Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (3 page)

Yes, he knew he’d been lucky, but he’d fought and shed his blood too. He took a bite from the apple.

“Eat, it’s good.”

Clodian looked up, forcing a tight smile. He took a bite of his own, and after a moment enquired, “When will this training begin?”

“Soon, immediately after another important event that I must tell you about.” He quickly came to point. “I know how close you were to your mother, and no one will ever replace her in our hearts. But…I have decided to take another wife.” Gaius realized that his voice was unsteady, his words awkward.

Clodian spoke nervously into the silence. “Who will this woman be?”

“She will first and foremost be a wife to me and a mother to you. This home of ours has been without a woman’s presence for far too long. And her name is Flavia. She is the youngest daughter of my old friend in Rome, Durus Inciatus, and so is of good patrician stock.”

“I, I see,” Clodian admonished hesitantly. “When will the marriage ceremony take place?”

“Flavia will arrive from Rome in two days’ time, and the ceremony will take place three days after.”

“So soon?”

“There is no reason for delay,” said Gaius, “it has been arranged.” There was iron in his voice when he spoke. “I expect you to warmly welcome her to our home, as she is young, only three summers older than yourself. “

Clodian’s head dipped once more.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Clodian replied, this time not raising his head.

“Good, and so there’s nothing more to say,” concluded Clodian, somewhat relieved. “I will not keep you from your day any longer. He stepped forward, lifted his son’s head, his palms cupping his chin. He kissed him softly on the forehead. “I love you very much, and that will never change.”

“I know,” the answer was barely a whisper.

Gaius watched his son’s slim back as he walked way, into the bleaching sunlight. He reassured himself that the meeting had not gone badly, and he hoped Clodian would soon get used to the coming changes to their lives. Yet, a seed of worry ate at him like a worm in rotten apple, knowing that Clodian loved the gentler things in life. He’d always cherished learning about herbs and things that grew, and his mother had taught him how certain potions could advance healing and alleviate pain. When he was younger, Clodian had accompanied him to the games at the arena and he’d delighted at the colour and spectacle, and he’d seemed to admire the grace and skill of the champion gladiators, and had always looked forward watching Caetes (
see prequel: War Raven
), the great champion fight. Even in those early days, his son seemed to take as much pleasure watching the crowd and speaking to those sat close by, as he did watching the contests in the arena. And, as the years passed he’d had ever less enthusiasm for the games; regularly making excuses to use the latrine or get a drink when the beast men performed and the criminals were punished, and after, when the gladiators fought to the death.

Later, Clodian could never be found when it was time to depart for the games, and he had not forced the issue, had not coerced him to attend. He remembered that his wife had had no taste for the games too. Perhaps he had been too soft with the boy, too indulgent with him? But, he loved him greatly, as he’d loved his mother, before the wasting disease had so painfully stolen her from him.

Yet, he also knew that his son had a sharp mind. He also had determination and resourcefulness when he turned his attention to subjects that he enjoyed. He’d seen it himself, and his tutors had reported these qualities back to him. The task then was for him to apply his resolve to other matters – matters important for him to succeed as a man and his heir…and to survive.

Chapter 3

FLAVIA INCIATUS

The bed-chamber was partly lit by the moon-light that filtered through the fine cotton drapes that separated it from the large balcony. The villa was sumptuous, built high up on Rome’s Esquiline Hill, but the night was heavy, moist. The bed-chamber smelt strongly of jasmine, and sex.

Flavia kicked hard at the black rump perched on the edge of her wide bed. The slave landed awkwardly on the marble floor. The large Nubian slowly got to his feet. Flavia took in the slave’s sheer size – the wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waste, arms thickly muscled. Her gaze traced its way down to the dark member that still glistened in the gloom, wet from his seed and her juices.

“Go,” she commanded, “I have no need of you…for the present. I may summon you later. And, remember to wash yourself as instructed, or I’ll have that weapon cut away and fed to the dogs,” she added spitefully. She recalled the first time she had used the Nubian; how he’d smelt like an animal during the heat of their coupling. Afterwards, she’d put him under the lash as well as the house slaves’ supervisor. People rarely made the same mistake a second time when she’d been displeased.

