner of a person who is starting to recall a name but cannot quite place it.

‘And not content with such an act, Publius Clodius Pulcher, man of the people, had the informant’s two young children dragged from their house, smashed to death and then cast among the refuse in the Tiber. Starting to nag at your memory, Clodius?’

His prey’s eyes suddenly widened and his legs almost gave way as he tried to back into the bed itself, clambering onto it as Paetus took another two slow steps forward. Outside the window there came shouted orders to ‘find Clodius’ and to ‘get the wounded in the carriage’.

‘And finally, because the man was beyond your reach among Caesar’s officers in Gaul, you had his wife, Calida, taken to a warehouse, where your brutal German slaves raped her again and again until she begged for death. They obliged eventually, but from what I understand, even that was no merciful release.’

‘I sign warrants,’ snapped Clodius. ‘They are carried out. Any atrocities that occur are the wilful acts of unrestrained underlings. I never gave orders to rape Calida. But you cannot be…’

‘Paetus? No. Really, you’re surprisingly accurate there, Clodius. I stopped being Paetus, camp prefect of Caesar’s army and noble of Rome, the day I left camp, vowing revenge on you and the general. I am but the ghost of Paetus. One of the avenging lemures come to plague the living. Strange, the paths life takes. You and Caesar were such bitter enemies, your enmities dragging me into a cauldron of hate and treachery and resulting in the death of everyone I held dear; and for what? So that a year or two later you could come together like brothers. Brothers in blood.’

‘I did nothing that others before me have not done. It is proscription, pure and simple, Paetus! A man in power cannot afford to leave his enemies behind him. He signs the warrants for those enemies and for their families. It is the way of things. Any atrocities are on the hands of my men, not I.’

‘You have a reputation, Clodius, for weaselling out of trouble. The only man ever to violate the sacred traditions of the Bona Dea, to cause shock across Rome and break the most ancient laws and yet you walked free. Sadly, you’re not going to walk free today, Clodius.’

‘I can pay you…’

‘I need no money, Clodius. The only things I really want, you already took away from me, and you are not in a position to return. Time’s up. The fight is over and now this has to end. But uncomprehended revenge is no revenge, so I wanted you to be clear on who I was and why I was here before the end.’

Clodius, now kneeling on the bed and shaking so heavily that it was moving the furniture beneath him, shuffled further away. Paetus simply took four steps and jumped up lithely onto the bed, towering over Clodius. With no smile in him to display, Paetus raised his sword, angling the tip down towards his cowering enemy.

And then his world spun. He was in the air and falling before he realised that Clodius had yanked on the blanket beneath him and jerked him from his feet. Snarling with rage, Paetus rose to his feet once more, only to see Clodius staggering for the door.

His escape route suddenly filled with the bulky shape of Saufeius.

‘Ah, ah, Clodius. Not this way,’ Paetus’ lieutenant admonished.

Panicked, Clodius turned, his only hope of escape torn from him, and started to amble painfully towards the window. Paetus was up again now, and moving to intercept.

‘Thinking of jumping, Clodius? Long way down onto those hard stones. Long way for a man with no strength and a bad wound. For a man close to death. Too long, I’d say.’

‘Paetus, there has to be a way…’

Without another word, the former Caesarean officer and wronged Roman stepped across to his nemesis and plunged the triangular point of his gladius into the man’s chest, pushing it in a few inches and then ripping it back out without the usual twist first. Clodius was near death from blood loss already, and Paetus wanted him conscious to the end.

His victim fell with a cry. He tried to put his arms down and push hard enough to rise again, but there was no strength there. He simply shuddered as he reached up to the second wound, glistening like reddened lips in his chest, his tunic shredded.

‘Help me!’ he implored, reaching towards Saufeius, who simply folded his arms and shook his head.

‘They’re coming for the inn, sir,’ his lieutenant said quietly. ‘Milo included.’

