Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (26 page)

Prudes had felt choked, struggling to find words of gratitude. Belua had helped him out, stating simply that it was a, “Done deal.”

Gods,
thought Prudes,
leisurely Velia will be a welcome change to feverish Pompeii – a city that never sleeps or catches its breath.

Then suddenly, there was movement at the edge of his vision. A cloaked figure rapidly reduced the distance between them, taking up a position between him and the table where his sword rested
. Fucking dreaming fool
, he cursed himself for his carelessness. He quickly registered the long blade in the intruder’s hand, the hood blown back revealing a shaved head, a blind eye and deathly grin. The assassin dropped into a crouched stance, edging towards him. His movements were light, sure; those of a seasoned killer. Prudes knew he had no hope without his sword, and there was Clodian and the girl. He had to warn them.

“Clodian! Orbiana! Run for your lives!” he bellowed. He looked around for anything that he could use as a weapon and his eyes spotted the empty amphora on the floor to his side. He swiftly side-stepped to snatch it up. The assassin tracked him like a shadow, moving ever closer.

Over the shoulder of the assassin Clodian appeared, his face white with shock at what played out before him.
Brave fool, you cannot save me
, thought Prudes,
you should have run.

Clodian immediately picked up one of the chairs and held it in front of him. He shunted towards the assassin who’d half-turned towards him. The assassin seemed surprised by this, and for a moment looked unsure which opponent to first deal with. It was Prudes’ chance, probably the only one he‘d have.

Screaming a curse he charged towards the assassin. He saw that Clodian had rushed forwards too.

The assassin moved quickly into Clodian’s path. He clubbed the chair aside with one brawny arm, cutting savagely at the young noble with his long knife. Clodian cried out as the blade sliced into his head and face. He fell forwards onto the floor, face down. Blood, black in the night, quickly pooled around his head.

Prudes felt his heart jolt in his chest. Screaming, “No!” he swung the amphora.

The assassin was quick, but was unable to fend off the downward blow. The amphora landed with a meaty crack on his shoulder. The vessel shattered in Prudes hand and the assassin, stunned, dropped to one knee.

Prudes looked to the table and his sword. He took one large step before realizing he’d not make it. The killer had recovered and would skewer him before he reached his weapon. In that stark moment of recognition he knew that he’d not hold Zamura again, nor see Belua and the inn at Velia.

Ignoring his sword, he leapt onto the assassin, getting in close in an attempt to smother the long knife. His one arm encircled his neck, his forehead snapping forwards into the side of the killer’s face, splitting open the ear as he jerked his head to one side. As he struggled to bite into the killer’s neck, he felt a cold, sharp sensation in his guts that quickly grew white hot as the knife blade was driven in, twisted. He thought he would vomit and had to swallow down his gorge. With a mighty effort he wrapped his right leg around the killer’s, then fell backwards with the last of his strength, pulling his opponent down on top of him. His head hit the floor with a dull crack, although he barely felt it. He body began to shake and the pain in his guts burned like Hades’ fire.

The assassin’s face was close to his, now smiling as he continued to twist the blade.

A blackness tinged with red leaked slowly across his world, and his eye-lids felt so tired. Stretching them open one last time, he struggled to focus. He saw that the smile was gone, replaced by a
gladius’s
red tip jutting out between shattered teeth, a single eye stretched wide in shocked pain.

Above them both was Clodian’s bloody, ruined face.

As the ferryman drew near, Prudes managed a final, thankful sigh.

Chapter 31

AFTERMATH

His jaw set tight, Belua felt as if an iron ball sat in his stomach. He watched in livid silence as Neo finished stitching Clodian’s face back together.

The physician stepped back, examining his work. An angry puckered scar ran from the front of Clodian’s scalp, down his forehead, cutting through his left eye-brow and cheek toe nd at the line of his jaw. The whole left side of his face was grotesquely swollen, the left eye a bruised slit.

“You’re fortunate not to have lost the eye,” said Neo, his tone business-like. His face looked drawn, exhausted, following the three hours of repair work that was needed. The wound had been ghastly, with Clodian’s face split apart, the head bones showing through in a number of places.

