by Nick Morris
When searching his heart, he admonished that having neither partner nor child, his life was hollow, without any real meaning or a purposeful future. Could it be that in living and working so close to pending death, he gleaned a singular endorsement to live? And, if Placidia had been at his side, things might have been very different for him?
He was eighteen when they first met.
Placidia had visited his home with her father. She was a reserved, frail looking young woman, two years his junior. On first inspection he had regarded her as un-notable, with her pale skin, short cropped hair and boy’s physique. Then, on introduction, as he held her tiny hand, she smiled. It was a rare thing and her face was transformed. Her clear, sea-green eyes had sparkled up at him and he’d felt his heart jump.
She was to fulfil the position of assistant to his father. A young woman of needy background, her poor health had mitigated against her obtaining more robust work. Diocles liked the girl’s father, a local farmer, and created a position for the young woman, more out of sympathy for the father’s predicament than need. The father was a widower, without sons, and was barely scratching enough from his small holding to fill their bellies. Working the land would have killed his only daughter.
Placidia moved into a tiny room at the rear of the small villa, assuming the role of cook, cleaner and general assistant to the physician and his trainee son. The new addition to the household quickly proved to be conscientious, as well as having an eager, active mind. As Neo increasingly assumed the responsibility of treating individual cases, Placidia’s worth became apparent, and she soon fulfilled the function of assisting both physicians with their treatments. Diocles quickly came to value Placidia’s contributions to the practice. Quick to learn, she demonstrated a gentle, caring approach with the patients. She was endeared to the old man and business flourished.
The following spring Diocles passed away. Neo discovered him one morning, curled up in his bed, as if asleep. His passing had been quiet, pain-free. Neo was devastated, there having been so much unsaid, so much that he’d wanted to convey to the old physician who’d always been there. But, death had come like a creeper in the night, cheating all opportunity for endearment or farewell. Neo and Placidia stayed on at the villa and kept the business going, although the house was now very empty without the old man’s genial presence and industrious pottering.
Between the busy periods of administering to the sick, they found time to become lovers. It was a time of tender discovery for them both. Their love for each other fortified their resolve to continue with their work and insulated them from the arrows of the out-side world. Devoted to each other, their private intimacy gave both their lives a new meaning.
It was discovered later that the out-break of lung-fever had arrived in the small coastal town on a lumbering grain ship bound for one of the southerly ports. The majority of the ship’s Egyptian crew had already succumbed to the bloody consumption prior to the behemoth limping into Stabiae harbour. Eventually, there would be no survivors.
Within days of the ship’s arrival, Placidia showed the first symptoms of the blight. An initial dry, non-productive cough quickly gave rise to a searing fever and an incessant, blood flecked hack. Never strong, the willowy Placidia failed quickly despite Neo’s desperate ministrations. Neither the diverse tinctures, frequent small helpings of bone marrow and sips of honeyed milk succeeded in putting any flesh on Placidia’s skeletal frame, or in halting the aggressive progression of the disease.
Placidia died within two weeks of contraction, slipping into unconsciousness and blessed release in his arms.
His arrival at Han’s shop jolted his thoughts back to the present. The sun scorched the skin at the back of his neck, and he wiped the beaded sweat from his top lip with his thumb. Afterwards, he would make his last visit of the day to the ludus, and he wondered if there’d be any new casualties following the day’s training?
Not that it mattered, because there were no other demands on his time.
It was the overpowering stench that first struck him. The noble’s appearance was barely an improvement. Belua was aware that Gaius Caesillius Ralla had been in poor health but the transformation in such a short time was shocking.
Belua had readily accepted the glass of wine offered him on entering the atrium, and his took considerable effort not to grimace at the foul stink that pervaded the room. The noble was seated opposite on a couch supported by cushions, with two servants in close attendance. Two tired eyes peered out from dark pits in his face, above hollow cheeks sunken in a face the colour of yellowed parchment. His bones seemed to jut out from the light tunic he wore, his arms appearing stick thin. He was aspectre of the man Belua had known.
“Thank you for coming.” The noble’s voice sounded as weak as he looked. “I regret that I have not been able to meet with you sooner. But, I’ve not been at my best. Regardless, I felt it was time to rise from my sick-bed and speak to you personally about my son’s progress.”
“Clodian has told me that you’ve been…unwell.”
“He’s attended to me each day. He’s a good and loyal son, and, I just hope that his time with me has not interfered too much with his training.” The statement was framed as a question.
“No, it hasn’t.”
“Good,” said the noble, trying his best to smile. “Please expand.” He leaned further back onto the cushions as if the mere effort of speaking was exhausting him.
“He’s completed his boxing training, and should be able to competently handle himself. He’s got fast hands and a firm jaw. Prudes is also pleased with his progress with the gladius and spatha, as well as his use of the legionary shield and the buckler. He’ll soon be ready to begin training with the dagger.”
“Is there room for improvement?”
“Always.”
“And there’s been no whinging about knocks and cuts?”
“Clodian is no whinger my lord, although I’d appreciate that you kept that between us.”
