Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (23 page)

“What?”

“The harder the better. The pain will be very bad if you are timid with the thrust. Take care to drive the blade upwards.”

“I cannot.” The man’s body shook as he spoke.

Coluber’s blade whipped forwards, lopping off an ear. The robber howled like a wolf in a trap.

“It will go easier if you obey.”

The bleeding figure picked up his sword with the slick fingers of his left hand. He stared at it, a wondering expression on his face as if seeing it for the first time. “Spare me, please,” he begged.

“The sword,” Coluber repeated. “Take it and finish it.”

The robber began to sob, shaking his head and sending a spray of bloody droplets across the clearing.

“You cry in vain,” said Coluber. He speared the razor-edged knife down, the point sinking deep into the muscles of the man’s thigh. He twisted the blade as he withdrew it, turning the wound into a gaping hole that spewed blood over the man’s legs. He stepped back, watching his victim.

“No more,” he entreated in a voice so weak that Coluber could hardly hear him.

“Then do it.”

“I’ve not the strength in my arm to do it,” he pleaded after reversing the blade.

“Then rest the hilt on the ground…and fall onto it.”

The robber at last obeyed. But, he had little strength left and the blade didn’t penetrate properly, bending after entering his flesh and missing the heart and lungs. Blood jetted from the slit as he cried out. He managed to withdraw the blade, collapsing sideways. Yellow loops of intestine slid out from the wound, forming a glistening pile on the ground. He was still moving feebly, but was too weak to finally end it.

Coluber realized that the bungling, mewling creature was likely keep him awake for a while in his current condition, and he needed his rest. Wiping his blade clean on the broken figure’s leggings, he looked around the clearing. Moved by annoyance rather than any sentiment, he picked up a large, moss covered stone. Bracing his legs, he staggered with it, feeling the rough, muddy edges dig into his fingers.

He cast it down.

There was awful cracking sound, and then silence.

Chapter 28

PORTENTS

A mighty belch gave him some relief. He’d eaten too much already and servants were busy laying out yet another course in front of him – a fat chicken with goose eggs, together with quinces stuffed with pickles to look like sea urchins and accompanied by side dishes of spiced olives and goose livers garnished with tiny mushrooms and asparagus.

The wine had flowed liberally, making Belua suspicious of Gordeo’s motives for inviting him to supper at his villa. And it was a most impressive one, perched on the lower reaches of Vesuvius.

On his arrival he’d been met by the major-domo, a jumped up slave of about forty who acted as if he owned the place. When he’d announced Belua’s arrival he’d used the snide voice of superiority. Belua had been tempted to pin back his ears on the spot, but as a guest thought better of it. Perhaps he was getting soft?

Despite Gordeo’s accumulated wealth, Belua had to admit that he had a quality often missing amongst the rich, and that was good taste. Wide terraces with finely carved balustrades pushed out from the villa over the hillside, granting a majestic view of the sea. Dark clusters of cedars and hollies shielded the villa from view and it was accessed by a long private track that branched off from the coast road. Slave quarters had been built separately from the villa and formed a detached communal of its own.

Between courses Belua had peered through the embroidered Assyrian curtains that separated the dining room from the elevated porch. He saw a table of finely grained dark marble that formed a graceful arc in front of a curving peristyle of rose wreathed columns, which in turn framed the blackness of the night. Through them he could hear the pounding of the sea spray on the rocks, cutting through the smoking incense which hung heavy in the room.

A musician played soft tunes on a harp and attentive house-slaves stood close-by. Belua noted that all were young and attractive – both men and girls – and more than one soft breast accidentally rubbed against his elbow as he was served.

“More wine?” Gordeo enquired, reclining on a couch on the other side of the table. His face was coated with grease and the parrot green tunic he wore was stained with dishes he’d sampled and vomited up. The short, bulging tunic was belted with a strand of gold woven with bits of amethysts. His short black locks had been curled and gleamed with pomade. Despite the white powder his red face looked ready to burst and he’d needed the
assistance of two slaves to help him outside to empty his stomach and make room for further delicacies.
What a pity his good taste doesn’t extend to his appearance,
Belua mused, smiling to himself.

“Just a little.” Belua accepted the offer, not wanting to seem discourteous
.
“But, I cannot eat another mouthful.”

