* * *
Cotuatus of the Carnutes, cousin of the wretched deceased and scourged Acco, stood in the ruins of the Roman depot, his blade running with blood, mud and gore spattered across him, and a glorious feeling of accomplishment and freedom coursing through his veins. It was done. The first blow struck. The fire-arrow that would signal the end of Rome and the retaking of his land had been loosed into the air for all of Gaul to see.
‘Glory this day, Cotuatus.’
He turned to see his other cousin and co-commander of the war-band, Conconnetodumnus, stepping over bodies, a dripping axe in his hand.
‘We are the first, cousin. When the bards sing the tales of the day Rome died and the day Gaul rose, our names will be the first to be sung.’
‘I only wish we were moving on to take their cursed legions.’
‘Patience, cousin. Trust Vercingetorix. The man knows what he is doing. Even the druids bow to him. The legions will do nothing without their general, but will sit tight in their forts with no knowledge of what has happened here. By the time they know what has occurred, they will be cut off and that pig-pizzle Caesar will be trapped in his palace, cut off from his men.’
‘Still, I would take Agedincum had I the chance.’
‘I too. But we swore an oath to do as we were commanded. Be content that we have struck the first blow for freedom and with such overwhelming success and have word sent to Vercingetorix. Tonight, in Cenabum, we drink good beer and toast our victory and the doom of Rome!’
* * *
Darkness cloaked Cenabum and the charred ruins of the Roman outpost. The Carnute warriors, with the blessings of their leaders, had raided the Roman supplies of anything useful, retrieving their hard-farmed grain from the invader’s hand and eschewing the Roman weapons as womanish and small. The honoured dead had been carried out and laid in lines ready to be dealt with properly once the night had passed and the sun rose over a newly liberated Gaul. The Roman dead and their pet southerner servants had been heaped unceremoniously into a shallow ditch where they could rot in their own time.
The leaders and great warriors of the war-band had entered Cenabum where they feasted on meats and fruits and bread taken from the Roman supplies and drank frothy Gallic beer. Others, who had fought like lions today, ravaged their way through the Roman trade ships and barges, drinking the wine they found to their taste and tipping the rest into the river. Debris of all kinds floated downstream towards the sea.
The depot itself had been torched as soon as the honoured dead were removed along with anything of use or value. Now, the smouldering timbers were falling in on themselves, throwing up ash from the charred pile beneath.
Rome had been extinguished, here.
In the cold, glistening moonlight, a hand twitched.
Among the ordered lines of the honoured Carnute dead, a cold, grey arm, covered in the mire of the battle, moved, found purchase and pushed. A body slowly rose to a seated position, the head looking this way and that, checking for movement. No one nearby. The place was… well, as quiet as a grave.
Bennacos clutched the wound at his side. It had bled profusely, but was little more really than a flesh wound. The real pain he’d suffered had been landing on the compacted earth floor after the dramatic and convincing fall. It had been the hardest, tensest thing he had done in his life to lie still, temper his breathing as shallow and slow as possible and appear utterly limp and lifeless as two Carnutes had carried him out of the building alongside the other victims of the Roman war machine.
The wound had stopped bleeding and clotted.
Staggering painfully to his feet and rubbing his other arm - the one that had been dislocated and possibly fractured during the fall - he scrambled away from the enemy dead and towards the pit where he’d seen the Romans thrown.
It was not hard to find the body of Cita, chubbier than the rest and turned out so well, even in bloody death. It struck him as comforting that his former commander seemed to have a smile on his face in the grave more genuine than any he’d ever seen while the man lived.
Pausing only momentarily to check that a coin was in place beneath the tongue, he quickly screwed the officer’s signet ring, bearing the ‘Castor and Pollux’ seal of his family, from his finger and tucked it away into his own pouch as evidence of his identity.
With a last, lingering look at his commander, Bennacos of the Boii - loyal oath-man of Caesar and only survivor of the massacre at Cenabum - trotted off into the night, heading for Boii lands and the path to the legions.
Bovillae: The fallen eagle
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 Rom
e. 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 inac
tion, 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.
Marius' Mules: Prelude to War Page 4