Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (8 page)

“You really like him, don’t you?”

“It’s what I’m paid to do.”

“After all these years you think I don’t know you at all.”

“None of your Greek logic please.”

“I think the young noble brings out the best in most people. “

“Even a sour bastard like you?” said Belua, uncomfortable that Neo saw through him so easily.

“Even me,” said Neo. “He has a keen eye and an enquiring mind. I can imagine he is much more comfortable with a stylus in his hand than a sword.”

Before Belua could respond, Neo pointed to a figure dodging through the crowd towards them. It was Clodian. Looking flushed and a little breathless, he handed Belua the small amphora he’d been holding tightly against his chest.

“It’s the dark Falerian, the strongest the inn-keeper had,” said Clodian, looking pleased with himself.

“Good,” said Belua, before suggesting, “perhaps I should have just a small sip to confirm its strength?”

It was halfway to his lips before Neo prised the amphora from his grasp, stating firmly, “No need for that. What I’ll add to it will finish what the wine cannot. I suggest you get on with it. We’ll wait here until you summon us.”

Belua pushed back his shoulders and headed into the inn. Worried about what he‘d find, he was sure a swallow of the potent wine would have helped.

The inn was busy. All the wooden tables were occupied by a selection of early drinkers. There was a smattering of artisans, and a group of gladiators joking loudly. Sat in one corner was a brace of Nubian sailors, their skin the colour of ebony. A whore draped herself around the more sober of the two, one hand coaxing her breast to his mouth. Belua took it all in without breaking his stride to the stairwell. The steps creaked under his weight and he headed to the third floor without pause.

Stepping over a sleeping guest he stopped at the entrance to Prudes’ room. A filthy drape covered the doorway. The smell of stale body fluids from the interior was overpowering.

Swallowing his gorge he went in.

Feeling the muscular legs tense beneath him, Clodian bore his weight down on the knees as instructed. Belua gripped Prudes’ shoulders. He watched, fascinated, as Neo reached for a curved blade; honed to a razor edge. The blade was eased beneath Prudes’ damaged arm just above the elbow. A thin leather strap was fastened tightly around the bicep. Neo said that it would restrict the flow of blood and prevent Prudes from bleeding to death when the first cut was made.

Prudes’ eyes were half closed and Clodian thought that he was lapsing into sleep. The wine with the tincture Neo added to it had quickly done its work. Prudes wore a ragged tunic, its colour hard to discern beneath the overlapping stains. His jet black hair hung in greasy strands across his face and a vomit stained beard framed his gaunt face. Clodian guessed he’d seen about thirty summers.

The strong smell of urine and old sweat stuck to the back of his throat. He bit his lip.

“Hold him,” Neo instructed.

In one swift movement Neo cut through the flesh of the arm. Prudes’ eyes flashed open. “Bastards!” he screamed.

Clodian pushed down as hard as he could as the body bucked off the table beneath him. Belua was leaning his considerable bulk across Prudes’ head and shoulders.

Neo quickly relieved himself of the curved blade and picked up a fine edged saw. Without pause he sawed deftly through the arm bones, the sinews of his wiry arms standing out from the skin as he worked.

A final push with the saw and the limp squid of an arm fell to the floor. Neo reached for the nearby heated iron. He pressed it against the severed stump
. Like roast pig,
the thought flashed into Clodian’s mind, and he held his breath.

Prudes thankfully passed out.

He’d accompanied Belua and Neo back to the
ludus.
The two older men now stood to one side, deep in conversation.

Clodian had been surprised how quickly Prudes regained consciousness after his ordeal. Neo had dressed the seared stump and given him medicine to help with the pain. Belua left a pouch filled with coin, together with blunt instructions to clean himself up, find new accommodation and to see him at his quarters in five days.

