Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (12 page)

Belua took a long sip of his wine. He remembered the match well, and Gaius’s assessment was accurate. Ambiorix was the first Gaul he’d fought since contracting the pox as a young gladiator from Ciara, a Gaulish whore. He did not have it in him to beat the whore and so Ambiorix had suffered in her place. He’d been very bitter and foolish
. Fuck it! What harm would it do to admit it now? And Gaius clearly knew his fighters.
He felt his sudden anger flicker out.

“You’re right; I wanted to hurt the Gaul before finishing him. It was a personal matter, involving a woman. It was both risky and unwise. I was young, and my trainer never let me hear the end of it. I never made the mistake of letting my feelings rule my fists again.”

Ambiorix had been blinded and never fought again. What Belua didn’t say was that when he later discovered that the Gaul had a woman and small child in Capua, he’d secretly given her his match purse and more afterwards.

“Wisdom and youth seldom come hand in hand,”
replied the noble, the lines of laughter in his face suddenly thin and hard as knife–cuts. “That I know very well from experience. I thank you for your honesty and I hope you don’t regret telling me, because your secret is safe with me.”

Belua ventured a grin as he rubbed his knee. It ached when he sat still for too long. “We have a saying in the
ludus,
that life is too short to waste it mulling too much on the future or regretting the past.”

“And you believe this?”

“I believe in learning from the past, and it’s said that a wise man never hastens.” He rubbed his heavy jaw pensively. “Regarding the future: if a man fails to be prepared then I believe that he must prepare to stumble…”

“And what of the gods and future?” queried the noble.

Belua took a breath. “I mean no disrespect, but I see the gods as fitful creatures…”

“Go on, speak freely.”

“I have no idea why they choose to intervene or not. When I pass to the other side I hope to be enlightened. Yet, if there is a god or goddess that rules fortune, they must have better things to do than spending their time dispensing favours and evils to mortals. It’s my belief that they give us the scroll, but it’s up to
us
what we scribble on it. I am no philosopher to do tricks with words, but I see fortune as the force each man and woman has inside them, which speaks and acts for them at crucial times in life, and the decisions they make can shape the pattern of their years.” A little embarrassed by the length of his reply, Belua took another swallow from his cup.

“There is wisdom in you
doctore
, and I like the way your mind works in straight lines. I understand why Clodian likes you, too.”

The noble was suddenly overcome by a bout of nausea and gestured urgently to one of the attendants, who quickly held a copper bowl in front of him. His whole body convulsed as he retched up small amounts of thick yellow fluid. Belua rose to his feet to assist in some way, before realizing that there was nothing practical that he could do.

Eventually the violent spasms subsided and the noble collapsed back into the cushions. It was a while before he could speak.

“I feel…that I may have overtaxed myself.” He wiped spittle from his chin with a handkerchief. “I think...I will retire to my bed now. Thank you for coming…and may your
future
be a prosperous one.”

The stink of disease strong in his nostrils, Belua replied, “And yours.”

He could not help wondering if he would speak with Gaius Caesillius Ralla again this side of the great divide.

Chapter 13

THE BUTCHER OF NOLA

It was the first time that Gordeo had visited him at his cell. He’d spotted him earlier in the day, and his bulk now filled door-way. Belua stood between them. One of the guards was positioned behind the pair, holding a torch.

Drilgisa was already on his feet.

“We have news of your next bout,” said Gordeo. “You will be matched against Marhabal the Nubian.”

“The butcher of Nola?” Driligisa already knew the answer.

“Yes, he is also known by that name,” said Gordeo. “He is currently regarded as the best in all Campania and a fearsome champion.” The evening was quite cool but he dabbed his sweating jowls with a flimsy white handkerchief. “Belua thinks that you are ready for such a test. And, it’s being fought here, in Pompeii, to celebrate the birthday of our great Emperor. It will be a great honour for you to fight on such an occasion and in front of your own crowd.”

Gordeo arched his brows, expecting him to respond.

