Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (30 page)

“As you rightly pointed out,” Neo reaffirmed, “you’re not in the ground yet.”

Chapter 35

MASTER OF HOUSE CAESILIUS

Belua had rarely seen the three city magistrates, but he recognised each of them. Their pompous expressions and over-elaborate finery easily identified them as they stood at the side of the family altar.

The oldest of the three was the diminutive Marcus Tullius Parvus; reputed to be the richest patrician outside of the city of Rome. Next to him was the retired general Titus Cornelius Gallus, a wiry sombre man – one to be respected and feared. In his hands he held the pure white
toga virilis
that would soon be donned by Clodian; the emblem of him becoming a man and a citizen of Rome. At Gallus’s side was the hugely fat Oppius Bruttius Pius, the least influential of the three nobles but still a man of considerable wealth; both in gold and land throughout Campania. Belua sneered inwardly as he studied the great mountain of flesh, with it being known that the degenerate pig regularly took young boys as young as eight to his bed.

Neo shuffled his feet at his side, the only other person in attendance, apart from the three armed guards strategically placed around the magistrates. Clodian had wanted the ceremony held in the family home and to be kept as simple as possible. Flavia, not surprisingly, was absent.

Clodian knelt in front of the three, next to the marble altar decorated with the image of Mars Ultor. He was adorned in the
toga praetexta
, its broad border of purple symbolising adolescence. It was the last time he’d wear it.

From where Belua stood he could see the unscarred side of the youth’s face.
Gods, how much older he looks and so different.
Both he and Neo had noted a drastic change in him when they’d met earlier that day. He’d lost that spark, that life-force that was so noticeable to all those who knew him. Like dull pebbles his eyes had lost their vitality. His desperate grief had been replaced by a flat acceptance of what had occurred. Neo had been right – his bitter loss seemed to have filched away that which had made him so special.

Belua swallowed awkwardly, recalling his final words with Clodian before the ceremony commenced. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed to form words that amounted to an apology for blaming Prudes’ death solely on his indiscretion at the beach.

Clodian accepted his apology, stating that he’d still been a terrible fool. He’d asked Belua in his uncluttered way if it meant they were friends once more? Choked, he could only respond with a nod of his head. Clodian had smiled, a gesture that never reached his eyes.

“Clodian Caesilius Ralla,” Gallus’s voice rang out. “Son and heir to our recently deceased and much loved Gaius Caesilus Ralla, I present you with your
Toga Viralis.”

Gallus extended the garment draped over his forearms.

“On receipt of this man-cloth you now legally become Master of House Caesilius and a citizen of Rome. Our deepest congratulations and may you live a long and rewarding life.”

Belua watched Clodian slowly reach to the back of his neck. Unfastening the
bulla
, the gold chain he’d worn since infancy, he placed it gently on the stone altar. Rising to his feet he stepped forward to accept his man-cloth. He bowed to each of the magistrates in turn, and then turned to face his small audience. His expression betrayed no indication of how he felt at this moment, and he simply bowed once more to Neo and himself.

“Hail Clodian! Master of House Caesilius! Hail our great Emperor – Tiberius Julius Caesar!” Gallus’s voice resonated once again. All present repeated the acclamation.

The three magistrates in turn approached Clodian, clasping his forearm and sharing quiet words of good fortune. Then they departed, escorted by their guards.

Belua sighed deeply, glad it was over
. Mithras, so much has happened since I first met the lad.
He turned to Neo.

“Well, thankfully that’s gone smoothly.”

“You surely didn’t expect any trouble during the ceremony?” queried Neo.

He shrugged. “Not really, and I suppose not even Flavia would risk upsetting those three bastards. But then, you never know for sure with such a woman.”

“That’s why you have the knife concealed under your cloak.”

“You never cease to surprise me, Neo,” said Belua, convinced that he’d adequately concealed the blade so that even the most practiced eye would not suspect its presence in the small of his back.

“Thank you.”

Clodian’s approach captured their attention. He’d briefly retired to change and now wore his new toga.

“You wear it well,” said Belua, gripping his shoulder with pride.

“I agree,” said Neo, also clasping his arm. “Your father would be very proud of you.”

