War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (20 page)

Lifting her off her feet, Guntram laid her onto her back across the bed. Dragging off his tunic, he scooped his hands beneath her, clasping her buttocks. She groaned as he entered her, arching her back to meet his thrust. Wrapping her legs around his back she felt him move deeper inside her. His mouth crushed onto hers, and her tongue found his, tasting him.

Their initial love making was brief, intense, with Guntram’s final thrust being accompanied by a choking cry of pleasure. He braced himself upwards, relieving her of his weight, although he still remained inside her. Blood dappled her lip, her stomach and breasts glistened with sweat, and her heart still pounded in her chest. Her dark, liquid eyes bored up at him, the pupils wide.

“I’ve prayed for this moment,” she said, breathing heavily. “Love me again...please.”

This time their love making was less urgent, and Guntram caressed her with a new tenderness, delaying his climax to meet her own. Spent, they just lay together...safe.

*

It was evening when Guntram lifted Chayna’s face from where it rested on his chest.

“Chayna,” he hesitated, and then the words came in a flood. “Chayna, I want you to leave Fagus and come to live with me...as my woman.”

“How is it possible?” Chayna asked, shocked. “Fagus wouldn’t release me.”

“I will buy you from him. I have the money.”

“But you know one slave cannot buy another.”

“I will make Fagus an offer he cannot refuse,” Guntram told her. “And you will have your own papers of freedom; on the day that I win my own.”

Staggered by the revelation, Chayna seemed unable to find any words.

“Chayna, don’t play with me,” he urged. “Give me your answer.”

“Yes! Yes!” she replied, her smile dazzling. Pulling his head down, she kissed him fiercely on the lips.

“It will be the first home of my own,” Chayna said. “But, how will you get Fagus to agree?”

“With silver, enough to buy others to replace you,” he said. “I’ll also make it clear that if I should die and he tries to reclaim you, someone will visit him to convince him otherwise, and it will involve pain. He will understand.”

“Is it true?”

“As true as matters. And Ellios will see to your welfare if...”

“Please don’t say it,” Chayna placed her finger to his lips.

His heart went out to her. “Very well, but it’s important that you know your future is planned for.”

“I think you trust this Ellios very much,” Chayna said.

“I do.”

Smiling, Chayna dropped her back onto his chest.

Later, with Chayna’s head asleep on his arm, Guntram mulled over recent events and his struggle to come to terms with his new emotions. Like a flame Chayna had entered his darkness, and he swore that he’d not let the past repeat itself.

Pushing away the creeping pain of memory, he held Chayna closer, and the gloom receded.

* * *

Chapter XXIII

CHAMPION

“Success is man’s god.”

Aeschylus

Belua was enjoying his drink, feeling more relaxed by the cup when the stranger approached him and Prudes at their table.

The stranger addressed him. “The noble Marcus Tullius Servannus asks that you join him at his table,” then, indicating Prudes, “and your friend too.” The man was big, hard-faced, the clipped tones of Gaul spilling from his every word. With a sigh, Belua stood, telling himself that a promising evening was already taking a turn for the worst.

The inn was quiet, and the Gaul led them past customers engaged in a game of dice to a table at the rear of the inn. A pretty serving girl was delivering a fresh jug of wine.

“I hope you didn’t mind my request,” greeted a smiling Servannus as the two men drew near.

Belua tipped his head in response then pointed to his companion. “This is Prudes, a fellow trainer.”

Prudes too, inclined his head in greeting, but Servannus didn’t spare him a look.

“Excellent, please take a seat and share a cup of Falerian with me,” Servannus offered, speaking directly to Belua.

“Thank you, but we were about to leave when your...Gaul came over.” Belua motioned with his hand towards the bodyguard who remained standing, arms folded at Servannus’s rear.

“Come now, just a few minutes of your time, and I see you still have a full cup. And, our last meeting was, how shall I say...cut short.” Servannus’s smile remained in place, but Belua discerned a brittle edge to his tone.
Fucking snake
, thought Belua, recalling their last encounter.

