Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (7 page)

Clodian had asked him if the men watched their stable mates fight on the day of the games. “On the days we compete, we all go to the arena,” he replied. “Even the
tiros
, because it’s good for their spirit to see their fellow gladiators parade around the arena in shining armour and feathered helmets, and, it makes a fine show for the crowd.”

The young noble listened intently as he spoke.

“Those who do not fight can get a good look at the games, a taste of what’s to come. Most of the fights are agreed upon before–hand; whether it’s to be fought to first blood, or to the death. The idea is to build up a promising gladiator’s reputation through several victories until the whole of the city is screaming for him to win. Of course, sometimes it goes wrong and your man gets the ‘cutting thumb’ from the games’ editor and has his throat cut. Mercy, pity or leniency are words these men must put aside. Kill or be killed is what their world has become, and it’s my job to train their minds to be cunning and their bodies strong.”

He could not remember when he had talked for so long and he turned his attention on a quartet of sparing
pugiles
, and one boxer in particular.

“Do you ever tire of training men to kill?” Clodian asked him.

“It’s what I know,” he answered, eyes still fixed on the
pugiles
.

“Did you ever know anything else?” Clodian persisted.

“I was a fisherman once, when I was very young,” he replied. “You no doubt find it hard to believe that I was young once?”

Clodian grinned and Belua risked a smile too. He had few good friends, and unusually for him he found the youth’s company not un-agreeable. Accustomed as he was to dealing with fickle admirers and double-dealing officials on a daily basis, the young noble’s unbridled honesty and cheerful manner was a welcome change. The lad displayed a humility that belied his position and his appreciation of simple pleasures was refreshing.

“You are watching that pair very closely,” Clodian observed. “And, I think one man in particular – the one with the crooked back and big hands.”

“I am,” Belua confirmed. “He’s called Drilgisa. He has five victories under his belt, and will soon fight again.”

“I no longer visit the games, now that I have a choice,” ventured Clodian. “When I was younger I found the spectacle exciting, and I admired the skills of the champions. I once even met the great champion, Caetes (see prequel,
War Raven
). As I got older I could not stomach the pointless killing of men and beasts and the cruel punishment of criminals. I…”

“It’s not to everyone’s taste,” said Belua.

“Is it true that you trained Caetes?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I met him only briefly, but I liked him. He seemed so different from what I imagined him to be like. He gave me a wooden carving of a raven and said that I reminded him of his brother.”

“He was a strange one,” replied Belua.

“I sensed that there was kindness and nobleness in him, as well as…”

“He was a killer,” Belua stated.

“I know,” said Clodian, before asking, undeterred, “But, did you see more in him than that?”

“It was my task to train him, not to search his soul.”

“It’s said that he was never captured after fleeing the city,”continued Clodian. “Do you think that he succeeded in reaching his home-land?”

“It’s dangerous to discuss men who’ve been branded fugitives of the Empire,” retorted Belua, frustrated at the youth’s questions, by his persistence. “You’d be wise to remember that.”

“I just wanted to know what you…” Clodian began.

“I keep what I think about such matters to myself,” Belua finished for him.

“But, I’d like to hear your views…as I’d hoped we could become friends.”

Belua turned to face him.

“I’m being paid to train you to citizenship, not to be your friend.” A momentary hurt look appeared in the youth’s eyes and then was gone.

“As you wish,” Clodian answered him stiffly.

The exchange was broken by the approach of two men from the direction of the
infirmary, the towering outline of Vesuvius rising into the back-ground. Belua saw that
it was Gordeo and Strabo, one of the trainers.

“Good day, Belua,” greeted Gordeo as they drew near.

“And to you,” he replied. He acknowledged the presence of his fellow trainer with a slight nod of his head. Strabo, a native Roman, was short, thick-set. He had blue black curly hair and the eagle nose of his countrymen. Belua disliked him, regarding him as vain and overconfident. An ex-legionary he’d learned the skill of the
pugile
in the army. Now, he trained men in the use of the curved Thracian sword and shared the task of training
pugiles
with Belua. Belua secretly held him in contempt, aware that he had never fought for his life in the arena – the ultimate test.

