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

always kept the house in good repair, periodically instructing one of his workers to replace the occasionally damaged roof-tile and trim back the ever encroaching weeds and couch grass. The house was small but well located, boasting a magnificent view of the bay and the distant, but ever present mountain.
    Rare though his visits had been since his father’s death, he fondly recalled the many idyllic evenings spent in the company of the old physician. The villa’s position on a gently rising bluff guaranteed that it always caught the westerly sea breeze, the evenings being cool, relaxing. Neo’s mother had died in childbirth and he had no siblings. A shy youth, his father had been his only close friend, confidante and teacher. He’d loved the old man and missed him dearly.
    Neo promised himself that he would make the time to visit the villa. It could be arranged, if he spent less of his private hours administering to the town’s sickly poor. Most days they would loiter at the ludus gate entreating to see the sympathetic physician. Those that the guards did not discourage, the persistent ones, Neo would treat at the close of his ludus surgery. He also treated them at his home. The locals were well acquainted with the name of the serious physician who spoke little but treated the needy free of charge. Alexandros, a friend and fellow physician, frequently censured him for being a gullible fool, easily duped by a pained expression and tale of impoverishment. His friend had also been puzzled regarding his role as physician to the gladiator troupe, well acquainted as he was with Neo’s abhorrence of gratuitous violence, and Neo had been unable to provide a satisfactory rationale for his long standing service to the men of the arena. He realised that it was a clear paradox, flying in the face of his moral high ground, which condemned enslavement, cruelty and the state’s provision of butchery by popular demand.
    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