“Thank you for your generous words,” said Clodian, “and my gratitude for standing as my witnesses.”

“We are honoured to be here,” said Neo, risking one of his infrequent smiles.

“Why do you fight the Dacian?” Clodian asked, looking directly at him and taking him by surprise. Belua looked accusingly at Neo, feeling his temper rise to the surface.

Clodian held up his hand.“I have learnt to invest in eyes and ears of my own of late. Neo has said nothing, I can assure you. And, I would appreciate a forthright answer.”

Belua studied the young noble’s face. The long red scar gave his visage a peculiar aspect that attracted the eye. It was strangely thoughtful, sad. He knew there was no room to lie to such a face.

“Very well,” he began. “In brief, Flavia has promised to cease her treacherous plotting against you if I fight the Dacian.”

“But, what if?–” Clodian began.

He cut him short. “This way the possible outcomes will all be the same: to keep you safe from the beaks of the hawks. You’ll also have to pay a painful amount of silver to the witch for her to disappear for good. It could be worse.”

“Worse than your death?” posed Clodian, and then addressing Neo. “And,
you
agreed with this…deal?” His voice now had an angry edge. “And not tell me!”

“I advised against it, but he would not listen.”

“I will not let you risk your life for me, Belua. As you have said many times, I am now a man of wealth and influence. Surely I can now protect myself against this woman. I can employ guards, many guards, to watch over me.”

Belua placed his hands on Clodian’s shoulders. He thought carefully before he spoke, hoping to phrase words that the young noble could understand and respect. “You are right of course. You could hire a legion of guards. But, just imagine a life whereby you will always fear the poisoned cup, a knife in the shadows and the assassin in your employ who’s unable to resist the lure of gold. A life forever wary of others and looking over your shoulder. It would not be a life but the mere shadow of one.” He coughed awkwardly before adding, “Unless, you allow me to dispose of Flavia for good.”

“I…I wish I could,” said Clodian. “I just cannot, despite all that she has done. I would become that which I despise most.” He raised his hands to his eyes, as though very tired.

“Then, there is no other way,” said Belua

“There must be, somehow!” said Clodian, grasping his arm.

“I’m afraid not. I’ve given my word regarding the match, and I cannot withdraw it, not without staining my honour.” He bent his head forwards, peering deeply into the youth’s troubled eyes. “And my honour is dearer to me than anything. You understand that, don’t you?”

After long moments, Clodian reluctantly nodded his head, admonishing Belua’s words, his wishes. He then asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yes. We can stop all this jabbering and let me get back to my training,” he replied with a lop-sided grin.

The
ludus’
gate materialized ahead of him as he crossed into the Via del Teatri.

It was unusually hot and the gate’s iron spikes seemed to shimmer in the sun’s glare. It was usually too hot to train during the middle part of the day, but Belua had no time to waste before the coming match and Malleolus would be waiting for him. It would be another brutal session. Clodian had said that he would sacrifice a bull to the gods, to bring him success, but Belua had little time for the gods, having always relied on the strength of his own right arm. And he was glad that Clodian had agreed to retain the services of Kaeso for the present, to watch his back. He knew of no better man for the task.

Although never regarding himself as a religious, superstitious man, he’d said nothing to anyone about the dream he’d had two nights earlier.

It had been late when sleep had finally claimed him, and even then his slumber had been restless, and then the dream came.

Eagles were flying in a clear, bright blue sky. One of them, the strongest, flew high above the rest. Abruptly it swooped down to drink from the cupped hands of a man whose face he could not recognise. The man had a proud bearing, the look of a champion and wore a crown of dull iron on his brow. He allowed the great bird to drink its fill. Sated, the eagle emitted a shrieking cry and then tore at the man’s face with its cruel talons before climbing high in the air to join the others. Suddenly, its mighty wings began to flutter, as if broken. With a desperate cry it fell heavily to earth, to lie dead at the man’s feet.

