Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (18 page)

Drilgisa gazed up at the brooding spectre of the city wall, knowing that the northern
necropolis
slumbered in its outer shadow. His face was obscured by his cape’s voluminous cowl. A rough burlap sack was slung over one shoulder.

He turned his attention to his captive. Piso hung naked from a length of rope that Drilgisa had secured to his ankles, and that was looped around a stone block at the top of the wall’s parapet. His hands had been tied behind his back and a ball of rag forced into his mouth. His head was suspended an arm’s length off the floor. Drilgisa had carried him over his shoulder the distance from the brothel, a feat requiring no small effort.

Piso’s eyes flickered open.

Drilgisa removed his burnoose. “We meet again, and so soon,” he said, enjoying every word.

Recognition dawned on the strong-arm’s swollen face. He made a choking noise and struggled to breathe.

Drilgisa reached into his small sack and removed a slim stiletto blade. On seeing the knife, Piso emptied his bladder, piss streaming down his chest and over his face to form a pool of steaming wetness at Drilgisa’s feet.

“Not a good start Roman,” he sneered. “And much worse is to come.”

Piso struggled vainly against his bonds, the rope jumping around like something alive.

Drilgisa grabbed him by the hair and slammed him back against the wall. His head made heavy contact with the ancient stone and his struggling ceased.

“You must be still to let me do my work, Roman,” he taunted.

He grabbed Piso’s member and cut deftly with the slim blade. He felt hot blood cover his knuckles then spurt against his thighs.

Piso’s eyes bulged with shock, and he began jerking his head from side to side. Then he wept.

Drilgisa was now smiling, aware that his own cock had grown hard.

He cut again, this time higher, deeper. He felt Piso convulse as his entrails flopped out of the wide mouth opened in his abdomen, forming a steaming greasy pile on the floor. His whole body shuddered as the searing pain registered in his brain.

Drilgisa stood back and watched. Eventually, Piso’s body arched then heaved a final time. Drilgisa wiped his bespattered hands and blade clean in the Roman’s stripped tunic. Satisfied that his hands were sufficiently dry, he scaled the city wall.

Once on top, he hauled up the corpse with long, underhand pulls on the stout rope. Straightening up, he coldly looked down at the ruined figure at his feet.

Eventually, he turned to peer over the wall’s parapet. He could faintly make out the ghostly, up-thrusting mausoleums and tomb-stones that rose out of the darkness below. Removing the rope, he gripped the body by the throat and inner thigh, then planting his feet wide hoisted it above his head. With a mighty grunt, he hurled the body down into the
necropolis.

For long moments he stared into the dark spot where the body had disappeared, a pitiless smile on his face
.

Dropping lightly the last few feet to the street, he took off his tunic, using it to remove any remaining blood stains on his legs and arms. Delving into his sack he lifted out a clean tunic. He donned the fresh garment feeling this skin prickle against the wool’s wiry touch. He placed all the soiled clothing and the rope into the sack, and once sealed, cast the bundle high over the wall into the night.

Slipping his burnoose quickly over his head, he made off in the direction of the city’s murmuring night-life.

Chapter 21

FUNERA

He felt as if there was a cold hole in his chest near his heart. His head felt light and despite the servants’ torches lighting the way, he had to take great care where he stepped on route to the family sepulchre. The night seemed particularly black, as black as the robes he and the fellow bearers wore. He hardly noticed the weight of the ivory death couch on which his father lay, borne by the chosen few who assisted him: Belua, Neo and Prudes – his friends.

Ahead of him walked his stepmother, a figure dressed all in white, with her head bare and hair dishevelled. Beyond her, at the front of the funeral procession walked servants wearing waxen masks in the image of his father and dressed in the official robes of his office. At the head of the funeral were the musicians playing mournful strains and the hired women singing the funeral dirge. Behind marched a lengthy procession of Pompeii’s most important officials, a testament to the esteem in which his father was held. Bringing up the very rear of the column were the two gladiators who’d fight to the death in honour of his father’s journey to the next life. Clodian had not wanted another death to follow that of his dear father, but Flavia had pointed out that it had been his father’s written wish and that it was a family tradition.