Belua looked to Prudes, hoping that he would come up with a better excuse. Prudes merely shrugged his shoulders. Thwarted, Belua sat down on a chair across the table from the noble. Prudes occupied a vacant seat at his side.

Belua was familiar with the tales spoken about Servannus, notably his interest in gladiators and the arena. There were also the rumours of his excesses, his spoilt nature and his cruel mistreatment of the women that he bought and used. It was said that the only safe women around Servannus were the dead and the dying, and the dying only sometimes. Regardless, Belua understood that the
ludus
couldn’t afford to offend someone of his standing and local influence. He bit his tongue, knowing that he’d have to go on biting it.

“You have an envious reputation as a trainer of excellent fighters Belua,” Servannus complimented him.

“I try to earn my pay, nothing more.”

“Come now, I was just commenting to Galenus,” Servannus indicated his bodyguard with a motion of his hand, “that it’s been a long time since Pompeii’s produced a champion of the calibre of Caetes, and he was in agreement.”

“True,” Belua said, then casually, “The German has done well.”

“Well! You’re being overly modest. His fight ten days ago in Elea was magnificent! His strike to the Dacian champion’s hamstring was masterful, and his finishing was faultless.” Servannus’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Such skill in one who’s only been fighting for just over a year.”

“His record is impressive for one so young,” Belua remarked, then reflectively, “Thirteen contests, and eight of them–”

“Kills,” finished Servannus.

“You’re well informed,” said Belua. There’d been times when he’d worried about the German sparing the lives of those that he could. But what business was it of Servannus?

“I’ve seen every contest.” Servannus’s smile widened.
The smile of a shark
, thought Belua.

“But, such is his reputation,” Servannus ventured, “Gordeo will doubtless find it difficult to acquire suitable opponents for him.”

“Even champions value their lives,” Belua said. “But, there will always be those who will fight...if the pay is enough.”

“I could not agree more,” Servannus said. “And, that reminds me. Please inform Gordeo that he’ll be receiving an invite to visit me at my villa.”

“Is that it?” Belua asked, frowning.

“Just tell him that I have an unusual proposition for him,” Servannus replied. “One that will be in our mutual interest.”

“Very well,” said Belua.
Slimy bastard
, he thought, deciding it was time to leave. “If there is nothing else...”

“There is one thing...” Servannus leaned forward onto the table, his look eager.

Belua shifted uneasily in his seat, and took another swallow of wine.

“I’ve been told that even the most talented gladiator can panic and crumple when faced with death on the sand.”

“Some find taking another’s life harder than others,” Belua told him, aware of Prudes awkwardly shuffling his feet.

“Apparently so,” Servannus said, his expression avid. “I understand that you won your freedom as a
pugile
, and that Augustus himself granted you the
rudis
.”

“He did.”

“The boxer’s gloves are cruel weapons, and few have won their freedom wielding them.” Servannus paused. “Your final match must have been exceptional.”

“It was painful,” Belua responded, “that much I can remember.”

Encouraged, Servannus leaned even closer. “Tell me...What was it like to kill another man with your bare hands?”

Belua grimaced, seeing the change in the noble: the eyes stretched wide, the mouth a cruel line.

“It’s so long ago...and the memory is unclear,” Belua lied. He’d said enough, and draining his cup rose to his feet. “I’m afraid we must take our leave. There are pressing matters that require our attention.”

“A pity,” Servannus said, looking disappointed. “Perhaps we could continue with our discussion another time...when you are less busy. Don’t forget to pass my message to Gordeo.”

Belua simply acknowledged Servannus’s words with a bob of his head, before turning to bustle his way to the street, followed closely by Prudes.

Behind him, Servannus sat back in his chair.

* * *

Chapter XXIV

STORM

“It is because we do

not dare that things are difficult.”

Seneca

The sun was dropping behind the hills when Guntram emerged from the tangle of trees high above Servannus’s estate. Heavy, black clouds piled above him, the storm barely holding off.
I’ll welcome the rain when it comes,
he thought,
it’ll help to cloak my approach.

