Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two Page 11

  A flourish of trumpets sounded and he moved into the short tunnel that led to the arena. He paused to hawk then spit at a group of people who regularly gathered there. Their one desire was to trail the noxii, the condemned prisoners into the arena, taking pleasure from striking and abusing them, as well as taunting them regarding what horrors awaited them in the arena.

  A huge silhouette was framed at the end of the tunnel.

  Taken aback by Marhabal’s sheer size, Drilgisa felt his guts involuntarily tighten.

  He heard the squeal of a hyena from the beast dens, then the rising clamour of the crowd. He strode towards the entrance gate. The tension in his guts was seeping away, a fire building in its place, one that ran in his veins, that set his pulse racing. It was part of him.

  The torch-lit murk fell behind him as he neared the bright day, Marhabal and the arena’s swelling noise. They stood next to each other at the gate’s arched mouth.

  Without thought he glanced sideways, and at the same moment the giant Nubian turned his head. For a second their eyes met before both looked away. They knew that it was almost time…

  Neither of them spoke, and as a pair they marched out from the echoing stone of the tunnel into the sun and startling openness of the arena. The greeting of the crowd burst upon them in a wave of sound, raucous against the clash of cymbals and strident blast of trumpets. The arena’s brightness contrasted dramatically to the dark of the tunnel, and it took Drilgisa’s eyes a few moments to adjust. The air was moist, tasting of copper.

  He tested the yielding sand with his bare toes and heels. Now that he was in the arena he was eager to begin the bout, and he felt lucky and light on his feet. Every gladiator knew the feeling; the day when the gods’ faces were turned towards you. The day was yours, when your opponent’s guard and not your own would fly wide.

  Pompeii’s amphitheatre was packed, the terraces seeming to tip endlessly skywards. Attendants had erected braziers burning incense in the stands to disguise the stench of opened guts and fresh gore. Drilgisa wiped the sweat from his fore-head with the inside of his arm, careful not to remove the smears of charcoal from under his eyes, a useful aide against the glare of the sun. A team of sailors had raised the arena’s canvas awning, providing the crowd with welcome shade from the direct rays of sun. Yet, the heat in the arena was stifling.

  Attendants raked the arena surface and applied fresh sand to cover the larger spatters of blood. The acrid smell of tar and cooked meat was strong in Drilgisa’s nostrils. Criminals had been tied to crosses, tarred and then burnt alive during the mid-day entertainment. Drilgisa had learnt that Roman justice was as gruesome as his rulers could make it. It was devised to teach a harsh lesson to those who broke the law of Rome.

  They swung right to circle the arena, passing the beast chamber, past the dark Gate of Death and the Mercuries with their heated irons and sharp hooks, and the adjoining rooms where the surgeons patched up gladiators deemed able to fight another day.

  Drilgisa looked up into the packed cavea. Flushed faces clutched the barriers, eager for more blood-letting. Men and women shouted encouragement and lewd promises to their favourites, accompanied by a hail of coins, flowers and tokens of good luck.

  Full circle around the rim of the arena they marched, before coming to a halt beneath the editor’s podium. The editor rose to his feet, ready to receive the combatants’ accolade. The ritual salute to Caesar and the editor completed, they broke apart to take up their starting positions.

  They faced off, each standing upright, arms slightly bent with fists initially held forward. Drilgisa, a right-handed fighter, immediately adjusted to his usual orthodox stance, with the left foot forward, his left arm extended and his legs set widely apart. His right arm was sharply bent with the fist drawn back, cocked ready to deliver a sudden, shattering blow. His Nubian opponent assumed an identical posture.

  Marhabal was a head taller. His skull was covered in a mat of tight wiry curls and his skin shone like polished ebony. A flat, brutish face evidenced no emotion and was characterised by unblinking, black eyes. The broad features evidenced little sign of prior injury or scarring. He was wide in the shoulder and slim in the hips, possessing unusually long arms corded with muscle. Drilgisa judged that he would be strong and quick with a good reach. He knew of Marhabal’s impressive reputation as a fighter: nine opponents killed and five others crippled. He’d not underestimate him, but neither did he fear him.

