by Nick Morris
“Yet, she is not a physician,” he replied, seeing her smile quickly disappear, come and gone as quickly as the summer rain.
“Don’t worry so Clodian, as Flavia says, I’m in good hands,” said his father, his voice sounding a little stronger. Then to his wife. “Tell Akana that the honey is much appreciated. I have loved the fruit of the bee since a boy.”
“Of course my dearest, I will tell her. Akana will be pleased that she is of service to her new master in some small way. I can assure you both that her services have been invaluable to me.”
“Tell me, how goes your training with Belua,” his father asked him, keen to direct the attention away from himself.
“It’s going well…I think. Belua is a man of few words and even fewer words of approval.”
“There is nothing surplus with the doctore, I know. Yet, his standards are the best.”
“They are,” Clodian confirmed, almost without thinking.
“Now, I would rest,” said his father. “All this talk is tiring work.” He managed another weak smile.
Flavia bent and kissed his father. She was smiling again when she kissed him too. But the smile was not warm. Instead, it seemed full of delight; a revelling in a victory won.
She felt Akana’s nipple grow hard between her fingertips. Her other hand explored the moistness between her own legs. She drew her head back a little, breathless. The kiss had been deep, long. She squeezed the nipple hard, and Akana let out a small animal noise. Flavia reluctantly stepped away.
“As the master remains unwell I will be sleeping on my own tonight. In the bed-chamber nearest nearest the garden. It's quiet there and we'll not be disturbed.” She licked the moistness from her finger and Akana smiled in return.
It was just the two of them in the warm room of the house’s private baths. Both of their naked bodies were coated in sweat. Flavia knew that it was a place they could act and speak freely.
“My good husband looks like death and smells like a latrine,” she pulled a disgusted face as she spoke. “How long will I have to stomach him?”
“As requested, domina the poisoning needs to be subtle, with no one suspecting. The dominus is a sturdy man and the fruit of the yellow oleander flower will take some time to weaken him. The more honey he eats the sooner he will join his dead wife. And, there will be days when he’ll seem to recover, feel a little better. But this will pass, and he will die.”
“Your skill in such matters always impresses me,” said Flavia. “My husband asked me to thank you for the fresh honey.”
“Please tell the master that I will do everything I can to make ensure that he continues to have only the freshest honey. And, that if he is too weak to eat himself, it will be my honour to feed it to him.”
Flavia felt herself grow wet again as she listened to Akana’s words, watched her lick her full lips.
“Your lack of conscience and desire to serve delights me.”
“Thank you Domina,” acknowledged Akana with a slight bow.
Everything has begun splendidly, thought Flavia as she coaxed Akana’s willing mouth to hers.
Chapter 10
WAY OF THE FIST
Drilgisa silently watched the doctore wind the strapping around his opponent’s forearm. Today he was to spar with Pilus, the big Gaul. He hated the man and his bragging ways. He knew that the feeling was mutual.
He looked to his own caestus, the leather boxing gloves that reached up to his elbows. He turned the gloves over, making sure that the leather knuckle dusters were in the right position. When he’d fought in the arena these had been replaced by jagged metal ridges or spikes of iron and bronze. He briefly recalled his five fights. They had not really tested him, but he’d enjoyed each one. He’d ruined three of the opponents and the remaining two had later died from the brutal beating he’d given them.
The ludus had allowed him to do what he loved best – to inflict pain, and without reproach. All things considered he’d been satisfied with his new life…for a while. The food was wholesome and he’d been given the company of young male slaves to release his seed after he’d won. Anything was better than Solfatara. The other men dreamed of winning the rudis, the wooden sword of freedom, and it was something that he increasingly thought about.
“Cease fighting when I shout halt!” reminded Strabo, before barking the command to begin.
Drilgisa saw that Belua was also present. The senior trainer’s imposing bulk unmistakable at the edge of the palaestra.
Pilus grinned as he advanced. They had never fought before in practice, and Pilus regularly boasted that he could beat every pugile in the school with just one hand. He also knew that Pilus was a favourite of Strabo’s, with the trainer having great hopes for him.
Pilus’s lead hand jabbed out, glancing off the top of Drilgisa’s forehead. Quick for a big man, thought Drilgisa.
Pilus jabbed again, striking him above his right eye. Then again, Drilgisa pushing the blow aside with his rear hand. The Gaul followed up with a heavy overhand punch with his right hand, the blow landing on Drilgisa’s shoulder as he swayed to one side. The leather knuckle duster had gauged a strip from his skin. He hardly noticed the stinging that accompanied it.
Pilus, encouraged by his success delivered another big right hand blow. Drilgisa met the blow with the top of his head, where the skull was the thickest. He felt his teeth crunch together. The contact seemed to shudder up the Gaul’s arm, accompanied by a painful intake of breath.
