Colleen McCullough - 5. Caesar

The Via Appia was one of Rome's oldest roads. It belonged to the Claudii Pulchri, Clodius's own family, for it had been built by his ancestor Appius Claudius the Blind, and its care and upkeep between Rome and Capua was still in the purlieus of the family. As it was the Claudian road, it was also where the patrician Claudii placed their tombs. Generations of dead Claudians lined the road on either side, though of course the tombs of other clans were also present. Not that the outlook was a serried array of tubby round monuments; sometimes a whole mile would go by between them. Publius Clodius had been able to ascertain that the dying Cyrus had been mistaken: his calculations were perfect, there was no danger whatsoever that the daring structure the old Greek had designed would tumble to the bottom of the precipice it straddled. Oh, what a site for a villa! A view which would make Cicero choke on his own envious buckets of drool, pay the cunnus back for daring to erect his new house to a height which had blocked Clodius's view of the Forum Romanum. As Cicero was a compulsive collector of country villas, it wouldn't be long before he was sneaking down past Bovillae to see what Clodius was doing. And when he did see what Clodius was doing, he'd be greener than the Latin Plain stretched out before him. Actually the checking of Cyrus's measurements had been done so quickly that Clodius might have returned to Rome that same night. But there was no moon, which made riding hazardous; best to go on to his existing villa near Lanuvium, snatch a few hours' sleep, and start back to Rome shortly after dawn. He had brought no baggage and no servants but there was a skeleton staff at the existing villa, capable of producing a meal for himself, Schola, Pomponius and Gaius Clodius the freedman-the thirty slaves who formed his escort ate what they had brought with them in their saddlebags. He was on the Via Appia heading in the direction of Rome by the time the sun came up, and he set a rattling pace; the truth was that Clodius so rarely traveled without Fulvia that her absence set his teeth on edge, made him snappy. He was also worried because she was unwell. Knowing him, his escort exchanged glances and made rueful faces at each other; Clodius minus Fulvia was hard to take. At the beginning of the third hour of daylight Clodius went through Bovillae at a canter, scattering various citizens going about their business, with scant regard for their welfare or the fate of the sheep, horses, mules, pigs and chickens in their husbandage; it was market day in Bovillae. Yet a mile beyond that buzzing town all vestige of habitation was gone, though there were but thirteen miles to go to the Servian Walls of Rome. The land on either side of the road belonged to the young knight Titus Sertius Callus, who had more than enough money to resist the many offers he had received for such lush pasturage; the fields were dotted with the beautiful horses he bred, but his luxurious villa lay so far off the road that there was no glimpse of it. The only building on the road was a small tavern. "Big party coming," said Schola, Clodius's friend for so many years that they had long forgotten how they met. "Huh," grunted Clodius, waving his hand in the air to signal everyone off the road itself. The entire party took to the grass verge, which was the custom when two groups met and one contained wheeled conveyances, the other not; the group approaching definitely had many wheeled conveyances. "It's Sampsiceramus moving his harem," said Gaius Clodius. "No, it isn't," said Pomponius as the oncoming cavalcade grew closer. "Ye Gods, it's a small army! Look at the cuirasses!" At which moment Clodius recognized the figure on the leading horse: Marcus Fustenus. "Cacat!" he exclaimed. "It's Milo!" Schola, Pomponius and the freedman Gaius Clodius flinched, faces losing color, but Clodius kicked his horse in the ribs and increased his pace. "Come on, let's move as quickly as we can," he said. The carpentum containing Fausta, Milo and Fufius Calenus was in the exact middle of the procession; Clodius nudged his horse onto the road and scowled into the carriage, then was past. A few paces further on he turned his head to see that Milo was craning out of the window, gazing back at him fiercely. It was a long gauntlet to run, but Clodius almost made it. The trouble developed when he drew level with the hundred-odd mounted and heavily armed men who brought up the tail of Milo's entourage. He had no difficulty getting through himself, but when his thirty slaves began to canter by, Milo's bodyguard swung sideways and put itself across the path of the slaves. Quite a few of Milo's men carried javelins, began to prick the flanks of Clodius's horses viciously; within moments several of the slaves were on the ground, while others dragged at their swords, milling about and shrieking curses. Clodius and Milo hated each other, but not as much as their men hated each other. "Keep going!" cried Schola when Clodius pulled on his reins. "Clodius, let it happen! We're past, so keep going!" "I can't leave my men!" Clodius came to a halt, then swung his horse around. The two last riders in Milo's train were his most trusted bully-boys, the ex-gladiators Birria and Eudamas. And the moment Clodius was facing them, about to ride back to his men, Birria lifted the javelin he carried, aimed it casually, and threw it. The leaflike head took Clodius high in the shoulder, with so much force behind it that Clodius shot into the air and crashed, knees first, onto the road. He lay on his back, blinking, both hands around the shaft of the spear; his three friends tumbled off their horses and came running. With great presence of mind Schola ripped a big square piece off his cloak and folded it into a pad. He nodded to Pomponius, who pulled the spear out in the same moment as Schola pushed his makeshift dressing down onto the wound, now pouring blood. The tavern was about two hundred paces away; while Schola held the pad in place, Pomponius and Gaius Clodius lifted Clodius to his feet, hooked their elbows beneath his armpits, and dragged him down the road at a run toward the tavern. Milo's party had come to a halt, and Milo, sword drawn, was standing outside the carriage, staring toward the tavern. The bodyguard had made short work of Clodius's slaves, eleven of whom lay dead; some crawled about badly injured, while those who could had fled across the fields. Fustenus hurried up from the front of the cavalcade. "They've taken him to that tavern," said Milo. Behind him the carpentum was the source of bloodcurdling noises: screams, gurgles, squeals, shrieks. Milo stuck his head through the window to see Calenus and the male servant battling with Fausta and her maid, throwing themselves everywhere. Good. Calenus had his work cut out controlling Fausta; he wouldn't be emerging to see what was going on. "Stay there," said Milo curtly to Calenus, who didn't have the freedom to look up. "Clodius. There's a fight. He started it; now I suppose we'll have to finish it." He stepped back and nodded to Fustenus, Birria and Eudamas. "Come on."

