Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (13 page)

Clodian sat back in his chair, his expression unusually serious

“Your father has given me enough silver to purchase a slave of quality
.
I plan to buy a suitable young woman that you can meet somewhere private. She’ll be a virgin, naturally. There are some fine whores in the city for the right price, but there must be no chance of you catching the pox.”

Clodian said nothing.

“Well?” Belua prompted.

“I will adhere to my father’s wishes,” said Clodian, “reluctantly.”

“Jupiter’s cock!” exclaimed Belua, splattering the table and Clodian with wine tainted spittle. “It’s a pleasurable thing that’s planned, not someone boiling your fucking balls!”

“I’m not ungrateful, Belua,” responded Clodian. “It’s just that I’d hoped to choose my first woman.”

“Life’s like licking honey of a thorn, and there’s nothing we can do to change that,” said Belua. “Your hopes aside, it’s your father’s command that I follow.”

“You mistake me if you think I‘d defy my father at a time when…when he’s so ill.”

His eyes full of emotion, Clodian dropped his gaze to the floor.

Belua had not seen Gaius again since he’d been summoned, but he’d heard the whispers – that the noble increasingly looked more dead than alive, and that he’d soon be greeting the
ferryman.
And, he knew how much Clodian cared for his father. He also knew that Clodian had stirred something inside him; something that he thought could never be rekindled after the death of his wife and son on that lonely beach so many years past. He was proud of the youth and really liked him. In his quiet moments, when there was no need for pretence, he knew that if his son had lived, he’d have wanted him to be the kind of man that Clodian was growing into. The gods had gifted Clodian with an unclouded brightness that was infectious – a special quality that always made Belua feel better about himself when in his company.

Steeling himself, he did something that he’d no longer thought he was capable of. Reaching out, he covered Clodian’s slim hand with his own great clam.

Clodian looked up, taken aback.

Belua met his gaze. He saw the pain there.

“I’ll do my best for you, lad. And, it’s not as if you’ll be marrying the girl.”

“I know,” said Clodian. After a long moment he asked, “What’s it like to be married?”

Belua saw the uncertainty on the youth’s face, as if he immediately regretted the question.

“I’m sorry Belua, I had no right to ask,” said Clodian. “It’s just that I thought you might wish to talk about…your….”

“Carry on, before I take root!”

“Neo said that you might feel better if you talked about some things; like your own marriage, and I would value your views on such an important undertaking.”

“Neo is sometimes too wise for his own good,” replied Belua. It was not the first time that Clodian’s unbridled honesty had unhinged him, and for the first time in a long while he felt some of the inner bitterness seep away.
By the furies, this lad has a strange effect on me,
he admonished
.

“Yes, I was married, once,” he began.

“Belua, I didn’t mean to–”

Belua lifted a hand, a gesture prohibiting interruption.
.

He cleared his throat
.

“As a young fisherman I was visiting a small market town. Happy to have sold my catch at a fair price I was sauntering around the town square, where I spotted a young woman drawing water from a well. As I approached the slight figure looked up. It was if I’d been struck by Vulcan’s hammer! She stood and looked at me out of the warmest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. Her braided hair was as black as night and hung forward over her shoulders in ropes as thick as your wrist.” He coughed and took a long swallow of his wine. “You can guess the next bit, no doubt?”

“Please, continue.”

“Well, I strolled up beside her and gave her one of my best smiles, bearing in mind that I had few scars then. I ventured that the bucket she carried was too heavy for such a small creature, and of course I offered to carry it. She smiled back, and I was smitten. After, I visited her as often as I could, and our feelings for one another grew steadily with each meeting. Following a short courtship I asked her father for her hand.”

He paused to fill his wine cup, and took a long swallow.

“What was her name?” asked a captivated Clodian.

“Mislava.”

“A beautiful name.”

“As beautiful as she was.”

“Go on, please, you asked her father for her hand…”coaxed Clodian.