“Of course.” A genuine light sparkled for the first time in the noble’s eyes. “I would not want Clodian to think that Belua the Fist was easing up as he got older.”
The old man’s proud of him, thought Belua, before responding, “That name’s rarely mentioned anymore.”
“More often than you think,” said the Noble. “While I have the breath, let me share something with you, and then perhaps you’ll answer a question I’ve pondered on for some time.”
“That will depend on the question,” answered Belua, more than a little curious.
“Before I put this question to you, I would like to discuss a more delicate matter. At the commencement of his training Clodian was still a virgin – a situation that obviously needs to be remedied before his manhood ceremony. Has it been addressed?”
“Not yet,” answered Belua, knowing that it was something that he’d put off as long as possible. “But, it will be.”
“Good. It’s just that my son has a certain naivety when it comes in such matters, and I would like this arranged…delicately.”
“I can assure you that I will choose carefully.”
“My gratitude.”The noble rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “That’s all I wished to know.”
“What of your question for me?” Belua prompted, still curious.
“Of course.” With considerable effort he pushed himself more upright on the couch. The servants moved quickly to assist him but he waved them back. “I was fortunate enough to have witnessed a number of your early fights in Campania; as you rose to fame, shall we say, before you fought in the Great Circus. And, I was always impressed with the proficient manner with which you defeated your opponents.” He paused to take a breath, tilting his head back.
“Thank you, I always tried to end the fight as quickly as possible. My wind was good in those days, and I had some luck.”
“Luck sometimes, but mostly determination, skill and great strength.” The noble seemed to have got his breath back. “So indulge
me. I was in Capua the day you fought Ambiorix, the Gaul, and I witnessed something very different.”
Taken aback, Belua answered, “It was many years ago, and I can barely recall the match.” He lied.
Belua felt the angry blood rushing to the roots of his hair, but before he could continue indignantly the noble added with a trace of humour, “Come now, I’ve been accused of many things, but never a blind fool.” He sighed, before confirming, “It was the only time that I witnessed you punish an opponent the way you did Ambiorix. You deliberately cut him to pieces when you could have ended the fight early on...Or am I mistaken? But then, you don’t have to answer. I just thought you might indulge a sick old admirer.”
Belua took a long sip of his wine. He remembered the match well, and Gaius’s assessment was accurate. Ambiorix was the first Gaul he’d fought since contracting the pox as a young gladiator from Ciara, a Gaulish whore. He did not have it in him to beat the whore and so Ambiorix had suffered in her place. He’d been very bitter and foolish. Fuck it! What harm would it do to admit it now? And Gaius clearly knew his fighters. He felt his sudden anger flicker out.
“You’re right; I wanted to hurt the Gaul before finishing him. It was a personal matter, involving a woman. It was both risky and unwise. I was young, and my trainer never let me hear the end of it. I never made the mistake of letting my feelings rule my fists again.”
Ambiorix had been blinded and never fought again. What Belua didn’t say was that when he later discovered that the Gaul had a woman and small child in Capua, he’d secretly given her his match purse and more afterwards.
“Wisdom and youth seldom come hand in hand,” replied the noble, the lines of laughter in his face suddenly thin and hard as knife–cuts. “That I know very well from experience. I thank you for your honesty and I hope you don’t regret telling me, because your secret is safe with me.”
Belua ventured a grin as he rubbed his knee. It ached when he sat still for too long. “We have a saying in the ludus, that life is too short to waste it mulling too much on the future or regretting the past.”
“And you believe this?”
“I believe in learning from the past, and it’s said that a wise man never hastens.” He rubbed his heavy jaw pensively. “Regarding the future: if a man fails to be prepared then I believe that he must prepare to stumble…”
“And what of the gods and future?” queried the noble.
Belua took a breath. “I mean no disrespect, but I see the gods as fitful creatures…”
“Go on, speak freely.”
“I have no idea why they choose to intervene or not. When I pass to the other side I hope to be enlightened. Yet, if there is a god or goddess that rules fortune, they must have better things to do than spending their time dispensing favours and evils to mortals. It’s my belief that they give us the scroll, but it’s up to us what we scribble on it. I am no philosopher to do tricks with words, but I see fortune as the force each man and woman has inside them, which speaks and acts for them at crucial times in life, and the decisions they make can shape the pattern of their years.” A little embarrassed by the length of his reply, Belua took another swallow from his cup.
“There is wisdom in you doctore, and I like the way your mind works in straight lines. I understand why Clodian likes you, too.”
The noble was suddenly overcome by a bout of nausea and gestured urgently to one of the attendants, who quickly held a copper bowl in front of him. His whole body convulsed as he retched up small amounts of thick yellow fluid. Belua rose to his feet to assist in some way, before realizing that there was nothing practical that he could do.
Eventually the violent spasms subsided and the noble collapsed back into the cushions. It was a while before he could speak.
“I feel…that I may have overtaxed myself.” He wiped spittle from his chin with a handkerchief. “I think...I will retire to my bed now. Thank you for coming…and may your future be a prosperous one.”
The stink of disease strong in his nostrils, Belua replied, “And yours.”
He could not help wondering if he would speak with Gaius Caesillius Ralla again this side of the great divide.
