Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (10 page)

Prudes had seated himself under one of the wine trellises. Clodian took great pride in the garden that his mother so loved, and particular pride in his family’s strain of Falerian.

Prudes took a long swallow from a strategically placed amphora. He wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm then offered the amphora to Clodian. Clodian stepped into the shade and took a swallow of his own. It was early in the day and he was glad to find that the wine had been watered a little. A full passage of the moon had passed since Belua had commenced his training, and during that time he‘d developed a taste for the locally produced wine. Wine that was usually drank in the company of Prudes or Belua. Ripe bunches of grapes hung from straining vine stems all around him. He took another drink and then handed it back.

“Tell me Clodian, how fares the Dacian since Belua put him under the lash?”

“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.