Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (6 page)

“He understands that your word is law in regards to his training, and that I will not interfere in any way,” his father confirmed.

“Good,” said the trainer, who now approached him.

Up close he was even more intimidating. Clodian swallowed the lump in his throat. He was determined to meet the trainer’s gaze despite the nervousness he felt. The trainer’s head was set on a short, thick neck that sprouted from broad, meaty shoulders. His massive upper body made him look shorter than he actually was. Dark, serious eyes fixed Clodian from under thick folds of scar tissue. His features looked as if they had been pummelled flat, and reminded Clodian of a battered spade.

“I think that we’ll begin with some strengthening exercises and some boxing lessons,” said the trainer, to no one in particular.

Clodian felt his heart sink.

The trainer’s hands had been clasped behind his back, but he now lifted one hand to pensively stroke his chin. It was huge, the knuckles prominent, gnarled. The trainer saw that he’d fixed his eyes on his fist. He presented both hands for him to have a closer look.

“Yes, they are the hands of a
pugile
. Not very pretty are they?”

Clodian struggled to answer, “They, they are-”

“Have no fear,” the trainer finished for him, “your hands will not suffer a similar fate.” He held out both his hands, palms turned upwards and instructed, “Grip them, as hard as you can”.

He hesitated a moment before complying. The trainer’s skin felt like old leather.

“You have a firm grip,” said the trainer. “That will help.”

Clodian let his hands drop to his sides. He looked to his father and asked, “When do we start?”

Before his father could reply, the trainer confirmed, “Tomorrow at dawn. I’ll meet you in the
atrium
. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be,” responded Clodian firmly, indignant despite his nervousness.

The trainer raised an eyebrow in response to his tone.

“Is there anything else you will need Belua?” his father asked.

The trainer turned away from him.

“I would like the young master to benefit from the best instruction that’s available in these parts,” began the trainer. “And, I have in mind a man who is very skilled in training men to use the short sword. I think his instruction would benefit your son. . . for a reasonable fee.”

“Employ him, the fee is of no concern,” said his father.

“I have yet to discuss such an offer with him.” The trainer cleared his throat before continuing and Clodian perceived a slight hesitancy in the trainer’s voice for the first time. “He is no longer employed at the
ludus
. Not since losing the use of an arm in a training accident.”

“Can a one armed man be the best that our city can offer?” his father asked.

“I‘ve known few better. He’s as good with one arm as any man I know of in Pompeii with two…”

“Very well, I’ll respect your judgement in this matter. Please endeavour to employ him.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“If that’s all, I think a libation to the gods would be in order,” suggested his father. “Would you share a cup of
Falerian
with us Belua…to seal our agreement.”

“Of course,” the trainer replied, his face seeming to light up in response to the offer.

His father waved his hand to one of the house slaves who quickly reappeared with three cups and two clay jugs – one filled with wine and the other water.

His father poured the trainer a liberal serving. He turned to Clodian.

“With water please,” he held out his cup, his stomach turning over as he recalled the recent wedding celebrations, still fresh in his mind.

He raised his cup with his father and his new trainer.

“To
Mars Ultor,
my son Clodian and citizenship,” his father toasted.

Clodian repeated the toast aloud with the man all Campania knew as
Belua the Fist,
and his sixteenth birthday seemed a very long time ahead.

“Take a rest,” he instructed.

Belua had doubted that his new charge would make it through the morning, and it had surprised him. The training had begun with some stretching exercises and then Clodian had been instructed to complete twenty circuits of the nearby
Palaestra
– Pompeii’s largest exercise field – under his watchful eye. Afterwards, they’d returned to a grassy area in the north corner of the villa’s expansive gardens. It was here that he gave Clodian his first lesson in the skills of the
pugile
.

Belua watched him suck in a great lungful of air, hands braced on his knees as he bent over. Sweat was quickly forming a puddle at his feet. He straightened up, and then walked on shaky legs to a nearby
amphora
of water.

“Take your time,” he advised. “Small mouthfuls, and don’t drink too much or you’ll bring it straight back up.” He risked a wry smile, seeing how the youth’s arms shook as he lifted the clay jar to drink. He was pleased to see that he followed his advice about the water.

“Right, back to it,” he instructed, noting that the youth had slightly recovered and was a bit steadier on his feet.

