Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two by Nick Morris

of farewell. He headed in the direction of the harbour front, a much neededlatrine and soothing shade .
    I must be getting crass in my old age , he pondered. It’s a pity Belua has less time to accompany me on such outings. He admonished that he missed the doctore’s expertise and his company. Instead, he had to work with fools like that fucking peacock, Strabo. Thankfully, not any longer in his case.
    There was no doubt in his mind that Belua was worth his weight in silver, and he’d always played him fair. As straight and unwavering as a spear, Gordeo always knew that Belua’s advice was well thought out, unbiased…well, only on occasion when it came to certain Gauls. Recently his work with the young noble had taken precedent. He could not blame him for taking advantage of the extra coin, and he knew that Gaius Caesilius Ralla paid well. He was aware that for some time Belua had made vague noises about retiring from the arena game, and even someone as robust as he was couldn’t go on indefinitely.
    In fact, he’d been increasingly thinking about retiring himself. It would be interesting to see his family in Patavium again. He’d had no contact with them in more years than he could easily remember. Not since he’d become an Imperial Procurator . If he’d told them they’d have disowned him. Like many patrician families they regarded his current profession with disdain, all the while recognising the practical role procurators played in the facilitation of Rome’s Games. Yet, no respectable Roman family wanted their son to carry out such a job. He sighed. After all these years perhaps his parents were dead, and he had no brothers and sisters that he knew of. They probably thought the same about him.
    An anguished cry rang out behind him. Looking back he saw one of the auction attendants drag the struggling slave boy off the podium. His mother was being pulled along the floor by her hair in the opposite direction. She cried out again, a desperate woeful sound. The attendant struck her face with his fist and she was silent.
    He realized that they were to be sold separately, the boy at least. The woman’s fate would be a lot grimmer.
    Despite the discomfort in his stomach he walked a few steps towards the podium.
    “Wait,” he called to the attendant, then to Vulso who stood close-by.
    “My kitchen can always use extra hands; I’ll pay you seven hundred sesterces for them both.”
    “I intend selling the boy to the mines, and I know I’ll get that sum for him alone,” replied Vulso, wearing an oily smile.
    Lying bastard , thought Gordeo, feeling as if his guts was about to drop out.
    “Eight hundred then, and no more.”
    “Done,” said Vulso, rubbing his hands together.
    For a moment, Patavium did not seem so far away.

Chapter 12
     
    REFLECTIONS
     
     
    The clinic at the physician’s home had been a busy one.
    Neo looked up as Clodian entered the treatment room. He’d returned from assisting an old woman with a leg ulcer to make her way to her home close by on the Via Teatri.
    Neo’s lodgings were small, frugal, consisting only of a pair of ground floor rooms located on the corner of an insula in the shadow of the city’s large Stabian Baths.
    He watched Clodian diligently gather up the various instruments that he’d used, then place them in a bowl of boiling water. He then added the correct amount of witch-hazel from a small pot. Clodian’s studious approach had impressed him greatly, and he rarely had to demonstrate a procedure twice. Furthermore, Clodian liked people; the old, young, crippled, the grateful and the thankless. He had a smile and sensitive word for them all. He’d been a great help and his irrepressible good humour was infectious. Even with a sour old apple like me, he admonished.
    “How are your lessons with Belua and Prudes going?” he enquired.
    “I think I‘ve made some progress,” replied Clodian. “At least that’s what Prudes tells me. Although Belua is a man of few