Gods! it’s like a small town,
thought Guntram, surveying the vast estate. The villa sat in its centre, huge even in the gloom. He scanned the surrounding fields and buildings, working out a path that would provide him with the best means of cover as he converged on the villa itself. Satisfied with his plan, he gauged that it would probably take him an hour reach his goal.

Pulling forward his hood to mask his face, he set out at a brisk walk.

After crossing a large vineyard, Guntram passed quite close to one of the outer buildings. The smoky light from oil lamps spilled out from the open door. Inside, men were singing a bawdy song, and in a vivid flash of memory it brought back to Guntram the crowded wine-shops of Pompeii. If anyone stopped him before he reached the villa, he planned to tell them that he’d wandered off the dirt track that ran along the northern perimeter of the estate and then cut south to Herculaneum.

Guntram pushed on, the lighted doorway left behind. The night had grown dark and he broke into loping run that soon carried him to the villa’s outer wall. Pulling himself up, he took taking a cautionary look over its rim. He spotted an armed guard patrolling nearby, and he dropped back down.

As he waited for the guard to pass, Guntram pictured the plan of the large villa in his mind, picking out the route to the second storey chamber where Servannus slept. Guntram had learned that anything could be bought in Pompeii – for a price. And, after Ellios had made tactful enquiries on his behalf, Guntram had paid good silver to a local trader for information about the whereabouts of Servannus’s estate, as well as a sketched map of the villa itself. Most importantly the map marked out the position of Servannus’s private chambers.

The trader was said to have gambled his business away, but he’d assured Guntram that he’d visited the villa often in more prosperous times, selling the staff an assortment of clay jugs and pots for the large kitchen. Guntram had warned the trader that if the information proved false he would pay him another visit; one that wouldn’t be good for his health.

There was now a different smell in the air – the tang of salt-water mingled with that of pine, and Guntram suddenly became aware of the crying of gulls unsettled by the approaching storm. Knowing that he must press on, he searched the tiled courtyard on the other side of the wall. It was clear.

Slipping over the wall, Guntram swiftly crossed the open space, dropping to his belly before what appeared to be a guard post. Peering carefully though its open door, he saw that it was empty. A spear was propped against one wall. He scanned the darkness for any sign of the guard and could see no one.

In front of him was a large garden, dotted with small fountains and dim statues. He’d worked out from his map that beyond the garden were the villa’s private quarters. Squinting, he tried to pick out buildings he’d only pictured in his mind.

Guntram remained still for what seemed a very long time, watching and listening. Then the lightning forked closer, and the guard was revealed with acid clarity. Guntram put his hand to his knife, making sure that it would slide easily from its sheath. The guard crossed to one of the fountains. With a loud sigh he began to empty his bladder.

Guntram saw his chance. He crept forward, trying not to run, but the garden seemed all at once very wide. He barely made it into the shadow of the Atrium in time. Sick with relief he watched the guard fasten his trousers before walking off into the dark.

His heart still drumming against his breastbone, Guntram edged his way along the Atrium wall. He found the spot he’d marked out in his mind. He looked up, and the lightning flashed again. White marble, lit up against the darkness loomed above him. It was here that Servannus slept.

Rain began to fall in heavy drops. Guntram waited for the next flash of lightning, taking a cautious step away from the wall to get a better view of the villa’s upper storey. Thunder broke with a coughing roar, like the War-Song of the Cherusci drums. Lightning streaked to earth, picking out every detail of the building with a blue-white glare. Guntram saw a balcony encircling a large chamber, bordered by what appeared to be gardens. Then it was dark again.

Guntram gauged that it was at least the height of six men to the top of the balcony, and that it would be difficult to reach, but possible with the use of a rope and hook. He waited to check again.

Lightning crackled very close and the night became day. Guntram’s eyes stretched wide in shock. A figure had moved to the balcony rail dressed in only a loin-cloth, his face raised to the storm. Another man, large and armed with a sword joined him. They exchanged a brief word while Guntram held his breath. The scantily dressed man dropped his head and there no mistake – it was the dog Servannus!