The youth approached to stand two paces from him.

“Take guard,” he instructed, raising his own hands in the traditional position he was so used to: the leading left arm extended towards the opponent, slightly bent, the right hand held back, cocked, ready to deliver a heavy blow.

Belua’s lead hand darted forward into the youth’s face, knocking him back, onto his rump. A bright red mark quickly blossomed on his right cheek. The blow would have drawn blood, but for the training gloves’ leather padding.

The youth quickly jumped to his feet, his grey eyes flashing anger. “I wasn’t ready!” he spat the recrimination at Belua.

“An important lesson then,” said Belua. “Never let your guard down at any time in a fight.” He was pleased to see that the youth now had his hands in a proper guard position despite his anger. He jabbed his left hand forwards again, this time striking the youth’s right hand as he swayed back from the blow. He struck again, two punches in quick succession, the second striking the youth’s mouth and splitting his lip.

“Good, a little noble blood at last!” Belua deliberately goaded.

Incited, the youth launched an attack, his arms flailing wildly, his bloody spittle flecking Belua’s chest. His anger drove him forwards, any thought of defence now cast aside. Belua easily deflected the blows. Stepping aside, he hooked a short punch into the youth’s chest, just below his sternum. The effect was immediate – the youth collapsing in a heap to the ground. The colour drained from his face and his breath came in great wheezing gulps.

Belua stood over him, wondering if he had any fight left.

Brief moments passed and the youth suddenly scuttled backwards on all fours before painfully rising to his feet. He raised his hands in guard…then edged forwards.

“Enough!” Belua barked, “for now.” He gestured for the youth to unwrap his gloves and to take another drink. After removing his own gloves he joined the youth, drinking from the same amphora before speaking.

“Not a bad start, young master,” he studied the youth’s face. There was no longer any trace of anger in the clear, grey eyes.

“A painful start…for me that is,” he replied, smiling.

Belua cleared his throat, disarmed by the young noble’s words, his humour and easy manner.

“You must learn to tuck your chin in,” Belua continued. “And, to lose one’s temper is to give your opponent an advantage. Angry men do not think clearly. Remember this young master.”

“I will,” he replied. “And, I’d prefer that you call me Clodian.”

“Very well, that’s all for today…Clodian. We’ll begin the same time tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow,
doctore
,”said the youth, still smiling.

“I think Belua would suffice.” The words were out before he realized, and left him a little puzzled, having only just met the young noble. “I intend to make some visits after our training tomorrow. You may come if you wish…you may find it interesting.”

“Yes,” he replied, his face split wide in a grin. “I would like to Belua, very much.” With a quick wave of his hand, he walked off in the direction of the home’s bathing rooms.

Belua pursed his lips as he watched him disappear
. Maybe I’m getting soft,
he mused.
But, he’s an unusual one for sure, not like some of the rich spoilt bastards I’ve met. And, his father was right – there’s steel in him.

Picking up the training gloves and his discarded cloak, he pushed back his shoulders to take in his surroundings.

He’d heard it described as the ‘most remarkable garden in Pompeii’, and a quick inspection convinced him that its admirers were probably right. He realized that the garden area occupied nearly two thirds of the whole
insula
, and was divided by a small canal which was fed by a large fountain at its far end. As the canal approached the perimeter wall it passed beneath an arch before joining a long pond which ran along the terrace at the back of the house. On either side of the canal were trellised avenues draped with clusters of bright flowers. Smaller fountains and statues of various
heroes and gods were spotted throughout. Belua whistled through his teeth
. Old Gaius said his dead wife had loved gardening. Gods, this lot must have cost him a few denarii.

Tomorrow’s visit to an old friend came unbidden to the front of his mind, and he stood thinking about it for a while.

The late morning sun burned hot on the back of his neck and he realized he was thirsty. Making his way through the garden, he passed through the villa’s southerly entrance onto the Via Castricio. The long rows of sycamores that fringed the
palaestra
opened up in front of him in the shadow of the amphitheatre.

Picturing a suitable inn near the city’s Nocera Gate, he set off with real purpose.

Chapter 7

NEW PLEASURES

Gaius felt a strange apprehension mixed with arousal as he studied his new wife. Flavia stood naked before him, slowly removing the ivory pins from her hair. She watched him drink in her body and smiled knowingly. He felt himself grow hard beneath the linen drape that covered his loins.

