War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (8 page)

Dislodging a stubborn chicken remnant from between his teeth with a thumbnail, Gallio addressed him. “Speaking of gladiators, is it true that Carporphorous has retired from the arena?”

“The beast killer?” queried Marius.

“The same,” Gallio confirmed. “His killing feats have given him almost god-like fame. The mob loves him. Have you seen him perform Servannus?”

“Once, at Paestum.”

“What did you think?”

“He’s a rare one, a freak. Large, with strength enough to break the neck of a bison and hyena. When he moves in for the kill with that great spear he uses, he moves with incredible speed. It’s uncanny.” Servannus’s dark eyes glinted as he spoke, his tongue wetting his lips. “He seems to scurry, more like a huge spider than a man. He is different...special.”

“And what of his ability to train animals to kill?” Marius asked.

“He has trained a pack of fighting dogs that attack as one. I watched them tear the flesh from a bull as easily as you stripped that chicken from its carcass.”

“Has he ever fought men?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Servannus. “The Imperial Schools don’t like mixing their trained killers. Men killing men, and men killing beasts has always been their way; each trained separately and killing separately. If he ever does, it will be a sorry day for the man who stands before him.”

“More wine!” Servannus waved a hand. His guests applauded. “I need to stretch my legs.” Servannus suddenly pushed himself up from his couch. “I suggest you continue with...your wine.”

He was past them before they could reply.

He followed a nearby path into one of the villa’s gardens, the pair left babbling vaguely behind him. He passed through the garden without stopping, following a stone path away from the villa and past a thick wall of trees. Suddenly, he was in the open, on a parapet overlooking the bay. His father had boasted that it was the finest spot in Campania, and gazing out over the azure sea he agreed.

There was a small stone wall around the parapet and he moved to its edge. The stones were overgrown by a layer of grey-green lichen, and he ran his fingers over them, feeling the delicate texture. The sea-breeze gusted, cooling his face. He remembered often coming to this spot as a boy with his father, who always commented that it was much cooler here by the sea than in Rome. His father had rarely visited the mother city, hating its venomous politics and stifling summer heat.

He surveyed the bay, picking out scattered fishing boats and small trading ships. Off against the horizon the clouds were piling high into the sky, and where the sun cut through, it made the surface of the water glisten.

To his west, an hour’s ride away, was busy Pompeii, while below him to the southeast was Herculaneum, looking as if asleep. Between himself and the quiet town, his estate stretched out across the lower slopes of the great mountain. He traced its vineyards and gardens, amongst which were dotted: a large stables, slave quarters, a wine press and a handful of guest-houses.
I rule it all,
he thought.

His thoughts turned fleetingly from the beauty of his surroundings to his guests. He smiled. They believed that their sickly grins and empty compliments could convince him of their false friendship.
Idiots.
But, it didn’t bother him, as it had never bothered him. And now, he possessed the means to buy whatever he wanted, and when he tired of what he bought, he’d buy anew.

* * *

Chapter VIII

DRAGAN
BALAS

“In vain does a man seek

a defence against lightning.”

Dalmatian proverb
.

Frustration getting the better of him, he threw down the stylus and stretched his arms wide. Belua hated the task of recording the men’s progress, but Gordeo insisted on a regular update.
The tight bastard
, Belua reflected.
He could easily pay a clerk to do the scribbling without burdening me
. He poured himself more wine.

Prudes sat nearby, cup in hand. He was smiling, being well accustomed to the head trainer’s loathing of record keeping. He stated, “The German improves by the day.”

“True,” Belau admonished, aware that his companion sought to distract him. After a moment he asked, “Do you think he’ll live long enough to return a profit?”

“He learns quickly and has the tools to succeed.”

“Go on. You’re rarely a man lost for words.”

“His opponents will make the mistake of thinking that he is slow and awkward, because he’s so big. You’ve seen how he moves – light, fluid, like a big cat.”

“What about his spirit?”