Without pause, Drilgisa landed two blows into the middle of Pilus’s face. The first, a stiff left jab, opened his top lip, the second; a jolting right knocked him onto his rump. Blood pulsed from his broken nose as he shook his head to clear it. He was no longer smiling.
“Fucking hunchback!” Pilus blustered, blood and spittle spraying from his smashed lips. He pushed himself hurriedly to his feet.
Drilgisa was familiar with the other men’s name for him, but no one had dared say it to his face. The Gaul had made a terrible mistake.
Not allowing Pilus to regain his balance, he struck him a wicked hooked blow on the left side of the head, his legs planted firmly and all the weight of his body behind the punch. His massive gloved hand tore most of the Gaul’s ear from his head. The big man let out a squeal like a cut pig, before dropping to his knees. He held both hands to the injured side of his head, bright blood painting his caestus.
“Halt!” the command rang out. Drilgisa heard it, but the hot rage was strong in him. The name hunchback thrummed in his brain.
“Look, Gaul,” he taunted, “one hand!”
With one hand folded behind his back, he struck the kneeling man a rising blow under the chin. There was a cracking noise as Pilus’s head snapped back. His jaw took on a loose aspect. He toppled forwards onto his face, unconscious.
“Back!” Strabo ordered.
A ludus guard approached him from one side his spear levelled at Drilgisa’s chest. He took a few steps backwards.
Strabo was kneeling by the fallen Gaul. “His jaw is shattered and his ear’s fucked! Gordeo will have my guts for bow strings,” he said after a quick inspection.
Belua joined him, and a few of the veteran gladiators begun to gather round.
Strabo turned and glared. He felt the trainer’s hate wash over him.
“Take him to the infirmary,” Strabo instructed two of the watching gladiators. He stood up and ordered a guard to attach caestus to his hands. “It’s time I taught this fucking dog a lesson in obedience.”
“The lash will do that equally well, Strabo,” said Belua, stood close by, his recommendation voiced loud enough for all the gathered men to hear.
“Don’t interfere, Belua. Gordeo has made it clear that the Dacian is under my instruction.”
“It will be a mistake,” said Belua, calmly.
“It was a mistake for this fucking hunchback to disobey me!”
Drilgisa flinched at the insult, but was determined to not let his anger affect his ability
to meet the imminent challenge. The trainer was an experienced fighter and had very quick hands as well as strength. But, he has very few scars.
Those watching stepped back to give the combatants room. The guard with the spear followed suit.
“Defend yourself!” Strabo leaped forwards as he spat out the words to commence fighting. He launched a downward punch that jolted Drilgisa’s head backwards. He felt his eye-brow split.
He countered with a hooked punch of his own but found only empty air. Momentarily off balance he felt another land on the side of his head. A bright whiteness flashed behind his eyes, and he raised both fists high, to guard his head. He felt hot blood seep from his eye down the side of his face. Two blows landed against his right side, forcing the air from his lungs. He could hear the men cheer the trainer on.
Dropping into a low crouch, he risked a quick look between his raised caestus.
Strabo was sucking in his breath, ready to launch another attack. His face wore an arrogant smile.
Strabo hooked another punch into his ribs. This time Drilgisa turned with the blow, and taking a big step forward speared his right hand into Strabo’s surprised face.
The blow made solid contact and he felt the trainer’s teeth snap.
He followed up with a looping left hook to Strabo’s jaw that rocked him back on his heels. Strabo’s right hand moved protectively to the front of his face, and Drilgisa took the opportunity to thump two weighty blows into his unguarded right side. They were struck with venom, to be accompanied by the audible sound of rib bones cracking.
Drilgisa felt his spirit soar. I have never felt more alive than at times like this. He was aware that his manhood grew harder with each blow he struck.
Strabo’s hands had dropped loosely to his sides and his breathing came in whistling gasps. He could barely stand.
Drilgisa cupped Strabo’s bloodied chin in his massive left hand. He drew back his right fist for the finishing blow.
“Dacian!” the shout caught his attention and he turned instinctively in its direction. The club struck him, and then night entered his world.
The entire troupe was gathered to witness the punishment. Each man knew that Belua would not accept any excuse for non-attendance…only death, maybe.
Belua hawked and spat, satisfied that all were present – every tiro and veteran. There were no women. Women gladiators were a novelty in the arena and were usually pitted against dwarves or beasts. He’d once seen a female venatore fight in the Great Circus, but could not remember her name. He did remember that he’d been impressed by her speed and agility, and she’d killed well. He heard later that she’d achieved considerable success before being disembowelled by a boar in the old Etruscan town of Sabatia. A pity, as he would have liked to see her perform again, as she’d displayed a unique but no less deadly gracefulness quite unlike anything he’d witnessed in her male counter-parts.
Drilgisa was shackled to the cross shaped punishment post. He wore only a loin cloth.