“He was a local potter and a miserly squint of a man. Mislava had wholeheartedly expressed her desire to be my wife too, but, he cared more for his own purse than his daughter’s happiness. At first he forestalled me, claiming that other suitors had plied him with more profitable dowries. Eventually my patience ran out, and one night I waylaid him on his way home from his shop. I plied him with a different offer, one that he could not refuse.” Bellua grinned wolfishly as he recounted this part. “Needless to say he agreed, and we were wed before the summer was out.”

“Do you think you loved her from that first day?” Clodian enquired.

“From that first smile…and every day since.”

“And where did you both then live?”

Belua sighed deeply, some of the old ache returning. “That’s a tale for another day – another year.” He was surprised that he’d revealed so much. “I’ll make a libation to
Salus
for your father, Clodian.”He fashioned one of his private smiles; large dog teeth prominent in his crooked maw. “And, I promise that what your father has tasked me to arrange will not be as bad as you think.”

He watched Clodian gulp down his wine in one swallow, as though not tasting it. He sat for a long time with his empty cup in his hand, staring over Belua’s shoulder, at the mural of a smiling dancing girl that gave the inn its name.

Clodian’s departure had left him in a quandary. There were progress reports that needed to be completed for Gordeo – a task he hated. And, there was a need that remained unsatiated, one that Belua easily recognised. Perhaps Neo was right:that it was good to talk about old wounds, but every time he did his mind skipped to the tragic death of his wife and son. He was always left with a bitter, over-riding melancholy.

He’d already emptied the jug he’d shared with Clodian, plus another. Yet, his thirst urged him to continue, to fill the old emptiness inside. Perhaps the wine would cloud the burning memory of his loved ones...

He shouted for more wine, but the eatery was getting busier as patrons ordered food, and there was no sign of the staff. He pushed himself away from the table and made his way to the wine counter, passing a circle of seated men who avidly watched the fall of polished cubes of bone. There was no laughter, no banter, for money was at stake. He edged through the audience that watched the gamebefore slapping a coin down on the counter. He shouted, swearing, to get the owner’s attention.

His cup was replaced by a large clay mug filled to the brim. He took a large gulp, spilling some down his front. A man bumped his arm and he cursed him. Feeling increasingly tetchy he took his mug and stood behind the table of dice-men.

His attention on the game he raised his mug to his lips. A sour taste coated his tongue and he mused that perhaps the owner was replacing the good stuff with a cheaper vintage, now that the customers were less sober, less discerning. He took another swallow, longer this time, and the bitterness didn’t seem so bad. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, concentrating on the dice.

The men were playing ‘Triple Venus’, a favourite game with the legions and citizens alike. He watched the small leather cup pass quickly from hand to hand. There were three dice and each player was allowed one throw. If the player threw a ‘dog’, three one spots, or a ‘raven, ’ three two spots, then he had to pay a
sesterce
for each of the spots. For any other combination he paid nothing. If three sixes were thrown – the Triple Venus – then he took everything. Belua knew that it was an expensive game, but it was fast, exciting and one that people liked to watch. It was common for blades to be drawn during these games, which he’d seen when a legionary had gambled away his pay and looked for compensation in blood, and when a sore loser had contended the fair weighting of the dice.

He drank more of his wine, watching the players’ faces. Each cast of the dice had a zenith, a breaking point of emotion for the one who threw. Then he saw it quickly die in their eyes as they failed. He finished the wine in one long pull, and then gazed regretfully at the empty mug. He needed more.

He pushed and elbowed his way to the counter. He banged his mug down, not hearing his own voice, but conscious of the good feeling the wine was giving him. He was served, gulping down half of the wine straight away. Felling even better he returned to the same table of gamblers. One place was vacant, and not thinking or caring, he sat down. He wanted to forget the maudlin thoughts that followed him. He stared at the other players and there were no objections. He emptied his bag of coin in front of him. It contained five
denarii
and a handful of
sesterces
. Enough to play.

