Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (31 page)

“It’s a grim tale,” said Clodian, “and how cruel the gods can be.”

“The gods are a sham,” said Kaeso cynically.

“You have no faith in them?”

“I know the sun shines on the good and the bad, on the Roman and the barbarian, the believer and the non-believer.”

“Will you not say a prayer to any of the gods for Belua’s success in the coming match?”

Picking up his lasso, Kaeso began unwinding it, ready to recommence his practice.

“They are both exceptional fighters. But, the outcome of the match will depend on a number of other things. The victor on the day will be the man who has the strongest spirit; the overwhelming desire to rip the life from his opponent. And luck may also play a part.” He saw Clodian raise his eye-brows at this. “Yes, luck. An unfortunate slip can open up a fighter’s guard, or a lucky punch can strike a vital spot and bring victory that much closer. As for the gods? Fuck them! They’ve never aided me, nor will they help Belua.”

Seeing the steely sincerity in Kaeso’s eyes, Clodian knew that any further discussion would be pointless. He would still make the sacrifice to Fortuna. And, even if Kaeso was right, there was nothing to be lost from coaxing a favour from a goddess who might be watching.

Malleolus shielded his face under the onslaught. Belua drove an uppercut onto his chin that jolted his head up and dumped him onto his seat.

Arms propping himself up, eyes glazed, Malleolus shook his head. Despite the leather padding on the
cestus,
the blow had effectively ended the bout.

Belua smiled, thinking,
not bad for an old man
. He offered his hand to help his old friend to his feet.

“That rattled my brains for sure,” said Malleolus, pulling himself up.

“What brain?” jested Belua, slapping him on the back. “I’m done, what about you?”

“I’m done twice over,” said Malleolus, staggering a little as he took a few tentative steps.

“Good, let’s have a drink.”

Both men headed for the shade of the
ludus
portico. It was near sunset and only a few lazy wisps of cloud trailed overhead, fanned by a westerly breeze.

Belua poured Malleolus a full cup of wine from a hefty amphora, before drinking from the vessel itself. He came up for breath, belched, and then sank his head back into it.

A number of the troupe had gathered to watch the two of them train, and they now began to wander off, exchanging whispered comments and occasionally
looking back.
They’re no doubt deciding how to bet tomorrow,
thought Belua
. The bastards have come for a last look before parting with their money. I’d do the same.

“So, what do you think?” he asked, sitting down on the shaded stone floor next to Malleolus.

“About your chances tomorrow?”

“No, about my fucking chances of becoming Caesar’s wife. What else?”

“Well, you still have the power,” he replied, gingerly rubbing his chin. “I can testify to that. But, you’ve lost some of your speed, and your wind is not what it was.”

“Anything else?” Belua asked glibly.

“Against the Dacian I would coach a good defence and punish him when you counter, when he makes a mistake. But alas, that’s never been your style.”

“Nope.”

“Then you’ll need to finish him quick. It’s your only chance. He has no weak points that I’m aware of, so you must risk everything to end the fight early.”

Belua scratched his head, thoughtful.

“It’s what I’d planned to do.”

“The match is almost upon us. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Nothing, apart from fighting him for me.”

Both men grinned.

“I have a few final tasks to complete before the bout; the usual,” said Belua. “Neo has prepared a potion that he says will put some spring in my step in the fight. If it was anyone but the Greek I’d tell them to shove it up their arse, but I guess it can do no ill.”

“Will it put some lead in your tool as well? If it does, spare me a drop.”

They laughed; a dark humour familiar to men who’d faced the prospect of death many times.

Belua got slowly to his feet. He ached all over. He’d bathe and it would help.

He clasped his old friend’s forearm and heaved him to his feet.

“My thanks for your help. It will make all the difference on the morrow.”

“Fight well old friend,” said Malleolus. “I’ll be there, but I know that you’ll only have eyes for the hunch-back. Get a good night’s rest.” He delivered a mock punch to Belua’s jaw, before heading off in the direction of the
ludus
’ gate and the street.

