Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two Page 8

  “Has Belua not told you himself?” asked Clodian, a little surprised.

  “I‘ve sadly not seen much him of late, not since Gordeo dismissed that fool Strabo. And, I know that Gordeo has persuaded him to do more of the training until he can find a replacement. With good coin no doubt,” he added with a grin.

  “Drilgisa has recovered from the lash and resumed training.” He felt himself stiffen when he referred to the Dacian’s treatment.

  “I see you don’t approve of his punishment,” stated Prudes.

  “I think he might’ve been dealt with differently.”

  “He’s lucky that he wasn’t returned to the mines. And, if you asked him to choose, I’m sure the lash would have been his preference.”

  “Does the greater evil justify the lash then?” He could feel the colour rise to his cheeks.

  “The life of a gladiator is a harsh one,” Prudes replied, his tone even. “To maintain control the men must understand the cost of disobedience. Belua does not use the lash to be cruel, but to maintain control. It takes an experienced trainer to gauge this. Too little and control will be lost, with harsher punishments then being needed. Too much, and there is rebellion, as there was at Capua when the Thracian Spartacus and his fellow gladiators slaughtered the guards, broke out and raised an army of slaves – a course of events that shook the senate walls itself.”

  “And how do you judge just how much lash to use?” Clodian persisted.

  “Learn to first know the man and then you will know the right punishment.”

  Clodian rubbed the side of his head with his thumb, feeling frustrated.

  Prudes rose to his feet and stretched as if waking from sleep.

  “Until tomorrow then,” said Clodian, sensing that Prudes had said his piece. He handed the trainer his wooden practice sword.

  His hand cupped above his brow, Clodian judged the height of the sun. I’d better hurry, he told himself. Straitening his tunic he waved a hasty farewell and headed off in the direction of the ludus. He navigated past beds of multi-coloured lilies and clusters of brilliant white narcissus. He approached one of the garden’s fountains, a stream of water sprouting from the mouth of a marble Cupid. He splashed water over his face and neck. Refreshed he glanced back towards Prudes.

  The trainer waved, calling to him, “Say hello to Neo for me.”

  How do you know that it’s Neo that I’m going to see?

  But a moment passed and he mouthed the trainer’s undoubted response – “Know first the man…”

  Chapter 11

  SLAVE MARKET

  As a whole the slaves displayed on the podium were a motley group. The quality gets worse with passing of each season, mused a disgruntled Gordeo.

  He was shaded from the early afternoon sun by a slave holding a parasol, but he still sweated like a chicken on a griddle. His belly was steadily growing and he knew that the fatter he got the more uncomfortable his life would become. But, he loved his food and his wine. In fact, nowadays his culinary appetites gave him more pleasure than his romps with his young maids…and the occasional pretty house-boy.

  “Come,” he ordered his slave as he stepped closer to the rickety podium in order to get a closer look at the goods. The auction was usually repeated every ten days in the same place; a stone’s cast from the harbour.

  “Welcome Gordeo,” Vulso, the lanista greeted him.

  “Let’s get on with it, and I hope they’re not as dreadful as they first appear.”Gordeo was in a testy mood, his stomach and bowels suffering from over-indulgence on wine the night before. In addition, he regarded the lanista as a superficial, irritating shit. However, Vulso guaranteed a steady flow of slaves acquired from every corner of the Empire. Gordeo had no option but to deal with him, and he was aware that the lanista enjoyed the patronage of a number of Pompeii’s leading noblemen and their wives; catering to some of their private, more exotic tastes.

  There were seven slaves aligned before him. All were shackled at the hands and ankles and dressed in rags. Four of the males were of fighting age. In addition there was girl in her mid-teens and what appeared to be a mother and her young son. The pair looked frightened, the boy tightly clasping the woman’s hand. The shackles seemed too big for the boy’s skinny wrists and Gordeo thought that they would fall off if he dropped his hands. They would be sold as a package or singly, depending on the offers made.

  There were a dozen buyers gathered around the podium, and the general mood was of disappointment. Gordeo recognised two of the men – fellow procurators.

