Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (32 page)

As Clodian studied Belua, he saw that he’d also shaved his body and coated it with oil; no doubt to prevent his adversary getting a firm hold on him. Clodian barely recognised the shocking mask that Belua’s face had become. He could see in his smouldering eyes that there was no place for doubt, no room for mercy.

The moon’s bright crescent emerged from behind a raft of cloud, and a strong wind blew across the circle, blowing out one of the torches. An attendant rushed to re-light it. Someone shouted that it was an omen. Clodian just hoped that his friend would be alive at the end of the fight.

He picked out Flavia stood on the opposite side of the circle, her face shrouded in shadow. He knew at that moment how much he hated her; not only for what she had done, but for bringing his friend to this.

The referee raised his hand and beckoned the fighters together.

Clodian’s attention focused briefly on the knuckles of both fighters’ gloves and the row of small iron spikes that trimmed them. He swallowed hard imagining the awful damage they would inflict.

“The contest is to the death. Do you both accept this?” the referee asked.

Drilgisa, his eyes fixed on his
caestus
, grunted that he did. Belua, still glaring at his opponent’s face, signified he understood by nodding his head and barring his teeth like a wild beast. A savage, guttural noise emanated from deep in his throat. Clodian thought that he would attack the Dacian before the fight officially started.

“Then separate and fight!” announced the referee, nimbly stepping back.

Drilgisa took three steps back and adopted his familiar fighting stance.

Belua didn’t move. He continued to glower at the Dacian, his teeth still bared, spittle appearing at the corners of his mouth.

Raising his hands, Belua quickly advanced across the circle. Drilgisa stood his ground.

Belua feinted with a left then sent a whipping right towards Drilgisa’s face. The Dacian stepped inside the punch, driving a hooked left into Belua’s middle. Belua doubled over, air whooshing from his lungs. Quickly regaining his balance he blocked a right hand and sent a looping left into Drilgisa’s mouth, jolting his head back. The Dacian shuffled back, and Belua bore in, punches thudding into Drilgisa’s head and shoulders. It was a whirlwind attack, one of the blows opening a gash under Drilsgisa’s left eye. Blood spurted in a fine spray onto the floor of the circle, painting a thin shadow in the twilight.

Knocked off balance, Drilgisa stumbled and almost fell. Belua followed in, attacking again. He struck the Dacian three times; big, meaty blows that rocked him. The last punch caught him on the ear, tearing a section from his head and coating his shoulder scarlet.

Clodian winced at the sight. The Dacian could certainly take a punch, and was still moving and circling.

“Come on, finish the bastard!” Malleolus at his side shouted into the circle.

Belua punched his
caestus
together, and then attacked again. He darted in, catching Drilgisa with two more punches, opening his scalp and bloodying his flat nose.

Drilgisa shook his head and launched a counter of his own. It struck Belua in the middle of the forehead, splitting the skin. It seemed to take him by surprise, and he hissed as he stepped forwards again. He launched a flurry of punches, now noticeably breathing more heavily with each blow. He missed with all of them as the Dacian rolled his shoulders, swaying away from him.

An overhand right thumped into the left side of Belua’s face. Blood splayed from the gash it opened in his cheek.

A worried Clodian realized that sections of the audience were now yelling their approval as the Dacian countered, no doubt hoping the tide was turning in favour of their man and that their wagers were safe. Malleolus was quiet at his side and Neo’s face looked drained of all blood.

Belua took a step back for the first time. His breath was now coming faster,
and he sucked in air as he blinked blood from his eyes.

Wearing an eerie smile, Drilgisa walked to the edge of the circle and raised his arms towards his supporters. They in turn bayed their approval at this gesture of confidence.

Suddenly, Drilgisa rushed in, seemingly confident that his opponent was weakened and groggy. He began to punish the body, slamming telling punches into Belua’s belly and ribs. Strips of flesh began to dangle from Belua’s torso, each impact accompanied by a grunt of pain.

Switching to the head, Drilgisa slammed a punch into Belua’s bad eye, causing him to cry out in pain and topple backwards.

“Rip the dog’s face off!” a woman’s voice rang out. Flavia was the only female present.

