War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (11 page)

As Servannus approached the entrance, he lifted his hand to brush along the smooth surface of the wall, as always, impressed by the masonry’s perfection. A shiver of anticipation ran through him.

A rattle of chains to his rear caught his attention. It was an escorted gladiator troupe. He immediately recognised the heavily built trainer with the scarred face at its head. It was Belua, ‘The Fist’, of Ludus Gordeo. Servannus raised his hand and the troupe shuffled to a halt.

“Greetings,” Servannus said, then pointing to the trainer’s charges. “Tiros on their first visit by the look of them.”

“Yes,” the trainer confirmed.

Servannus stated evenly, “Today will certainly be enlightening for them.”

“No doubt.” The trainer’s tone was pithy.

Servannus detected the frostiness in the other’s words. He was familiar with Belua’s history, together with his fierce reputation as a fighter. He’d won the
rudis,
and as such was a man to be respected,
and
to be careful around.

“Please indulge me with a quick look,” Servannus asked, forcing a smile.

The trainer bowed his head, concurring, although somewhat reluctantly.

Servannus stepped passed him.
The usual hairy Gauls
, he mused
, and an impressive Spaniard by his build and colouring
,
and
... His eyes stretched wide, focusing on the tallest of the group.

“I know this one,” Servannus said, his smile thin. The German was unmistakable: his size, the facial scar and the burning hatred in his gaze. “Can he understand me?”

“Yes, the Spaniard’s taught him,” grunted the trainer.

“Excellent.” Servannus moved forwards, his bodyguards positioning themselves at his side. Both were armed with knife and sword, ready for any trouble.

“You obviously remember who I am, because a man’s eyes seldom lie,” Servannus stated coldly.

“Yes, I remember.” The German’s response was hard, clipped by feeling.

“Your trade is my passion, and I’ve been fortunate to have known some of the arena’s greatest champions.” Servannus paused, pursing his lips. “I also have a modest troupe of my own, and it intrigues me that our paths should cross again, considering the small part I played at the outset of your journey. Perhaps I should’ve asked more for you in Gaul?”

“You killed my people, my family. Do you now seek my death too?”

Servannus recognised that the German was fighting to keep his anger in check, and out of the corner of his eye he saw his bodyguards edge forward. Belua had also moved nearer, ready to intercede if needed.

“You hate me, and with good cause,” Servannus replied. “However, my interest in you is purely professional, and I can assure you that you’re of more interest to me alive than dead. I will be following your career very closely...slave.”

“Follow it well,” the German’s words were deliberate, almost a whisper, “because there will come a day when I’ll be no man’s slave. And when it does-”

Belua stepped between them. “Silence!” he commanded the German, then added curtly to Servannus, “We must be away, or we’ll be sure to lose our seats.”

Bridling at the trainer’s brusque intrusion, Servannus watched him shove the
tiros
back into an orderly line before quickly leading them away.

A cold shiver tracked Servannus’s spine. He’d been threatened before; making enemies both in Campania and in the legionary camps of Germania and Gaul, but the German’s words unnerved him.

Swallowing hard, it was with some relief that he watched the troupe disappear onto the growing crowd.

*

Servannus entered the
amphitheatre
, still reflecting on the chance meeting with the German. Pompous resentment and anger broiled up inside him.
How dare he threaten me! Even in so veiled a fashion. The dog wouldn’t be so brazen if he knew of his brother’s fate.
He smiled cruelly, feeling a little better.

The German presently posed him no danger, but he’d found the cold certainty of his words unsettling. It was also possible that he might one day win his freedom, and, with gold in hand could pose the kind of a threat that he’d not even considered, until now. The German’s grim confidence had planted a seed of doubt in his mind, and Servannus hated doubts of any kind. He had no desire to be looking over his shoulder for the blade in the shadows, the creeping assassin in the night. The threat could certainly be removed, although he knew it would be difficult while the German resided at the ludus. There’d be repercussions – even for him – if it was suspected that he’d murdered the valuable property of the Imperial School.