Chapter 13
THE BUTCHER OF NOLA
It was the first time that Gordeo had visited him at his cell. He’d spotted him earlier in the day, and his bulk now filled door-way. Belua stood between them. One of the guards was positioned behind the pair, holding a torch.
Drilgisa was already on his feet.
“We have news of your next bout,” said Gordeo. “You will be matched against Marhabal the Nubian.”
“The butcher of Nola?” Driligisa already knew the answer.
“Yes, he is also known by that name,” said Gordeo. “He is currently regarded as the best in all Campania and a fearsome champion.” The evening was quite cool but he dabbed his sweating jowls with a flimsy white handkerchief. “Belua thinks that you are ready for such a test. And, it’s being fought here, in Pompeii, to celebrate the birthday of our great Emperor. It will be a great honour for you to fight on such an occasion and in front of your own crowd.”
Gordeo arched his brows, expecting him to respond.
He remained silent. Inside he felt a rising excitement. The Nubian’s record was impressive and well known. This was a real challenge for him; a chance to impress.
“How is his back?” Gordeo asked the head trainer.
“Not pretty, but it’s healed well.”
“Good,” said Gordeo. “Now, on to related matters; matters that I know will spur you on to success.”
Drilgisa was just relieved that he would fight again, and the fact that it was the Nubian was a bonus. The brooding threat of being returned to the mines had laid heavy on him. His loss of control had almost been his undoing, and he was determined not to err again.
“With victory you will receive a payment of a hundred denarii and with it the freedom to live in the city if you choose – funded out of your own pocket, of course. You will continue to take your meals at the ludus, to ensure that your diet is a proper one. Between now and the contest your access to a slave for a night, either woman or boy, will be restored. Afterwards, you’ll pay for such pleasures yourself.” He pursed his lips, as if searching for something else. He eventually looked to the trainer.
“Anything to add?”
Drilgisa knew that Belua had recommended the fifty strokes of the lash. But he did not blame the trainer for it. He’d been a fool and broken the first law of the ludus; that of total obedience. And, he realized that a return to the mines would’ve been the end of him. During the punishment and immediately afterwards, he’d cursed the trainer to the deepest hells, and envisioned subjecting him to the most painful of tortures. After, when the pain began to subside he was able to reason more clearly. He realized that in his own way he grudgingly respected the trainer; for his strength and unwavering methods. Methods to train men to be the best killers they could be.
Belua stood, and then rounded the table to stand before him, arms folded.
“Has the lash taught you anything?”
“Yes,” he answered truthfully, “to obey without question.”
The trainer’s eyes searched his own from beneath scarred brows. “We have twenty days before the games. The training ahead will make you wish you were back in Solfatara. But, I can assure you will be ready as any man to meet the Nubian.”
With the excitement growing in his guts, Drilgisa knew that he would always be ready to fight…and to kill.
Chapter 14
OLD WOUNDS
The Campania sun was a bright shield in the clear, azure sky. A beautiful day, thought Belua. The fresh breeze from the harbour was welcome after a tough day at the ludus, and the harbour front inn was fairly quiet at this time of day; quiet enough to talk about more sensitive matters.
It was late morning and the streets were mostly deserted, the sun reflecting off walls painted shades of white and pastel. The smell of brine hung in the ai
r mixed with the cooking odours from bars and hostelries along the sea-front. The Merry Dancer was located at the southerly end of Pompeii’s busy harbour; a retreat for those who preferred a better quality wine and enjoyed a game of dice.
Shading his eyes against the climbing sun, he looked up at the tree covered slopes of Vesuvius. The locals believed that a giant slumbered beneath its slopes. Old men had told him that when they were young the giant had awoken, and the ground had shaken as he flexed his great muscles, and when he’d groaned his breath could be seen as clouds of smoke that trailed to the heavens. Belua knew that old men liked to tell tales; tales that got grander by the telling, and he learnt to believe only what he saw with his own eyes. Yet, the mountain was different to any other he’d seen, and the air at its peak was always warm, often carrying a foul odour.
His eyes caught the movements of two birds gliding on the heated air from the mountain cone. Crows, he decided, scavenging for food.
He turned his attention to the harbour.
Boats of various sizes and shape bobbed and creaked nearby: pot-bellied merchants, a giant grain ship just arrived from Egypt and a glut of smaller fishing boats. From the depths of a nearby trading ship’s belly arose a sound that caused the slaves unloading the vessel to jump back. The supervisors barked new commands, applying whips to get the unloading crew working again. Slowly, as a slave worked the wharf-mounted crane, a wooden cage emerged from the ship. The bars were set close together, but even so Belua could see a massive dark shape moving angrily inside, shifting and snarling. Slowly, gently, the slave swung the cage out over the wharf. A chance breeze, rising up from the bay caught the cage, shifting it from its path, swinging it towards the mast. It hit, not hard enough to cause damage to the mast itself, but, enough to crack one of the cage’s wooden bars. As the edgy slaves gaped, a black paw, lined with huge ivory claws, darted out, ripping at the empty air. It was one of the great bears, bound for the arena.