Hours passed swiftly, unfelt, as the dice rattled again and again across the table. When he threw a ‘dog’ or a ‘raven’ he tossed in his money, watching the mound of coins steadily grow in the centre of the table. His back began to ache and he wanted a piss, but he pushed these irritations aside as he waited for the sweat stained leather cup to pass into his hand. He no longer worried about his lost loved ones, for every thought he had was twisted into the desire to have the money. As long as the coins were there, still growing, there was no pain, no regret.

The game continued, an hour passed, and slowly he became more irritable, more frustrated with the dice. When it was his turn he cast the dice angrily. The Triple Venus never came.

Then it was over. One of the men leaned forward, began raking in the pile of coins. He had black, curling hair and protruding eyes that seemed too big for his head.

Belua stared at him, wanting to know why he was trying to steal the money –
someone should stop him
! He was about to grab him; then he looked
down at the dice squatted snugly on the table – each one showing a six. Stunned, he looked down at his own stock of coins. There were only two
sesterces
left. He stood up, swaying unsteadily. After kicking back his chair he staggered away, the wine now stirring, bitter in his guts. His head ached badly and his bladder was about to burst. He hurried to the latrine located a short way off. He rubbed his eyes, tried to fight the ache that pounded in his temples.

He entered the latrine and the stench rose about him. He was sweating badly. He sat; unable to draw any air into his lungs, and his eyes seemed covered with a hazy film. He relieved himself with a great sigh. He leaned back, blinking his eyes, and they began to clear.

Staring ahead he saw Mislava’s face take form. Then he felt the pain come.

He fell forwards onto his knees, and then crawled towards her, humiliated, knowing that she watched his every move. And she was there, an emotional spectre in the darkness – a focal point for his every feeling. Her voice, subdued, pounded into his ears, but he understood none of it. She began to move towards him, raising her voice and pointing her finger, chastising him. His coins were hot, sweaty in his hand and he tossed them to her. There was a soft thudding as they hit her body, then fell to the floor. He saw her bend to search for them in the dark, small noises issuing from her throat. He could smell her.

“I’m sorry I could not save you and the child,” he cried out, the tears hot on his cheeks.

She smiled; a beacon in the dark, and then she began to move away. He knew that she understood, and an exhausted, heavy gratefulness settled upon him. She was gone and he knew that it was over. He tried to move but his legs felt numb. His body went limp, and there was no memory, nothing – only a darkness that engulfed him…

With consciousness came terrible ballooning pain. He was sure that his head would split asunder and there was a griping mass in his stomach. Sweat ran off him in streams as he pushed himself up onto his knees.

He began to retch.

Chapter 15

FISTS OF IRON

Drilgisa stretched his shoulder muscles for the last time, ready for what lie ahead.

The day’s combats had been unimpressive and the crowd was getting restive. The editor had tried sending out retainers to shower them with presents from catapults, but several of the crowd began to brawl and the whole thing ended in an ugly squabble and a burst of jeering. Belua had informed him that the mob was in a spiteful mood and that it was unlikely that any of the defeated would be given quarter. It would be a fight to the death, but it did not disturb him in any way. It was just the waiting that unsettled him, although he knew this feeling would pass when the fight commenced. He’d prepared well.

Earlier he’d eaten a bowl of porridge and drank plenty of water as was prudent on the day of a bout. The previous night he’d attended the
cena libera
, the customary gladiator banquet, also eating and drinking sparingly. He’d learned this early on from the other scarred veterans who lived to brag about their victories. The food had been sumptuous and the wine had flowed like a winter stream. He’d watched as many of the inexperienced gladiators foolishly gorged themselves, overjoyed to be in the company of the usual throng of giggling fans, whores and nobles that enjoyed the thrill of sharing a final supper with them; knowing that many would die the next day.

A flourish of trumpets sounded and he moved into the short tunnel that led to the arena. He paused to hawk then spit at a group of people who regularly gathered there. Their one desire was to trail the
noxii
, the condemned prisoners into the arena, taking pleasure from striking and abusing them, as well as taunting them regarding what horrors awaited them in the arena.