Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (17 page)

“I think it’s a splendid plan.”

“Good, and is there anything else you’d like to do? Anything that you’d like to see?I know the town and the surrounding area very well.”

She leaned close to him, fixing his eyes with her own. “The most important thing is that I’m with you.” She kissed him again and he held her.

As he hugged her close a spur of guilt cut into him – that with his father desperately ill, he could feel so happy inside.

Chapter 19

COMES THE FERRYMAN

Flavia held the heavily scented cloth to her nose. It did little to diminish the stench from the bed.

Gaius had slipped into unconsciousness and the Greek physician, Neo, was in attendance, with Clodian close at his shoulder. She looked on as the Greek completed his examination, her face a mask of woe.
He’s a fool if he thinks he can do anything
, she reassured herself. Her husband had not eaten a thing for two days, able only to take small sips of water squeezed into his mouth from a sop.
The honey’s done its work.

The Greek rinsed his hands in a bowl before joining herself along with Clodian.

“Shall we step outside?” he suggested to them both.

They entered the adjacent
atrium
, the villa’s reception court. The physician placed his hand on her step-son’s shoulder before speaking. He spoke directly to Clodian, ignoring her.
Greek scum
, she thought.

Seeming to sense what was coming, Clodian’s colour was rapidly draining from his face. He anxiously bit his lower lip.

“Clodian, I’m afraid the news is grim. Your father is dying, and…I doubt that he will see another sun-rise.”

Thanks to all the dark gods!
Flavia tried her utmost to look shocked.

“Is there nothing that can be done?” Clodian entreated, his voice tremulous.

“Nothing that I know of,” said the physician. “I have never seen a case like it. I’m very sorry.” Then after a long silence. “I think it would be wise for you both to say your farewells.”

“You should go in first,” she suggested to Clodian.

He nodded his head, a single tear brimming onto his cheek.

When he’d re-entered the bed-chamber, the physician turned to her for the first time. The look in his eyes was undisguised – hard, accusatory. She could not resist the challenge.

“You have something on your mind,
Greek?
” she spat out the words.

“Yes, I have,” the physician confirmed. “I’m curious regarding what Gaius’s diet has recently comprised of?”

So, he suspects
.
Too bad the race has run its course.

“
Unfortunately, only small amounts of food that he has always liked and
he
requested.”

“Such as?”

“Does it matter?” she replied, feeling her hackles rise.

“It might,” said the physician. His look was intense, his eyes seeming to spear into her own, probing beyond into her very mind. She was beginning to feel less confident under such scrutiny.

“No more talk of diet, food, when my husband is on the edge of life.” She tried her best to sound upset, but doubted that it would fool the Greek.

“Very well, for now,” said the physician. “But, regarding another matter. Is it true what Clodian has recently told me? That Gaius, while he was still able, signed a document that names you as the executor of his estate, with all his powers of attorney until the time that Clodian becomes a citizen?”

“It’s true,” she confirmed. “My dear husband feared that he would not recover from this malady, and was concerned about Clodian; that he would be too young and inexperienced to assume full control of the family estate. I can assure you that we both had Clodian’s interests at heart. I will just manage affairs until he comes of age, a temporary arrangement.”

“Unless something happens to him.” The physician’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Be very careful what you imply, Greek,” she said, the game having turned sour.

A long cry, filled with the pain of loss emanated from the bed–chamber. Clodian’s awful ululation turned to a pitiful weeping

Lifting her long robe, Flavia turned her back on the Greek, knowing that she’d have to suffer the dreadful smell for a final time. No matter, afterwards she’d bathe the stink from her flesh. And, tonight the sex with Akana would be very good.

Chapter 20

LUPANARE

It was his second visit to the
lupanare
, and Drilgisa could feel his excitement grow. It was a long trek from his lodgings near the city’s North Gate, but it was Pompeii’s largest brothel and catered for the most varied of sexual tastes. Drilgisa had paid the
lino
, the pimp who ran the business, a little extra on his first visit. The young Gaul had been worth every coin.