“He has steel in his guts. I’ve seen the cold fire in his eyes when I’ve sparred with him, and I could almost taste his desire to open me up. He is a natural fighter, and if he continues to learn I think he will do well.”

Belua nodded, acknowledging his companion’s words; insights gleaned from bloody combat. “Aye, he has promise,” he planted a hand on Prudes shoulder, adding, “and, the gods willing could make a name for himself.”

“I’ve not your faith in the gods, Belua. I’ll put my trust in a well forged blade and a stout heart to back it up every time. Too set in my ways to change now.” Prudes finished his drink in one swallow and then stood to leave. “It’s time to get back to the men and to leave you to your pleasures.”

Belua responded with a mock grin and foul curse.

As the door closed behind the trainer, Belua leaned back in his chair, contemplating the
tiros
’ recent progress. His thoughts drifted to the German. Neo regularly whinged about the injuries that Caetes inflicted on the other men, and there was little doubt that the man was a ferocious training partner. But, it was good to keep the men sharp. He told the troupe often enough that a gladiator’s desire to win shouldn’t be packed away like an old sword, but should be wielded at each practice, as if the gladiator’s life was at stake – because one day it would.

Belua had seen from the start of Caetes’ training that he was quick to learn the valuable lessons that he often had to drum into his other charges. Caetes had fighting spirit and his practice was becoming less wild and reckless. The few questions he asked were insightful, relevant, and Belua realized that the sullen German’s physical gifts were complemented by a sharp and disciplined mind. If he was honest, there were occasions when Caetes reminded him of another gladiator, another Belua.

Ten full years had passed since he was awarded the
rudis
in Rome’s Circus Maximus. It was presented by the Great Augustus himself.
Gods, the years have passed so quickly
, he admonished. And, before that time, before the mob acclaimed him as Belua the Fist, there was an earlier, happy, uncomplicated life; lived by a young fisherman named Dragan Balas.

He took a long swig from his cup, recalling the blaze of the sun on the open sea, its warmth on his back, and the belching of sea-gulls as they dived for fish in the nets. There was the sound of his small son’s cries of laughter and the feel of his wife’s hair . . .

As a fisherman Dragan plied his trade along Dalmatia’s beautiful emerald coast, with its countless bays and vast chain of islands. A significant expanse of the Dalmatian coast-line was under Roman subjugation following thirty years of uneasy peace, and the Dalmatians remained a bellicose, hardy people, infamous for their far-ranging piratical activities. It was this reputation that brought Dragan’s world crushing down on that distant summer’s day.

Dragan was attending to his nets following a successful day’s fishing, his young wife, Mislava, suckling their young son in the shade of their flimsy boat shelter. Mother-sea had been very generous of late, and Dragan pictured the large catch, silvery bright in the fading daylight, fish jumping, flopping in their scores onto the deck. He’d quickly gutted them, their shiny, green intestines slick in his hands, all the while his small boat rising and dipping in the swell. This had been his life ever since he was old enough to lift an oar unaided, and there’d never been another option for him.

Dragan was barely fifteen when his parents and younger brother succumbed to a wasting malady. But, Dragan had always been strong, and he survived to carry on with what he knew. Later, Mislava entered his life, and they fell in love. Afterwards, each day’s brutalising toil no longer mattered, as they had each other and were content. Then the boy-child came, who, when grown, would lighten Dragan’s work-load. Hopefully there would be more children, and life would become easier for the small family, and the Balas way of life would go on. He believed that it had always been this way with his people.

The small family rarely received company or visitors. Occasionally, local fishermen who Dragan met at the fish market moored for an hour on their return home, sharing tit-bits of news about the wider world and all the while grumbling over the piffling prices the hawkish merchants extorted for their catch. Sometimes, small merchant ships fleeing the wrath of a squall anchored in the cove to sit out the storm, bartering for fish and fresh water, and were an additional source of news. Thus, it was with growing unease that Dragan tracked the course of the Roman war-ship that materialized out of the afternoon haze on that fateful day, ploughing an unswerving course towards his small home.

