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

or be killed is what their world has become, and it’s my job to train their minds to be cunning and their bodies strong.”
    He could not remember when he had talked for so long and he turned his attention on a quartet of sparing pugiles , and one boxer in particular.
    “Do you ever tire of training men to kill?” Clodian asked him.
    “It’s what I know,” he answered, eyes still fixed on the pugiles .
    “Did you ever know anything else?” Clodian persisted.
    “I was a fisherman once, when I was very young,” he replied. “You no doubt find it hard to believe that I was young once?”
    Clodian grinned and Belua risked a smile too. He had few good friends, and unusually for him he found the youth’s company not un-agreeable. Accustomed as he was to dealing with fickle admirers and double-dealing officials on a daily basis, the young noble’s unbridled honesty and cheerful manner was a welcome change. The lad displayed a humility that belied his position and his appreciation of simple pleasures was refreshing.
    “You are watching that pair very closely,” Clodian observed. “And, I think one man in particular – the one with the crooked back and big hands.”
    “I am,” Belua confirmed. “He’s called Drilgisa. He has five victories under his belt, and will soon fight again.”
    “I no longer visit the games, now that I have a choice,” ventured Clodian. “When I was younger I found the spectacle exciting, and I admired the skills of the champions. I once even met the great champion, Caetes (see prequel, War Raven ). As I got older I could not stomach the pointless killing of men and beasts and the cruel punishment of criminals. I…”
    “It’s not to everyone’s taste,” said Belua.
    “Is it true that you trained Caetes?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “I met him only briefly, but I liked him. He seemed so different from what I imagined him to be like. He gave me a wooden carving of a raven and said that I reminded him of his brother.”
    “He was a strange one,” replied Belua.
    “I sensed that there was kindness and nobleness in him, as well as…”
    “He was a killer,” Belua stated.
    “I know,” said Clodian, before asking, undeterred, “But, did you see more in him than that?”
    “It was my task to train him, not to search his soul.”
    “It’s said that he was never captured after fleeing the city,”continued Clodian. “Do you think that he succeeded in reaching his home-land?”
    “It’s dangerous to discuss men who’ve been branded fugitives of the Empire,” retorted Belua, frustrated at the youth’s questions, by his persistence. “You’d be wise to remember that.”
    “I just wanted to know what you…” Clodian began.
    “I keep what I think about such matters to myself,” Belua finished for him.
    “But, I’d like to hear your views…as I’d hoped we could become friends.”
    Belua turned to face him.
    “I’m being paid to train you to citizenship, not to be your friend.” A momentary hurt look appeared in the youth’s eyes and then was gone.
    “As you wish,” Clodian answered him stiffly.
    The exchange was broken by the approach of two men from the direction of the
infirmary, the towering outline of Vesuvius rising into the back-ground. Belua saw that
it was Gordeo and Strabo, one of the trainers.
    “Good day, Belua,” greeted Gordeo as they drew near.
    “And to you,” he replied. He acknowledged the presence of his fellow trainer with a slight nod of his head. Strabo, a native Roman, was short, thick-set. He had blue black curly hair and the eagle nose of his countrymen. Belua disliked him, regarding him as vain and overconfident. An ex-legionary he’d learned the skill of the pugile in the army. Now, he trained men in the use of the curved Thracian sword and shared the task of training pugiles with Belua. Belua secretly held him in contempt, aware that he had never fought for his life in the arena – the ultimate test.
    “And who might this young