Paetus nodded and sighed. He’d taken too long explaining himself. Still, he had a few moments to finish it. Bending, he drew back his gladius, noting with satisfaction the horror and agony in Clodius’ death-grey face. With easy speed, he lashed out again and again and again, slamming the blade into the shuddering body of the former crime-lord of Rome, ripping through muscles, bones, tendons and organs. Any wound he inflicted now was a death sentence, no matter what medical help the man sought, but nothing could stop Paetus. His gore-soaked hand only ended the repetitive motion when Saufeius was suddenly next to him, pulling him back and hauling him, shaking, off the body.

‘It’s done, sir. You have to get out of here before Milo comes in.’

Paetus simply stared at the bloodied heap. It was alive - still shuddering with difficult breaths! He felt the unbearable urge to begin stabbing again, but Saufeius shoved him towards the other man in the doorway. ‘Get him out of the back of the inn, Bassinus, and take the others with you. I’ll handle this.’

Paetus, suddenly drained and unable to fight the arms that were dragging him back towards the stairs, gave up the fight and watched as Saufeius crouched over the body of the dying man. Then he was gone; dragged by his men to safety.

 

* * *

 

Publius Clodius Pulcher, one of the most powerful men in the Republic and would-be praetor of Rome, registered somehow through the endless waves of pain that he was still miraculously alive. He would die soon, but he’d seen Paetus - the man who should have been dead for years - dragged out of the room. Whatever happened now it had not been Paetus that killed him. Despite everything, that small victory was some consolation.

He smiled wickedly to himself as he basked in the glorious bright afternoon sunlight of a cold winter day.

His wretched, confused brain tried to tell him something, but all he could think of was being warm in that lovely sunshine, despite the cold of the Ianuarius day.

A comfort akin to a deep sleep.

His brain insisted something and, try as he might to ignore it, Clodius found that he was listening to that nagging complaint from his senses:

Ah yes… why was it so bright?

 

* * *

 

Clodius hit the pavement outside the window head-first and smashed like an over-ripe melon. Pieces of his skull and its contents bounced and spattered off the men of Milo’s small force who were even now reaching the door of the tavern.

Milo stopped, his eyes wide in shock, staring at the body of his enemy lying shattered and shredded in the gutter a few feet from him. It was as though the Gods had dropped a gift before him. But how? His men were only now moving into the inn. Apart from a few minor cuts and abrasions, only two of his gladiators had been properly wounded, and only one of them severely. None of his servants or slaves had been attacked, and neither he nor his wife had been involved. Conversely, only three of Clodius’ men had survived the fracas, and then only because they had turned their horses and fled as they first realised the danger they faced. There would be questions, of course. Possibly even a reckoning to come, but the fires of the senate could be dampened to a soggy smoulder with the power of Pompey behind him. He would ride this out, even if it did cause a bump in the rise to his consulship. He would prevail, and now - with Clodius out of the way - he would do it a great deal easier.

As he stood looking down at the mess that had been his enemy, his servants and slaves attempting to wipe the mess off themselves and from his shoes, the gladiators split up, some remaining at the periphery to protect their master, while others moved into the inn.

For some time, he simply stood watching Clodius leaking into the gutter, savouring what a relieving sight it was. Then the door opened again and a man was escorted out by the gladiators.

Clodius’ killer was spattered with gore and held a bloodied sword. The gladiators flanked him more in the manner of protective guards than arresting antagonists, and Clodius looked up at the man who had killed Clodius for him.

‘Saufeius?’

‘Domine.’

Milo’s thoughts churned. What was Saufeius doing here? He was with Paetus these days, part of his crowd. He should be at Lanuvio. He frowned and rubbed his temple.

‘Saufeius, what are you doing here?’

The hireling simply shrugged, wiping his blade on a rag and sliding it back into his sheath. ‘Apologies, Domine. Master Paetus sent me back to Bovillae to buy boletus mushrooms and Caecuban wine. The market in Lanuvio is sadly lacking in quality goods, and Paetus reckoned to know the best shop here for such items.’ Saufeius cast his eyes downwards apologetically. ‘I am afraid that while I was alone, I slipped into the tavern for a drink in violation of my orders.’