Prudes had thanked the two of them. Neo had said nothing and Belua had responded with something very lewd. Clodian saw through the silence and gruffness realizing the men were very close. It was the type of camaraderie that he envied and hoped that he’d one day find. He knew that his father loved him, but he‘d never seemed like a friend. His mother had filled that gap, but there was no one after she died. They’d been very close and had talked about many different things. He’d shared all his secret fears about the world, and growing up he’d always believed that she had answered him honestly, from her heart. They’d shared common interests – a love of nature, growing things and the miracle of the human body. His mother regularly helped the servants and their families when laid low with common maladies. He remembered visiting their homes with her, and how afterwards he’d promised to say nothing to his father. “He’ll not understand, Clodian,” she’d remark, “and, he’s enough on his mind without us bothering him with such trifling matters. Let’s keep it as our little secret.”

He’d never broken his word and clearly recalled how he felt after helping in a small way those individuals without the means to aid themselves. It was a good feeling. He’d said as much to his mother and she’d smiled and laid her hand on his cheek. When he thought back there were very few subjects that they hadn’t discussed. The
gods
had been one of his favourite topics and they had talked for long hours in the shade of the garden’s fruit trees about this subject that intrigued him so.

His questions had been many, as if his mother was the wisest of people. He’d asked why Rome tolerated the numerous gods of the people they conquered to be worshipped freely? He drew attention to the fine temples of Egyptian gods Isis and Serapis that adorned the streets in Pompeii, as well as the numerous cults that paid homage to exotic gods from the far reaches of the Empire; like the Phrygian god Sabazius and the dour god of the Judeans. She’d said it was a matter of pragmatism. Rome’s rulers were concerned above all things about maintaining the
Pax Roman
a – the Roman Peace. When there was peace in the provinces, then the collection of taxes continued unhindered. To finance its standing armies cost Rome money and the flow of revenue from its conquered peoples provided this. Revenue in its many forms fed the Roman public, a third of which was unemployed. It fed the redundant mob’s lust for entertainment too – the bloody spectacle that was
The Games
. Each year they became more elaborate in their bloodletting and ever more expensive. Freedom of worship was thus a gratuity granted by Rome in order to keep its subjects happy, said his mother; as long as nothing was preached that undermined the flow of silver and ultimately the stability of the Roman state.

Clodian sighed, realizing how much he missed a mother who’d been such a dear, trusted friend. Perhaps Belua would change his mind when he came to know him better? And, perhaps the serious Neo too?

After the operation, Clodian had introduced himself to the still groggy patient, and had also received words of thanks.

It was very quiet as he looked around the
ludus
, and then he realized that the troupe would be occupied with their evening meal. The
palaestra
was empty, the head – high training posts casting tired shadows across the sparse grass. The sun was sinking behind the great mountain, and he thought how peaceful the ludus now seemed, a marked contrast to the noisy exertion he’d witnessed by day.

Opposite where he stood, behind the colonnaded portico that bordered the training field, were the shadowed cells of the trainee gladiators
–
small stone boxes that were their home until they became victors and could afford to live outside of the school, or until they died on the arena sand. The knowledge saddened him.

His reverie was broken by Belua and Neo joining him.

“Your assistance today was appreciated,” stated the physician.

Belua stood with his arms folded across his chest, his face unreadable.

“I was glad to help, and I was very impressed by your skills.”

“Thank you,” said Neo. Clodian thought that he looked weary following his
exertions, deep lines etched at the corner of his eyes.

“I have a favour to ask.” Clodian directed his words to the physician.

“Then ask.”

“Could I spend some time with you…I mean when you are treating the men?”

“Neo is a very busy man, and –” Belua began.

Neo interrupted by raising a hand.

The physician studied his face for long moments. Clodian’s mouth felt very dry and he thought that he might have caused offence in some way.

“Come to the infirmary at the
first hour
in two days’ time,” Neo replied, finally. “And, don’t be late.”

Clodian’s mouth split into a wide smile.

Chapter 9

THE SERPENT

Beads of sweat stood out on his father’s fore-head, and Clodian dabbed the moisture away with a damp cloth.