  A trumpeted fanfare signalled the matches to commence. A great cheer went up from the crowd.

  Drilgisa moved quickly to engage his opponent. The giant pugile landed a stinging blow to his forehead. For today’s matches the caestus had been fitted with iron spikes, and he felt the skin split. A thin trickle of blood seeped warmly down over his beetled brow onto the bridge of his nose. Further blows followed in quick succession. Most he blocked with his big hands. An over-hand right thudded into the top of his head and bright lights lit up behind his eyes. He stepped back, waiting for his head to clear.

  Scattered boos rang out from the crowd.

  Marhabal beckoned him on with his bloodied caestus. Recognising the challenge, the crowd roared its approval. The editor rose to his feet in the podium, eager to survey the enfolding drama.

  When he spoke, Marhabal’s voice had a deep lilt that was new to Drilgisa. “Fool, you bleed like a stuck pig, and I will bleed you more. Later, when I’ve taken your life, I’ll take your woman with your blood fresh on me.”

  I doubt that, thought Drilgisa, shaking the blood from his eyes.

  “Come! I’m here to fight, not to listen to a bitch’s yapping.” Drilgisa spat out the challenge.

  Without pause, he stepped forwards to meet the Nubian who was also advancing. His head was immediately jolted back by the impact of a lightening quick jab. Gods! He’s fast, he thought, I didn’t even see that.

  He feinted to the left before throwing a right hook that connected with the Nubian’s ribs. Long tatters of skin hung from where're studded glove had struck. The Nubian grunted, swaying backwards as the pain registered.

  Both of their gloves were red and sticky with gore, their bodies streaked with the sweat that mingled with flowing blood. The sand rose in little clumps and eddies at their feet. They circled and weaved as they fought, each trying to get the sun at his back and the dazzle of it in the other’s eyes.

  Drilgisa drove another hook into his opponent’s side, the rib-bone cracking under the weight of metal. He ducked an over-hand punch, stepping under the outflung arm to drive his cestus against the damaged ribs, grinning as blood gouted afresh from the wound. Belua’s litany flashed into his mind, words that had been drilled into his brain until his actions had become instinctive, “Destroy the body, and the head will soon follow.”

  The Nubian countered and he took the punch on his forearm, feeling the flesh tear. He smashed his right hand hard into the muscled stomach, badly winding the big man who sunk to his knees.

  Your reputation outweighs your ability, thought Driligisa, happy with his work. He briefly paused to suck in a great lungful of air; a mistake.

  Jumping to his feet, Marhabal bore into him, driving a barrage of punches onto his face and shoulders. Drilgisa’s face was being transformed into a red mask. Stunned by the speed and power of the onslaught, he threw another big hooking punch of his own. Marhabal swayed smoothly to one side, the blow just skinning his left shoulder, and then he attacked again. Three, meaty punches thumped into Drilgisa’s face without reply, and he staggered backwards, almost falling. The flesh on his face hung in shreds. He was blind on his left side, and was unsure whether the eye itself still remained? His opponent feinted, rolled before him, a blurred apparition of pain.

  The fickle crowd were on their feet, cheering themselves hoarse in appreciation of the act of savagery being played out before them. An echoing chorus of, “Iugula! Iugula! Finish him! Finish him!” resonated across the arena.

  Marhabal smiled though bloody lips, as if sensing
the end were near. Ducking under a wild punch, he struck Drilgisa a jarring blow above the right eye. Bright blood spurted into the air before dappling the arena floor with crimson. The crowd screamed their appreciation. The force of the strike staggered Drilgisa, who dropped, stunned to one knee.

  Out of his one eye, he watched Marhabal strut across the sand, arms hoisted overhead; drinking in the applause that accompanied his victories. Blood dripped like dark rain drops from the Nubian’s gloves onto his bare shoulders as he lofted them higher in response to the cheers that grew ever louder.