The family sepulchre was located in the large necropolis situated outside the north-east quarter of the city, near the Nola Gate.

The stone road grew wider as they left the city behind. Tombs lined the road; pale sentinels stretching away into darkness, some ringed by iron railings and low walls and many planted round with Cyprus trees. Most were speckled with moss, but white as gypsum underneath.

The further they progressed the richer the tombs became; more heavily garlanded in marble, more ornately decorated with bronze and the paving blocks smoother and better mortared. The spaces between the tombs were littered with broken clay pots and stray wreaths, the floor covered with a mat of dried leaves and withered flowers. The leaves and branches shingled together like brown carcasses with the bones poking through. The intertwined scent and essence of decayed vegetation made his mouth taste of rotting milkweed.

He had only rarely visited the tomb since his mother’s death, finding it a distressing experience, one that upset him for days. He’d never thought that he’d be returning so soon, carrying a dear father to join his beloved wife. The choking feeling came again and he fought hard to stem the tears that had so readily flowed during the last eight days of mourning. He’d tried to forget those dreadful last moments before his father left him, the final moment when he’d tried to catch his father’s last breath in his mouth. Then afterwards, when he’d broken down when placing the coin between his father’s lips for the journey across the Styx. The pain he’d felt had been bearable only because Orbiana had been there to hold him, to listen to his recriminations, to his regrets that he’d never told his father how much he had really loved him; something that was no longer possible. She‘d wiped away his tears and reassured him that his father had
always
known how much his son had loved him, and that saying things everyday did not make them stronger or any more real.

Neo had said very little, but the physician’s company had given him great comfort and the strength to go on. So had the bolstering camaraderie of Belua and Prudes. He knew that they cared for him and in their own awkward way felt his loss. They’d tried to get him drunk and endeavoured to distract him in other carnal ways, too. He was lucky to have such friends.

To his front Flavia lifted her hand high above her head – the signal that they approached the family sepulchre and the funeral pyre. Clodian thought that she looked like ghost when she turned around; her clothes white and her face painted the same, and her hair wild. He’d seen very little of her since his father’s last day. She’d said all the right things to console him, but she hardly knew him. He hardly knew her, too, and there was an earthy quality about her that he’d never cared for. And, she’d been married to his father for such a short time. During a recent meeting she’d informed him about her position as guardian until he came of age. He’d simply nodded that he understood, still numb after his father’s death, knowing the short time before his manhood ceremony would quickly pass. He’d see to it that she’d be comfortably provided for, and it wouldn’t surprise him if she returned to Rome and her family. He could not blame her, she had few friends in Pompeii and no real purpose to stay.

The wooden funeral pyre came into view, a short distance from the family sepulchre. It was shaped in the form of an altar, its flat top covered in dark laurel leaves. Clodian felt his knees wobble as he pictured what had to happen next. Together with his fellow bearers he removed his father’s shrouded body from the death couch to place it gently on top of the pyre. The body was stiff and he could smell the decay despite the scented oils applied to the body. Stepping back, he felt the emotion build in his chest.

Then Belua was handing him a torch. He stood for long moments staring at the pyre as themourners gathered around. A black robed priest moved among them sprinkling pure water from an olive branch for the purpose of purification in the presence of the dead. Clodian’s hand shook as he tried to lift the torch and he fought back the rising tears. The womens’chants grew louder, more eerie. He felt as if his legs were rooted to the ground, that he was unable to move.

He felt Belua’s hand at his elbow, his low tones encouraging him, “Go on lad, you know what you have to do. Do it now, quickly.”

He took a jerky step forward and dropped the torch at his father’s feet. The oil treated wood instantly burst to life, racing up the length of his father’s body. He felt the heat singe his eyebrows, burning the insides of his nose and he instinctively took a step back. Belua had stepped close to him and Neo appeared at his other shoulder with Prudes. He believed he would have fled if they had not been there, giving him strength.