Watching his back grow smaller, Belua called after him, “And who will
you
bet on?”

Malleolus turned slowly, grinning widely. “The Dacian of course.”

Grinning in turn, Belua waved his friend a farewell.

The noblewoman’s summons had been curt, brooking no argument. Drilgisa knew it would be unwise to keep this Flavia waiting.

His walk from his lodgings had been a short one, the villa being situated outside the city but near to its perimeter wall. It stood out from those alongside it. He knew little of the skills of building in stone but he recognised the splendour of the residence. He’d passed through a high gate that provided access to a large hanging garden which seemed to encircle the whole villa. There was a circular stone pool in a carved niche in the wall, and the flower gardens themselves were dotted with statues of frolicking animals, satyrs and god-like creatures.

Two armed guards stood vigil as he approached the entrance to the
atrium
.

He gave his name and was escorted inside by one of the men. His attentive eye noted that the
atrium
was organised so that any guest would become aware of the host’s social standing immediately on entering.
All
the rooms seemed to open onto this area, and the roof was built sloping inwards to gather rainwater in a tub in the centre of the marble floor. The colonnaded walls were richly decorated with many pictures: of country scenes, animals, shoals of fish and floating gods.

He was impressed.

He did not have to wait long before the mistress of the house arrived.

She was slim and young; younger than he’d imagined. Her eyes were like swords and did not leave him for a second. She was attended by a swarthy skinned female. This woman looked slightly older and carried a small cushioned seat on which her mistress gracefully placed herself.

He stepped forward, aware of the guard’s presence behind him. He could now see the swell of the noblewoman’s breasts, her nipples prominent beneath her filmy dress.
Rich slut,
he mused. Drilgisa knew a little about the woman, the information that Gordeo had given him – that she would pay him well if he was victorious in the match, that she was ruthless and not to be crossed.

“You obviously know who I am,” her eyes locked on his, her gaze unwavering.

He’d seen the hardness, the resolve before, although it had been in the eyes of men – ruthless men of authority who were used to giving orders and having them followed. He knew there was no bend in the woman before him.

“I do,” he replied simply.

“And, you no doubt know that when you beat the
doctore
your reward will be a handsome one.”

“Yes, I’ve been told, and you have my thanks
domina
.”

“Ah! Gratitude and manners,” she laughed quietly, but it had no feeling. “It surprises me to find such qualities in one who looks as you do.”

She baits me
, admonished Drilgisa,
and yet shows no fear. She must know that I could snap her neck like a twig before the guard could even draw his sword. She’s a bitch, but she has some steel.

“Gordeo tells me that the outcome is certain, and seeing you I’m in no doubt of that. What do you think Akana?” She turned to the female servant.

The servant’s full lips parted, revealing small white teeth. “Yes, he is impressive.”

“My thought exactly,” said the noblewoman. “Not pretty, but impressive. Drill…Drilgisa. Gods! Even your barbarian name sounds like a disease.” She snidely laughed and her servant with her.

“In my generosity, and with the result being assured, I intend to also reward you with your freedom. I have consulted Gordeo and terms have been agreed for your
manumission
to be arranged on victory.”

Stunned, Drilgisa’s mouth hung open. He was unable to form words to respond.

“I can see by your expression that you approve, and you can thank me formerly after the match.” For a long moment her eyes assumed an earthy, predatory aspect. “And, it’s a shame that your tastes run to fucking young boys.”

Still shocked, he could hardly take in the woman’s last words.

“My undying thanks
, domina
,” the words tumbled out. “I will not fail you.” He felt as though his heart would break out through his chest.

“I know you won’t. But, as a spur to your efforts on the morrow, let me assure you that if by some terrible mischance you do fail me – I will have your tongue and eyes torn from your head with hot pincers and the skin slowly flayed from your body.” Her tongue wet her lips as she spoke. “Just so we understand each other.”

“Clearly
, domina
,” responded Drilgisa, knowing this woman would not hesitate to carry out her threat.

“Good, then it’s time for you to go,” said the noblewoman with a casual flick of her hand that pronounced the audience was at an end.