“And who might this young man be?” Gordeo enquired, focusing his attention on Clodian.

“This is Clodian, the son of Gaius Caesilius Ralla,” said Belua.

“The son of our much respected magistrate is very welcome to our humble
ludus
,” said Gordeo, bowing elaborately.

Clodian responded with a slight bow in return.

“How is the Dacian progressing?” Gordeo enquired, straight to business as usual.

“His progress is satisfactory,” Strabo interjected, before Belua could answer.

Belua could feel himself bristle but said nothing.

“He’s won all his matches but he needs to learn to finish his opponents, and his style is crude and needs a lot of work,” Strabo continued. “But, don’t worry, I have some new methods in mind that will help him improve.”

“I see,” said Gordeo, slowly stroking his chin between thumb and forefinger.

“And, what do you say?” he asked.

Belua cleared his throat and spat as if to purge a nasty taste from his mouth.

“Horse–shit!” he replied. He sensed that Gordeo was beginning to feel uneasy, sweat appearing in great blotches under the arms of the garish robe he wore.
Not surprising, he’s knows me well enough.

“Please go on,” said Gordeo.

“True, the Dacian’s style
is
ugly, but it’s effective. He is very strong and doesn’t cut easily. His time in the mines clearly proves that he is durable, and, he has a trait that will no doubt aid him.”He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “He likes to inflict pain. That is why he doesn’t finish his opponents quickly. My advice would be to provide him with a tougher test, and then you will see his real worth.”

“Thank you, enlightening as always,” said Gordeo.

Strabo’s face had turned red. Belua cared little for his feelings.

Gordeo spoke into the silence that followed.

“Can I not entice you to spend more time at the
ludus
, Belua? Your expertise is sorely missed.”

“Not for what you pay me,” he replied, wearing a wry smile.

“It’s true that I cannot match what a magistrate would privately pay. After all, the imperial coffers are not bottomless.”

“We all get by as best we can. And, no doubt you have a little silver put aside for retirement too.” Belua took no offence at the
procurator’s
jibe, familiar with Gordeo’s astuteness where money was concerned.

“A little Belua, a little,” Gordeo replied. “But, now I have business to attend too and must take my leave of you. Good day to you
doctores
, and to you, young Clodian.

He watched the
procurator
walk away, his ample bulk swaying like a ship. Strabo met his eye, flashing him a dark look before re-joining the practising gladiators.

“You dislike him, don’t you?” stated Clodian.

He’d almost forgotten the youth’s presence.

“Who?”

“You know who I refer to.”

“Yes, I do,” he confessed, facing the youth.

“Does he bother you?”

“Fuck him,” said Belua.

“That is a
no
then,” said the youth grinning.

Belua tried hard not to smile. “Time to see my old friend, Neo. He’s the
ludus
’
physician. It will be rare event if you can make that miserable bastard smile too.”

“A physician,” the youth’s face lit up. “Excellent!”

“But, first some refreshment. I have a good Falerian in my quarters that is calling my name.”

“Just water for me,” said Clodian. “The memory of the wedding feast is still fresh in my mind…and stomach.” He mimicked a retching motion.

“Very wise,” said Belua, pointing him in the direction of his quarters, “I’ll drink for the both of us.”

The infirmary was small and very clean. Rows of surgical instruments were placed neatly on the multiple shelves that covered three of the four walls; on which were placed neatly ordered surgical instruments, rolls of clean dressings and jars containing various salves and tinctures. The fourth wall had a large shuttered window that provided ample light, alongside which was a life-size map of the human body with the skin removed.

The physician was occupied stitching the leg of a black skinned gladiator who lay prone on a large wooden table that commanded the centre of the room. He did not seem to hear Belua and his companion enter. Belua cleared his throat to get his attention again.

“You can see that I’m busy, can’t it wait Belua?” The physician’s words were clipped, and he didn’t look up from his work.

“It’s a private matter…and important,” replied Belua.

