Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two Page 4

  Both men came to a halt two steps away from him. The centurion was the first to speak.

  “As I said, he may not be much to look at now, but bear in mind that he’s spent three years in the mine.”

  The fat man took a step forward.

  Drilgisa studied his face, recognising the pouches below his eyes that the white powder he applied failed to disguise, and the rolls of fat under his chin. His hair was a crown of oily ringlets and he smelled sweet, like over-ripe fruit. He saw the gold rings that choked the flesh on his swollen fingers and the hilt of a small dagger he wore at his waist, spotted with dimly glinting jewels – a man of wealth who lived by the sweat of others.

  “As you’ve already told me.” The man’s voice was strong, unlike his appearance. “The bent shoulders tell their own story.”

  “Stand straight!” The centurion commanded.

  Drilgisa pushed back his shoulders, accompanied by an audible cricking noise. He stood a little taller.

  “A slight improvement, but I doubt it can be corrected completely. It’s a malady of the mines that lasts for life, and that life is usually a short one…as we both know. I have no wish to purchase a slave that will die on me before he sets foot in the arena.” The fat man’s eyes examined him as a man would a new horse or hunting dog. “Has he the coughing disease?”

  “No,” said Auila.

  “Instruct him to take a deep breath and then breathe out slowly,” the fat man requested.

  Drilgisa complied, and the instruction was repeated a number of times.

  “Show me his teeth and instruct him to turn around.”

  “Satisfied?” the centurion queried afterwards.

  “In part,” was the reply.

  “You seem puzzled, Gordeo?”

  “He’s very thin but appears quite sound of body. Unusually so, considering the last three years.” The man rubbed his chin, as if trying to work out a riddle. “And, he has no marks of the lash.”

  “As I told you, he’s an exception, a survivor.”

  “Interesting.”The fat man moved closer.

  “Hold out your hands,” he addressed Drilgisa directly.

  The man’s grip was surprisingly strong as he pressed his knuckles, pulled and bent his fingers, pinched the skin away from the bones of both hands. Examination complete, he turned to the centurion.

  Drilgisa’s heart was a drum in his breast, his mouth bone dry, knowing that the next words to be spoken between the two men would determine his future: whether he would leave with this Gordeo who bought men to fight, or return to the foul hole in the earth? Is it the day I’ve waited so long for? Cold sweat broke out on his forehead, seeped from his arm-pits to trickle down his side.

  It was the centurion who spoke first.

  “The hands are impressive.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Can you use him?”

  “As always that will depend on the price,” the man Gordeo answered.

  The centurion smiled and Drilgisa felt his heart beat faster.

  “I think four hundred denarii is reasonable.”

  “Ha! You must think that the imperial purse is bottomless, Auila,” the fat man answered, wearing an easy smile.

  “Our past transactions have always been mutually rewarding, have they not?”

  “True. But, I could buy three slaves fresh off the boat in Neapolis for what you ask for this crooked brute that has the looks of an ape.”

  “Do not play me for a fool, Gordeo,” said Auila, matching the other man’s smile with one of his own. “It’s not looks you seek. He’s a Dacian and we both know of their reputation as fighters. He has shown a rare ability to survive where life is measured in days not seasons. And, he has fists of iron.”

  “You have surely missed your calling, Auila. Perhaps politics would have served you more generously than the army.” There was now steel in the other man’s voice, the smile gone. “Then perhaps you would not have to sell off imperial property before registering them as dead. We both know that Caesar deals very harshly with those that cheat him of his revenue. I hope I make myself understood.”

  Drilgisa saw the centurion stiffen, a whiteness blanching his tanned face.

  “I meant no offence,” he replied. “I merely wanted to point out the qualities that would make such a purchase an agreeable one for you.”

  “Of course,” the other man confirmed, the smile re-appearing as easily as a man would draw a sword. “Now, let us agree a figure that will be agreeable to the both of us. Say…three hundred denarii, and to evidence your appreciation for me visiting this foul shit-hole, you’ll equip him with travel garments. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” the centurion replied without hesitation.

  “Excellent!”

  The two men clasped right hands, forearms.

  Drilgisa, not realizing that he’d been holding his breath, breathed out. Gods! I’m to leave this fucking hell.

  The man Gordeo turned to take another look at him, before asking, “What are you called, slave?”

  The question was unexpected, and he struggled to clear his throat.

  “Drilgisa,” he managed to reply, still wary that the man might change his mind.

  “Drilgisa.” The fat man repeated it aloud, thought for moment, as one might after tasting something new. “Yes, I like its sound... we’ll keep it.”

  Chapter 5

  TIRO

  It was his turn next.

  The guard unlocked the shackles on his ankles and then his wrists. The hood was removed from his head and Drilgisa watched as his fellow captives had their irons removed. His heel still burned where the hot iron had branded him, but he’d not cried out like the others. He was the last to be ushered into the waiting cell that was to be his new home.

