Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two (24 page)

Then Orbiana’s face was close to his.

“Breath slowly, relax your body and let your legs float up to the surface,” she advised. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

“Gra...gratitude,” Clodian managed, aware that his stupidity and the mighty sea had almost completed what the witch Flavia had begun.

His strength gradually returned, and together they slowly swam back to the safety of the shallows.

On the beach he stood watching her as she strapped on her sandals. “You do not even seem tired.”

“As I said, I’ve swam since I was very young, and I’m stronger than I look.”

“That’s clearly true,” stated Clodian, grinning.

Her legs and arms were slim, firm, and her long hair, shaken loose and darkened by the sea, streamed down around her face and over her shoulders. He told himself to keep looking at her face but the temptation was too great. The water had plastered her short dress against her body, so that it outlined her breasts, hips and the curving-together outlines of her loins. Nakedness could scarcely have revealed any more.

She smiled, knowing that he was watching her.

She stepped close, and on tip-toe put her hands lightly on his shoulders to steady herself. She ran her tongue once, twice across his lips, and then moving away pulled her tresses into a pile on the crown of her head.

He reached out for her and gripped her shoulder, drawing her to him. His hands cupped her face and he bent to crush his mouth against hers, to feel the heat of her tongue again. His hands touched the coiled neatness of her hair and he pulled it loose, so that the coils fell cascading over his arms in soft waves. He filled his hands with the firmness of her buttocks, pressing her loins against him, lifting her body off the ground in his eagerness.

“Where can we go?” he gasped out the words.

“Come, the villa’s not far,” she said, breaking his hold before he could even think.

She beckoned for him to follow her up the beach, and he gave up trying to think as he watched the movement of her legs and hips through the clinging tunic, his heart pounding furiously for the second time that morning.

Prudes slumped down into the chair, worn out. He’d obtained the much needed supplies but had not even stopped for a meal. Belua’s quarters were cool with the head trainer pouring him a drink. He pushed the filled cup across the table to him, together with a plate of pale cheese and some fresh bread. Prudes took a long drink of the watered wine then attacked the food.

“You look fucked,” said Belua, leaning back in his chair.

“You don’t look too good yourself,” he responded between mouthfuls, noticing Belua’s blood-shot eyes and the rawness in his voice.

“Too much of Gordeo’s wine last night,” said Belua, rubbing his temples with his thumbs.

“Really? Are you sure you didn’t dream it?”

“I could hardly believe it myself, knowing the tight bastard.”

“He could buy from a Spaniard and sell to a fucking Greek and still make a profit,” quipped Prudes.

“True.”

“Did he give a reason?” asked Prudes, still incredulous.

“That’s what was so interesting…and worrying too.”

“Pray explain.”

“After some general talk about the
ludus
and the Dacian, he asked about Clodian’s absence from the city. He was persistent…in a clever way.”

“I see,” said Prudes, the food suddenly feeling heavy in his gut. “Do you think Flavia has bought him?”

“I would not have thought so…until last night.”

“I’d better get back then,” said Prudes, taking another long drink. He tucked the remaining bread and cheese inside his tunic for the return journey.

“I take it the pair of them are fine?”

“Loved up,” said Prudes, before adding with a tired smile, “and it’s playing hell with my sleep.”

Belua sighed knowingly.

“And you’ve said nothing to Zamura?”

“Only that I’ll be gone for a while. On my advice she’s also taken a holiday away from the city. As a precaution.”

“Good.”

“Time to go,” said Prudes, heading for the door.

“Prudes,” Belua called to his back. “Tell Clodian…” he seemed to struggle with the
words. “Tell him that I’ll visit soon.”

“I will. He’ll be pleased.”

“And, be careful,” said Belua. It was the first time his friend had ever said this to him.

“Always,” he replied, stepping into the sun.

