War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (2 page)

The Capuan was a
retiarius
; a net and trident fighter, and his reputation as a ruthless killer had preceded him, with twenty victories to his name and many of them kills. His dark, handsome looks and famed prowess in the bed-chamber had made him a great favourite with the women of Capua. Despite the mob ranking his fighting style relatively low, the swordsman was aware that the betting was slightly in his opponent’s favour. The coming fight would be the last of the day and the highlight of the programme.

“How long boy?” he asked a passing attendant.

“Soon.”

Nodding acknowledgement he flexed his fingers, noting the moistness that was beginning to form between them. His palms were tacky with the juice of lemon that he’d applied to aid his grip on his sword hilt, and he slowly rotated his wrist. The double-edged
gladius
felt light, although he knew that its weight would increase tenfold if the contest wore on. He rehearsed a pattern of tight, circular cuts and short, darting thrusts into the air before him, each stroke aimed to kill or cripple. Lifting the blade, he studied the rib running the length of its spine to aid the flow of blood, and the vicious point for opening opponents’ vitals. He smiled sardonically, admiring its deadly beauty, reminding himself that it was the weapon that gave his kind their name.

The prospect of bloodshed drawing nearer, a sudden shiver coursed his limbs, and he made a final check on his equipment. He tested the bindings on the leather sleeves that protected his left arm and matching left leg, and then slipped his arm into the straps of the large, curved shield that provided defence against the needle sharp trident of the
retiarius
. They felt just right. His helmet rested against his leg; its peak decorated by a fish and crowned with a huge dorsal fin. Two single ostrich feathers dyed a deep vermilion were fitted above each ear, adding to its exotic appearance.

“Next pair, the crowd is waiting. And let’s give them something worth watching.” The trainer’s voice reverberated off the walls, his frame filling the tunnel as he moved out of the half-light into the waiting men’s view. He grimaced, as if trying to swallow something foul. “That was the worst kind of loss!” he berated. “Fucking Gauls! No guts, and no skill. The sheep-brained bastards forgot everything I taught them. May their souls rot in Hades.”

The Capuan, his net and trident hefted onto his shoulder, walked past the swordsman towards the clamour of the arena. As he passed, the swordsman’s gaze flicked briefly to a small band of tasselled leather that adorned his upper arm, with each tassel representing a past victory. Watching him walk away, the swordsman noticed that he displayed a slight limp on his right side. Hardly noticeable, it was probably an old wound. It was an observation that could well prove useful when the match began.

“It’s time,” the trainer announced, stepping towards him. “And I expect something better than the horse-shit we’ve seen so far. Let's see if you can put on a show like the one you gave those navy scum at Misenum.”

“I’ve never disappointed before,” he replied, his temper prickling.

“True.” The trainer rubbed his chin. “Just remember this one is fast, very fast. It’s as hot as a furnace on the sand and he’ll probably try to tire you.”

Limbering his sword arm he replied, “I’ll do what is needed.”

“He’s a fox,” the trainer told him, smiling glibly and revealing yellow, dog teeth. “Don’t underestimate him!”

He met the trainer’s gaze and held it.
Smile now, Roman,
he thought
, because there’ll be no smiles when I deal with you and those who’ve condemned me to this life of bondage
. He forced down his anger, his mind switching back to the task ahead, knowing there was no room for distraction. The Capuan would surely do the unexpected, but he was ready for him. Ready to win, prepared for death.

‘Anyone can live but dying in the arena is an art.’ The discipline was drummed into him. Those he’d beaten had died well, with no fuss, without begging. Yet, their stranger faces in those final moments, before he snatched away their lives, stayed with him; each look of disbelief, grim acceptance, fear. All had stood in the way of his freedom.
Freedom
– the one word that cut through to the core of his being.

He lifted and then carefully donned his helmet. Bending to lift his shield he caught his own reflection in the mirror of its iron boss. He looked grotesque, transformed. He felt different; no longer a man, but a creature, a terrible creature trained to kill.

The weight of the arena’s stone pressing down on him, he moved into the dim light of the tunnel, following the path of his opponent, towards the clank of the portcullis chains and the baying of the mob.

