Read Online Marius' Mules: Prelude to War by S.J.A. Turney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: S.J.A. Turney
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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
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
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