Saturnalia(65)

“Decius!” Milo said, grinning. “You look almost sober. What’s wrong?” Since becoming a respectable political gang leader, Milo usually wore a formal toga and a senatorial tunic in public (he had served his quaestorship two years before), but for this occasion he was dressed in a brief Greek chiton that came to midthigh and was pinned over one shoulder, leaving the other bare. He looked more than ever like a statue of Apollo.

Less edifying was the sight of his long, muscular arm draped over the shoulders of Fausta. She was dressed almost as minimally as he was, in a hunting tunic like Diana’s, girdled up to show off her long, shapely thighs. The upper part was pinned loosely, allowing the neckline to drop perilously low. I would have been more intrigued had I not seen her wearing considerably less the night before. I made a point of ogling her anyway.

“I hope Cato happens by,” I said. “I’d like to see him drop in a foaming fit and bark at the moon.”

“You sound a little breathless, Decius,” Milo said. “Trouble?”

“Some people are trying to kill me. Could you lend me some bullies to escort me home?”

“Of course. Who is it this time?” Milo passed me a fat wine skin, and I took a long pull. Ordinarily he was extremely moderate with food and wine, but he was lowering his limits this night.

“Oh, you know. Just politics.” The last thing I wanted was to explain and bring Fausta into it. “It’s not Clodius.”

“I never knew a man like you for sheer variety of enemies,” he said admiringly. “How many are there?”

“Probably no more than two or three. I lost them somewhere near my father’s house, but they may be waiting for me in the Subura.”

“Castor, Aurius,” he called. “Escort Senator Metellus safely to his house.” He grinned at me again. “These two can handle any six you’re likely to encounter. Are you sure you want to leave the festival so soon? I’m throwing a public banquet for my whole district, and it will go on until dawn.”

“Thank you,” I said, “but I’ve had two eventful days and very little sleep, and by now one drunken brawl is pretty much like another. I hate to take your men away from all the fun.”

“These fools would rather fight than celebrate any day. Good night, Decius. Tell me all about this when you have the time.”

“I shall,” I said, knowing that I never would.

I felt much more secure with the two thugs flanking me. Castor, the shorter, had a wiry, compact build and the quick movements of a Thracian gladiator. Aurius had the heavy shoulders and bull neck of a Samnite. Not Samnite by nation, but the type of gladiator we called Samnite back then, who fought with the big shield and straight sword. These days that type is called a murmillo if he fights in the old style and a secutor if he wears a crestless, visored helmet and fights the netman. The Thracian, with his small shield, curved sword, and griffon-crested helmet, is still with us.

Both men wore heavy leather wrappings around the right forearm and their hair tied in a small topknot at the back of the crown, both trademarks of the practicing gladiator. I saw no edged weapons on them, but each had a wooden truncheon thonged to his broad, bronze-studded belt. They were heavily scarred and looked eminently capable.

“Have no fear, Senator,” said Castor, “we won’t allow a single hair of your head to be harmed.” He sounded as cheery as a man just come into his inheritance.

“That’s right,” said Aurius, just as happily, “Milo thinks the world of you. Anyone makes a move for you, just back away and let us handle it.” Despite their foreign names and fighting styles, I knew by their accents that both men were City-born. They were also cold sober. Milo had not been joking when he said that they liked to fight. They were bored senseless with the festival and were now all but whistling with glee at the prospect of bloodshed.

I wondered if we were to have a repeat of the little scene of two nights before. As it was, there were similarities and differences. Instead of two Marsian bumpkins stalking me to my gate, we were set upon by no fewer than five men lying in wait, and this time there were no warnings or threats.

The streets of the Subura weren’t as crowded as those closer to the Forum. In fact, most of the Suburans were in the Forum and its environs. Those who weren’t were mostly celebrating in the guild headquarters, the insula courtyards, and on the various temple grounds. We were passing before the huge iron-working shop owned by Crassus, its clanging hammers stilled for the holiday night, when they set upon us.

Three men rushed us from the shadows of the portico fronting the iron factory. This drew our attention to the left. A moment later two more came in from behind a statue of Hercules strangling the Nemean lion that stood on the right side of the street. All of them had bare steel in their hands, and I hoped Milo’s boys were as good as he’d said they were.