War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (12 page)

“Is it your hatred that speaks? Or do you truly believe this?” Ellios asked, his tone serious.

“Yes, I do. And, it’s my eyes and ears that tell me, not just the anger in my heart.”

“It would be the end of the world I’ve known.” Frowning, Ellios queried, “And what would take its place?”

“Your people have been too long without the taste of freedom, and like a caged bird have forgotten the joy of the open sky.” Feeling hung on Guntram’s every word. “Mark my words, Spaniard, that when this day comes-”

Before he could say any more, Ellios interrupted with a jerk of his head towards the arena, stating, “Tell me later, the hunt is about to begin!”

Barriers spanning two of the arena’s tunnels opened, spewing out and a host of animals onto the sand. These included fear-crazed deer and high springing antelopes as well as slavering hyenas, wolves, bears, wild boars and two enormous bulls. Into their midst ran a score of hunting dogs. Trained to aid the hunters, they were renowned for their bone crushing jaws and compact, muscular bodies. The hunters emerged on their heels, armed with bows and arrows and razor pointed boar spears.

A ruddy-coated hunting dog swiftly brought a young deer to ground, and immediately joined by two others, savagely ripped it apart. Nearby, a hunter drove his spear into the neck of a cornered wolf with such force, that he pinned the animal’s body to the arena floor. The crowd howled their appreciation of the hunter’s skills.

Guntram grimaced as he watched the carnage continue.

Further applause erupted as more hunters entered the arena to hasten the slaughter. Methodically, they went about their grisly work, and the arena floor was soon awash with blood, their feet kicking up goblets of moist sand as they raced to dispatch their scurrying prey. Everywhere laid the bodies of the massacred beasts, like islands in some strange, ochre sea.

Their work completed, the beast-men saluted the
editor’s
podium and crowd, before jogging from the arena. Several limped badly, and two of their number supported a gutted comrade whose innards, like slippery rope hung to his knees, the victim of a boar’s razor tusks.

Guntram scanned the arena as the carcasses were dragged away and the stained sand raked over. Jugglers and acrobats returned. “Such a waste,” he stated, his anger smouldering. “To slaughter these animals when there’s no need, no reason, is...”

Ellios nodded in agreement, before pointing out, “It’s the mid-day break. Watch how those greasy, noble bastards rush to stuff themselves.” He scowled, adding, “They believe the mid-day entertainment is beneath them.”

“What entertainment?” Guntram asked tightly.

“It’s the time of the
noxii
, when Pompeii’s criminals are punished.”

As Guntram listened, attendants moved amongst the crowd, some sprinkling perfumed water to disguise the smell of sun-cooked gore, others handing out small loaves from broad wicker baskets. When approached, Guntram’s fierce look conveyed his distaste at being offered food during such a wanton display of killing. The attendant quickly moved on.

Ellios enlightened him that elsewhere in the arena, spectators now took a mid-day break, some to use the urinals, others to get food and refreshments from the nearby
palaestra.
Many would bring snacks and drinks and remain in their seats throughout the day, afraid of losing their places or of missing the public executions.

Below, eight males and two female criminals were clubbed into the centre of the arena where they were chained to stakes driven deep into the arena floor. Their naked bodies were then coated with a thick glaze of animal fat.

A dozen hyenas scampered from openings in the arena wall, looking looked gaunt, starved. They immediately picked up the fat’ scent, racing directly towards the convicted who now recognised the large canines, with their distinctive loppity stride and powerful jaws.

The screaming began. Teeth ripped at bare flesh, tearing away great strips. The screams changed to gasps of pain and screeching pleas for leniency, and then to merciful silence. Soon, all that remained were tattered lengths of bloodied bone. The hyenas, engorged on human flesh, snickered as they dragged their bloated bellies across the arena floor.

Stunned, Guntram watched the executions in silence, his knuckles gleaming white as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Gorge soured the back of his throat and he looked away.

A handful of hunters re-emerged, briskly dispatching the bloated killers.

“I cannot watch this...” His face ashen, Guntram was unable to find the words. Standing up, he turned his back on the arena. Ellios jumped in his seat, startled by the sudden movement.