He remained silent. Inside he felt a rising excitement. The Nubian’s record was impressive and well known. This was a real challenge for him; a chance to impress.

“How is his back?” Gordeo asked the head trainer.

“Not pretty, but it’s healed well.”

“Good,” said Gordeo. “Now, on to related matters; matters that I know will spur you on to success.”

Drilgisa was just relieved that he would fight again, and the fact that it was the Nubian was a bonus. The brooding threat of being returned to the mines had laid heavy on him. His loss of control had almost been his undoing, and he was determined not to err again.

“With victory you will receive a payment of a hundred denarii and with it the freedom to live in the city if you choose – funded out of your own pocket, of course. You will continue to take your meals at the
ludus
, to ensure that your diet is a proper one. Between now and the contest your access to a slave for a night, either woman or boy, will be restored. Afterwards, you’ll pay for such pleasures yourself.” He pursed his lips, as if searching for something else. He eventually looked to the trainer.

“Anything to add?”

Drilgisa knew that Belua had recommended the fifty strokes of the lash. But he did not blame the trainer for it. He’d been a fool and broken the first law of the
ludus
; that of total obedience. And, he realized that a return to the mines would’ve been the end of him. During the punishment and immediately afterwards, he’d cursed the trainer to the deepest hells, and envisioned subjecting him to the most painful of tortures. After, when the pain began to subside he was able to reason more clearly. He realized that in his own way he grudgingly respected the trainer; for his strength and unwavering methods. Methods to train men to be the best killers they could be.

Belua stood, and then rounded the table to stand before him, arms folded.

“Has the lash taught you anything?”

“Yes,” he answered truthfully, “to obey without question.”

The trainer’s eyes searched his own from beneath scarred brows. “We have twenty days before the games. The training ahead will make you wish you were back in Solfatara. But, I can assure you will be ready as any man to meet the Nubian.”

With the excitement growing in his guts, Drilgisa knew that he would always be ready to fight…and to kill.

Chapter 14

OLD WOUNDS

The Campania sun was a bright shield in the clear, azure sky.
A beautiful day
, thought Belua. The fresh breeze from the harbour was welcome after a tough day at the
ludus,
and the harbour front inn was fairly quiet at this time of day; quiet enough to talk about more sensitive matters.

It was late morning and the streets were mostly deserted, the sun reflecting off walls painted shades of white and pastel. The smell of brine hung in the air mixed with the cooking odours from bars and hostelries along the sea-front. The Merry Dancer was located at the southerly end of Pompeii’s busy harbour; a retreat for those who preferred a better quality wine and enjoyed a game of dice.

Shading his eyes against the climbing sun, he looked up at the tree covered slopes of Vesuvius. The locals believed that a giant slumbered beneath its slopes. Old men had told him that when they were young the giant had awoken, and the ground had shaken as he flexed his great muscles, and when he’d groaned his breath could be seen as clouds of smoke that trailed to the heavens. Belua knew that old men liked to tell tales; tales that got grander by the telling, and he learnt to believe only what he saw with his own eyes. Yet, the mountain was different to any other he’d seen, and the air at its peak was always warm, often carrying a foul odour.

His eyes caught the movements of two birds gliding on the heated air from the mountain cone. Crows, he decided, scavenging for food.

He turned his attention to the harbour.

Boats of various sizes and shape bobbed and creaked nearby: pot-bellied merchants, a giant grain ship just arrived from Egypt and a glut of smaller fishing boats. From the depths of a nearby trading ship’s belly arose a sound that caused the slaves unloading the vessel to jump back. The supervisors barked new commands, applying whips to get the unloading crew working again. Slowly, as a slave worked the wharf-mounted crane, a wooden cage emerged from the ship. The bars were set close together, but even so Belua could see a massive dark shape moving angrily inside, shifting and snarling. Slowly, gently, the slave swung the cage out over the wharf. A chance breeze, rising up from the bay caught the cage, shifting it from its path, swinging it towards the mast. It hit, not hard enough to cause damage to the mast itself, but, enough to crack one of the cage’s wooden bars. As the edgy slaves gaped, a black paw, lined with huge ivory claws, darted out, ripping at the empty air. It was one of the great bears, bound for the arena.