The brothel was situated near the city’s centre and directions to the house of pleasure were clearly marked by phalluses engraved on the basalt road surface and on stones set into the fronts of nearby houses. Drilgisa had not been taken aback by the blatant nature of these effigies, as he knew that the Romans loved all things related to fleshy pleasures. Pompeii was a city that catered to all his needs and he’d never felt more at home.

During his first days of freedom he’d blinked awe–stricken eyes at the splendour of the ancient city: at the white temples erected to gods from every corner of the empire, the water fountains shaped like men and beasts, the giant squares where people raced, wrestled and lifted weights and the massive perimeter wall that surrounded it all.

When he’d first visited the harbour he’d been confounded. There were so many ships at anchor that their masts seemed to be impossibly tangled; hundreds of them squashed together so tightly as to give the appearance of a great limbless forest rolling on the water. When he’d threaded his way to the shore-line all around him was bedlam. Lanterns swayed on ox driven wagons and whips constantly sounded. There was the smell of manure and burned oils, and a ceaseless squalling all around. Men of every race and age were rushing, shouting, pushing and fighting. Livestock were being guided in every direction and horse-led carts carried lumber and grain sacks away from the quay-side. The loud sound of hammering and building echoed from the city far out to the sea.

Dogs snapped and barked around the horses’ hooves and cats hissed and spat as they fought for fish-heads along the water-front, adding their own row to the bawl of voices from the bars and brothels, which in turn vented female shrieks as whores argued their dues with passing customers. There was laughter in the air, though it did not give him the feeling of gaiety, but of something darker, more squalid. He‘d not seen anything like it and it made him feel nervous.

Leaving the harbour he’d traversed the busy streets, witnessing tall, hairy Gauls and black Nubians mingling with stocky Romans. Men in rough clothing jostled with men in fine togas, and ox-carts carrying goods trailed behind litters carrying the rich. Despite his rough looks, flimsy clothed whores with painted faces accosted him; it seemed from every doorway. He puzzled how he could find someone in this crowded maze of streets and alleyways where all was so strange?

It had surprised him how quickly he’d got used to this new world.

Today he’d just come from the baths where he’d paid for the full treatment; taking a breath-taking cold plunge after the scalding steam of the hot-room. After, he’d lain down like a noble while an attendant rubbed him with oil and then scraped him clean. Lastly, he’d had the rough stubble shaved from his face. He now had to pay for such luxuries out of his own pocket, but he had plenty since the match with the Nubian.

His skin still tingled and he was filled with confidence, and desire.

The brothel materialized ahead of him, and he made for the side entrance, which led via a wooden staircase to the first floor rooms. It was here where the more unusual company could be purchased. A stone effigy was positioned above the entrance, in the shape of what Drilgisa assumed was one of the Roman Gods: a naked grinning figure equipped with a huge jutting cock. Lewd writing and crude drawings were scrawled on the wall by the entrance.

He ran a hand over his damaged lumpy face. He felt the ends of stitches around his eyes prick his hand, glad that his injuries were healing well. He grinned wryly. He’d never been considered as handsome, but he was always quick to heal. Looking to the top of the staircase, he felt a stirring in his groin as he pictured the young Gaul, Molacus, hoping that he’d recovered from their last encounter. Pushing back the hood of his burnoose he headed up the steps with their smooth dipped centres.

On reaching the first storey, the sound of laughter and groans of pleasure carried to his ears. Whores lined the passageway ahead, their heavily made up faces smiling enticingly as they gestured their wares through filmy garments. He pushed passed them without comment or a sideways look.

Stood opposite the entrance to the first room was Albus, the
lino
, sat at a wooden table manoeuvring rows of stacked coins. It looked as if business had been good. The fat pimp’s fat face glistened with grease and sweat. Stood behind him was the brothel’s resident strong-arm, a mean natured Etruscan named Piso. Piso carried a short, thick headed wooden club, its head capped in iron. It hung loosely by a leather thong attached to his thick wrist, easily accessible. Drilgisa had heard others at the
ludus
talk about this ex-soldier. He had a reputation of hurting drunken customers badly, and had broken the skull of more than a few awkward patrons of the brothel. He was short, solidly built.