“Sit down!” Ellios spoke sharply as those behind started to curse, their view of the arena obstructed. The commotion had also attracted Belua’s attention, who now pointed Caetes out to one of the ludus’ guards, who started towards him.

“Hurry!” Ellios warned, and then with more feeling. “Sit down you fool! Belua’s spotted you. If you don’t there’ll be a price to pay.”

Guntram glowered at the protesting mob.

Ellios gripped his forearm. “Listen! The feel of the rod on your back won’t help those poor devils.”

Guntram met his companion’s look and saw the beads of sweat on his face, the clearly etched concern. He sat down. When he looked back, he saw that Belua had dropped his arm and the guard was retracing his steps. He dropped his chin onto his chest, squeezing his eyes shut.

“My friend,” Ellios said, sounding relieved, “I see that you’re determined to put grey hair on my head.”

“There’s only so much of this filth I can take,” Guntram said tightly, before lapsing into silence.

Then from nowhere, Chayna’s face slid into his mind. Perhaps it was the slaughter of the women. He saw her clearly: dark eyes shining with an inner fire that belied her size. Eyes that had held him in thrall from the first moment of their meeting. She lived in his dreams.
Is she beaten? Does her master take his pleasure with her each night?
The worries constantly dogged him.

Guilt twisted inside him as his thoughts turned to Jenell. He recalled their shared passion. Dared he believe that she and his brother still lived? He had no way of really knowing. Would he ever get a chance to question the Roman Servannus about their whereabouts? Unsure, he bit his lip.

“Now the gladiators fight!” Ellios exclaimed, scattering Guntram’s thoughts.

The crowd’s voice rang out as one, pounding across the great hollow of the
amphitheatre
, until it seemed that the very walls would crack and fall. Arena horns blew, bodies lurched against him from every side, and for several moments the very air strummed in the wake of the cheers. As the roaring subsided, it was possible to discern individual shouts and encouragements above the clamour.

He listened as Ellios explained that despite the popularity of the hunt and the
noxii
, the crowd regarded the afternoon’s gladiator contests as the highlight of the day’s entertainment.

“There!” Ellios pointed, “through the Gate of Life.” A parade of gladiators emerged to the accompaniment of loud trumpeting and wild applause.

“How are opponents matched?” Guntram asked.

“Lots are drawn, and then the betting starts.” Ellios pointed again. “See how the
editor
inspects their weapons. It’s to reassure the crowd that no blunted ones are used.”

Looking around at the crowd, Guntram hissed, “Gambling on the spilling of men’s blood!”

“They’re Pompeians,” Ellios said, shrugging. “Given the chance, they’d bet on two cockroaches racing across a shit-house floor.”

Following the weapons inspection, Guntram watched the
editor
depart. Ten matched pairs remained, comprising of net-men and the
secutors
who would pursue them. Guntram easily recognised the pursuers by their distinctive appearance. Their heads were protected by smooth conical helmets, fashioned with small eyeholes to protect the wearers against the needle-sharp attacks of the net-men’s tridents. All were equipped with a short sword and oval shield.

The
editor
waived a showy hand in the air and the combat commenced.

Guntram leaned forwards, eyes narrowed as he watched each attack, feint and counter; every detail that could make the difference between life and death for him.

“Spaniard, I recognise the way that swordsman moves.” Clasping Ellios’s arm, Guntram directed his attention to a specific gladiator. “Him?”

“That
’
s Telephus, who trains with our troupe,” Ellios answered, grinning. “He lodges in the city and has quite a following, notably amongst the young women.”

“Yes, I’ve watched the bragging peacock practice. I should have recognised him, because he struts as if there’s a rod up his arse.” The hint of a smile touched Guntram’s mouth. “But, he has some skill.”

The contests were scattered all over the arena, although Guntram focused his attention on Telephus’s battle with a retreating net-man, who had the look of a Nubian; his jet-black skin shinning and his head crowned by a mat of tight, woolly curls. Telephus was backing him against the amphitheatre wall with a succession of vigorous sword attacks. The finish came quickly in a flurry of blows, Telephus’s blade driving upwards under the net-man’s ribs, bursting the heart and tearing apart the lungs. Without a sound the net-man folded backwards onto the sand.