“Nonsense,” said Gordeo, taking a large bite from a goose egg. “I’ve seen you eat and drink a brace of Gauls under the table before now.” He’d drank more than usual and his voice was beginning to slur. Belua knew that Gordeo could hold his drink, because he’d supped with him often enough. This too made him think something wasn’t quite right.

“I’m just getting old,” he stated.

“Nonsense,” Gordeo repeated, tearing the flesh from a crisp chicken wing, adding,”Mmm, my favourites.”

“So, what’s the reason for the invite?” said Belua, loosening his belt a notch as he leaned back on his couch.

“I don’t need a reason to invite my…my most trusted trainer to my home for a simple meal.”

“You have a reason for
everything
you do.”

“Shame on you,”said Gordeo, also reclining and struggling to catch his breath between mouthfuls. Taking another sip of wine, he asked, “I wanted to ask you what you thought about a possible match between Drilgisa and Gaianus at the Parentalia games?”

“Gaianus, the young Gaul from Teanum?”

“The same.”

“A no match,” said Belua. “Drilgisa would eat him whole.”

”What about the Sardinian, Gorgonius; strong, tenacious, with ten wins to his name.”

“And a fucking jaw of clay.”

“Well, who then?”

“Drilgisa is just too good for the current competition. Tie one of his hands behind his back and he would still make short work of the best in Campania. And, you know what the crowd would make of such a one sided affair.”

“You’re not helping very much,” said Gordeo.

“You pay me to train them, not to provide the opposition.”

“I know, I know, but can he be as good as you say?” He paused and his eyes seemed to clear for a moment, before enquiring, “Is he as good as you were, Belua the Fist?”

Looking down into his cup, Belua answered with a sigh, “Maybe…maybe better?”

“High praise indeed,” said Gordeo, before moving on to another matter. “That’s enough about business. How is the young Clodian? Tragic about his father of course.”

Despite the wine, Belua felt the hairs rise at the back of his neck.

“And why do you ask?”

“No particular reason, old friend. Like always in the city, rumours abound regarding the youth’s recent disappearance.”

“Really?” answered Belua, trying to sound casual despite his suspicion being aroused by Gordeo’s ‘matter of fact’ enquiry.

“I know you are close to the boy and just wondered if all was well with him?”

“I do my job and no more,” said Belua, feeling more sober by the question. “And remember, it was curiosity that killed the catamite.”

Gordeo chuckled then belched. “Is young Clodian’s absence a secret then?”

Like a fucking dog with a bone
, thought Belua. “Not at all, the boy has taken a holiday following the sad death of his father. I have no idea where, but I’m sure it will do him good?” Forcing a lop-sided smile of his own he continued, “Nothing more interesting than that I’m afraid. Now, how about filling my cup again, and some of your best vintage if you please.” He held out his empty cup.

Gordeo lazily snapped his fingers for a servant to attend him, with Belua not failing to notice the thwarted look on his face.

The mare was young and skittish, and Prudes rubbed her neck to settle her. He then repeated the instructions that he’s already drummed into Clodian earlier that day.

“Remember not to leave the confines of the villa for any reason. I’ll get the necessary supplies and see Belua. I will be gone for most of the day, but it cannot be helped. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Clodian held up his hand, gesturing that he’d taken on board Prudes’ advice.

“Give my regards to Belua, and Neo too if you should see him.”

“I will,” said Prudes, deftly swinging up into the saddle as Clodian held the reins. His
gladius
slapped against the mare’s grey flank, an ever present feature it seemed since his father’s funeral. “And, don’t drink all the Falerian,” Prudes joked, digging his heals into his mount. With a snort the mare broke into a trot.

Clodian watched him disappear over the brow of the ridge on route to the coastal road.

Orbiana had quietly crept up behind him and placed her hands over his eyes.

Turning quickly he pulled her to him. He kissed her, enjoying the softness of her lips. Her hands had moved to the back of his head. She returned his kiss, long and tender.

“”You look beautiful,” he stated, a little breathless. Her skin had tanned to the colour of honey and it suited her.

“Flattering words,” she said, grinning mischievously, “but I think you‘ll soon tire of poor Orbiana now that you’ve bedded her.”

