‘Have you tried to sell that resin yet?’ Magnus asked in a hushed voice as he sidled up to Rufinus.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because the Urban Prefect has now heard about it; it’s probably best to keep it hidden for a while.’
Rufinus raised his eyebrows, betraying mild alarm, whilst watching the priests place the head on the ground. ‘I’ve asked an intermediary to make some enquiries.’
‘Well, stop him.’
Rufinus nodded as the priests hurried away. ‘It’s the first thing I’ll do once I’ve earned it.’
The Flamen Martius raised his spear into the air and called on the deity to bless both sides in their sacred struggle to win through to their respective goals; and to entreat him that, whoever won, Rome would be seen as having discharged her duty to him.
He brought the spear down and with a mighty roar of violent anticipation both sides flung themselves forward to meet head on like two warlike tribes of the most primitive nature.
And the people of Rome cheered themselves hoarse.
Blood, teeth and screams flew through the air within an instant of the collision. The front two or three ranks – if they could be called that – of either side melded into a free-for-all that lost direction so that men fought towards all points of the circle and, with no uniforms or identifying marks other than facial recognition, lashed out at anything standing with brutal intent.
The area where the head had last been seen was more compact and a giant scrimmage had formed; it heaved back and forth as the participants within grappled and wrestled, trying to wrest possession of the head of the once-proud beast that had been declared the greatest horse in Rome.
As he watched, telling himself to concentrate on the business in hand and not be carried away by enjoyment of the spectacle, Magnus slowly led his brothers round the flanks of the Suburra contingent.
The scrimmage eased south, towards the city – the direction of both sides’ objectives – leaving a trail of unconscious and wounded participants in its wake. The spectators moved with it, as did the various centuries of the Urban Cohorts in order to keep the fight out of the grand buildings that lined its route through the Campus Martius.
Magnus and his brothers began to infiltrate the Suburra faction, keeping towards the edges.
‘Hand me a measure,’ Magnus said, holding out a hand to Cassandros.
The brother dipped into his sack and brought out a bronze modius.
Magnus weighed it in his hand and smiled with narrowed eyes. With a straight arm, he hurled it high into the air over the Via Sacra contingent. He did not see it land but he knew it would cause grievous injury or maybe death. Looking to his right, he saw that Rufinus had brought his men closer. ‘Right, lads, five left; hurl them all at Rufinus’ boys.’
Within a few moments five bronze missiles had landed amongst the Urban Cohort century, bringing two down, despite their helmets, shields and chainmail, and cracking the bones of a couple more. The response was instant. Shields came up, lines formed and swords were drawn, and left legs stamped forward as they faced the source of the attack: the Suburra faction.
A shudder went through those of the Suburra closest to Rufinus’ century as they saw the threat just paces from them.
Magnus signalled his brothers to withdraw, filtering back through the looser edges of the melee as, with a change of timbre to the roars, a section of the Suburra split off to attack the century that had formed up as if on the side of their opponents – just as they had been told it would.
And, just as Magnus had expected, the century took two paces forward, stamped their left feet down and slammed the bosses of their shields up and into the faces of their attackers, driving them back, bloodied and broken, before following up with the hilts or the flats of their swords to crunch down on the crowns of unprotected heads. Seeing their comrades under attack, other units of the Urban Cohorts came to the aid of Rufinus’ men, protecting their flanks so they would not be swamped as violence repaid violence in a sudden escalation that fed upon itself.
‘That should do it,’ Magnus muttered to himself as he watched the scrimmage for the severed head split off from the newly instigated riot in the direction of the city walls. He turned to his brothers. ‘Right, lads; we split up and walk away from this nice and slow, disgusted that such a sacred occasion should end in an attack on the city authorities.’
Pleased with his day’s work so far, Magnus walked up a set of three stone steps and rapped on an iron-studded, wooden door; an erect phallus painted above it advertised the type of business transacted within. A viewing slot slid back and the cold eyes of a man whose living was earned by the threat of violence stared through.