Belua rolled back and onto his knees, shaking his head to clear it. He rose unsteadily to his feet. Even by torch-light Clodian could see that the eye was a ruin. His other eye was swelling badly, and he‘d soon be blind. Clodian started to retch, and Neo gripped his arm to steady him.

“We’ve got to stop this,” said Neo, taking a step forward towards the rim of the circle. Malleolus moved in front of him.

“You cannot! The rules and the crowd won’t permit it. You’d probably be beaten and that would not alter the outcome.” He edged to the side as Neo tried to pass him. “I’ll not let you interfere, and Belua would curse you for trying.”

Seeing that his cause was hopeless, Neo stepped back. Angry and frustrated his mouth was a tight gash when he spoke. “You know he’s finished, yet do nothing.”

“No man is finished until the last breath leaves him.”

Clodian felt as helpless as Neo, but there was no contesting the truth in Malleolus’s words. He turned his attention back to the circle, a great wave of fear rising up in his chest.

Weary, Belua spat out a great goblet of blood. Through his remaining eye, he seemed to be looking past the Dacian, the crowd, to the distant plane of the sea.

Drilgisa moved onto the attack.

The first blow smashed into Belua’s face, blood spraying from a fresh cut under his eye. It was followed by a left cross that half spun him around. He tried to cover up, ducking his head, trying to shield his head with his fists. Drilgisa drove a jolting upper-cut between the fists which pulped Belua’s nose and snapped him upright. He staggered backwards, out of the circle. The spectators roughly shoved him back in, jeering as they did so.

Now the jackals show their courage when the lion is sorely wounded
, thought Clodian, a taste of vomit at the back of his throat. Belua looked out on his feet, and Clodian realized that it was the end for his friend, his champion. At his side Neo had turned away, and Malleolus’s face was like stone.

Drilgisa struck Belua flush between the eyes. His arms dropped to his sides, his face slack and his eyes blind. Drilgisa pounded him with his hardest blows, knocking him left and right as though he were a sack of straw.

Clodian felt the gorge rise into his mouth and swivelled about to expel the sour vomit. He turned back to watch the finish through watering eyes.

Drilgisa appeared to sense the moment of victory had come. He stepped in, the full weight of his arm and shoulder behind the blow that impacted on the side of Belua’s jaw. He dropped to his knees, fists dangling by his sides.

Drilgisa took a second to inspect his butcher’s work.

His body swaying, Belua lifted his head. He was blind, the flesh hanging from his face in bloody ribbons. Blood drooled from his open mouth.

Then Clodian saw something that at first he could not believe, yet there was no mistaking it.

Belua was laughing. A perverse, gurgling sound, but laughter none the less.

For a long moment Drilgisa, his beetled brows knitted together in disbelief, simply stared at him. Then, placing a steadying hand on Belua’s slumped shoulder, he drew his right hand back for the killing blow.

Belua’s hand suddenly shot up, gripping Drilgisa’s resting hand. He launched himself up off his knees. Drilgisa tried to back away, but Belua pulled him close, his other arm now wrapped around Drilgisa’s back, hugging him tight. With a great heave, he lifted Drilgisa off his feet, and accompanied by a loud bellow they crashed together to the ground.

Belua was on top, letting his substantial bulk bear down on the Dacian. Still bellowing he moved his hands to Drilgisa’s throat.

A shocked Clodian watched in disbelief as Drilgisa frantically tried to prize away the iron fingers that tightened around his neck. Violently jerking his head from side to side he managed to get one hand beneath Belua’s, partly relieving the constriction on his breathing. Belua switched his focus to the Dacian’s face, his hands like great spiders clawing their way upwards, searching, probing, until they located the eyes. Belua’s thumbs dug savagely inwards before Drilgisa could shield his vulnerable orbs. He uttered a guttural cry, the first noise he’d made during the match.

Clodian put his fist to his mouth, sour bile rising again to his mouth. He swallowed it down. The sickly, metallic smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils.

Drilgisa’s hands desperately tried to pull Belua’s thumbs from his eye-sockets, but it was too late. The damage was done and both men now fought on equal terms.

Clodian saw Belua smash his forehead into Drilgisa’s face, before sinking his teeth into his opponent’s now unprotected throat. Stunned, he watched Belua’s wide head worry furiously back and forth as he tore and snarled like some wild animal.