He’d awoken in a cold, damp sweat, the dream troubling him as he pondered its meaning. Resolute, he’d thrust it to the back of his mind, determined to leave the dreams to the dreamers…

Chapter 36

EVE OF BATTLE

The garden was awash with the fragrance of roses and the sharp tang of freshly cut grass. He’d spent the morning organising the flower beds and assisting the family’s gardener. There was no need, but Clodian found it enjoyable, distracting.

He’d told old Grumio to take a break for food. Grumio was into his sixtieth summer – a good age – but he currently found the work too much for him and his painful joints. He’d served the family well and Clodian did not have the heart to retire him. When he had more time he’d hire someone younger to assist him, although he knew that Grumio would respectfully object, unable as he was to accept the ravages of time.

Clodian straightened up, his back clicking. Time for him to take a break, too. He was trying to keep as busy as possible; a new strategy to take his mind off the recent past and the coming match. Orbiana’s death still occupied his thoughts for much of the day. His anguish would build from an ache in his chest and head to a bitter throb that was accompanied by a panicky feeling of disbelief. It gave him little peace, leaving him exhausted and looking forward to the boon of sleep. Yet, the gardening did help, and so did the company of Kaeso. The tall ex-gladiator was never far away, and he stood close by practising his dexterity with a length of rope that he’d fashioned into a lasso. He never seemed to tire of casting it onto a statue of Cupid from various angles and distances. His accuracy was uncanny.

Like Belua, his new guardian had a quiet confidence about him. He was not one to frivolously bandy his words, but was always willing to discuss any matter
of interest that Clodian chose to raise. He was always armed, wearing a
spatha
– the army’s long cavalry sword – on his left hip, and a sheathed
pugio
on his right.

Clodian seated himself in the shade, pouring himself a cup of Falerian. He accosted Kaeso, offering him some wine. As Kaeso approached he declined with a wave of his hand. He’d stated previously that he never drank wine when he was working. In that respect he was very different to Belua.

Kaeso bent and scooped a clay cup into a nearby pale of water. Supping slowly his eyes never stopped scanning the surrounding garden over the rim of the cup.

Your eyes are ever alert
,
searching
, thought Clodian,
like all predators.

“Have you finished for the day young master?” Kaeso asked him.

“I think so,” he replied, painfully arching his back, “and please call me Clodian.”

“As you wish.”

“Can I ask if you have a wife, Kaeso?”

“You can, and I haven’t.”

“It’s just that you and Belua are so alike, and he has no wife or children too.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Kaeso. He placed his lasso and cup on the ground and stretched up high, like a child waking from sleep. The joints of his arms and shoulders clicked and popped.

“I almost got married, once,” he continued. “A pretty girl from my home town. Too pretty some would say. I’d known her since we were children and her brother was a good friend and a fisherman like me. Her parents were dead and I agreed a dowry appropriate to her station with him. The date of the wedding was set but it didn’t happen.” He sucked his top teeth, as though reluctant to elaborate.

Clodian turned his attention to his own cup, aware that Kaeso felt uneasy. Before he could change the subject Kaeso went on.

“I finished work early one day and planned to spend the afternoon with my betrothed, as she was a hard worker and would hopefully appreciate a break from the monotony of looking after her brother’s house. Unfortunately my unannounced visit caught them fucking in bed.” He coughed awkwardly. “It was …a shock.”

“What did you do?” Clodian’s words spilled out without thought.

“There was no wedding.”

“And your betrothed and the brother?”

“I never saw them again. I heard afterwards that they disappeared after that day. I guess they must have settled elsewhere.” Kaeso’s eyes did not meet his own as he spoke these last words. Clodian felt a shiver skim along his spine.

“So, both Belua and I have had little luck when it comes to wives and
almost
wives.”

“Belua has spoken about how he met and then married his wife, but no more. Although I know that the story of his family is a tragic one. I think it must pain him too much to retell it,” said Clodian.

“He rarely ever talks about it, and has only ever mentioned it once in my company. It was the day that I bought my freedom. Belua, Prudes and myself were as drunk as rats in a wine cask. Pissed, we’d begun reminiscing about our old fishing days. Then, out of nowhere, Belua started telling us how Roman marines had raided his small bay in a reprisal for acts of piracy carried out by others. He was badly beaten, but his young wife and son were killed.”