After Prudes’ departure Belua watched the rays of the sun slowly retreat across the room’s wooden floor as dusk approached. The talk of eager love, of Clodian and Orbiana, had triggered a rare time of reflection. It was something that he rarely dwelled on. The memory of his wife and son’s death still ached like an old wound despite the passage of time, and he still worried that one day his wife’s special smile would fade when he shut his eyes to remember. He’d loved her greatly, believing that he’d never find such closeness with another.

He’d been wrong, and despite the passing years the memory of Elissa and his feelings for her was still fresh in his mind.

After winning his freedom in Rome’s Great Circus (
see prequel, War Raven
), he’d indulged in all manner of fleshy pleasures. Some he could remember, while others were lost in the fog of drunkenness that characterised his new found liberty. Yet, he’d never forgotten his first time with her, just one of a thousand whores in the mother city. From Carthage, she was shapely but no great beauty. It was her tenderness that drew him to her. He’d been with whores before, but he soon found that he was returning to the same brothel and lying with the same woman.

Later, he’d pay for Elissa’s company for the entire night. She would tell him about her life in Carthage before she was enslaved; about a simple but contented life. A life that ended brutally when her father was convicted of sedition. He was sentenced to the cross along with her mother. Elissa was sold and then shipped to Rome.

She told him that she’d been named after a famous queen of her people, as well as speaking of other things too – about Baal, her people’s god of healing and their famous commander – the great Hannibal Barca. She retold how he’d won many victories against Rome over two hundred years past. He’d listened avidly as she described how this Hannibal had led a great army of war-elephants over high mountains that brushed into the sky, eventually arriving in Rome’s northern lands. She’d sounded sad when she relayed how Hannibal had finally been defeated, and how even now the soil of Carthage struggled to bear crops after Rome had levelled the great city and sown the ground with salt. Belua had not found it hard to believe, and he too talked of his people’s struggle with Rome, his early life and the loss of his family.

As the days passed their intimacy went beyond the mere release of his seed. Maybe it was what he chose to believe? Eventually, he knew that their relationship could not continue as it was. He no longer had the funds to regularly purchase her time, and the thought of her lying with other men tortured him. And he was unable simply to buy her.

One night he told Elissa that he could not see her again. She’d cried, not saying a word. He’d left before he did something rash, like stealing her away, with the cross being their fate when caught.

Within days he realized that he could not be apart from her. He made a decision to do something he’d sworn to never repeat. He would again fight in the arena and with his fee buy Elissa’s freedom. It would be his last fight.

He recalled his excitement as he entered the brothel on the outskirts of the
Subura. He was eager to give Elissa the good news. He couldn’t wait to see her and hold her, to see the relief on her face.

The
lino
had greeted him as usual. Belua informed him that he would buy Elissa’s time for the night. The
lino
informed him that she had been buried in a pauper’s unmarked grave outside the city’s walls two days previously. He told Belua that she’d hung herself on the night he’d made his last visit. A shocking coldness washed over him, and he felt as if the walls were collapsing inwards.

Cruel realization dawned on him when the
lino
clapped him on the shoulder, telling him not to worry, because he’d employed the services of another African whore who would certainly be able to cater to his needs.

After breaking the
lino’s
jaw, he’d rushed out into the night. He’d drank for two days and nights without pause.

Since that dreadful night he’d never forgiven himself for faltering or Elissa for leaving him the way she did.

Chapter 29

THE WATCHER

She immediately noticed that something was amiss with Akana and wasted no time enquiring about the meeting.

“Did you give him the information and the map locating the villa?”

“Yes,” Akana answered. Her face looked strained and she clutched her cloak tightly at the front as if trying to hide something.

“Was the information suffice?”

“He said he has everything he needs.”

“Good,” said Flavia. “So tell me. What else transpired?”

“What do you mean?” queried Akana, looking pale despite her naturally dusky complexion.

“I know
you
, girl,” said Flavia, a little vexed, “so don’t let me ask again.”

After a brief silence, Akana spat out the words as if they were something foul. “He fucked me…I had no choice.”

Flavia approached her, and without preamble slipped her hand inside her tunic, probing between her legs with her fingers. Akana looked surprised but allowed her to proceed.