Drilgisa uttered a single strangled cry that turned into a gargle. There was no further sound, and abruptly his body went limp, a black pool of darkness spreading outwards around his head. Belua kept tearing at the throat for what seemed an interminable time, before pushing himself off the Dacian and onto his back, bloody drool seeping from his contorted mouth.

Clodian rushed forwards, Neo and Malleolus close on his heels. Around the circle the audience was silent.

He was aware that he was propped up in a sitting position against a muscular leg. He guessed it was the leg of Malleolus. He could see nothing. It was as though a splash of ink covered the frame of his mind, but he could hear the voices of Neo, Clodian and Malleolus, fussing around him like old hens.

There was pain in his sides and chest and he knew he was dying. Blood bubbled up into his mouth and it was difficult to breath and he realized that his lungs were punctured. He’d felt a brief, sharp pain in the front of his neck, and something thin had been inserted there which gave him relief and allowed him to breathe a little easier. Neo had dripped something under his tongue which took some of the pain away but caused him to see bright stars amid the darkness. It was not unpleasant, merely strange.

It was difficult to speak with the blood filling his throat, but he had to try; for a short time, and then he could rest.

His first words were directed at Malleolus. “I hope…I hope you didn’t lose too much on the Dacian.” It was difficult to talk and breathe at the same time, and he supposed it was a bit like slowly drowning. The opening in his throat made an odd whistling noise as he tried to suck in air. It was becoming more difficult to breathe. He had to hurry.

“There was only ever going to be one winner today old friend, and he was the one I wagered on.” They’d removed his
caestus
and he felt his friend’s tight grip on his hand. He smiled, feeling the blood course out of the side of his mouth.

“Try not to speak,” Neo told him.

“Still…bossing me,” he managed to form the words. “Clodian, come here boy.”

“I’m here.” He felt Clodian’s smooth hand grip his free one. “Please, listen to Neo. He’ll get you well, and we have a holiday to plan.” The youth’s voice started to break, and Belua squeezed his hand. “Not much more to say…just that…that I’m as proud of you as though you were…my own son.”

He began exhaling hotly through his nostrils. “Neo…”

He felt the Greek’s cool hand rest on his cheek. “Yes, my dear friend.”

“Bend closer…” Then something as hot as fire and as cold as ice began to move up his body, and he could no longer feel his legs and arms. “Protect the boy…take him away from all this. . . this disgrace that makes men revert to…animals.”

“You have my word.”

He smiled, knowing that he’s said what was needed. The heat had now reached his chest and he felt a salty wetness spread over his lower lip. His head sank as a great lassitude spread with the fire through his whole body, and he was aware of a sharp pain in the middle of his head, and a voice calling a name from far away. It echoed closer and he recognised his birth name – Dragan – and the voice of Mislava, his wife.

He was so happy that he could recognise it after so long, and he answered, and his voice was now clear.

Then the stars went out and there was no more fire.

Chapter 38

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

The woman edged through the seething mass of humanity towards the quayside. She was old, stooped. Some made room for her to pass; many others, including galley-men, captains, traders and dock slaves, bumped and elbowed her, indifferent to her antiquity, bent spine and crooked walking stick. She kept her head down, glancing up every few steps up to get her bearings. Small lizards and an odd rat dodged in and out amongst the army of feet, and busy ants skittered between the cracks in the quay. Sea-gulls screeched overhead as they searched for easy meals. The cloying, too sweet stink of opium wafted into her path, blending with the smell of brine, fish and sweating flesh.

The trading ship –
The Dolphin
–
was still in its mooring, in exactly the same spot as the night before when she’d booked her passage to Ostia. She noticed that the crew had applied new paint to the deck but had missed the edges of the hand-rail. Her heart’s frantic beating began to slow down. She realized it was her fear that brought her to the harbour again, but the waiting for departure on the evening tide had worn her down.

Satisfied that the ship had not left for some unexpected reason, she melted back into the crowd once more.

The great mountain was a black smudge against the dark vista of the horizon. The temperature had been climbing of late, the last gasp of summer, and the night air was particularly muggy. Flavia ran her fingers through her hair, raking lank, sweaty strands back off her forehead. She surveyed the surrounding country side from the splendour of the villa’s second storey veranda. She was in a foul humour.