Neo took a great breath and straightened his shoulders, bones clicking. “The sharpness of the blade ensured that the wound, though deep, was not ragged…a small mercy. You’ll never be pretty, but count yourself lucky to be alive.”

Belua rose from his chair to stand next to the physician. He placed a hand on Clodian’s shoulder as he lay prone on the improvised kitchen table. He felt his anger burn white hot on seeing Clodian’s ripped face.

“Can you speak?” he asked simply, trying to remain calm, objective.

“Y…yeth,” Clodian replied in a slurred voice, caused by the milk of the poppy he’d been given for the pain and the tautness at the side of his mouth where the stitches pulled. He tried to sit up.

Neo placed a cautionary hand on his chest, stopping him, stating, “You’ve lost a lot of blood and must not over-exert yourself.”

Belua recognised the shock and pain on the young noble’s face, but there were questions that needed to asked.

“Did the assassin say anything? Anything at all?” he asked. He looked to Orbiana too. He’d been impressed by the girl’s actions. When she’d emerged from the villa, she’d not been stunned into inactivity as might a weaker soul. There was nothing she could do for Prudes, but finding Clodian still alive she’s asked one of locals – who disturbed by the commotion had quickly arrived on the scene – to fetch help. Luckily he was a magistrate who dispatched his son in all haste to Pompeii to find Neo and himself. Orbiana had then wrapped a section of her night robe tightly around Clodian’s face to staunch the bleeding. It had saved his life. Another of the curious neighbours had been a retired gladiator named Felix, who, knowing Belua, had insisted on standing guard over the couple until help arrived.

Clodian shook his head, even the small movement seeming to cause him pain.

Orbiana added, “As I told you, Prudes and the assassin were dead when I came out.”

“The assassin was good, the best. The best of his kind are very expensive, and there can be no doubt about who hired him.” The words felt sour as he spoke them. “The she-devil has spies everywhere, but I’m puzzled how she managed to discover your exact whereabouts. Prudes…” He paused a moment, as if it pained him to speak his friend’s name. “Prudes missed nothing and he surely would have spotted anyone snooping around or asking questions. And, of course you never ventured from the villa did you?” He asked almost absently.

He watched Clodian’s face contort as he prepared to answer.

“There was a day…when Prudes went to Pompeii…when…we went swimming.” Clodian forced out the last words, before closing his undamaged eye, ashamed.

Belua felt the heat rise into his throat, then his face. “You went swimming?” His right hand balled into a fist. Orbiana had turned her eyes to the floor. “You went fucking swimming when you knew the risks of discovery and the consequences!” He turned away, afraid of what he might do. Neo stepped between him and the prone youth.

“I’m…so sorry,” said Clodian, his voice starting to break. “I never thought-”

“No, you didn’t!” shouted Belua, facing him again. “And now a good man who was my friend is fucking dead!”

“You can’t be sure, Belua,” interjected Neo, trying to calm him. “You know as well as I do that Flavia has eyes in every town along the coast and elsewhere.”

Glowering first at Neo and then Clodian, who’d covered his eyes with his forearm, he stomped out into the dawn.

He prayed that no one would cross his shadow.

Clodian groaned as Neo assisted him onto his bed. Orbiana hurried around to the bed’s other side, helping him to lay back. She clutched his hand tightly.

Neo sighed, knowing that he couldn’t give Clodian anything more to dampen the pain; not without the risk of sending him into a permanent sleep.

“Try to rest,” he advised. Taking Clodian’s other hand, he gave it a reassuring squeeze. “The body heals itself more quickly under the veil of sleep.”

Clodian painfully turned his head to look at him. His good eye was moist in his torn face, the tracks of tears clear on cheeks still smudged with dry blood.

“What will happen now?” He asked, his voice quiet, strained.

“Belua and I agree that it would be advisable to return to Pompeii tomorrow. The Festival of Parentalia is almost upon us, and you’ll soon become master of your own house…and your future.”

“Where will I stay?”

Neo saw that just speaking was causing Clodian pain, and he needed to rest if he was to travel on the morrow.

“Belua will secure you new lodgings, and will watch over you there.”

“And Orbiana too?”

“Of course.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“What do you mean?”

“After what I’ve done I thought he was finished with me,” said Clodian. “I saw his face and how he hates me.”