After re-entering the city via the Northern Gate, Drilgisa headed towards his lodgings by way of the Via del Nola. He walked slowly, his mind far away.

He’d rehearsed his strategy to beat the
doctore
many times in his head. He knew
Belua would try to break him quickly, and that his early attacks would be fierce, merciless. Belua was a formidable fighter, but his best years were past, and his lack of real fights would be his undoing. Drilgisa understood that he would have to draw out the fight, taking Belua’s best blows before countering with his own. Then the end would inevitably come; only slowly and very painfully for the ex-champion. That would be the time he’d enjoy best.

He had no doubts about victory and he’d already planned his departure from the city after he’d been granted his
manumission
: the official document that ratified his freedom. He would sail for Ostia, and via the busy port would visit the city of Rome. He’d heard tales that it was a wondrous place built on seven hills and watered by a great river called the Tiber. After sampling the city’s particular delights he’d not tarry for long. He’d move on to the city that enticed him like no other – to Antioch, city of splendour and decadence. He felt his manhood begin to stiffen as he ruminated on the sexual fruits and forbidden pleasures on offer in the city of his dreams.

And after? Perhaps ancient Babylon or Alexandria? The order did not really matter. He just knew that he’d see it all.

Chapter 37

CLASH OF EAGLES

The sun was beginning to set and a ring of torches were being lit around the fighting circle. Clodian, along with Neo and Malleolus stood apart from the rest of the gathered audience.

Clodian looked around him. Some of the crowd he recognised. Flavia of course, accompanied by two hefty guards, but no Akana; which was strange. There were a handful of nobles, some already drunk and quite boisterous, and a selection of other individuals, some he vaguely recognised but couldn’t put names to. He noticed that Gordeo was also oddly absent, a fact that added to the nervousness he felt. An arena referee stood at the edge of the circle, arms folded, waiting for the combatants to arrive.

The wait was a short one.

Drilgisa was the first to arrive. He dropped his cloak to the floor and stepped into the circle. His feet were bare, his groin covered with a loin-cloth fastened by a heavy leather belt. He immediately went into a routine of stretching exercises, his oiled body gleaming dimly in the fading sun-light. A series of impressed “Ahhs!” resonated from the audience as he warmed up. He was a physically impressive figure, admonished Clodian, not classically good to look at, but brutally strong. His body was unmarked apart from the ridged lines of past lashings across his back, as few of his bouts had lasted very long. The muscles of his thick arms and chest were well-defined and he looked slightly shorter than Belua, although it was difficult to really tell due to his hunched posture.

“Here he comes,” announced Malleolus.

Clodian’s mouth tasted like ashes, and the sickly edginess in his belly increased as he watched Belua push through the ring of spectators and into the circle. He’d already stripped to his loin-cloth, his eyes focused solely on his opponent. A babble of excited comments accompanied his entry. He began winding his arms in big circles, all the while glaring at the Dacian. The desire to tear and break emanated in waves from him.

His friend and mentor appeared massively strong – his huge arms and shoulders covered with knotted smudges of old scar tissue. He was notably thicker at the waist than Drilgisa, seeming more like a bear than a man.

“He’s shaved his head?” stated Clodian, turning towards Malleolus.

“Yes,” the
ex-pugile
replied. “If the fight gets close and dirty it’s to prevent the hunch-back getting a grip on his head. It would give him leverage to punch with the other hand or butt with his head.”

“And the look on his face – I have never seen him like this before.”

“I have,” admitted Malleolus. “Thankfully, I‘ve not been on the other end of it. Did he drink your potion?” he asked Neo, who looked very pale and had not said a word since their arrival.

“He did, reluctantly.”

“I pray it will help,” said Clodian.

“It will initially,” said Neo, his face grave. “Yet, it’s my fear that Belua will burn up his energy too quickly.” Neo had explained to Clodian that he’d planned to give Belua a tincture of the rare
yellow river
plant shortly before the contest. It would help with his alertness and with his wind; for a short time at least.