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
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
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