The bed-chamber was well lit by oil lamps as he studied her: the sleek lines of her limbs, firm upturned breasts and the dark bush between her legs. His love making with his first wife had always taken place in darkness, and this was new for him.

Flavia softly shook her head, curled locks tumbling to her shoulders. She approached the bed, and then sat. Her fingers slowly raked though the grey hairs on his chest.

“I see that you’re well prepared for our love making,” she teased, indicating the mound beneath the linen drape. Licking her thumb she traced the head of his cock through the cloth. He felt his back arch off the bed in response to her touch.

“Do you mock me?” he asked, a little angry at her ability to arouse him so easily.

“Never, my husband,” she bent forwards and kissed him on the lips, her tongue briefly teasing his own. He could taste the honey on her breath, smell the jasmine on her skin as she bent close. “I mean only to please you in everything that I do. Is that such a bad thing?” She wore a small, hurt look, and for a moment he thought she looked very young.

“No, it is not,” he answered, reaching up to coax her head to his own, her lips to his. The kiss was long, her tongue eager.

She pulled away, smiling again, leaving him breathless. Without pause, her hand slipped smoothly beneath the drape, her expert fingers wrapping around his cock. She lightly stroked him, before squeezing hard to stop him releasing his seed. Satisfied, she lowered her head, tracing a slow line down his chest with her tongue.

It felt as if his head would split and he lay back, closing his eyes. His mind traced back to their previous nights of love making; to the delights she’d introduced into the bed-chamber.
Jupiter, I never thought a woman could pleasure me in such a way
! So much so, that he’d found himself distracted during the day by eager thoughts of the coming nights with his new wife.

He felt Flavia pull the cover aside, her tongue probing the hairs of his groin. He squeezed his eye-lids tighter, determined to prolong the ecstasy.

A moment followed when he could longer feel her.

Then, his cock was enveloped by a moist, coaxing mouth. He could hold back no longer. Such was the release that he stretched open his eyes.

Flavia now lay at his side, smiling, and tilted up between his legs were the black eyes of the slave Akana.

Hands on hips Belua surveyed the training gladiators. Ludus Gordeo’s
palaestra
was the largest in Pompeii, and today every part of the training field was busy. Clodian was at his side. It had been the youth’s first real view of the
ludus
, and he stood transfixed by what he saw.

The large grassy courtyard was surrounded on three sides by a continuous two story building. Belua had informed Clodian that this area included the infirmary, the refectory and his quarters. A series of stone pillars decorated with the roughly hewn images of men and gods and other graffiti held up the wooden gallery. It was capped with red tiles and topped with sharp iron spikes to prevent any escape over the roof. At regular intervals on the ground floor, black, windowless doorways stared out from the gallery onto the training field – the gladiators’ cells. The fourth side of the square had a high stone wall which faced out onto the street and was only broken by a stout iron gate. The courtyard itself contained a number of hacked wooden posts set at regular intervals in the ground – the standard practice posts for swordsmen. At the farther end were two punishment stocks, now empty, and a thicker post
with a short cross-bar. This post was not hacked like the others, but was draped with a set of heavy iron manacles and marked with dark stains. It was the
ludus
whipping post.

Belua quickly realized Clodian had a very discerning eye, as was evidenced by the questions he asked. He enquired about the composition and ranking of the troupe, and Belua admitted that he found the youth’s enthusiasm contagious. He’d explained that the barracks currently housed forty gladiators, with an additional ten gladiators, mostly free men, living in the city itself. He’d expanded that these men fought mainly for silver, the thrill of combat, for the adulation and the women that went with it. Clodian had looked contemplative when he’d explained this, but remained silent. He
informed the youth that the men were divided into three classes – the
tiros
, who were beginners and had not fought on the sands;
spectati
, who had one or more fights under their belt; and
veterani
, the men who had successfully won a number of matches but had not amassed enough silver to buy their freedom, or who having bought it, decided to remain in the
ludus
to fight on, or perhaps to become instructors themselves. He pointed out that the
spectati
and
veterani
trained only until mid-day, whereas the
tiros
, while avoiding the hottest part of the day, trained for a further three hours in the afternoon.