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

new wife.
    He felt Flavia pull the cover aside, her tongue probing the hairs of his groin. He squeezed his eye-lids tighter, determined to prolong the ecstasy.
    A moment followed when he could longer feel her.
    Then, his cock was enveloped by a moist, coaxing mouth. He could hold back no longer. Such was the release that he stretched open his eyes.
    Flavia now lay at his side, smiling, and tilted up between his legs were the black eyes of the slave Akana.
     
    Hands on hips Belua surveyed the training gladiators. Ludus Gordeo’s palaestra was the largest in Pompeii, and today every part of the training field was busy. Clodian was at his side. It had been the youth’s first real view of the ludus , and he stood transfixed by what he saw.
    The large grassy courtyard was surrounded on three sides by a continuous two story building. Belua had informed Clodian that this area included the infirmary, the refectory and his quarters. A series of stone pillars decorated with the roughly hewn images of men and gods and other graffiti held up the wooden gallery. It was capped with red tiles and topped with sharp iron spikes to prevent any escape over the roof. At regular intervals on the ground floor, black, windowless doorways stared out from the gallery onto the training field – the gladiators’ cells. The fourth side of the square had a high stone wall which faced out onto the street and was only broken by a stout iron gate. The courtyard itself contained a number of hacked wooden posts set at regular intervals in the ground – the standard practice posts for swordsmen. At the farther end were two punishment stocks, now empty, and a thicker post
with a short cross-bar. This post was not hacked like the others, but was draped with a set of heavy iron manacles and marked with dark stains. It was the ludus whipping post.
    Belua quickly realized Clodian had a very discerning eye, as was evidenced by the questions he asked. He enquired about the composition and ranking of the troupe, and Belua admitted that he found the youth’s enthusiasm contagious. He’d explained that the barracks currently housed forty gladiators, with an additional ten gladiators, mostly free men, living in the city itself. He’d expanded that these men fought mainly for silver, the thrill of combat, for the adulation and the women that went with it. Clodian had looked contemplative when he’d explained this, but remained silent. He
informed the youth that the men were divided into three classes – the tiros , who were beginners and had not fought on the sands; spectati , who had one or more fights under their belt; and veterani , the men who had successfully won a number of matches but had not amassed enough silver to buy their freedom, or who having bought it, decided to remain in the ludus to fight on, or perhaps to become instructors themselves. He pointed out that the spectati and veterani trained only until mid-day, whereas the tiros , while avoiding the hottest part of the day, trained for a further three hours in the afternoon.
    Clodian had asked him if the men watched their stable mates fight on the day of the games. “On the days we compete, we all go to the arena,” he replied. “Even the tiros , because it’s good for their spirit to see their fellow gladiators parade around the arena in shining armour and feathered helmets, and, it makes a fine show for the crowd.”
    The young noble listened intently as he spoke.
    “Those who do not fight can get a good look at the games, a taste of what’s to come. Most of the fights are agreed upon before–hand; whether it’s to be fought to first blood, or to the death. The idea is to build up a promising gladiator’s reputation through several victories until the whole of the city is screaming for him to win. Of course, sometimes it goes wrong and your man gets the ‘cutting thumb’ from the games’ editor and has his throat cut. Mercy, pity or leniency are words these men must put aside. Kill