No, he would watch and plan for another day, and, there was no guarantee that the German would survive beyond his first contest. But if he did, that too would be entertaining.

*

Lucanus watched his master enter the
amphitheatre
.

Young, vital, Lucanus, was accompanied by a fellow slave, Leon, who was old and tired. Lucanus smiled, listening to the old man’s snores as he slept nearby on a seat in the shade.

Their master’s enthusiasm for the games was common knowledge, and when Marcus Tullius Servannus was not preoccupied with his own troupe at Herculaneum, he was travelling to numerous games and private gladiator shows throughout Campania. But, his servants never complained, because the more time he spent at the games meant that the less time he spent at the estate. Less time to vent his spleen on them.

Lucanus knew his master as a conceited bully, a man easily bored, spiteful and callous in his treatment of those he owned. He was one of Servannus’s more recent acquisitions, and had quickly learned how to avoid his master’s wrath, by being diligent in his chores. Servannus hated incompetence and Lucanus often wondered why he’d not dispensed of Leon’s services? Probably because he enjoyed ridiculing the old man as he struggled to go about his daily tasks.

Despite his youth, Lucanus, whose name had been given him by his new master, recognised that Servannus enjoyed causing pain for no reason, and took pleasure in watching others suffer. He’d witnessed it many times, both in the military camps on the frontier and on the estate. Lucanus was periodically subjected to his master’s cruelty, and although it was rarely a beating as his uses increased, Servannus chose instead to batter his spirit. He often reminded Lucanus that his future lay totally in his hands, and that one day all of his people would be slaves of Rome.

Lucanus tried to disguise his hurt, knowing that it would serve to only encourage his master further, but, privately his heart ached when he thought of a family now lost to him, with Servannus assuring him that none had survived on that dreadful day.

Yet, when the image of his brother’s battered face came to him at night, he cried. His poor, brave brother who always looked out for him, who found time to listen and understood that he was very different from the other boys of his age. His brother encouraged him to be true to himself. When death claimed him, it snatched away a part of Lucanus too.

The crying made him feel a little better, for a time, yet the pain always returned. Each night he said a prayer for his dead loved ones, all the while hoping that Guntram’s suffering had been brief.

* * *

Chapter XII

MUNERA

“There are those who quaff with

greedy thirst the blood of the criminal slain

in the arena, even as it flows

fresh from the wound.”

Tertullian

Belua’s voice jarred the troupe towards their seating area in the
amphitheatre’s
upper level.

One of the guards prodded Guntram into his seat, and he looked around, realizing that the surrounding tiers would soon be filled to capacity.

“You did well to check your anger my friend,” Ellios reflected, sat at his side.

“Do you know what the noble is called?” asked Guntram.

“I overheard Belua grumble his name to one of the guards. It’s Servannus.”

His heart still racing, Guntram mouthed the name to himself. It had been the moment he’d prayed for so often; the chance to repay the blood debt between them. Yet, this Servannus had commanded the attack on his village, and was likely to know what happened to Jenell and Strom. Meeting the Roman again, here, fuelled the hope that if he could get his hands on him, even for a short time, he could ‘persuade’ him to reveal the whereabouts of his loved ones. Yes, he was glad that he’d not acted rashly, and that he’d not mentioned Strom and Jenell. Betraying an interest in them might well have sealed their fates, if indeed they were still alive.

He’d have wait...for the right time and place to act. He shook his head, trying to empty it of the echoes of the Roman’s voice.

Looking upwards, Guntram’s attention drawn to the huge awning high above that fluttered in the cool breeze off the bay. He guessed it would provide the crowd with welcome shade when the climbing sun baked the arena later in the day.

A chorus of loud blasts erupted, and a procession entered through the arena’s gate. Musicians playing trumpets led the way, followed by the editor of the games mounted on a dazzling golden chariot, drawn by four magnificent white stallions.

Trailing behind was a motley collection of acrobats, jugglers, woolly haired Nubians leading ostriches, and a group of dwarves; each bearing a huge, brightly painted member which they lewdly brandished to the glee of the crowd. The gladiators entered at the tail of the procession, each dressed in armour polished to a mirror finish, brilliantly reflecting the sun’s rays. The applause was deafening.