He was shocked by the change in his father’s appearance as he lay in the wide bed. The weight had dropped from his bones and his skin had adopted a sickly yellow pallor. Thankfully, the vomiting had stopped but the sour stench of loose bowels filled the room. And, he could not remember a time when his father had been so ill that he’d had to take to his bed, and it worried him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Better today,” replied his father. “Yet I feel so weak.”

“Shall I have some soup brought up, to help build your strength?”

“I don’t think that I’d be able to keep it down.” He breathed in deeply through his nose. “Tomorrow, perhaps?” He turned to look out through the shuttered doors of the bed chamber, thrown open to cool the room and help with the smell. He seemed preoccupied with the view, the forested upper reaches of Vesuvius visible above the clutter of the city’s roof-tops.

“The mountain always reminds me of my puny insignificance in this life,” said his father, his voice sounding tired. “The gods surely moulded its vastness to censure the pride of men. “

“I’m sure the Greeks would agree, father.”

“Very true,” said his father, smiling weakly.

“Do you think it might be prudent to consult a physician regarding this ailment?” Clodian proposed. “The physician at Ludus Gordeo is held in high esteem, and I can ask him to visit if you wish?”

Before his father could respond, the new domina’s voice echoed from behind him. “I really don’t think that will be necessary, Clodian.” He’d not heard her enter the room.

Flavia glided past him to sit at his father’s side. She kissed his father on the forehead before turning to him.

“I know that you are concerned about your father, as we all are.” She stroked his father’s hand gently as she spoke, and he saw that each of the long, slender fingers was adorned with a gemmed ring of gold. The shift of pale green that she wore complimented her cat’s eyes and did little to disguise the womanly curves beneath. “But, I can assure you that it is only a passing malady. Akana is well versed in the healing arts of her country and ours, and she has assured me that he will get better soon. The dear girl has made sure that your father has had only the freshest honey that he so enjoys. And, remember that your father is a
strong
man.” She emphasised the word
strong
as she smiled at his father. The smile had a lascivious aspect and Clodian recognised that it hinted at private matters between them. The knowing was new for him and made him feel uncomfortable.

“Yet, she is not a physician,” he replied, seeing her smile quickly disappear, come and gone as quickly as the summer rain.

“Don’t worry so Clodian, as Flavia says, I’m in good hands,” said his father, his voice sounding a little stronger. Then to his wife. “Tell Akana that the honey is much appreciated. I have loved the fruit of the bee since a boy.”

“Of course my dearest, I will tell her. Akana will be pleased that she is of service to her new master in some small way. I can assure you both that her services have been invaluable to me.”

“Tell me, how goes your training with Belua,” his father asked him, keen to direct the attention away from himself.

“It’s going well…I think. Belua is a man of few words and even fewer words of approval.”

“There is nothing surplus with the
doctore
, I know. Yet, his standards are the best.”

“They are,” Clodian confirmed, almost without thinking.

“Now, I would rest,” said his father. “All this talk is tiring work.” He managed another weak smile.

Flavia bent and kissed his father. She was smiling again when she kissed him too. But the smile was not warm. Instead, it seemed full of delight; a revelling in a victory won.

She felt Akana’s nipple grow hard between her fingertips. Her other hand explored the moistness between her own legs. She drew her head back a little, breathless. The kiss had been deep, long. She squeezed the nipple hard, and Akana let out a small animal noise. Flavia reluctantly stepped away.

“As the master remains unwell I will be sleeping on my own tonight. In the bed-chamber nearest nearest the garden. It's quiet there and we'll not be disturbed.” She licked the moistness from her finger and Akana smiled in return.

It was just the two of them in the
warm room
of the house’s private baths. Both of their naked bodies were coated in sweat. Flavia knew that it was a place they could act and speak freely.

“My good husband looks like death and smells like a latrine,” she pulled a disgusted face as she spoke. “How long will I have to stomach him?”

“As requested, domina the poisoning needs to be subtle, with no one suspecting. The dominus is a sturdy man and the fruit of the yellow oleander flower will take some time to weaken him. The more honey he eats the sooner he will join his dead wife. And, there will be days when he’ll seem to recover, feel a little better. But this will pass, and he
will
die.”