  Three of the male slaves were clearly of no worth for the arena – an emaciated, bowlegged trio that would probably be sold off to the mines. Vulso was babbling on regarding the subtle potential of these men, and Gordeo, experiencing another wave of nausea, impatiently held up his hand.

  “Enough! They are fit only for the fucking bone-yard.” There was a chorus of crude comments from behind him, all in agreement. “Can’t you find me some Germans?”

  Vulso spread his hands wide, a powerless look on his face. “Germans are scarcer than a virgin in a brothel. Since the defeat of Varus the legions haven’t ventured into that dreadful realm beyond the Rhinus River that breeds such hardy, warlike people. With no campaigning there will be few captives.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And, the mutinying of the Rhine’ legions hasn’t helped. Yet, I’ve heard whispers that Caesar may be sending the eagles under his adopted son, Germanicus, once more across the black river.”

  ”Whispers, whispers…they’re of no significance to me,” said Gordeo, pressing his hand to his lower abdomen in a futile attempt to ease the griping. He was familiar with affairs on the fringes of the Empire as any man in Campania, but he was still naively optimistic that a German or two might turn up in the city. Another like Caetes. The thought momentarily distracted him from the queasiness in his belly. Perhaps Germanicus, hero of the Dacian and Pannonia wars and loved by our troops, will push the Empire further east, and more Germans will grace our sands? He contemplated optimistically, before belching sourly.

  Casting a strained look to the podium, he added, “The mother and boy are of no interest to me, but bring the girl and the strapping fellow next to her down here, so I can get a closer look.”

  The lanista barked orders to his two armed retainers who prodded the selected slaves off the podium. They shuffled awkwardly down the short ramp and were brought to a halt in front of Gordeo.

  “Strip them!” Vulso ordered.

  The retainers ripped away the scanty rags that covered their private parts.

  The man hardly flinched, his eyes staring straight ahead. The girl instinctively covered her pubic mound with both hands.

  Gordeo turned his attention to the man first. He was short, raw boned, his torso covered in a swirl of blue tattoos. His black mane looked as if it had been hacked short with a sharp tool.

  “A Hibernian,” stated Gordeo to no-one in particular.

  “Yes,” confirmed Vulso. “Convicted for stabbing an auxiliary.” He prised the slave’s lips apart, displaying his teeth and gums. “As you can see, his teeth are good.”

  Gordeo expertly squeezed and probed the man’s muscles, before turning his attention to the girl.

  “Head up,” he instructed. The girl slowly responded.

  Her skin was tanned beneath the grime, and she was pretty with muddy green eyes that despite her embarrassment showed no fear.

  “She’s the daughter of a rebel Thracian chief, and as you can see she understands our language. No meek cow’s maid this one,” said Vulso with a slippery grin.

  Gordeo felt that he could use the Hibernian. He was sturdy and his body marks would attract some attention in the arena and could be good for business. And he liked the girl – she was attractive and definitely intrigued him. She’d soon warm his bed if the right price could be agreed.

  The small crowd was beginning to thin out around him, prospective buyers mumbling desultory comments about the poor quality of man
-flesh before leaving. He could see the look of dismay on the lanista’s face.

  Now was his opportunity.

  “I’ll pay you two thousand sesterces for them both. As you can see I’m the only one interested, it seems. So, I’ll not haggle over the sum. Take it or I walk away.”

  Vulso looked around at the shrinking audience. He bit his bottom lip, fighting the temptation to barter the price up.

  Gordeo knew he had him.

  “Agreed,” said Vulso eventually. He offered his forearm to confirm the sale. Gordeo ignored it.

  “Make the usual arrangements for delivery – the Hibernian to the ludus, and the girl to my home. I will send a message ahead to organize payment on arrival.” Gordeo turned his back on the lanista without the courtesy of farewell. He headed in the direction of the harbour front, a much neededlatrine and soothing shade.

  I must be getting crass in my old age, he pondered. It’s a pity Belua has less time to accompany me on such outings. He admonished that he missed the doctore’s expertise and his company. Instead, he had to work with fools like that fucking peacock, Strabo. Thankfully, not any longer in his case.