She rose and stepped lightly from the bed. Using a nearby bowl she washed her private parts with fresh water tinged with the scent of violets. Her figure was slender, her skin pale. Coated with a fine film of sweat from her exertions, she wiped first her face and neck from a separate bowl with a silk cloth from the east, followed by the rest of her body.

As she cleansed herself her mind turned to her departure on the morrow; when she would sail from Ostia to Pompeii, and her husband to be. When her father informed her of his plans for her to marry, she’d cringed at the thought of the noble Gaius touching her flesh. He was a man over twice her age and older than her father. But, she’d known that her father would brook no argument. After, when she’d learned of the widowed Gaius’s great wealth and authority she viewed her fate in a far more positive light. She’d managed to fuck every remotely desirable servant and slave on her father’s estate without him finding out, and her new husband would be no different. Her mother had suspected, as women do, but she’d dealt with her and the threat she’d posed in relation to exposing her excesses. She’d slowly poisoned the bitch’s wine during the previous long, cloying summer.

Her father had paid Rome’s best physicians to tend the Domina of House Inciatus, but they had failed to diagnose the malady, and the poison continued to do its slow and painful work. Flavia had been given the very best advice from a most trusted source regarding the choice of poison – one that was easy to administer and that had neither scent nor taste. She’d felt no pity as she watched the flesh drop from her bones, as her eyes shrank to hollow pits in her face, her yellowed skin hanging loose like old rags; just a feeling of relief when she finally succumbed. The breathing corpse had simply revolted her.

Killing her own mother had caused her no angst; killing others was as traumatic as squashing a fly.

Thinking about her rich new husband she smiled,
I have very specific plans for you, my dear Gaius…and for your only son.

Ablutions complete, she stepped cat-like across the cool marble floor. Parting the filmy drapes she stepped out onto the balcony. She felt no cooler, the night air clammy, thick, with a myriad smells that seeped up from the sleeping city – the Tiber’s watery aroma tainted with the stench of humanity from the sprawl of tenements that threaded between the seven hills.

But the view was breathtaking.

Flavia’s eyes travelled to where the dark outline of the templed island in the Tiber was joined to the mainland by two bridges, before moving across the city, taking in the spectral outline of the Imperial Forum, its soaring porticoes housing the beautiful Temple of Venus; her personal Goddess. Magnificent in the night sky was the massive edifice that was the Circus Maximus, nearly filling the entire space between the Palatine and Aventine hills. Flavia felt her heart beat faster, recalling her excitement as one of a hundred and fifty thousand crowd that filled the Circus on race days. Flavia had always favoured the ‘
Reds
’ team of Charioteers, her colour – the colour of blood and passion.

Stealing her gaze away, she promised herself that her separation from the city would not be a long one. She consoled herself with the knowledge that Pompeii’s climate was a pleasant one, and although smaller than the mother city it had a reputation for unbridled vice and lavishness. She felt herself becoming aroused again and quickly padded back to her bed, the sweat on her feet making small squeaking noises that made her giggle.

Reclining onto her back, she reached out to stroke the dark thatch between the Egyptian girl’s legs. It was greeted by a soft moan from the shadows.

Flavia spread her thighs wide, beckoning with her little finger to the slave, “Take your time, Akana my sweet, I want our last night in the city to be memorable one.”

Chapter 4

SOLFATARA

Imperial Sulphur Mine – Neapolis

Maccalus squinted rock dust from his eyes as he watched the chain of slaves pass him on route to the rock face. Like grey old men they trudged towards the excavated gallery at the end of the low tunnel. The air was thick, suffocating, and some of the men wore cloths tied around their lower faces. Each man wore only a stained rag around his loins, and was chained by the neck to the man in front. The newly worked gallery was small by comparison to others above; those that had been used up and abandoned. This was one of the deepest, over three hundred feet below the surface.

