Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two Read Online Free PDF Page A

rind of bread in his hand. Everything was covered in the dust from the yellow crystals that they cut from the rock deep in the earth’s bowels. Drilgisa believed that it was the dust that killed them as much as the brutal, unending labour. He viewed the bread, satisfied that he could take a bite.
    He dipped the crust into his bowl. This was his main meal of the day and his bowl contained a salty fish sauce. Their only other sustenance was a cup of posca at dawn just before they started work. The vinegary drink would make the miners a little drunk and they were fed enough to get them up and moving, but not enough for them to put up any resistance. They were also given pales of water twice a day to keep them going. The water helped, but not much. The awful heat and the dust ridden air was a terrible killer. Despite the narrow air-shafts that ran to the surface alongside the low tunnels, there was a constant struggle to suck in enough air to keep working, to keep swinging their iron picks to dislodge the yellow sulphur crystals from the gallery’ walls.
    He’d witnessed hundreds of slaves succumb to the awful conditions, had watched them grow steadily weaker before discarding their face cloths as they gave up hope. He’d seen them spit out their lungs in bloody bits, the flesh withering from their bones. Few had lasted for longer than one turn of the seasons.
    Drilgisa had never given up hope. To do so would have been to surrender, and he did not have it in him. He told himself the one thing that would keep him going: that one day he would have a chance to escape this place. He did not know how, but he believed such a day would come. He had to, in order to go on.
    He took another bite of the sopped bread. As he ate his thoughts went to the dead Gaul, and his mouth began to water. He smiled wryly. What a waste , he thought. His mind tracked back to his early days in the mine. As he lost weight he knew that the food he was given would not sustain him for long. He’d watched other strong and durable men wither and eventually die, and he came to realize that the strongest amongst them were given the harshest tasks. In addition to his own work at the mine face, on regular occasions he’d been herded to the surface at night. There, he’d been give the heaviest of jobs at the smelting works, and close by where the clay was separated from the yellow crystals and shaped into tiles. He knew he needed meat to survive. And, there was only once source of meat that was available to him – those that died every few days.
    The decision had not been an easy one, but he understood that there was no other choice. He remembered the first day when he’d laid down for the night next to the corpse of a young thief, a Syrian younger than himself. The body was still fresh and he knew that the guards would have the body disposed of in the morning. With a stone he had scratched to a sharp edge, he’d scraped away the skin on the body’s buttocks and then sawed free a piece of flesh. He remembered how he’d gagged on the first mouthful and but had eventually succeed in swallowing it. He’d been able to consume a further three or four more pieces, swallowing without chewing. When finished, he covered over the eaten area with the boy’s loin cloth. The following morning the guards removed the body without suspicion, and if the wounds had been discovered later it would have been blamed on the work of the rats.
    Afterwards, he’d found feeding on man-flesh easier. He’d discovered where the most tender parts on the body were, and after a time the practice became less difficult, the flesh more palatable. It kept him strong.
    Drilgisa had never been found out by the guards, but he suspected that some of the other miners were aware of what he practised in the nights. He’d catch them staring at him when he was swinging his iron pick at the rock wall, saw the fear and revulsion written clearly on their gaunt faces. Fear was good, their deep fear of