Milo stared at him, his frown only deepening. Something here was wrong, but it was hard to work out what in this mess. Still, whatever had happened, Clodius was dead and Milo’s men had suffered but minor troubles. A resounding victory and one that could only be of benefit. Saufeius reached down towards the body in the gutter, but Milo waved at him.

‘Leave it there. And Lanuvio, I fear, will have to do without their new priest for another week or two. I believe it’s time we returned to Rome. There will be much to do. And you, Saufeius, should ride for Lanuvio and tell Paetus and the rest to head back to the city at their earliest convenience.’

Saufeius nodded and straightened, risking one last look down at the pulp that had been Clodius. All was well.

 

* * *

 

Paetus leaned back against the wall on the walkway of the Tabularium on the Capitoline hill, peering out of one of the arches that looked down along the forum and the sacred way. Saufeius sat at the next arch, mirroring him, as the pair watched the black roiling smoke drift across Rome like a portent of dreadful things, smothering the city in its dark embrace.

‘What will happen next?’

Paetus glanced across at his friend’s question and shrugged. ‘More violence; more destruction.’

They had watched with detached coldness as that day - following their return from Bovillae - Rome had exploded into riotous violence on a scale previously undreamed. Clodius’ smashed and ruined body had been brought back to the city by the slaves of the senator Sextus Teidius, who’d happened to pass along the Via Appia mere hours after the clash.

The corpse had been laid out on the public rostrum by Clodius’ supporters for all to see the horrible things that had been done to it. Milo had brushed aside all accusations that morning, and had been kept too busy to pry into the business of his men, and so Paetus and Saufeius had watched events unfold from this lofty perch. Despite Milo’s confidence that he was freed of a troublesome enemy and would easily rise above this, Paetus was starting to doubt it. Important names were now calling out in support of Clodius and denouncing Milo as a murderer. Big names. Names even Milo couldn’t easily fob off. And the violence of the killing had brought out even many of those nobles who had hated Clodius and forced them to condemn the deed.

Rome had never been so close to tearing itself apart.

The pair sitting in the Tabularium had watched in astonishment as good citizens of Rome ran amok, invading the senate house, smashing the seats and tables and forming a crude pyre. Then, in a move that no one could have predicted or condoned, the populace of Rome had burned the body of a man it had previously hated on a makeshift pyre inside the sacred senate’s curia! Within the hour the building that was the heart of Rome’s government was ablaze and the more forward-thinking of the populace were filling buckets with water and doing their best to stop the flames spreading to the rest of the forum.

‘Rome’s in danger,’ Saufeius noted.

‘Rome will settle in time. But something has begun here today and, while I would do it all again the very same way, I cannot say I am comfortable with the possible long-term results of our actions, Saufeius.’

‘Do you think Caesar will come to Rome? It is said he recruits men in his province to finish Gaul for good, but now, with the troubles, he might have to concentrate on Rome instead.’

Paetus shook his head and watched the smoke making interesting shapes against the grey sky. It still looked like snow was due.

‘This is no setback for Caesar. In fact, what we’ve just done has probably freed him.’

‘Sir?’

‘Caesar’s lost one of his hounds, but he has more. The youngest Crassus will help maintain his control, if no one else. And others in his camp will take this loss and turn it to his benefit. You’ve seen the trouble we’ve inadvertently brought upon Milo. Suddenly despite a lifetime of murder and debauchery, Clodius is the aggrieved party, and by extension so is Caesar. He will only gain from this. He’s lost a dog but gained a mob.’

Saufeius sighed and leaned back. ‘Was it worth it, sir?’

Paetus’ face darkened. ‘Yes. Yes, it was.’

‘What’s next for us?’

‘We keep working for Milo as long as that is reasonable thing to do. And now I start laying the foundations for the next step: when Caesar is done with Gaul and returns to Rome.’

One down. One to go.