Gingerly, the crane-man lowered the cage down onto the dock.

A peddler approached Belua, selling hot bread and olives. Belua declined with a brush of his hand. He ordered another jug of wine from the inn-keeper.

Sitting opposite him, Clodian stated in his usual open fashion, “I understand that you were a champion once.”

“I was,” answered Belua, glad to postpone the matter he needed to discuss with the young noble a little longer.

“What was it like?”

“The road to becoming a champion was grim, believe me,” he confirmed. “But, I was strong, and had a good chin, and some luck. Few
pugiles
survive many years in the arena with all their brains intact, but I was fortunate to have a good trainer.”

“What was his name?”

“His name was Patrobius, and he was the most famous trainer of fighters in all of Rome. He was a remarkable man.”

“He made a great impression on you,” said Clodian, keen to hear more.

“He was a fierce individual and not one of us dared challenge him. He had more strength in one of his arms as most men had in their legs, and did not hesitate to use his strength when necessary. He was ruthless, concerned only with the business of training his charges to their full potential. If he felt a man’s head needed a thump to straighten him out, he was always careful not to break the skull.” He paused to take drink.

“Yet, he was much more than this,” continued Belua, his face softening as he recalled his time with his old trainer. “His bearing was unflinching, matched only by his sincerity. Even under the strict regime of the Imperial school, Patrobius had the ability to make me feel at ease with him. He was only seven years older than me, but he conducted himself with such confidence that he seemed many years my senior. When he spoke, it was with precise and measured words. He wasted nothing, not even a breath. The more we talked I grew to understand the reasons why so many were devoted to him. I
learned more about the real world in those few years with him than in the rest of my life. He seemed to have a genuine interest in making me aware of the ways of the world, for what purpose I was to find out much later. I knew that he had a reason for everything that he did, and that he was equally loyal to those committed to his way.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“And after, when I became champion, there was a new house on the Tiber, and fine wine, rivers of it – I could afford it. And gods, the women! I believe they were lustier than me, especially after a fight. They seemed to lose all control at the sight and feel of blood on my body. Many of them preferred to be taken before I had even cleansed myself of the blood after a match. Several times Patrobius interrupted me in the room where I changed, introducing young matrons who’d bribed him to bring them to me. They would strip themselves naked after he left and cry for me to take them there and then.” He grinned wickedly, adding, “I was of course too well-mannered to refuse any of them, and I was learning fast to make a profit from spreading my seed amongst the city’s pampered rich. The money, my winnings, I eventually spent on more wine and more women, apart from the coin Patrobius kept back for me, knowing that I’d one day need it. And later…. well that’s a story for another day.” He gauged the young noble’s reaction, expecting him to be taken aback by his recollections, but saw only curiosity written on his face.

Surprised at how much he’d talked, he took a deep swallow. Plucking up his courage he asked his young companion, “Are you curious why I’ve asked you here?”

“A little,” said Clodian.

Hesitant, Belua broached a simpler matter first. “We intend to start your instruction with the dagger.”

“What about the sword and the boxing?” asked Clodian.

Belua cleared his throat. “You will continue with the short sword, of course. That aside, Prudes tells me that you are ready to move on to the dagger. The dagger requires a very different, but no less important set of skills. And, regarding your boxing…I’m satisfied with what you have learned.”

“Thank you,” said Clodian, then after a long moment. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

Belua took another swallow before the plunge.

“Your father has tasked me with arranging other parts of…of your education.” He could feel the colour rising to his cheeks.

“I see,” said Clodian, leaning forwards in his seat, his face attentive.

“I’m to ensure that you are no longer a virgin by the time of your ceremony for manhood.”
There
, he thought,
the rabbit’s out of the hole.