* * *

The moment the fracas on the road began, the proprietor of the little tavern sent his wife, his children and his three slaves running out the back door into the fields. So when Pomponius and Gaius Clodius the freedman hauled Clodius through the door, the proprietor was alone, eyes starting from his head in fright. "Quick, a bed!" said Schola. The innkeeper pointed one shaking finger toward a side room, where the three men lay Clodius on a board frame cushioned by a rough straw mattress. The pad was bright scarlet and dripping; Schola looked at it, then at the innkeeper. "Find me some cloths!" he snapped, doing further damage to his cloak and replacing the pad. Clodius's eyes were open; he was panting. "Winged," he said, trying to laugh. "I'll live, Schola, but there's a better chance of it if you and the others go back to Bovillae for help. I'll be all right here in the meantime." "Clodius, I daren't!" said Schola in a whisper. "Milo has halted. They'll kill you!" "They wouldn't dare!" gasped Clodius. "Go! Go!" "I'll stay with you. Two are enough." "All three of you!" ground Clodius between his teeth. "I mean it, Schola! Go!" "Landlord," said Schola, "hold this hard on the wound. We'll be back as soon as we can." He gave up his place to the petrified tavern owner, and within moments came the sound of hooves. His head was swimming; Clodius closed his eyes, tried not to think of the pain or the blood. "What's your name, man?" he asked without opening his eyes. "Asicius." "Well, Asicius, just make sure there's firm pressure on the pad and keep Publius Clodius company." "Publius Clodius?" quavered Asicius. "The one and only." Clodius sighed, lifted his lids and grinned. "What a pickle! Fancy meeting Milo." Shadows loomed in the door. "Yes, fancy meeting Milo," said Milo, walking in with Birria, Eudamas and Fustenus behind him. Clodius looked at him scornfully, fearlessly. "If you kill me, Milo, you'll live in exile for the rest of your days." "I don't think so, Clodius. You might say I'm on a promise from Pompeius." He pushed Asicius the innkeeper sprawling and leaned over to look at the wound, not bleeding as rapidly. "Well, you won't die of that," he said, and jerked his head at Fustenus. "Pick him up and take him outside." "What about him?" asked Fustenus of the whimpering Asicius. "Kill him." One swift chop down the center of Asicius's head and it was done; Birria and Eudamas lifted Clodius off the bed as if he weighed nothing and dragged him out to fling him in the middle of the Via Appia. "Take his clothes off," said Milo, sneering. "I want to see if rumor is right." Sword sharper than a razor, Fustenus sliced Clodius's riding tunic up the center from hem to neckline; the loincloth followed. "Will you look at that?" asked Milo, roaring with laughter. "He is circumcised!" He flipped Clodius's penis with the tip of his sword, drawing a single drop of precious blood. "Stand him up." Birria and Eudamas obeyed, each with an upper arm so firmly in his grip that Clodius stood, head lolling a little, feet almost clear of the ground. But he didn't see Milo, he didn't see Birria or Eudamas or Fustenus; all of his vision was filled by a humble little shrine standing on the opposite side of the road from the tavern. A cairn of pretty stones dry-laid into the shape of a short square column, and at its navel one big single red stone into which were carved the labia and gaping slit of a woman's vulva. Bona Dea ... a shrine to the Good Goddess here beside the Via Appia, thirteen unlucky miles from Rome. Its base littered with bunches of flowers, a saucer of milk, a few eggs. "Bona Dea!" croaked Clodius. "Bona Dea, Bona Dea!" Her sacred snake poked his wicked head out of the roomy slit in Bona Dea's vulva, his cold black eyes fixed upon Publius Clodius, who had profaned Bona Dea's mysteries. His tongue flickered in and out, his eyes never blinked. When Fustenus stuck his sword through Clodius's belly until it screeched off the bone of his spine and came leaping out of his back, Clodius saw nothing, felt nothing. Nor when Birria skewered him with another javelin, nor when Eudamas let his intestines tumble down upon the blood-soaked road. Until sight and life quit him in the same instant, Clodius and Bona Dea's snake stared into each other's souls. "Give me your horse, Birria," said Milo, and mounted; the cavalcade was already some distance down the Via Appia in the direction of Bovillae. Eudamas and Birria perched precariously on one horse; the four men rode to catch it up. Satisfied, the sacred snake withdrew his head and returned to his rest, snuggled within Bona Dea's vulva.