  There was no doubt in his mind that Belua was worth his weight in silver, and he’d always played him fair. As straight and unwavering as a spear, Gordeo always knew that Belua’s advice was well thought out, unbiased…well, only on occasion when it came to certain Gauls. Recently his work with the young noble had taken precedent. He could not blame him for taking advantage of the extra coin, and he knew that Gaius Caesilius Ralla paid well. He was aware that for some time Belua had made vague noises about retiring from the arena game, and even someone as robust as he was couldn’t go on indefinitely.

  In fact, he’d been increasingly thinking about retiring himself. It would be interesting to see his family in Patavium again. He’d had no contact with them in more years than he could easily remember. Not since he’d become an Imperial Procurator. If he’d told them they’d have disowned him. Like many patrician families they regarded his current profession with disdain, all the while recognising the practical role procurators played in the facilitation of Rome’s Games. Yet, no respectable Roman family wanted their son to carry out such a job. He sighed. After all these years perhaps his parents were dead, and he had no brothers and sisters that he knew of. They probably thought the same about him.

  An anguished cry rang out behind him. Looking back he saw one of the auction attendants drag the struggling slave boy off the podium. His mother was being pulled along the floor by her hair in the opposite direction. She cried out again, a desperate woeful sound. The attendant struck her face with his fist and she was silent.

  He realized that they were to be sold separately, the boy at least. The woman’s fate would be a lot grimmer.

  Despite the discomfort in his stomach he walked a few steps towards the podium.

  “Wait,” he called to the attendant, then to Vulso who stood close-by.

  “My kitchen can always use extra hands; I’ll pay you seven hundred sesterces for them both.”

  “I intend selling the boy to the mines, and I know I’ll get that sum for him alone,” replied Vulso, wearing an oily smile.

  Lying bastard, thought Gordeo, feeling as if his guts was about to drop out.

  “Eight hundred then, and no more.”

  “Done,” said Vulso, rubbing his hands together.

  For a moment, Patavium did not seem so far away.

  Chapter 12

  REFLECTIONS

  The clinic at the physician’s home had been a busy one.

  Neo looked up as Clodian entered the treatment room. He’d returned from assisting an old woman with a leg ulcer to make her way to her home close by on the Via Teatri.

  Neo’s lodgings were small, frugal, consisting only of a pair of ground floor rooms located on the corner of an insula in the shadow of the city’s large Stabian Baths.

  He watched Clodian diligently gather up the various instruments that he’d used, then place them in a bowl of boiling water. He then added the correct amount of witch-hazel from a small pot. Clodian’s studious approach had impressed him greatly, and he rarely had to demonstrate a procedure twice. Furthermore, Clodian liked people; the old, young, crippled, the grateful and the thankless. He had a smile and sensitive word for them all. He’d been a great help and his irrepressible good humour was infectious. Even with a sour old apple like me, he admonished.

  “How are your lessons with Belua and Prudes going?” he enquired.

  “I think I‘ve made some progress,” replied Clodian. “At least that’s what Prudes tells me. Although Belua is a man of few words.”

  “It’s what he doesn’t say that matters,” Neo reassured him.

  Clodian paused a moment, seeming to consider his reply carefully.

  “There is strength in Belua that I admire. More than just his physical strength. I had hoped that in time we might become friends. But, I know now that he regards such a relationship as ill-chosen, and I accept that.”

  “Belua does not make friends easily,” responded Neo. “He is a hard man with a shell of iron. Life has dealt with him cruelly but he is a man of great resolve. After long years of working together, I regard him as the most steadfast of friends. I would trust him with my life.”

  “I was unaware that his past was…so painful.”

  “His family was tragically taken from him,” said Neo.

  “Pray how?” asked Clodian, the angst clearly written on his young face.

  “That is up to Belua to share,” said Neo looking thoughtful. “When you know him better, you might ask him?”

  “Wouldn’t he resent it?”