* * *

Chapter II

GERMANIA
A
.
D
. 7

“Man is a wolf to man.”

Plautus

The young warrior entered the glade, treading softly on leathered feet. His hunter eyes searched the forest wall, alert for anything unusual, while high above the canopy of giant fir-trees a hawk screeched.

In his right hand he clasped the German framea; a six-foot long spear topped by a slim, double-edged blade. It was a recent gift on his twentieth birthday. A long bladed knife of iron was thrust though the belt at his waist.

The son of a Cherusci war-chief, he’d been dispatched on a scouting trip into the borderlands of their neighbours and enemies, the Gauls, with instructions to report back on the movements of the soldiers of the Roman eagle that were crossing the Rhinus river in ever-increasing numbers.

He’d first encountered the Roman iron–shirts three years past when on a trading mission with his father and a party of his tribesmen far to the north of the German lands. He recalled his initial feelings of excitement for the adventure ahead, his eagerness to see these new places.

It was during their stay at one village that they learned of a party of iron-shirts raiding in that area; a reprisal for a minor skirmish with his countrymen in the border land.

On leaving the village, his cousin, Volkar, had scouted ahead of their wary party. He didn’t return. They tracked him, his trail eventually leading them to a sacked German settlement. There were no people, and he’d moved to his father’s side, chilled, afraid. All that remained were black, smoking timbers, the stench of spilled blood and a small mound in the centre of the village. When they’d drawn near he remembered crying out, and then emptying his stomach. The mound was built with the severed hands of the village’s men, women and children.

They found Volkar close by in the woods. He was nailed to a tree, his eyes, ears and tongue cut away.

Even now, his dreams were scalded by the awful spectre of poor Volkar, stumbling blindly to find his way home. His hatred for the iron-shirts burned like hot iron. And, he despised their allies, the Gauls, regarding them as a people who’d whored themselves in exchange for peace, trade goods and the glitter of gold. He would be proud to live up to the meaning of his name, Guntram: the War Raven, by contributing to their ruin.

Yet, his anger was not reserved for the Romans and Gauls alone. He’d seen fellow Germans at some of the gatherings, too. He knew of the trade agreements between Rome and the Gauls, and also those recently established with several German tribes; including the powerful Suebi. But, the Germans he saw had been dressed in the manner of Roman horse-soldiers and were equipped to fight alongside them. The betrayal left him sick to the belly.

On the night in question he’d slipped into their camp-site, to spy what weaponry and horses they possessed. He’d been nervous about discovery, hardly daring to breath, and then a sentry had surprised him. He’d silenced him with his knife. It was the first man he’d killed.

Now, having re-crossed the Rhinus, he pondered on his father’s reaction to receiving this news, as well its consequences. There would be fury, and blood. Blood, he remembered it now, how the sentry had fought for life during his final moments; the iron smell of fresh blood and the man’s sweat when up close. After, unbidden, the thought came that the sentry might have a family, a lover, people he would never see again. The killing had left Guntram with an awful, hollow feeling; as if part of him had been lost. His father had told him that only madmen and fools enjoyed killing, and he now understood the truth in these words. He swallowed hard. What he’d done was right. If he’d not killed, he would surely have met his own end, and failed his people.

He looked skywards. Grey clouds scuttled towards ice-sheathed peaks that glistened in the distance above the forest. Winter had arrived and the trees around him seemed like brown sentinels in the morning mist. All year in such clearings – with the exception of the darkest, coldest months – wild flowers dotted the pine needle carpet of the forest floor, where elk, deer, hare and even wild fowl visited in search of forage. So too the bear, wolf and the most savage and unpredictable of all – the wild boar. Guntram snapped his head to one side, and it was with relief that he spotted the tail of a frightened squirrel that had suddenly dropped to the ground and then scurried into the forest shadows. He took a drink from his water-skin, and then crossed the clearing to re-enter the screen of trees.