Guntram watched with a mixture of apprehension and awe as the
editor
took his seat in the arena’s stone podium. The gladiators positioned themselves directly below, where they raised their weapons in ritual homage to the sponsor of the games. Trumpets sounded once more and the entire company wheeled to exit the arena
.

A brief interlude followed, and Guntram sensed the uneasiness that pumped like sweat from the other members of his group, spreading like a contagion through the
tiros
ranks.

Then, the games commenced with warm-ups by performing clowns and jugglers, followed by a series of mock fights between gladiators armed with blunted weapons. The crowd quickly became bored, whistling and jeering to make known its desire to be served something stronger.

Next came
slaves armed with knives and wearing eye-less helmets. As they groped and slashed at each other in darkness, arena attendants goaded them on with red-hot irons. Their desperate plight became apparent when a veteran gladiator entered the arena. He casually approached the last pair standing, and with two precise blows, swept their heads from their shoulders. The crowd cheered.

Elsewhere in the arena, the attendants went about their grisly work, wielding heavy wooden mallets which they used to crack the skulls of downed combatants. Their corpses, like ripped wineskins, were quickly dragged from the arena; long, bloody smears trailing in their wake. The spattered surface was then hurriedly raked over and fresh sand applied, ready for the next spectacle.

Much of the talk in the
ludus
centred around the games and the killing, but to see it like this made Guntram’s skin crawl with revulsion. He hardly felt Ellios dig him in his side.

“The hunt is next,” said Ellios.

“Explain.”

“It’s the time of the
venators
, the beast killers,” explained the Spaniard. “They are not ranked as highly as gladiators, despite being recruited in the same way. They are taught their skills separately and in their own schools, and the crowd loves them.”

“Why?”

“Because the bloodletting is great, of both hunter and hunted.”

“Hah! They call me barbarian,” Guntram sneered, “yet they howl like wild animals as blind men hack each other apart. Where is the test of courage in all this butchery?”

“The mob needs reminding that they’ve conquered an empire my friend,” Ellios answered quietly, his olive complexion pale. “These games are a reminder of the power Rome has over its conquered subjects, and, as we shall see, over the great beasts too.”

“So, how do
you
know so much about these games?” asked Guntram.

Ellios seemed to look ahead at another place. “I was just a boy when my father first took me to the arena,” he began. “He told me that his Roman friends expected him to attend, and that it was good for business and only right for his son and heir to attend too. I still remember that first day...and losing my breakfast. There were more visits after, until I was old enough to be somewhere else.”

Ellios turned to look at Guntram. “My friend, Caesar knows how to keep his subjects happy, and these games take place throughout his empire.”

“Caesar is an old man who rules from far away,” Guntram replied.

Guntram had learned something about Caesar and how he governed; from Ellios and other gladiators he’d listened to during breaks in training, as well as from the Romans themselves and their slaves gossiping at the baths. He’d learned that Caesar had been honoured by his people him with a special name: Augustus, meaning ‘The Great One’, and that at seventy, he’d ruled for nearly forty years and had many victories. Victories won by the might of his twenty-eight legions of iron.

“Yes, he’s old and death whispers his name, but the empire is secure in his hands,” said Ellios. “And, as you know, Caesar looks now to the lands of Germania and to the east.”

Guntram scoffed, “A time will come when this great Empire and these games of death will fall apart, and Roman streets will run red with blood. Her enemies won’t forget, and there will be no mercy.”

“You’re dreaming. Rome is stubborn and will never surrender its hold on the empire. Its legions are invincible, and who can break Caesar’s iron grip?”

“It’s you that dreams Spaniard, but only of hot women,” Guntram challenged. “I know that Rome hasn’t been conquered, but she has been defeated.” His face brightened. “The Parthians in the east bloodied her, as well as my countrymen in the west. Rome is not unbeatable, and her arrogance will be her undoing.”