Maccalus pulled down the damp cloth that covered his own mouth and nose and moved to the edge of a side tunnel that opened into a vertical mine shaft. Just below him a large wooden water-wheel endlessly turned, draining water from the levels situated beneath the water-shed. He spat out a goblet of grimy phlegm and watched it arch into the shaft before disappearing into the sludgy water below.

“What did I do to deserve this fucking hell–hole?” Maccalus asked Canio, his fellow guard who squatted close by.

“You had no guts for the legions and have the brains of an ape, and your ambition amounts to spending your pay on whores and cheap wine,” replied Canio, his voice sounding tired. He’d heard his companion pose the question many times before. “And, that’s why your wife left you for a fat grocer.”

“You’re a funny man,” said Maccalus, his words heavy with sarcasm. He turned his attention back to the column of slaves. A slave near the tail had stumbled to his knees. It was one of the Gauls and a recent arrival. Maccalus thought the man looked more dead than alive, but he had his job to do.

He flexed his fingers on the handle of his punishment rod. Three foot long it was cut from hard wood, but was not heavy enough to break bones. As a result, its use didn’t stop the victim from working; rather the thick switch was supple with its tip split. When used on the slaves, the tip would expand on contact and then rip away flesh when withdrawn. Maccalus used the rod with little restraint, and admired its ability to get a slave to his feet without damaging him so badly that he couldn’t carry on working.

“The work must go on at all costs,” the words had been drummed into him when he’d been first posted to the mines, because Rome must have its sulphur, vital for its bleaching qualities and its use as fertilizer and medicine.” Maccalus cared little for its uses, but he understood what his job demanded. The slaves were to be steadily worked till they died. There were no burials in the mines, and corpses were either thrown out with the slag or dropped into the mine’s lower reaches, where the rats would make short work of the bodies.

Maccalus brought the rod down heavily on the kneeling slave’s back, causing a great wheel to blossom across the bowed spine. The slave emitted a muffled grunt then collapsed onto his face.

“Get up you dog!” Maccalus shouted, striking the prone slave a second and third time, the blows much harder. Bits of ragged flesh dangled in strips from the end of the rod but the slave did not move. Maccalus raised his arm again. “I’ll teach you to obey me, you filth. I’ll fucking strip you to the bone!”

“The Gaul’s dead,” the words were spoken slowly, the Latin heavily accented. Maccalus lowered his hand and turned to face the slave who spoke. It was the Dacian.

Maccallus recognised him immediately. Big, although stooped from his time in the cramped mines, and he stood out from the other wretches. His long hair was black beneath the stone dust, hacked straight above heavy brows. His dark eyes were deep set above a flat broken nose and high cheek bones, and framed by tattooed shapes that looked like beasts. A heavy jaw was framed by a thick tangled beard. He’d lowered his face rag in order to speak.

The Dacian was renowned throughout the mining community as an exception, having survived in the sulphurous hole in the earth for three years when slaves rarely survived longer than one. Maccalus and his fellow guards had often puzzled how the Dacian had maintained his vigour when others had withered and died around him, the mine’s brutal regime breaking even the strongest. An unflinching worker, his brutish strength and vicious temper had dissuaded even the most evil tempered of the mine’s convicted killers and rogues from provoking him. Just prior to the recent
Parilia Festival
a notorious felon from Capua had been found dead one morning. His throat had been crushed. The Dacian was the only suspect, but even when the other miners’ meagre rations were temporarily stopped, no one dared identify the killer, so great was their fear.

“You dare to speak,” Maccalus spat out the words. His rod still raised he gauged the distance to strike the insolent Dacian.

The blow was never delivered. The fire in the Dacian’s eyes and the tightly balled fists at his side told Maccalus that the Dacian would not meekly accept the rod. He hesitated, feeling his bowels churn. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Canio had risen to his feet, hand on his sword hilt. Both of them knew that the Dacian was a killer.

Tense moments passed and then Maccalus pointed with his rod, firstly towards the Dacian and then to the unmoving Gaul, instructing, “Get rid of this filth down the shaft.” Not taking his eyes off the Dacian he bent and unfastened the Gaul’s iron collar. Wary, he took a step back.