  Marhabal finally turned towards him.

  Drilgisa grinned, contemptuously beckoning him forwards with a curl of his gloved fingers. He had to rile the Nubian enough to make him lose some of his practiced composure. He filled his lungs and cried out, “You stinking piece of swine flesh. I stand a better chance of dying from your stench than your fists. But then, how else would the spawn of a swine and ape smell?”

  As Marhabal stepped towards him, Drilgisa saw something in his eyes – perhaps a momentary flash of antagonism? He rose to his feet.

  Marhabal lunged forwards, aiming a big punch at his head. He easily ducked away from it, countering with a short punch of his own to Marhabal’s ribs that was accompanied by a grunt of pain. The spikes of Drilgisa’s gloves were bright red, strips of skin hanging from them like pale worms.

  “You even fight like a fucking ape!” he goaded.

  Enraged, Marhabal launched a series of wild blows. One struck him on the elbow, sending a painful tingling up the length of his arm. He managed to elude the others.

  Marhabal followed up with another miss-timed flurry, none of them connecting. He was now breathing heavily, his attacks becoming more desperate. Sweat streamed down his body in rivulets and his mouth hung open as he struggled to suck in air. His guard was lowered.

  Drilgisa drove a straight punch to his throat that left him gasping for breath. Both hands were now raised instinctively to his crushed larynx. A right hook to the giant’s jaw snapped his head sideways. After taking a tottering step he dropped to the arena floor with a shuddering thump.

  The crowd was silent.

  Wasting no time, Drilgisa bore down on the Nubian as he pushed himself groggily up onto one elbow in a feeble attempt to rise. Savagely gripping him by the hair, he punched downwards into his temple, feeling the bone crack inwards.

  The stunned crowd was shaken into life once more.

  As though through water, he listened to the chant that resonated all around him.

  “Drilgisa! Drilgisa! Drilgisa!”

  Coins of silver, gold and bronze rained down into the arena as he punched his fists to the heavens.

  The acclaim thrumming in his ears he wiped the sweat from his mouth with the leather palm of his caestus. He ran his swollen tongue over his split lips, the fresh blood familiar. He licked them again, this time savouring the taste.

  The mounting applause pulsing in his ears, his mouth filled with juices and his stomach groaned.

  Chapter 16

  ORBIANA

  The Forum bustled with life, vendors screeching invites to passing customers to sample their wares. Bored nobles bandied views about city politics in the shadows of the square’s giant stone columns, and citizens mingled with a menagerie of slaves, traders and artisans, drunken sailors, tumbling acrobats, seers and out of work sell-swords. The perennial cut-purses furtively bumped their way through the crowd, expert feet skipping over the wide expanse of stone. Wine merchants busily re-arranged their armies of amphorae between the columns that surrounded three sides of the Forum, while majestic statues of the gods observed the whirl of humanity from the sea-ward flank.

  Belua spotted Vulso, the scraggy slaver making his way through the throng towards him. Fucking rat, he thought, taking in the man’s small eager eyes and pinched expression that seemed to change all the time.

  “Greetings doctore!”

  “And to you,” responded Belua. “Let’s get out of the sun.” He moved into the shade of the columns.

  “Shall we wet our throats first?” the slaver proposed.

  “Our business won’t take long,” replied Belua, keen to keep the meeting as brief as possible.

  “As you wish,” said Vulso. “How can I be of service?”

  “I wish to purchase a girl, a virgin.”

  “Very well,” said Vulso, his mouth forming a lewd smirk, exposing rotten teeth. “And, how young?”

  “Fifteen, sixteen summers,” said Belua, feeling steadily more uncomfortable.

  “She must speak Latin, have proper graces and some learning too. But, no Gauls. “

  The subject of Gauls always brought the worst out in him, and was a topic wisely avoided by those who knew him well. He’d never forgotten the dose of the clap that Ciara the whore had given him, nor the fact that she was a Gaul.

  “I thought your taste might run to something younger, doctore,” said Vulso, still smiling. “A virgin of an age you require is a rare thing in the city, and one with the qualities you seek even rarer.”