Neo seated himself on the edge of the bed. He was exhausted, finding it an effort to speak. But, there were some things that needed to be said.

“He’ll not abandon you, Clodian.” He paused, rubbing the corners of his tired eyes with thumb and forefinger. “But, Prudes’ death has dealt him a terrible blow.”

“I know they were close, and I’ve been such a reckless fool.”

“As close as two men can be. They’d shed blood for each other,” said Neo. “And the loss of such a friend leaves a void in the soul that can never be filled; a wound that will never fully heal.”

“Gods! I wished that I’d died in his place!” Clodian closed his good eye, his voice shaking with feeling.

“You do not wish that!” Neo raised his voice. “You must steel yourself to go on. You must live a long full life, for your father’s sake and for Prudes, if nothing else. Do you understand?”

“Yes…I do,” Clodian eventually managed to answer.

“Now, you must rest, as we’ll be on the road at first light,” instructed Neo.

“Neo,” said Clodian, stretching out to grip his hand. “Words are not suffice to express my gratitude for everything you’ve all done for me. Yet, you have my most sincere thanks.”

Despite the weariness that pressed down on him, Neo managed a tired smile.

“Perhaps there’ll come a day when we’ll ask for your help.”

Clodian managed to push himself up onto one elbow, his good eye gleaming with emotion. “You shall have it, I swear!”

“I know, as did Prudes,” said Neo, “and Belua knows it too.”

Chapter 32

PLANS AND DREAMS

Far out in the Tyrannean Sea there was a faint stream of wind that struggled into shore, across the mouth of the Sarnus River, past Pompeii’s harbour, where for a moment it pulled at the sails of the merchant men unloading there. Finally, the wind swept inland, over the jumble of insular to die above the sweltering cauldron of the amphitheatre. It was just strong enough to flutter the arena’s great awning.

Drilgisa looked up at the sound.

Around him in the
cavea
vendors squeezed through the packed crowd, coaxing spectators to buy their wares: fresh olives, small loafs of bread, rich pastries, boiled duck eggs and various roasted fowl. Others sold plump wine-skins that were quickly bought up.

The cloying smell of sweating humanity was partly disguised by the many small fountain heads that sprinkled scented water over the audience. Many of those around him were drunk, and the man and woman sat in front of him openly fondled each other. The woman was groaning as the man’s hand moved busily beneath her
stola
. Few of the nearby spectators paid any attention to a sight repeated across the amphitheatre.

The noise of the crowd pulsing around him, he turned his attention back to the arena. It was the third day of the Parentia Games and the amphitheatre was full.
The mob is there for the blood-letting,
he mused,
yet few have any understanding of the talents involved when the gladiators fight
. The earlier killing of the animals had been tedious, but the lunch-time slaughter of criminals would hopefully be more entertaining. It had particular significance for him, because it was on the sand that Africanus would receive his due punishment.

Six days previously, he’d returned home prematurely with a sour belly after a supper of spiced veal at a local inn. Two hurried visits to a latrine had not eased his discomfort, and he reluctantly made the decision to return home.

On arrival he‘d again emptied both his stomach and bowels before promptly retiring to his bed-chamber, feeling queasy.

The scene that greeted him had set his blood to boil. Africanus was zealously rutting with Edo, the house boy, and in his own bed. Engrossed, neither participant had noticed Drilgisa’s approach. He’d proceeded to strike the unsuspecting Edo a crunching blow to the back of his head with a nearby figurine of the God Bacchus, bespattering Africanus’s face and chest with tacky gore. He’d gained the catamite’s attention.

Initially shocked, Drilgisa’s sentiments had quickly changed to angry resentment, coupled with an overriding desire for retribution. Clemency was never a consideration for Africanus.

After slicing out the catamite’s tongue, he delivered him trussed to the brothel. He told Albus that the catamite had stolen money from him, and that he wanted him arrested and punished for this serious crime. Africanus was unable to plead his innocence. A surprised but fearful Albus complied.

Edo‘s body was easier to deal with. He’d chopped the body apart, later feeding the pieces into a stall of pigs on the outskirts of the city after dark. He’d saved a few choice cuts for himself. A runaway slave was not an uncommon occurrence in the city.