  Drilgisa felt the sharp nudge of the guard’s spear butt between his shoulders, and he stepped forwards into the darkness. The heavy iron door was slammed shut behind him, followed by the grating sound of a key turning. He stood awhile, unmoving, letting his eyes adjust to his surroundings. He knew the cell was very small, but it didn’t bother him unduly, not after the pressing hell of the mines. Stretching out his arms he moved first sideways then forwards, gauging the cell’s size. His foot discovered a mattress that was filled with straw – his bed. A folded, heavy woollen blanket had been placed on top of it. It seemed that he’d not be chilled by the night’s coldest touch.

  Moving to the cell door he traced his hands across its surface and discovered that it had a small shuttered window. He slowly slid the shutter open.

  He looked out at a large grassy area, guessing that it would be the place where he’d train to fight and kill other slaves like himself. By listening to the guards who’d accompanied him from the mines he’d learned that he was destined for a gladiator barracks in a city called Pompeii. Mensah had talked about such places, as well as the great houses of stone where men butchered each other for the pleasure of the Rome’s people.

  The grassy square was bordered by buildings on all sides, although he could not make out any details. A high gate of iron was lit by a brazier, where two armed guards stood watch.

  Although the nearby lamps had been extinguished, he left the shutter open.

  When the slave wagon had arrived at the city, the guards had covered his head with a cloth sack. On arrival at the barracks he’d discovered that he’d been the only captive blinded in this way. Yet, it didn’t surprise him. The guards had been constantly edgy when near him during their bone rattling journey by road from Solfatara. He knew that his appearance didn’t help.

  The stumbling trek to the barracks had been both strange and unsettling, with many sounds and voices assailing his ears. He now realized that this city was big, with many people that walked upon paths of stone. There’d been a tang of salt in the air and he guessed that he was near the sea. There was an abundance of other smells, too – some that he recognised – like roasting pig and fowl, newly baked bread, fresh fish and the stench of piss, and
there was a stable close-by to judge from the smell of hay and horse dung. Others were new to him.

  Crossing the small cell he eased himself down onto the mattress. He leaned back against the cool stone, closing his eyes. The clicking song of some creature played out against the night, accompanied by the trill of a night bird. He could hear someone moving around in the cell above him, and through the wall he could hear the young Gaul who’d been one of his group, crying. Weak fool, he thought. He‘d fucked the youth during their first night on the road, when the guards were sleeping. Not that they would have cared. After he’d ploughed the first furrow the other captives had used him in the same way. The Gaul had cried then as well.

  He breathed in deeply, relaxing his neck and shoulders. The air was clean and had a warm, heady scent that was not unpleasant.

  His mind turned to the things that Mensah had told him about Rome’s places of bloodletting. How her gladiators were garbed in the manner of her defeated enemies. He wondered which of these he might be? But, it didn’t really matter, only that he was free of the mines, and that he’d have a chance to make others suffer.

  Chapter 6

  CLODIAN

  Feeling queasy he bent and splashed his face from the shallow pool at the centre of the atrium. He’d drunk too much wine and the cold water cooled his hot cheeks. Feeling a little better he walked the short distance back to the villa’s large dining room. The flute players’ discreet melodies could be heard as a backdrop to the chatter of merry voices. Each tune had sounded better, more impressive with each cup of wine that Clodian had consumed.

  At the entrance, he quietly watched servants remove a large table from the centre of the room. It bore the remnants of the wedding dinner’s previous course – one of many. He recalled what he had already eaten and the queasiness briefly welled up again. The table was quickly replaced with a fresh one, laden with various fruits, nuts, honey cakes and more wine. Ensconced on three couches around it, dined eight of Pompeii’s most important dignitaries. In the honoured position on the top couch sat his father, the groom. He caught his father’s eye and raised his cup in a toast. His father smiled and raised his cup in return. It pleased him to see his father smile, and there’d been so few occasions when he’d seen him smile since his mother died. He hoped that his father could find that happiness again, with his new wife.

  Thinking about his home’s new domina, he searched the room, but failed to spot her.

  Sensing a presence behind him he turned and there she was.

  “I hope you are enjoying yourself?” she posed.

  She was very close and Clodian had to take step back in order for his eyes to properly focus. She took his breath away. A red silk dress complimented her tall, lithe figure; accentuating the hoary sheen of her skin. She wore a head-dress of flowers with a white veil and red shoes. Her lips had been painted with the sediment of wine and glistened through the thin veil. But, it was her eyes he was drawn to. Almond shaped, the colour of jade – like a great cat, they bore into his own. Her perfume was musky, adding to his light-headedness.

  “Yes, it’s been…a very enjoyable day,” he answered, trying not to slur his words.

  “A delight,” she agreed. She stepped a little closer and he could smell the wine flavoured with honey on her breath – warm, sweet on his face.

  “I’ve been looking forward to speaking to you on our own, Clodian.”

  “Have you domina?”

  “Please call me Flavia,” she replied, smiling. Her teeth appeared small and sharp beneath the veil. “After all, I’m only a few years older than you. Please try to think of me as…perhaps an older sister, a friend you can confide in.”