The flogging was to be administered by Quartus; a ludus guard physically and temperamentally suited to the task. The brawny guard wore only a thin tunic, ready for the exertion ahead. Quartus was a mean natured bastard, but Belua had to admit that he was unmatched when it came to accurately laying on with the lash. He stood close-by, flexing his arms and stretching his shoulders.
The familiar lash had six leather thongs, the ends of which were tightly knotted to ensure grippage on contact with the victim’s flesh. Dark stains were clearly visible, testament to the lash’s history. Quartus casually drew the thongs through the fingers of one hand as if savouring the touch of the soiled leather.
Belua turned his attention to the assembled men.
“For disobedience Drilgisa will suffer fifty strokes of the lash. Let it be a lesson to all.” He knew that few words were necessary. The lash would speak for it itself.
His warning was met by silence and a few slowly nodding heads.
He strode to the punishment post. Standing close he spoke quietly to Drligisa,
“Remember that it was your pride that brought you to this.” He produced a small roll of leather from the inside of his tunic and placed it against Drilgisa’s lips. “Here, this will stop you biting off your tongue.”
He watched the Dacian bite into it, empty eyes staring straight ahead.
He beckoned Quartus forwards.
“Ready,” he asked.
Quartus nodded and Belua stood back.
The swish of leather sang in the hushed quiet. Quartus grunted as he put the full weight of his body into the blow. Drilgisa’s body jerked as the lash’s tentacles wrapped around his back and sides, seeming to stick for a brief moment.
Bright red welts bloomed across Drilgisa’s flesh.
“One,” Belua barked.
Drilgisa was ready for the second stroke and the muscles stood out on the backs of his arms and across his shoulders as he tensed them.
Quartus paused to get his breath on the twentieth stroke. Drilgisa’s body constantly shook under the punishment, his back a scarlet latticework of raised flesh. The skin was ruptured in places and blood trickled like dark honey. The Dacian had not as yet cried out.
“Proceed,” Belua instructed the red-faced guard. He looked to the assembled troupe, quickly scanning the array of sombre faces. He noted that young Cito, a new arrival from Syria, had emptied his breakfast onto the palaestra. He’ll get used to it, he mused.
At the fortieth stroke Quartus rested again. His blows has become more ragged as he’d tired, and a number had struck Drilgisa around the neck and head.
“Be careful,” Belua growled. “If you blind him you’ll take his place.”
Quartus nodded that he understood and then drew back his arm. The blow landed, accompanied by a wet thwacking sound. The Dacian’s legs crumpled, leaving him hanging like a bloody puppet from his shackles. The roll of leather dropped from his slack mouth to the floor. It was stained bright red.
The fiftieth stroke had been delivered and Belua watched impassively as two guards released Drilgisa from his chains. He’d been unconscious for a while. Laid face down one of the guards doused his back with clean water before applying a coat of finely ground salt to help prevent infection.
”Take him to the infirmary,” Belua instructed
Quartus, bathed in sweat, wiped the blood and bits of skin from his lash with a wet rag. “Didn’t make a sound.” He directed his comment at Belua. “He‘s the first. I must be losing my strength.”
Belua said nothing in response, merely spearing Quartus with a withering look.
He walked off briskly towards his quarters and a drink. It’s the first silent fifty I’ve witnessed, too, he admonished.
His sword arm felt like lead as he frantically parried the fresh attack. The pressing blade seemed to move impossibly fast, and he knew that his defence would not hold out much longer. His opponent stabbed at his groin and when he moved to parry, the sword tip was at his throat. Match over.
Gods, I should have seen that coming, he chastised himself.
“You must think more like the fox, Clodian, and less like the hare,” advised Prudes, now smiling broadly. He pushed the wooden gladius through the belt at his waist, before clapping Clodian encouragingly on the shoulder. “But, your footwork is improving.”
“Thanks to you,” said Clodian, enjoying the compliment. He’d quickly come to like the one-armed trainer, with his relaxed manner and easy smile. He sensed a resolute quality too, and he’d never seen a man wield a blade with such speed and deadly accuracy. When he’d come to his home, after the first traumatic meeting, Clodian had been stunned by the transformation. Wearing a plain black tunic, he’d bathed, shaved and swept his dark hair back into a top knot. His night black eyes were clear in his weathered face. He was a man ten years younger.
“Tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to encircle your adversary’s blade with your own, and then to guide it to one side to create an opening.”
�
��I look forward to it,” said Clodian, eager to take his leave. He’d been spending increasing amounts of time at the ludus with Neo, also helping him at his lodgings when he doctored to the city’s poor. He’d loved every moment. His admiration for the austere physician grew by the day, with Neo’s skill in the art of healing only being outdone by his patience when carefully explaining a specific procedure to him. Despite his intolerance for even the mildly frivolous, he was an excellent teacher. And, he was expecting him today, after practice.
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?”