“Never!” he responded with feeling, before adding, “When I’m master of my house I will free you immediately. And, it ‘s my hope that you’ll wish to stay with me.”

Orbiana’s grin slipped away on hearing his plans. Her eyes grew moist as she locked them with his own. “Are you serious?” she asked.

“Very.”

“I never thought -” she began.

“Don’t look so sad,” he cut in, “when you are free you will be under no obligation to stay, I promise you.” An uncertain look had crept onto his face.

“It’s just that I didn’t expect this…and so soon.” She stepped away, looking down at her hands, her expression a mixture of things – surprise, puzzlement and fleetingly soothingness that he could not read.

“Come, I didn’t mean to worry you with such hearty tidings,” said Clodian, afraid of what she might say next.
I’m being foolish
, he thought,
I feel that she cares deeply for me too
. “And, I have another plan that I wish to share with you.”

“Go on, tell me, as you are full of surprises today,” said Orbiana, her face brighter again.

“I was going to suggest that we spend the day on the beach.”

“But, what about your agreement with Prudes?” she asked, looking surprised.

“He’s good man, but I do think that he sometimes worries too much.” He waited a moment, reading her expression. “But, if you think that it’s a bad idea?”

“No, no. I think that it’s a wonderful idea! We have some food and wine left. I could pack a basket and we could eat on the beach.” She rubbed her hands together, like a little girl. “And we can swim. I love swimming Clodian!”

“Me too,” he replied, smiling broadly, Orbiana’s excitement infectious. “We’ll return well before Prudes comes back, and what he doesn’t know won’t bother him.”

Clutching each other’s hands, they rushed into the villa to make their preparations. Clodian hoped more than life itself that when free, Orbiana would agree to be his wife…

The pebbles pressed painfully into the soles of his feet and he gripped Orbiana’s hand tighter. A few small boats were beached close by, where fisher-men and their wives and children sat mending nets, coiling rope and calling to each other. Clodian thought that they seemed totally oblivious to their presence. One man began singing an old sea shanty that Clodian recognised and his companions joined in.

Off against the horizon clouds were piling high into the air, but the sun still shone down, making the surface of the water glisten. Above them the sky was a cloudless blue canopy that coloured the sea a deep turquoise. It was such a tranquil scene, with danger seeming a distant thing.

They stepped gingerly towards the gently lapping waves like two excited children. The water swept over Clodian’s feet and he jumped back, the coldness a marked contrast to the heat of the day. Orbiana laughed at him, before chiding him for being squeamish. She let go of his hand, wading in to her chest.

He stripped down to his loin-cloth and then followed her. Goose bumps quickly rose up on his arms and torso. She had started to swim and he plunged forwards into the swell. It felt wonderful.

Raising his head from the water, he watched Orbiana pull further away from him, her strokes long, smooth. He knew she was trying to impress him, and kicking his legs hard he set out after her.

Then, she was treading water, waving to him. He was a fair swimmer, but he doubted that he could’ve caught up with her, not if she’d not stopped.

Gasping, he swam to her side.

“You…you swim like one of Neptune’s own daughters,” he managed to splutter.

“I told you I loved swimming.” Her hair was slapped to her head, her white teeth flashing through grinning lips.

Coughing up some water Clodian looked back to the beach. They had swum out a considerable distance, further than he had thought. The fisher-folk they’d seen earlier were now just blurred specks on the narrow beach as they tended their nets.

“Venus, I’ve never felt more alive,” said Orbiana, keeping afloat with ease.

“M…me too,” said Clodian. His legs felt heavy as though encased in clay, and his calf was beginning to cramp. He tried to fight a feeling of panic, before gasping out, “I…I think that I…I had better head back if I’m to remain so.”

He had only gone a short distance when his legs began to fail him. He struggled to move forwards using just his arms which were now badly aching. His head
went under and the salt water rushed into his mouth and throat.
Gods, I’m drowning
, he thought, before praying desperately,
Dear father, please don’t let it end this way.
He felt a hand on his head, gripping his hair, and he sank deeper. His gorge rose into his throat and he knew he was finished. Then suddenly his head broke the surface, fingers jerking his head up by the hair. Another hand was placed firmly in the small of his back stopping him from sinking. He vomited up bitter sea and some bread he’d eaten on the beach.