  “Thank you…Flavia,” he answered, now very hot, the sweat forming on his scalp and under his arms.

  Flavia continued to smile, her eyes not leaving his. “Your father tells me that you will become a citizen within another year.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it is an important time for you. Many things to learn about becoming a man.”

  “My only wish is to make my father proud,” he said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. He was beginning to feel uneasy under the new domina’s scrutiny.

  “Don’t worry,” she reassured him, “I know you’ll make him very proud.” She reached out and softly touched his cheek with her palm. “Your father informs me that he’s employed Pompeii’s best to be your mentor; to teach you the manly skills of the sword and fist.” Her smile stretched wider. “Although, I believe that certain manly skills can only be taught by a woman.” The tip of her tongue caressed her top lip.

  He felt the sweat trickle down the side of his flushed face. He felt his manhood stiffen and felt guilty. Gods, this is my father’s new wife, he chided himself, it must surely be the wine.

  “I…I don’t quite know what you mean,” he stuttered out the words.

  “You will my dear Clodian, of that I can assure you,” she stated confidently, still smiling.

  Lifting her veil she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. Her lips felt warm, moist on his face, and he tried not to think of the hardness beneath his loin-cloth.

  He closed his eyes and the darkness began. He prayed that he could be somewhere else at that moment.

  Then, Flavia let her veil fall back into place, before gliding passed him and was gone.

  He breathed out a great sigh, pledging that he’d not let wine deliver him to such a shameful place again.

  He found his eyes inextricably drawn to the face of the trainer, as he finalised the terms of his employment with his father. The doctore was fiercer looking that he could ever have imagined. Clodian was aware that his father was now referring to him.

  “I can assure you Belua that my son will be an attentive student.”

  “He’ll need to be.” The trainer’s voice had a deep rasping quality. “As I’ve already said, my methods don’t suit everyone. As long as the young master understands that too.”

  “He understands that your word is law in regards to his training, and that I will not interfere in any way,” his father confirmed.

  “Good,” said the trainer, who now approached him.

  Up close he was even more intimidating. Clodian swallowed the lump in his throat. He was determined to meet the trainer’s gaze despite the nervousness he felt. The trainer’s head was set on a short, thick neck that sprouted from broad, meaty shoulders. His massive upper body made him look shorter than he actually was. Dark, serious eyes fixed Clodian from under thick folds of scar tissue. His features looked as if they had been pummelled flat, and reminded Clodian of a battered spade.

  “I think that we’ll begin with some strengthening exercises and some boxing lessons,” said the trainer, to no one in particular.

  Clodian felt his heart sink.

  The trainer’s hands had been clasped behind his back, but he now lifted one hand to pensively stroke his chin. It was huge, the knuckles prominent, gnarled. The trainer saw that he’d fixed his eyes on his fist. He presented both hands for him to have a closer look.

  “Yes, they are the hands of a pugile. Not very pretty are they?”

  Clodian struggled to answer, “They, they are-”

  “Have no fear,” the trainer finished for him, “your hands will not suffer a similar fate.” He held out both his hands, palms turned upwards and instructed, “Grip them, as hard as you can”.

  He hesitated a moment before complying. The trainer’s skin felt like old leather.

  “You have a firm grip,” said the trainer. “That will help.”

  Clodian let his hands drop to his sides. He looked to his father and asked, “When do we start?”

  Before his father could reply, the trainer confirmed, “Tomorrow at dawn. I’ll meet you in the atrium. Don’t be late.”

  “I won’t be,” responded Clodian firmly, indignant despite his nervousness.

  The trainer raised an eyebrow in response to his tone.

  “Is there anything else you will nee
d Belua?” his father asked.

  The trainer turned away from him.

  “I would like the young master to benefit from the best instruction that’s available in these parts,” began the trainer. “And, I have in mind a man who is very skilled in training men to use the short sword. I think his instruction would benefit your son. . . for a reasonable fee.”

  “Employ him, the fee is of no concern,” said his father.

  “I have yet to discuss such an offer with him.” The trainer cleared his throat before continuing and Clodian perceived a slight hesitancy in the trainer’s voice for the first time. “He is no longer employed at the ludus. Not since losing the use of an arm in a training accident.”

  “Can a one armed man be the best that our city can offer?” his father asked.

  “I‘ve known few better. He’s as good with one arm as any man I know of in Pompeii with two…”

  “Very well, I’ll respect your judgement in this matter. Please endeavour to employ him.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “If that’s all, I think a libation to the gods would be in order,” suggested his father. “Would you share a cup of Falerian with us Belua…to seal our agreement.”

  “Of course,” the trainer replied, his face seeming to light up in response to the offer.

  His father waved his hand to one of the house slaves who quickly reappeared with three cups and two clay jugs – one filled with wine and the other water.

  His father poured the trainer a liberal serving. He turned to Clodian.

  “With water please,” he held out his cup, his stomach turning over as he recalled the recent wedding celebrations, still fresh in his mind.

  He raised his cup with his father and his new trainer.

  “To Mars Ultor, my son Clodian and citizenship,” his father toasted.