Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (2 page)

Drilgisa nodded his head in acknowledgement.

The rain of death had stopped and the entire front of the Roman army now moved forward as one as more commands rang out. The Dacian ranks were now much quieter, and the sound of a thousand iron shod Roman boots moving steadily forwards filled the air. Drilgisa could feel the ground thrum beneath his feet.

The Roman front advanced to twenty paces, then ten. He could see the faces of his enemies above their shields. Some set hard, resolute, others pale with fear.
Good, I will give you cause to be afraid
. Drilgisa grinned, an awful rictus. He felt his excitement build, and he ran his tongue over his top lip, tasting the salty tang of his own sweat. Ten paces…Drilgisa’s heart felt as if it would burst from his chest and his mouth was suddenly dry. Now five paces…Drilgisa blinked the sweat from his eyes. He drew his
falx
back, high over his right shoulder, as he’d drilled to do so many times. The Roman wall of steel was almost on him, so close he could see the colour of the Roman’s eyes in front of him: rabbit brown orbs stretched wide. The Roman’s short sword stabbed out. Drilgisa twisted his body, but too late! Then the sword was turned aside just as its point pierced his leather jerkin, the old warrior’s shield batting it off target.

The Roman, now slightly overextended, took a step forward, his upper body tilting to his front, his head now slightly lowered. Drilgisa advanced, his weight switching to his front foot as he swept the
falx
down over the rim of his adversary’s shield, into the crease where the Roman’s head met his shoulder. The Roman screamed, the
falx’
s razor edge cleaving him to the chest bone. Drilgisa smiled, a strange headiness washing over him,
Gods, this is being alive…stronger than ale, sweeter than fucking! It’s everything I hoped it would be.
He ripped his
falx
free from the Roman’s chest, at the same time stepping back into formation. The Roman’s life blood had showered his chest and face, before he’d crumpled to the earth. Drilgisa licked his splashed lips, savouring the coppery taste.

“That’s the way,” the old warrior’s voice rang out at his side, “keep swinging that fucking beauty.”

Drilgisa sucked in a deep breath, sparing a quick look to either side of where he fought. Great clouds of steam blanketed the battling warriors, sweating bodies straining to gain ground over the dead bodies of their foes. The grating clang of sword and axe was intermingled with the screams of
startled pain as sharp iron cut flesh, as the dying cried out. Some pleaded for mercy, others to an end to the pain.
There will be no mercy today,
thought Drilgisa.

The two hosts were fully engaged to each side of him, along the entire curve of the valley. He quickly fixed his gaze back to his front.

Where his victim had fallen another Roman had stepped forwards into the breach which was again unbroken. He could not help but admire such iron discipline.

A short sword darted towards his guts, but this time he was ready. He had always been quick to learn things that involved fighting and inflicting pain on others. Even that black dog who he’d once called father had agreed that he had a special talent for such things. This time he struck not the man but at the sword itself, the contact shuddering up the length of his arms. The heavy
falx
snapped the Roman sword in two. Following up his advantage he pushed forwards, kicking against the Roman’s shield, knowing that he’d be unable to counter him. The Roman staggered back into the man at his rear. He had nowhere to go, and seeing his plight raised his shield upwards to protect his head against to deadly
falx
.

Dropping into a squat Drilgisa swept his blade in a low ark, slicing clean through his opponent’s left leg just above the knee. The Roman toppled onto his side, his bloody stump spraying blood skyward. Before his fellow Romans could step forward to protect their prone comrade, Drilgisa struck again, the
falx
chopping into the fallen Roman’s face. The
falx
bit deep, its curved edge slicing through the bronze cheek guard on the Roman‘s helmet. The Roman squealed once, like a wounded pig, and then he was silent. Grunting with effort, Drilgisa tried to wrench his blade free, but it was stuck fast. Romans pressed in on him from the front and sides. Blade tips licked towards him. He felt a hot pain in his thigh and knew he was cut. He had no choice but to abandon his
falx
. He let go and jumped back.

Fuck it
, he cursed.
Where was the old bastard?