  “Can you help me, or shall I take my coin elsewhere?” said Belua, his voice carrying a sharp edge.

  Vulso held up both hands appeasingly. “I said rare, not impossible.”

  “Then you have someone?”said Belua, his patience rapidly waning.

  “I have girl recently come into my possession who has the qualities you require. Her name is Orbiana, and she comes from a patrician family in Rome-”

  “How so?” interrupted Belua.

  “Unfortunately her father did not support our great Emperor’s rise to power. As we know, Tiberius has a long memory. When he donned the purple, Orbiana’s father chose to open his veins and his wife too. All his property was sold off, including his two daughters. Orbiana is the eldest.” He paused a moment, then added, “The girl is fair, although she may be a little fragile for a man of your…stature.”

  “The girl’s not for me,” corrected Belua.

  “I see,” said Vulso, “but obviously for someone of discernment and culture.”

  Belua felt his hackles rise, but chose to ignore the jibe. This once.

  “How much?” he asked again.

  “Thirty five aureii.”

  “What!” exclaimed Belua. “Do you play me for a fool, slaver?” He took a big step forward and grabbed Vulso roughly by the front of his tunic. He lifted him onto his toes, watching his face blanch.

  “Of…of course not doctore!” he managed to stutter.

  “I’d not pay that for Tiberius’s fucking mother!” Belua growled, twisting the tunic tighter, forcing his fist up under the slaver’s chin.

  “Thirty then?”

  “Better!” He pushed his knuckles into the slaver’s throat.

  “Tw…twenty five?” Vulso squeezed out the words, his face scarlet.

  “Agreed!”

  Released, the slaver collapsed onto his rump, both hands clutching his throat. Belua dropped a heavy money bag into his lap.

  “In there you’ll find twenty five gold pieces. Draw up the bill of sale and bring it, with the girl, to my quarters at the ludus tomorrow at the twelfth hour.”

  He stepped over the cowering slaver, into the sunshine.

  This bartering is thirsty work, he thought, picking out a suitable inn on the far side of the forum.

  He stood, silent at Clodian’s side as he splinted the carpenter’s broken leg. The unfortunate tradesman had fallen from a villa’s roof and snapped his shin bone on landing. It was the first break that Clodian had handled on his own and Neo was impressed; unusually so.

  Job complete, and with Neo’s assistance they helped the fellow carefully to his feet and onto a makeshift crutch. Stern instruction for him not to put any weight on the offending leg followed.

  “Well done,” Neo congratulated, as the tradesman limped out of the door, the last patient of the day.

  “Thank you,” said Clodian, beaming. “The product of good instruction.”

 
“You are over generous young man. I am not exaggerating when I point out that you have a rare talent for the healing arts.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. And you seem to enjoy the work very much.”

  “I always have, even when I was very young and assisted my mother in small ways to help the servants when they became unwell. She was very caring, too.” His face assumed a far away, forlorn expression.

  Neo placed his hand on the youth’s shoulder seeking to distract him back to the present. “Tomorrow, I will be treating a friend who has been having pain in the head for some time. I will be entering the head through the skull.”

  “Is that possible?” asked Clodian, his face lighting up.

  “It is a delicate and dangerous procedure, and I’ve only carried it out on a few prior occasions. Sometimes it makes no difference. Other times when pressure is relieved on the brain the pain improves. Only time will tell if it has worked. I’m afraid that in this case the only alternative is for my friend to continue the endure pain on a constant basis. He is willing to accept the risk.”

  “Could he die?”

  “He could.”

  “He is brave, then.”

  “Rather I would say that he is desperate. Incessant pain is a terrible thing. From my experience the people who suffer in this way will risk anything in the hope of obtaining some relief.”

  “I wish him luck, and I will say a prayer for benevolence to Fortuna on his behalf.”

  “He’ll need both,” said Neo. “Would you like to attend?”

  “Me? But, I know nothing,” responded Clodian looking very surprised.