The physician glanced around. Dark, serious eyes scanned Belua above pointed cheekbones, the jaw firm below hollow cheeks. Taut skin was salt-sprinkled with short whiskers. It was a distinguished face, suggesting wisdom. He looked from Belua to Clodian.

“So, I’ve an audience too,” he stated.

“This is Clodian, son of Gaius Caesilius Ralla, who I told you about,” said Belua, before adding, “and, this is our good physician, Neo.” When he turned to Clodian, he found the youth staring with interest at the map of the human torso.

“This is wonderful, who drew this?” Clodian asked, preoccupied.

“Me,” said the physician, who, having finished his task straightened up, arching the stiffness from his back. He handed the gladiator a small jar, adding, “Apply once a day, and come back in four days and I will remove the thread. If the wound starts to smell or bleeds yellow muck come back immediately.” Nodding his acknowledgement, the gladiator limped from the room without comment. The physician washed his hands in a nearby bowl of clean water. Once dried, he walked past Belua to stand by Clodian who was still studying the map.

“Do you understand what you study so closely?” the tall physician asked.

“I believe it marks out the vessels that carry the blood around the body as well as the shape of the bones and muscles under the skin. I’m not sure what these smaller lines are, but I expect that they must have an important function.”

“A very good answer,” said the physician. “It’s my belief that these smaller lines carry messages to all parts of the body. If damaged, a limb can become useless as a result.”

Belua watched as Neo explained in detail certain parts of the body map. Clodian stood as if entranced, listening intently to the physician’s every word. Belua was a little surprised as he studied the pair, knowing that Neo rarely took time from his duties to expand on such matters. The diligent, skilful physician was a man of few words and as prickly as a briar rose. Belua had known him for over ten years and had felt the sharp lash of his tongue more than once when he’d disturbed him at work. Belua coughed, an exaggerated gesture to get his attention. The physician turned around, looking vexed by the interruption. Belua braced himself.

“Well,” the physician prompted. “Out with it, I have other duties that will not see to themselves.”

“Would you visit Prudes with me?" Belua understood that being direct was the best strategy. Neo frowned, and Belua noticed that his greying hair was receding, accentuating his high forehead.
Gods, the serious bastard is getting old. We both are.

“Is it his arm?”

“Partly,” said Belua. “I’ve heard that he’s fallen on hard times, and I have an offer of work for him – to teach Clodian the short sword. I know he’s been avoiding me.” He glanced towards Clodian who was still studying the wall map.

“I have not seen him since his last visit to the
ludu
s, not long after the training accident,” said Neo, his expression a little softer. “I told him that his arm had been cut too badly to heal, and that in time it would wither. He would not accept it. “

“Can you do anything for him?”

“I would advise taking the arm off, as it’s dead and of no use. But, his mind I cannot mend.”

“Leave his mind to me,” said Belua. “Can you come today?”

“I have another two men to see and then I can accompany you. But, if he agrees to the arm coming off, we will need another to hold him down.”

“Good,” said Belua, knowing that Neo could be relied upon in things that really mattered. The matter of holding down his old friend fresh in his mind, he pointed his head towards the unsuspecting Clodian.

Chapter 8

PHYSICIAN

Belua and Neo stood in the shade of the inn’s tattered front awning.

Belua knew The Inn of Mithras by reputation. A real shit-hole, it was rumoured that the cockroaches were the size of mice and the resident whores putrid.

After a brief enquiry in the bar it was revealed that Prudes had rented a room on the third floor at the back; the inn’s cheapest
.
Stood at the inn’s entrance Belua wrinkled his nose, the smell of stale sweat, piss and vomit wafting from the narrow street as the afternoon sunlit its shadowy recesses. In the adjacent alleyway a fat drunk was fucking a whore bent double against the insula wall. The whore kicked out at a stray dog that was licking her calf. The fat drunk didn’t miss a stroke.

“Do you think Clodian has had difficulty getting the right Falerian?” Belua asked.

“No,” replied Neo. “He’s a bright lad and the city’s busy. Don’t worry, he’ll be along.”

“Perhaps I should have gone?” said Belua, starting to feel edgy.