Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two Read online

Clodian repeated the toast aloud with the man all Campania knew as Belua the Fist, and his sixteenth birthday seemed a very long time ahead.

  “Take a rest,” he instructed.

  Belua had doubted that his new charge would make it through the morning, and it had surprised him. The training had begun with some stretching exercises and then Clodian had been instructed to complete twenty circuits of the nearby Palaestra – Pompeii’s largest exercise field – under his watchful eye. Afterwards, they’d returned to a grassy area in the north corner of the villa’s expansive gardens. It was here that he gave Clodian his first lesson in the skills of the pugile.

  Belua watched him suck in a great lungful of air, hands braced on his knees as he bent over. Sweat was quickly forming a puddle at his feet. He straightened up, and then walked on shaky legs to a nearby amphora of water.

  “Take your time,” he advised. “Small mouthfuls, and don’t drink too much or you’ll bring it straight back up.” He risked a wry smile, seeing how the youth’s arms shook as he lifted the clay jar to drink. He was pleased to see that he followed his advice about the water.

  “Right, back to it,” he instructed, noting that the youth had slightly recovered and was a bit steadier on his feet.

  The youth approached to stand two paces from him.

  “Take guard,” he instructed, raising his own hands in the traditional position he was so used to: the leading left arm extended towards the opponent, slightly bent, the right hand held back, cocked, ready to deliver a heavy blow.

  Belua’s lead hand darted forward into the youth’s face, knocking him back, onto his rump. A bright red mark quickly blossomed on his right cheek. The blow would have drawn blood, but for the training gloves’ leather padding.

  The youth quickly jumped to his feet, his grey eyes flashing anger. “I wasn’t ready!” he spat the recrimination at Belua.

  “An important lesson then,” said Belua. “Never let your guard down at any time in a fight.” He was pleased to see that the youth now had his hands in a proper guard position despite his anger. He jabbed his left hand forwards again, this time striking the youth’s right hand as he swayed back from the blow. He struck again, two punches in quick succession, the second striking the youth’s mouth and splitting his lip.

  “Good, a little noble blood at last!” Belua deliberately goaded.

  Incited, the youth launched an attack, his arms flailing wildly, his bloody spittle flecking Belua’s chest. His anger drove him forwards, any thought of defence now cast aside. Belua easily deflected the blows. Stepping aside, he hooked a short punch into the youth’s chest, just below his sternum. The effect was immediate – the youth collapsing in a heap to the ground. The colour drained from his face and his breath came in great wheezing gulps.

  Belua stood over him, wondering if he had any fight left.

  Brief moments passed and the youth suddenly scuttled backwards on all fours before painfully rising to his feet. He raised his hands in guard…then edged forwards.

  “Enough!” Belua barked, “for now.” He gestured for the youth to unwrap his gloves and to take another drink. After removing his own gloves he joined the youth, drinking from the same amphora before speaking.

  “Not a bad start, young master,” he studied the youth’s face. There was no longer any trace of anger in the clear, grey eyes.

  “A painful start…for me that is,” he replied, smiling.

  Belua cleared his throat, disarmed by the young noble’s words, his humour and easy manner.

  “You must learn to tuck your chin in,” Belua continued. “And, to lose one’s temper is to give your opponent an advantage. Angry men do not think clearly. Remember this young master.”

  “I will,” he replied. “And, I’d prefer that you call me Clodian.”

  “Very well, that’s all for today…Clodian. We’ll begin the same time tomorrow.”

  “Until tomorrow, doctore,”said the youth, still smiling.

  “I think Belua would suffice.” The words were out before he realized, and left him a little puzzled, having only just met the young noble. “I intend to make some visits after our training tomorrow. You may come if you wish…you may find it interesting.”

  “Yes,” he replied, his face split wide in a grin. “I would like to Belua, very much.” With a quick wave of his hand, he walked off in the direction of the home’s bathing rooms.

  Belua pursed his lips as he watched him disappear. Maybe I’m getting soft, he mused. But, he’s an unusual one for sure, not like some of the rich spoilt bastards I’ve met. And, his father was right – there’s steel in him.

  Picking up the training gloves and his discarded cloak, he pushed back his shoulders to take in his surroundings.

  He’d heard it described as the ‘most remarkable garden in Pompeii’, and a quick inspection convinced him that its admirers were probably right. He realized that the garden area occupied nearly two thirds of the whole insula, and was divided by a small canal which was fed by a large fountain at its far end. As the canal approached the perimeter wall it passed beneath an arch before joining a long pond which ran along the terrace at the back of the house. On either side of the canal were trellised avenues draped with clusters of bright flowers. Smaller fountains and statues of various heroes and gods were spotted throughout. Belua whistled through his teeth. Old Gaius said his dead wife had loved gardening. Gods, this lot must have cost him a few denarii.

