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

himself, it will be my honour to feed it to him.”
    Flavia felt herself grow wet again as she listened to Akana’s words, watched her lick her full lips.
    “Your lack of conscience and desire to serve delights me.”
    “Thank you Domina,” acknowledged Akana with a slight bow.
    Everything has begun splendidly , thought Flavia as she coaxed Akana’s willing mouth to hers.

Chapter 10
     
    WAY OF THE FIST
     
     
    Drilgisa silently watched the doctore wind the strapping around his opponent’s forearm. Today he was to spar with Pilus, the big Gaul. He hated the man and his bragging ways. He knew that the feeling was mutual.
    He looked to his own caestus , the leather boxing gloves that reached up to his elbows. He turned the gloves over, making sure that the leather knuckle dusters were in the right position. When he’d fought in the arena these had been replaced by jagged metal ridges or spikes of iron and bronze. He briefly recalled his five fights. They had not really tested him, but he’d enjoyed each one. He’d ruined three of the opponents and the remaining two had later died from the brutal beating he’d given them.
    The ludus had allowed him to do what he loved best – to inflict pain, and without reproach. All things considered he’d been satisfied with his new life…for a while. The food was wholesome and he’d been given the company of young male slaves to release his seed after he’d won. Anything was better than Solfatara. The other men dreamed of winning the rudis , the wooden sword of freedom, and it was something that he increasingly thought about.
    “Cease fighting when I shout halt!” reminded Strabo, before barking the command to begin.
    Drilgisa saw that Belua was also present. The senior trainer’s imposing bulk unmistakable at the edge of the palaestra.
    Pilus grinned as he advanced. They had never fought before in practice, and Pilus regularly boasted that he could beat every pugile in the school with just one hand. He also knew that Pilus was a favourite of Strabo’s, with the trainer having great hopes for him.
    Pilus’s lead hand jabbed out, glancing off the top of Drilgisa’s forehead. Quick for a big man, thought Drilgisa .
    Pilus jabbed again, striking him above his right eye. Then again, Drilgisa pushing the blow aside with his rear hand. The Gaul followed up with a heavy overhand punch with his right hand, the blow landing on Drilgisa’s shoulder as he swayed to one side. The leather knuckle duster had gauged a strip from his skin. He hardly noticed the stinging that accompanied it.
    Pilus, encouraged by his success delivered another big right hand blow. Drilgisa met the blow with the top of his head, where the skull was the thickest. He felt his teeth crunch together. The contact seemed to shudder up the Gaul’s arm, accompanied by a painful intake of breath.
    Without pause, Drilgisa landed two blows into the middle of Pilus’s face. The first, a stiff left jab, opened his top lip, the second; a jolting right knocked him onto his rump. Blood pulsed from his broken nose as he shook his head to clear it. He was no longer smiling.
    “Fucking hunchback!” Pilus blustered, blood and spittle spraying from his smashed lips. He pushed himself hurriedly to his feet.
    Drilgisa was familiar with the other men’s name for him, but no one had dared say it to his face. The Gaul had made a terrible mistake.
    Not allowing Pilus to regain his balance, he struck him a wicked hooked blow on the left side of the head, his legs planted firmly and all the weight of his body behind the punch. His massive gloved hand tore most of the Gaul’s ear from his head. The big man let out a squeal like a cut pig, before dropping to his knees. He held both hands to the injured side of his head, bright blood painting his caestus.
    “Halt!” the command rang out. Drilgisa heard it, but the hot rage was strong in him. The name hunchback thrummed in his brain.
    “Look, Gaul,” he taunted, “one