Travelling north along some high bluffs, he cut eastwards to avoid the tribes who lived near the great river. Alliances were made and later broken just as quickly amongst the tribes of Germania, and although there wasn’t currently any bad blood between the Cherusci and their neighbours, Guntram didn’t want to run the risk of being delayed. He pushed onwards without stopping, and the day turned to afternoon and then early evening, with the light fading from among the trees.

At length he mounted a familiar, craggy escarpment from which he was able to view the country beyond. It was the land of his people. A forested valley stretched far into the distance; a small arm of the Rhinus winding along its floor. He traced the dark blue thread as it twisted through a tapestry of green, red and dusty brown.

Soon he would break the important news to his father. He was eager to confirm that all of his family had remained safe while he was away, and he’d sorely missed the beautiful Jenell. His spirit lifting, he entered the valley.

The trees soon became more sparse and stunted, giving way at last to brush and then to more scattered spruce and pine. As the ground levelled out, he lengthened his stride, noting that the wind was lighter and the air balmier.

The raucous barking of dogs pre-empted his first sight of the village.

He approached a house and barn set at the edge of a wheat field, spotting two huge mastiffs chained to a stout post. In response to the dogs’ alarm, a man appeared from the house, spear in one hand and torch in the other. On recognising him, the man waved his torch in greeting. Guntram saw that it was Radulf, the famed wolf-killer, and the two men greeted each other with a spate of bear hugging and back slapping.

Several tribesmen were in the process of herding their cattle into their houses for the night, and on seeing Guntram gave him a hearty welcome. A flaxen haired giant, a livid scar running the length of his face, pushed through the rapidly growing crowd. Catching Guntram under the armpits he lifted him unceremoniously into the air.

“Welcome back young War Raven!” the giant bellowed. “And still in one piece. Some thought you were food for the crows, but as I said, who’d eat a scrawny runt like you? That aside, your father’s stamped about like a wounded bear for the last two days. Wouldn’t admit he was worried though.”

At just over six feet in height, Guntram was still a head shorter than the giant Cherusci.

“Barend, you great, clumsy bastard, drop me before you snap me,” he entreated painfully, before being dumped hard onto his rump.

The grinning giant pulled him winded to his feet. “I told your father that my precious time wasn’t wasted on your woodcraft. What have you been up to boy? Some Gaulish wench with fire between her legs no doubt.”

“It’s good to see you too, you ugly ox,” he fired back, managing to get his breath.

“Boy, if you manage to see half as many summers as there are spots on that arse of yours, then we’ll compare looks.”

The giant’s thick arm clasped affectionately around his shoulders, the pair headed in the direction of his father’s long-house. The clamour had roused the village, and laughter and shouts of welcome filled the air. Glad to be home, Guntram scanned the familiar faces gathering around him. His Cherusci brothers – tall and heavily boned – proudly brandished uncut manes ranging from fair to red in colour, with many evidencing the fierce blue eyes common to their race. His own brown eyes and hair was unusual amongst his people, and his drinking companions often joked that it was a throw-back to a liaison between one of his great grand-dames and some visiting trader from the south, where the dusky trait was more prominent.

Drawing near to the long-house, he recognised Roth, his father, standing at the entrance with arms folded. His face betrayed no emotion as the noisy entourage approached. Guntram extracted himself from under the weight of his companion’s arm and presented himself before his father, a wide grin creasing his face.

Roth held up his hand for silence before stating, “I thought some wild spirit of the forest had waylaid you boy.” His hair flamed red in the torchlight. “What kept you?”

Guntram’s smile quickly faded as he regarded his father’s stern countenance and creased brow, managing only, “Father, I...” A childhood memory jumped into his mind of his father scolding him for forgetting to feed the livestock, of his voice booming like thunder during a storm. Patience always followed the older man’s temper, although his displeasure was terrible to behold.

“Enough!” his father continued. “Your mother was sure that some great bear had eaten you, despite Barend telling her that your bones were too skinny for even a small bear to feast on.” Strong yellowed teeth flashed in the ruddy face, a smile emerging. “Come in boy. You have a tale to tell no doubt. And you’d better embrace your mother, because her dark looks and worrying talk has driven me mad while you’ve been gone.”