Back in formation he realized there was no one standing at his right side for at least five paces. The old warrior lay face down in the bloody muck nearby, recognisable by the scarred hand that even in death gripped the notched sword. He’d fallen where he’d made his stand, a Roman javelin jutting from his neck.

Wasting no time on the dead, Drilgisa faced his enemies once more. A great barritus went up from the Roman formation as they advanced as one. Their greater numbers and iron discipline was taking its toll. The Roman wall of bristling iron moved steadily forwards against a reeling battle line, over dead and wounded alike. Gaps were appearing in the Dacian ranks, with sections being forced backwards up the slope of the hill, towards the dark forest guarding their rear. A salvo of javelins and sling-stones ripped into them, and more warriors went down.

Drilgisa snatched up the old warrior’s shield, just in time to block a sword thrust as the Roman shield wall pressed steadily forwards. He drew his long dagger from his scabbard at his waist. He parried another word thrust with it. He knew he would soon be cut down, and bitterness rose up in him. He felt no fear of imminent death, just a terrible regret that he would not survive to kill again.

All about him loud commands in Dacian erupted, “Back! Fall back to the forest. Fall back!”

In response, Drilgisa screamed a great “Nooooo!” into the face of his nearest foe. The Roman halted for a brief moment, so awful was the ululation.

But, despite his rancour, Drilgisa knew at that vital moment that he must live to fight on, that there would other days to kill these Roman dogs. He threw his long knife into the started Roman’s face, saw it clang from the top of the warrior’s helmet before he turned and was running. He dropped his shield as it would only slow him.

Stretching his legs he raced towards the welcoming cloak of the forest. He saw that all around him his countrymen were retreating up the hillside in ragged numbers. About him fleeing warriors were struck down as another hail of Roman javelins found their backs, launched from the rear formations now that the two armies had spread apart. A whistling sound like angry insects cut through the air as the Roman slingers advanced to unleash their small but deadly missiles.

Drilgisa focused his gaze on the rapidly approaching tree line. His breath came in heaving gulps and his leg muscles burned hot as the hill’s gradient took its toll.

Reaching the spur he snatched a quick look to his sides. He saw that he had outpaced most of his countrymen and that he would soon reach the trees. He had no idea how many or how few were still behind him, and he dared not stop to look back.

The forest called to him, only moments away. His breath now came in great painful rasps, his mouth hanging open. A few warriors had reached the forest ahead of him, great whoops of relief ringing out as they entered the canopy of trees. He felt his legs wobble, and then he collapsed forwards. His face cut a gouge in the earth, dirt and bits of grass forced into in his eyes, nose and mouth. His nose was bleeding and his eyes watered. He had little strength left but he knew he had to get up; the forest was barely twenty strides way. There was a tight pain in his chest and a buzzing web of blackness before his eyes. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision.

Clenching his teeth, his muscles screaming their protest, he pushed himself to his feet. His head felt light but he forced his legs to move unsteadily forwards.
Nearly there, a little further and I’ve made it
. He grinned wryly, reminding himself that he was more of a man than his fucking pig of a father ever was.

Nearing the tree-line, he sucked in the leafy odour. Then his vision cleared for a moment and he saw a large male fox stood watching him from the shadows at the forest edge, its eyes shining like burnished copper. He took another step forwards, this time a little steadier, his strength slowly returning. He studied the fox, saw its body shake. He looked into its eyes and saw the raw fear there and the sly cunning too. The fear of man and beast had always given him pleasure, as his own young fear had fed his father’s perverse tastes. Staring deep into the fox’s eyes he savoured what he saw.

For an instant Drilgisa heard the rush of air, then darkness washed over him.

Chapter 2

POMPEII 14 A.D.

The villa of Magistrate – Gaius Caesilius Ralla

Gaius rose slowly from his seat to greet his son as he entered the villa’s enclosed garden. He knew it was one of his son’s favourite places, where he had spent much of his time when his wife had been alive.

He greeted his son with a kiss to the forehead. He smiled, realizing that his son was almost the same height as himself and growing fast. Holding him at arm’s length he inspected him closely.

“I see your mother in you more each day,” said Gaius. He drank in his son’s gentle grey eyes, pale skin and light brown hair; so unlike his own dark locks and swarthy complexion, so un-Roman. He squeezed his son’s slim arms, adding with a grin, “I see we still need to build you up, put some muscle on your bones.”