He owed it to his father to remain strong.

The mourners were chanting the customary farewell to the deceased, “Vale…vale…vale…” He joined them, their doleful voices drifting to the heavens with the smoke and flames. The dark priest cast perfume onto the pier to disguise the smell of burning flesh. It sizzled and spat on contact with the climbing flames. The fierce heat forced the mourners to back away.

The pile burnt down much quicker than he imagined. The embers were soaked with wine and his father’s ashes and bones were gathered by the priest and the women. They sprinkled the remains with more perfume before placing them in an urn made of marble.

They presented it to him.

In the flickering torch light he could make out the inscription: his father’s name and titles and the length of years that he’d lived. Lifting his head, he marked out the route to the family sepulchre, determined that his legs would not give way. The urn felt oddly cold in his hands, as cold as the empty space in his heart.

Taking a deep breath he took his final walk with his father.

The gladiators’ skin gave off an oily sheen in the torch light. Both were armed with the Spanish short sword, a small round shield and a leather sleeve protecting the sword-arm. Their heads were bare and both were good to look upon.

Flavia smiled, remembering how she‘d deliberated on her choice of combatants when visiting the
ludus
. The sweating Gordeo had been patient, but had charged her an exorbitant price. He’d pointed out that to fight two gladiators from the same
ludus
‘to the death’ had an unsettling effect on the other men; men who trained, ate, cleansed, and talked together every day. The two chosen could even be friends. She’d dismissed such considerations as trivial, the price of no consequence. There was silver enough in the family coffers to purchase such men a hundred times over if she wished.

Her inspection of the gladiators and been a frank one and had included every part of their anatomy. She was pleased with her choice.

The two men were to fight in a circle of light formed by the torches of the mourners. Flavia had an unobstructed view. They combatants were very different in both stature and colour. The Spaniard was stocky, with thick arms and broad shoulders, his hair as black as a raven’s wing, whereas the Gaul was taller, lean muscled, his hair the colour of burnished copper.

Clodian, the Greek and his
ludus
friends stood on the opposite side of the circle. Clodian’s eyes were dipped to the ground. She knew that he didn’t approve, the weak fool
.
She remembered when in Gaius’s company she’d once alluded to Clodian’s interest in the more passive arts at the detriment of the more traditional ones. Her husband had been quick to reprimand her, stating that Clodian’s interests and training were none of her affair. She‘d seldom seen her husband’s sharp side, and it was a mistake that she determined not to repeat…not when he was alive.

At the right time, young Clodian would be dealt with, permanently. Akana had already been dispatched to Rome, to obtain the services of an old acquaintance; one who never failed in his task.

She watched the pair assume the ready position. Her belly fluttered as though filled with tiny birds, her excitement building as the match was about to commence. She bit her lip, keen to disguise her excitement in anticipation of the guaranteed blood-letting.

She gave the command to
fight.

The Spaniard immediately dashed forwards, hoping to catch his opponent by surprise. He feigned a blow with his shield to the Gaul’s head, at the same time aiming a straight thrust to the stomach – the gutting blow. The Gaul quickly turned his body, avoiding the attack, then struck as the Spaniard swept passed – a swift slicing cut.

A gaping red mouth opened up across the top of the Spaniard’s shoulder. Flavia bit her lip harder as the blood flowed, accompanied by a sharp hissing curse in Spanish. The wounded gladiator pivoted quickly, now more cautious. Blood ran down his back, dripping thick droplets onto the sandy ground. He began circling his opponent looking for an opening, his blade pointed forwards above his shield.

The Gaul tracked his movements with the point of his own sword, barely moving.

The Spaniard lunged forwards, his blade aiming for the Gaul’s throat. Their blades grated together then separated. Without pause the Spaniard attacked again, this time crouching low, aiming a chopping stroke against the Gaul’s leg. Too slow to block the cut, the Gaul cried out as the blade cut deeply into his calf before lodging in the bone. In that flashing moment of pain he struck the Spaniard a savage blow to the neck.