The war-ship swiftly closed with the shingled beach, and Dragan’s apprehension turned to churning fear on recognising the white uniforms of Imperial Marines forming up on the ship’s deck in readiness to disembark. Turning, he called to Mislava, but she was nowhere in sight. He guessed she was probably in-doors with their son.

He was wading into the shallows to tentatively hail the vessel, when the first arrow whipped past his head. Others quickly followed. Flinching into a crouch, he covered his head with his arms. A startled cry to his rear quickly brought him around. A throaty yell burst from his lips as he saw Mislava slumped at the entrance to their shanty, her body skewered by a black-fletched barb. The shaft punctured her through the small body of their son clasped tightly to her. Pinned together in death, the shaft’s raven flight sprouted obscenely from the infant’s naked back. Before his yell ended, Dragan knew his dear ones were dead.

As he cradled the limp bodies close, he hardly felt the marines’ jarring blows that bludgeoned him into darkness.

Badly beaten but alive, Dragan was transported north to the thriving port of Pietes Iulia, and promptly sold to a resident ludus. He never discovered the reason for the attack on his home. In time, when the red haze of grief subsided, he guessed that the raid was probably one of many; probably in retaliation for one of the acts of piracy against Rome. The murder of his family was but a small part of a cruel lesson taught to those who dared break the Roman peace.

His strength and natural stamina quickly earned him a fearful reputation in the province’s arenas. At first he was trained in the style of the heavily armoured
hoplomachus,
with him easily overcoming opponents fought in the local arenas. Despite the victories, his hoary Spanish trainer was to channel his ability in a different direction. It was a decision made after the trainer observed a fist fight between Dragan and two of the
ludus
’ veterans who’d been goading him for some time, being more than a little envious of his successes. Both were rendered unconscious by a single crushing blow from his rock-like fists. The power of those fists, together with a mulish tenacity to win and a granite slab of a jaw was to determine his future fighting style.

Belua the Fist was born.

*

The evening sky was darkening. Guntram watched the Greek
tiro
edge along the refectory roof, belly pushed tight to the tiles. It was the only blind spot in the
ludus
that was not visible to the guards at the gate.

Go, quickly
! he willed the Greek on.

The Greek disappeared from site, dropping from the roof to the street outside the
ludus
. The darkness deepened, and Guntram realized that the guards would soon be herding them into their cells for the night.
I must go now, or it will be too late
, he told himself.

His heart pounding wildly, Guntram stepped into the shadows at the side of the refectory.

He’d practiced what he must do many times in his mind. Soaked with sweat, he bent his knees, ready to jump up and grab the protruding end of roof beam. He knew that he’d have no trouble pulling himself up onto the refectory roof as the Greek had done.

A hand grasped his tunic from behind and he felt as if his belly had hit the floor. He spun round, fist drawn back to strike.

It was the Spaniard, Ellios. Relief gushed through him, and he unclenched his fist.

“You are mad,” Ellios rasped, his thumb making a twisting motion into his temple. “The Greek will not make it to the city wall before he is caught, and neither will you, you fool. Come away, now, before you are seen.” He pulled Guntram towards him by the arm.

Guntram snatched his arm away, his anger rising. “I’ll not stay to be fattened like a pig for the slaughter, to be butchered in the arena for the pleasure these Roman bastards.”

“Trust me, you will surely die, and soon if you run. You have no money, no provisions or weapons. And where would you go?” He paused before advising, “You have a talent for fighting my friend, a talent that one day could win you the
rudis
, and your freedom. But this way,” he gestured to the refectory roof, “you have no chance.”

Ellios’s words stung, but Guntram recognised the truth in them. Need had assured that Guntram acquired a hasty grasp of the Roman tongue, and also knowledge of his new surroundings. The grinning Spaniard had spent time each day helping him with his Latin, insisting that it was repayment for his help at the slave pen. Guntram had been grateful for the help, but had been too proud to say so. The Spaniard’s good humour had seemed genuine regardless of his plight, and Guntram believed that there was no guile in him.