Albus looked up as Drilgia approached the table. Drilgisa unfastened his money pouch from his belt. A woman’s loud cry of pleasure rang out from the nearest room.

“I want the boy, Molacus,” Drilgisa stated bluntly.

“I’m afraid not,”said Albus, an irritated look on his face.

“I’ll pay double,” he offered. .

“Not if you paid ten times the fucking price!” said Albus, his voice now angry. “After you ripped the boy a second arse-hole the last time you visited, he was no good for anything. You’re a fucking animal!”

Drilgisa stepped back, feeling the heat rise up in him. He watched the strong-arm closely. He now held his club by the handle as he stepped alongside the
lino.

“You ruined one of my best earners. I had to sell him at a loss to a laundry, because he was no good to me after you’d finished with him. Now fuck off! Your money’s no good here.”

“What if I paid you the price of the boy?” he asked.

“Listen,
bustuarius.
As well the immediate loss of earnings, if it gets out that I allow my people to be ripped up, the slavers will hear of it and then charge me the fucking moon at the auctions!”

“I understand, but I can pay you well,” said Drilgisa, feeling more desperate.

“Are you stupid as well as ugly? The gods must have run out of everything but pig-shit when they gave you brains!” contributed the strong-arm as he stepped forwards.

He stabbed his club out in front of him, a hand’s span away from Drilgisa’s chest.

The skin stiffened across Drilgisa’s face and he felt his mouth dry out. His disappointment soaked away, replaced by something far more dangerous.

“It’s unwise to speak to me in such a way.” He spoke the words slowly, coldly. He clenched his huge fists, ready to strike, break.

“Go! Find some cripple or leper to fuck? And don’t come back!” shouted Albus, standing. His towers of coins spilled across the table, some falling to the floor.

Drilgisa judged the distance to the strong-arm. It would be over quickly. Then an urgent voice in the back of his brain whispered,
control, patience.
He let his fists uncoil. He backed away, eyes still focused on the end of the club.

“I want no trouble, I’ll leave.” He spoke the words softly, too softly.

Reaching the top of the landing, he clattered down the stairs and out onto the street, almost colliding with a man selling lucky charms. The peddler swore at him and Drilgisa swore back, with all the vehemence learned at the
ludus
. He looked back up the rickety stairs, where sniggering laughter lingered. He set off up the crowded street where light and colour had seeped from the world. He dodged a cart of wine-skins and strode onwards.

A number of heads turned to watch the burly, stooped figure. There was something in his angry, scarred face and wolf’ tattoos that made the hair lift on the back of their necks. A man who wore the rough clothes of a commoner and walked with the braced step of a swordsman.

Piso stepped unsteadily into the street. His head felt light thanks to the Falerian. Swaying swayed liked a ship he headed for his lodgings near the north wall. As he meandered forwards queasiness welled up in his guts. He guessed that he’d eaten too much.
We Romans know how to fill our bellies
, he reflected, despite the biliousness. He rubbed his stomach soothingly before unloosening his belt.

I should have given that last dish of spiced pork and onions a miss
, he chastised himself as he staggered on. He belched and chewed food and acid rose to the back of his throat. The pressure in his belly increased and he bent forwards. A geyser of vomit erupted onto the street.

He wiped the back of his hand across his soiled mouth, feeling a lot better.
Jupiter, I need a piss too!
he decided. His cock felt sore following his romp with Layla, the Egyptian whore. She was the brothel’s main attraction, and the ride had been free as well
. What a woman!
he recalled, grinning,
ol’ Albus’s not so bad
.

He propped himself against a lurching insula wall with one hand, his other delving into his loin-cloth for his cock. Enjoying the hot stream of relief he failed to detect another’s approach. The last thing he remembered was the sickening blow that drove his jaw sideways with a loud crack, then a bright light followed by blackness.