  Tomorrow’s visit to an old friend came unbidden to the front of his mind, and he stood thinking about it for a while.

  The late morning sun burned hot on the back of his neck and he realized he was thirsty. Making his way through the garden, he passed through the villa’s southerly entrance onto the Via Castricio. The long rows of sycamores that fringed the palaestra opened up in front of him in the shadow of the amphitheatre.

  Picturing a suitable inn near the city’s Nocera Gate, he set off with real purpose.

  Chapter 7

  NEW PLEASURES

  Gaius felt a strange apprehension mixed with arousal as he studied his new wife. Flavia stood naked before him, slowly removing the ivory pins from her hair. She watched him drink in her body and smiled knowingly. He felt himself grow hard beneath the linen drape that covered his loins.

  The bed-chamber was well lit by oil lamps as he studied her: the sleek lines of her limbs, firm upturned breasts and the dark bush between her legs. His love making with his first wife had always taken place in darkness, and this was new for him.

  Flavia softly shook her head, curled locks tumbling to her shoulders. She approached the bed, and then sat. Her fingers slowly raked though the grey hairs on his chest.

  “I see that you’re well prepared for our love making,” she teased, indicating the mound beneath the linen drape. Licking her thumb she traced the head of his cock through the cloth. He felt his back arch off the bed in response to her touch.

  “Do you mock me?” he asked, a little angry at her ability to arouse him so easily.

  “Never, my husband,” she bent forwards and kissed him on the lips, her tongue briefly teasing his own. He could taste the honey on her breath, smell the jasmine on her skin as she bent close. “I mean only to please you in everything that I do. Is that such a bad thing?” She wore a small, hurt look, and for a moment he thought she looked very young.

  “No, it is not,” he answered, reaching up to coax her head to his own, her lips to his. The kiss was long, her tongue eager.

  She pulled away, smiling again, leaving him breathless. Without pause, her hand slipped smoothly beneath the drape, her expert fingers wrapping around his cock. She lightly stroked him, before squeezing hard to stop him releasing his seed. Satisfied, she lowered her head, tracing a slow line down his chest with her tongue.

  It felt as if his head would split and he lay back, closing his eyes. His mind traced back to their previous nights of love making; to the delights she’d introduced into the bed-chamber. Jupiter, I never thought a woman co
uld pleasure me in such a way! So much so, that he’d found himself distracted during the day by eager thoughts of the coming nights with his new wife.

  He felt Flavia pull the cover aside, her tongue probing the hairs of his groin. He squeezed his eye-lids tighter, determined to prolong the ecstasy.

  A moment followed when he could longer feel her.

  Then, his cock was enveloped by a moist, coaxing mouth. He could hold back no longer. Such was the release that he stretched open his eyes.

  Flavia now lay at his side, smiling, and tilted up between his legs were the black eyes of the slave Akana.

  Hands on hips Belua surveyed the training gladiators. Ludus Gordeo’s palaestra was the largest in Pompeii, and today every part of the training field was busy. Clodian was at his side. It had been the youth’s first real view of the ludus, and he stood transfixed by what he saw.

  The large grassy courtyard was surrounded on three sides by a continuous two story building. Belua had informed Clodian that this area included the infirmary, the refectory and his quarters. A series of stone pillars decorated with the roughly hewn images of men and gods and other graffiti held up the wooden gallery. It was capped with red tiles and topped with sharp iron spikes to prevent any escape over the roof. At regular intervals on the ground floor, black, windowless doorways stared out from the gallery onto the training field – the gladiators’ cells. The fourth side of the square had a high stone wall which faced out onto the street and was only broken by a stout iron gate. The courtyard itself contained a number of hacked wooden posts set at regular intervals in the ground – the standard practice posts for swordsmen. At the farther end were two punishment stocks, now empty, and a thicker post with a short cross-bar. This post was not hacked like the others, but was draped with a set of heavy iron manacles and marked with dark stains. It was the ludus whipping post.

  Belua quickly realized Clodian had a very discerning eye, as was evidenced by the questions he asked. He enquired about the composition and ranking of the troupe, and Belua admitted that he found the youth’s enthusiasm contagious. He’d explained that the barracks currently housed forty gladiators, with an additional ten gladiators, mostly free men, living in the city itself. He’d expanded that these men fought mainly for silver, the thrill of combat, for the adulation and the women that went with it. Clodian had looked contemplative when he’d explained this, but remained silent. He informed the youth that the men were divided into three classes – the tiros, who were beginners and had not fought on the sands; spectati, who had one or more fights under their belt; and veterani, the men who had successfully won a number of matches but had not amassed enough silver to buy their freedom, or who having bought it, decided to remain in the ludus to fight on, or perhaps to become instructors themselves. He pointed out that the spectati and veterani trained only until mid-day, whereas the tiros, while avoiding the hottest part of the day, trained for a further three hours in the afternoon.

  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.r />
  “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.”