It wasn’t long before the remaining match played to a finish. A panting net-man stood over his opponent who was fatally wounded through the neck. Guntram surveyed the crowd: mouths screaming for blood, out-thrust thumbs cutting to throats, urging for death. Blood for votes, the
editor
granted their wish. The net-man tipped his head, acknowledging the command, and then drove his trident downwards, bringing quick death. An “Ahhh!” rumbled across the packed tiers.

Elsewhere on the sand the swordsmen from Ludus Gordeo had fared well, with the loss of only two contests. It was a costly day for the net-men.

After watching the victors depart, Guntram’s attention was drawn to the appearance of a pair of colourfully dressed figures. Scattering, they ran lightly to the bodies of the fallen.

Ellios pre-empted Guntram’s’ next question. “The one carrying the heated rod of twisted snakes is supposed to be Mercury, the Romans’ messenger god.”

Guntram watched as the figure tripped from body to body, touching the rod’s glowing tip
to each, testing for life. Carried by a light wind from the sea, the reek of scorched flesh drifted up to him. He spat, trying to remove its taste.

Ellios pointed to the other
,
whose face was hidden under a great bird-like mask, a voluminous black cloak draped about his shoulders. “That one’s dressed as Charon, a creature of the Roman underworld.”

Carrying a stout wooden hammer the figure struck the temple of each body, claiming it for its own. The ritual completed, two lumbering farm horses were led into the arena, and with the deft use of ropes and sharp hooks through the heels, the dead were dragged away to disappear into the maw of the arena’s Gate of Death.

The day’s programme complete, the crowd began to rise from their seats, some already jostling towards the exits.

“The Roman dogs seem well pleased,” Guntram stated.

“It’s all many of them know,” Ellios offered.

“Horse-shit! They have a choice,” Guntram replied hotly, “as you did.”

The moment hung, and Ellios said no more.

As the troupe assembled at the nearby exit, Guntram realized that many of the crowd still lingered, and asked, “Why do they stay?”

“Watch,” Ellios told him.

A catapult–like machine appeared at the arena entrance, its basket filled with hundreds of small parcels. Seeing his friend’s puzzled expression, Ellios revealed, “Each of those parcels promises a gift from the editor; everything from a pig for the spit, to a slave girl to warm a man’s bed.”

The machine was wheeled out with an accompanying cheer. It proceeded to repeatedly shower its load onto those that remained.

As the guards cursed the group into motion, Guntram stared across the arena for a last time; at a frenzied scramble every bit as fierce as what had gone before.

* * *

Chapter XIII

PHYSICIAN

“In nothing do men more

nearly approach the gods than in giving

health to men.”

Cicero

Neo entered the tavern on the Via Del Nola, grateful to take shelter from the day’s sapping heat.

Despite the discomfort of traipsing the streets during the sweltering afternoon time, the physician preferred to endure the heat rather than battle his way through the bustling throng that was customary during the later, cooler hours. Neo had always avoided crowds when the choice presented itself.

The tavern was empty, and the physician settled himself at his usual table. It was shaded from the sun and provided a good view of the street.

“Greetings, Neo,” ventured Didius, a stooped, wiry man, who ran the small but well recommended tavern.

“Greetings, Didius.”

“Returning from another shopping trip?” the owner queried, indicating the bulging canvas sack parked securely against the physician’s leg.

“Yes. I’ve acquired what I need.”

“Good to hear it. The usual?”

“If you will.”

“On its way,” the inn-keeper replied, moving to the back of the inn and the stairs leading to his cellar.

Deliberating, Neo acknowledged that the day had been a satisfactory one.

He’d made the trip to the shop of Julianus the iron-smith, where he’d ordered a number of items to specification a week previously. Discussion at Julianus’s shop had ranged from the professional to the trivial, touching on everything from the use of wound forceps and bone saws, to local political vagaries and the latest gossip about the Emperor’s increasing eccentricities.

After paying for his three gleaming surgical knives, he’d expressed his appreciation to the large, red-faced Julianus, and then quickly departed.