Clodian grinned in turn, taking no offence.

“Come, sit, I have some important matters that I wish to discuss with you.”

The Campania sun was hot despite the cooling sea breeze, and Gaius had placed two chairs in the shade of the garden’s apple trees.

He cleared his throat before speaking, feeling a little uneasy, knowing that his son would not be happy with the decisions he’d already made. But hopefully not too unhappy, as he loved the boy very much and had no wish to upset him. However, being the son of an influential patrician like himself had responsibilities – responsibilities that Clodian would now have to face up too. Knowing the boy’s nature, he had put off this discussion for too long.

“First, I wish to discuss your studies,” Gaius began.

“Have I not studied hard enough father?” queried Clodian, wearing a puzzled look. “My tutor tells me I have not done badly in my Latin studies, and my study of history and arithmetic too?”

Gaius sighed, knowing this would be difficult.

“I have no concerns regarding your diligence in these areas,” corrected Gaius. “It is other areas that I’m concerned about. In a year’s time you will be sixteen, a time when you will become a man and assume your Roman citizenship. And, you are my only son and heir.”

Clodian’s eyes met his own, “Father, I want to reassure you that I have reverence for the gods, respect for the law, and give due obedience to authority.”

“I see I must speak more plainly,” said Gaius, his expression now serious. “When you eventually take my place, your life will greatly change. The world that I live in is a dangerous one.” He paused, wanting his words to sink in. “There are powerful men who would see me dead, not because they hate me as a man, but because they envy the authority that I wield. I am always cautious, ever on my guard – alert to the knife in the busy street and the silent adder released into my bed-chamber. The threats are sometimes hidden and at other times they wear a smiling face, coming in the guise of a friends feigning to be of assistance. They would as soon poison the wine I sup with them. You must be ready for these dangers Clodian, in all its guises. As ready as I can make you.”

“I see,” said Clodian, his voice now very quiet, his brow furrowed.

“So, I have made some plans for the coming year. I know you have avoided your martial training whenever possible,”Gaius continued, in a tone that would brook no argument. “Your time with books is ended, for now. I have made enquiries to obtain the services of a personal trainer, a gladiator instructor of some repute. He will train you in the skills of the sword and other related skills to help you survive, and also. . .” Gaius paused to read his son’s expression, with Clodian looking decidedly glum, “the skills of the bed-chamber. It’s my guess that you have not as yet bedded a woman.”

“No, I haven’t,” the boy’s face coloured red.

“Well, that is something we must remedy before you don your
toga virilis
, as befits a grown man.”

His son’s head dropped, and Gaius felt an old ache in his chest.
He’s so like his mother,
he thought,
my dear, departed Helena
.
Has it been ten summers already since I last saw her sweet face?
He placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed gently, a reassuring gesture.

“Come, head up,” he said, his smile returning. “It cannot be so bad a thing that I ask?”

Gaius knew his son would not take the news well. He reached up and plucked an apple from an over-hanging branch. Strong fingers broke the fruit in two. He held out a half to Clodian, who reached out to the fruit, still not looking up. Gaius noted how slim and delicate his son’s hands were, so unlike his own which were thick and calloused from years of campaigning and wielding a sword. His son would not have to earn his wealth and position in the same manner as he had, and he was glad about this.

As a young Tribune he‘d served Caesar Augustus loyally in the civil wars and later in the conflict in Spain. Afterwards, Caesar had rewarded him for his support, by awarding him a senior position in his newly formed Praetorian Guard – nine thousand strong. He smiled inwardly when he recalled the sour envy of his peers in the regular army who envied the triple pay he received, which dwarfed their own, as well as the unrivalled prestige that the elite guard enjoyed. With promotion had come Augustus’s favour, and later the granting of a generous estate in Campania on his retirement from the army. It ensured his continued loyalty. In a way he’d been lucky regarding the side he’d picked, but, even in those early days he’d recognized in Augustus the special traits that would make him a great Caesar. When in power he’d broken the power of the corrupt army generals and brought peace to most of the Empire.