  “Possibly? But grief should not be closeted away in some dark place. Like the scab over an infected wound it will slowly eat away at the host. It would do Belua only good to talk about his loss…if he so chooses. Then, perhaps he might bite your head off?” Neo smiled glibly, adding, “Or maybe not.”

  “I understand,” said Clodian, the words sincere. “I also believe that family is very important in life.”

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Neo, before enquiring. “And how fares your father? Have you encouraged him to drink plenty of water as I advised?”

  “He has followed your advice and there has been some improvement,” said Clodian looking worried. “But, he has lost so much weight and looks dreadful.”

  “Is he eating at all?”

  “Very little, and then only his favourite foods.”

  “As long as he tries to eat small amounts regularly – to build his strength,” suggested Neo.

  “I will pass on your advice, which is always welcome.”

  “I am happy to come and see him if you wish,” Neo offered, sensing that Clodian was more concerned than he portrayed.

  “My gratitude, but my step-mother would not hear of it, and my father seems to support her every decision.”

  “I see,” said Neo, somewhat puzzled by the domina’s intransigence. “Still, the offer stands if your father changes his mind.”

  “Again, my thanks,”said Clodian

  “Now, I have some supplies to purchase,” said Neo. “So, until–”

  “Tomorrow at the ludus, at the same hour,”proposed Clodian, his expression lighter.

  “Until tomorrow,” confirmed Neo, risking another smile.

  Placing a battered straw hat on his head, stepped out into the sun.

  The city was quiet, residents closeted behind doors. It was the hottest time of the day. A trickle of customers was entering the Baths, its towering red brick entrance dominating the street. They were mainly patricians, shaded by slaves carrying gaily coloured parasols. Neo liked it quiet and he kept to the shade as he headed for Han the apothecary’s shop. He went over the list of items he’d made in his head.

  Stepping onto the gently chamfered stone of the road he immediately felt the sun’s heat on his shoulders through his cotton tunic. He quickened his pace and his mind revisited his discussion with Clodian
and the talk of family.

  He pictured his father sat in their family villa, and Placidia’s sweet face. He let his thoughts drift to the small property in Stabia. He hadn’t visited the villa for almost a year, using the excuse that his work would not permit him the luxury of a holiday. In truth, the residence evoked too many painful memories: memories of Diocles, his father and mentor, and the gentle, sad Placidia. Despite his absence, there were times when he’d almost persuaded himself that a few days of recuperation at the villa would revitalise him. He’d paid a small sum to a local wine merchant, a boy-hood friend of his father, to watch over the villa in his absence. The merchant had always kept the house in good repair, periodically instructing one of his workers to replace the occasionally damaged roof-tile and trim back the ever encroaching weeds and couch grass. The house was small but well located, boasting a magnificent view of the bay and the distant, but ever present mountain.

  Rare though his visits had been since his father’s death, he fondly recalled the many idyllic evenings spent in the company of the old physician. The villa’s position on a gently rising bluff guaranteed that it always caught the westerly sea breeze, the evenings being cool, relaxing. Neo’s mother had died in childbirth and he had no siblings. A shy youth, his father had been his only close friend, confidante and teacher. He’d loved the old man and missed him dearly.

  Neo promised himself that he would make the time to visit the villa. It could be arranged, if he spent less of his private hours administering to the town’s sickly poor. Most days they would loiter at the ludus gate entreating to see the sympathetic physician. Those that the guards did not discourage, the persistent ones, Neo would treat at the close of his ludus surgery. He also treated them at his home. The locals were well acquainted with the name of the serious physician who spoke little but treated the needy free of charge. Alexandros, a friend and fellow physician, frequently censured him for being a gullible fool, easily duped by a pained expression and tale of impoverishment. His friend had also been puzzled regarding his role as physician to the gladiator troupe, well acquainted as he was with Neo’s abhorrence of gratuitous violence, and Neo had been unable to provide a satisfactory rationale for his long standing service to the men of the arena. He realised that it was a clear paradox, flying in the face of his moral high ground, which condemned enslavement, cruelty and the state’s provision of butchery by popular demand.