Withdrawing her hand, Flavia rubbed her fingers together, smiling perversely. There was blood amongst the man-fluid.

“He took you when it was your bleeding time?” she prompted.

“No, he cut me.”

Taken aback, Flavia instructed, “Show me.”

Akana lifted her tunic. Her plump breasts were covered in raised teeth marks, her blue brown nipples inflamed; the product of rough attention. Flavia’s eyes traced over her body, the silky smooth skin the colour of chestnuts. She paused above the thick black hair of her pubis. There was a wound cut in the clear shape of a snake, cut by a very sharp knife. The skin around the effigy was red and swollen, but had been carved with considerable skill and attention to detail. She mused that it was quite an achievement considering the obvious pain it caused the subject. Flavia’s fingers traced the raised shape of the serpent, a shock of pleasure running through her.

“He’s an animal,” said Akana, the hate clearly etched on her face.

“Yes, he is,” agreed Flavia, “a very intriguing one. “

Akana lowered her eyes to the floor.

“Go, bathe,” Flavia counselled. She watched Akana rearrange her clothing then leave the room. Alone, she wondered if Coluber would entertain a meeting with her, after his work was done?

Picturing the bloody serpent in her mind, she hoped he would.

The inky blackness of the sycamore grove provided him with an excellent view of the villa as well as concealment. From his vantage point Coluber could see the one-armed body-guard sat on the waist high wall of the porch.

He’d watched the occupants for the past three days and nights – the victim, his woman and one-arm. One-arm had the look of a fighter; his movements fluid, efficient. He carried a short sword with him at all times and was doubtless very proficient in its use. He would be the main obstacle, the youth and his whore would be much easier. Flavia wanted no survivors. An evil bitch that one, but he’d still like to fuck her, like he’d fucked her messenger. He grinned, picturing their recent encounter.

Since his arrival he’d registered every detail of the small villa and its access routes. He knew what times the occupants took their meals, washed and visited the latrine.

He smiled glibly as he turned his attention to the amber glow from the bedroom facing the sea. The noble and the girl were there, probably fucking. A thrill ran through him as he pictured cutting them as they coupled. It was not the first time that he’d sent victims across the Styx under such circumstances, and he’d enjoyed the act all the more.

He knew these would be his last kills; the last of many. He gauged the total number as a hundred at least. He was barely twenty summers when he’d killed his first man, and it had not been for money but over a woman. A woman whose name he could no longer even recall. The killing had got easier afterwards, notably when he killed for silver. Men, women it hadn’t mattered to him, as he’d butchered scores of both. But, he’d not take a child’s life again.

Six years past he’d been paid handsomely for dispatching an infant of noble blood. The act itself had shaken him more than he’d imagined, and afterwards he told himself that the stab to his conscience would pass. It never did, and the stark image of the deed still visited him on the blackest nights, leaving him shaken and maudlin for days.

Shaking the bad memory from his head, he concentrated on one-arm, who now stood and stretched. He would retire soon, close to his charges. One-arm was good, and had not given him any opening to do his work. But, he’d be patient, knowing that his time would come. There would be a brief lapse, a dropping of the guard; there always was. And, he never failed…

A large crow cawed from the tiled roof of the villa. Sat in the small
atrium,
Drilgisa listened to the bird’s singing.

He’d always found the avians’ songs relaxing, and his people held particular beliefs about them. He remembered his mother telling him that some birds like a flock of sparrows meant good fortune. Birds, she believed, were the way that their gods communicated with mortals and that people should not turn their backs on them. They were sent to encourage, or warn or just demonstrate their power over man. The owl or crows in a line were a warning of some dark event, and an eagle gave hope just by their sight. A solitary raven landing nearby, she told him, was an omen of coming battle. She predicted that their time as messengers was coming to an end, that because we failed to recognise them as such, the gods would take this gift of portents from us. Regardless of whether he’d believed her words with any conviction, her instruction had always stayed with him.