War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (23 page)

“Ha!” he laughed, and then continued matter of factly. “Gladiators can’t afford friends, Chayna. I’ve wet-nursed him from the day we were chained together, but, the fool has tripe for brains and it’s high time that he looked out for himself.”

There was a tremor in Chayna’s voice when she asked, “Is it the fight with Carpophorus that’s on your mind, then?”

“No more than any other,” he responded with a lie. He’d thought a great deal about the fight, as well as the tactics he would use against the
venatore
. The coming fight would prove a huge test, but he’d trained harder than ever and was ready for him.

When he’d broken the news of the match to Chayna, she’d been upset, suggesting that they might flee; such was the beast-killer’s reputation. He had calmed her, reminding her of his plans: of Servannus, his brother and Jenell. He’d also reassured her that the match was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. This was his chance to win their freedom, and that he’d not have it otherwise.

With arms held high, Guntram stretched up to his full height. He raked the hair back off his brow and then crossed the shadowed room, pausing at a small table to pour water into two cups. Handing one to Chayna, he gulped down his own, before refilling and emptying the cup again. The water cooled him a little, but the nagging doubt that burned hot in his head, screamed out for an answer.

He moved to stand over her. “Chayna, why aren’t you with child?” He sensed her nervousness despite the poor light. She remained silent and he heard her force a swallow. “Come Chayna, surely you’re not so afraid that you cannot answer me?” He placed his hand reassuringly onto her shoulder.

When she spoke, her voice quivered with emotion. “I swore I’d never lie to you, and I’ve dreaded this moment from the time I realized there was something special between us. I know now that you must be told the truth...and then you must decide what to do with me.” Her voice broke, a heart wrenching sound.

“Hades! You’re speaking in riddles. Am I a devil that you should fret so to confide in me?” He saw her flinch, and then requested more gently, “Chayna...Tell me what I should know.”

She wiped at the tears with her fingers, then answered, “When I was fourteen, Fagus came to my room for the first time.”

He listened in silence, the colour slowly draining from his face.

Chayna’s account poured out, fractured by great gasps for breath. “At first...I...I resisted, but he was too strong and squeezed my throat till I passed out. Then...he...he would take his pleasure. Eventually...I did not resist, and gave in. Oh God! I gave in!” Sucking in air she continued. “I should have ended my life, but I was so young and afraid to die. I hoped and prayed that someday it would stop, that Fagus might somehow die, might drink himself into his grave. It didn’t happen, and then...then I met you.” She cupped her face in her hands and the tears gushed unabated.

Guntram squeezed her shoulder lightly, and spoke slowly in a quiet voice. “You were just a young girl who chose to live, and there’s no shame in that.” There was ice in his voice when he added, “The sin lies at the door of the dog who forced himself on you.”

“My love, that is not the worst of it,” Chayna said, managing to catch her breath. “I became pregnant, and carried that pig’s babies inside of me. They did not live past their first dear moments of life, and later it was too much for me to bear. To carry them for so long and then to see them...” The words caught in her throat.

Guntram nodded, aware of the fate of such children born in the back-streets of Pompeii. He wanted to block out Chayna’s words, but knew he must hear it all.

“When I caught for the second child, I went to the street of the whores, and begged a woman there to help me get rid of the child. She did, but must have injured me inside.” Chayna wiped at the trails of tears with the back of her hand. Her gaze dropped to the floor, dark lashes casting long shadows on her cheeks. “I fear that I may never bear another child.”

Squatting down on his haunches before her, Guntram raised her chin so that he could look into her eyes. “Chayna, are you sure of this?” he asked gently.

“Oh Guntram!” she cried. “I nearly died, and there was so much blood and pain! It’s something I feel and dread.”

“Maybe...” his words tailed away.

Shaking, Chayna went on, “Later, Fagus was often too drunk to do anything when he came to me, and I thanked God that I wouldn’t become pregnant again.” She tried to smile. “Now, with you, I feel so different. Guntram, I’m sorry...so very sorry.”

Guntram walked to the table and lit a small lamp. He pulled on his tunic, fastening his leather belt around his middle. For the first time he fully understood the plight of a woman in bondage. The gladiator endured the cut of the sword, the sear of hot iron; temporary shocks, felt and then over. But Chayna’s agony lived on. He grimaced, feeling her pain, sharp in his imagination.

When he turned to speak, his heart was filled with admiration for Chayna’s courage in telling him the truth, regardless of how the telling might affect her lot. He felt something much darker for the one responsible.

The feelings of helplessness at being unable to aid his brother and Jenell seemed at times unbearable, and tonight’s dreadful tale had confirmed the worst of his fears about Chayna’s former treatment. A shiver tracked his spine. He knew what needed to be done . . .

“Chayna, you are my woman, and we’ll face whatever lies ahead together.” He forced a smile. “The women of my people are wise in matters of child bearing, and we’ll seek their counsel on our return to Germania.” He moved to stand beside her. “We were alone in this world before we met, and now we have each other. Isn’t that a good thing?” His fingers caressed her cheek and she placed her hands over his.

“Yes, it is my love,” she said.

Bending close to her, he coaxed, “Now wipe your tears, because I must go out for a while.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, looking worried.

“To make sure that the Spaniard doesn’t throw away all of his winnings, as he’s sure to be legless. He’s a terrible braggart in wine and who knows what trouble he’ll get into without me around to wipe his nose?” Guntram tied back his hair, before adding, “Hopefully, I’ll be back before mid-night.”

He kissed Chayna’s forehead softly, and for a while they held each other in silence. Then, stepping to the bed, he retrieved his knife from under the mattress, slipping it through his belt at the back.

Chayna handed him his cloak, her face full of worry. “Please do not kill Fagus for my sake,” she implored.

“I’ll not kill him, Chayna,” Guntram replied. “You have my word.” He touched her cheek reassuringly before walking to the door.

When reaching the street Guntram looked up at their room. It appeared dark, peaceful, and he was glad that Chayna could not see his face – cruel, bloodless in the torchlight.

*

Interrupting his talk with the guards, Belua switched his attention to the figure emerging from the shadow of The Small Theatre. Despite the darkness, he recognised Caetes’ build and fluid movement.

“Have you seen the Spaniard?” the German asked briskly. “I’ve visited that rat-hole he calls lodgings, and the usual whore-houses, but no one has seen him.”

Neither guard said a word despite exchanging awkward looks. Belua answered for them, his tone subdued. “Yes...He is here.”

“Sleeping off a gut-full of wine as I expected,” the German grumbled, turning on his heel to leave.

“Wait!” Belua said. “Ellios sleeps...but he’ll not wake in this life.” His voice lacked its usual rough edge.

“What do you mean?” Caetes snapped.

“He fell in Nola, and, as expected, no one was spared. Rufus, the Gaul, was also lost, and we sent three of theirs to Hades in return.”

Caetes stepped closer, a stunned expression on his face. “H...How can it be?” he stuttered. “Despite his bragging, the Spaniard was more than a match for any of his opponents. Was a champion brought in to fight him at the last minute?”

“No,” Belua countered. “But, it was a strange match for sure. The Spaniard began strongly, as was his style, and then suddenly weakened. I’d guessed that something was wrong when watching him struggle in practice. When I spoke to him about it, the grinning ass laughed it off, saying that his Egyptian whore was draining his sap, and I knew the bastard would hump a frog if it stopped hopping long enough.” He shrugged lamely, adding, “He said he was ready for the match at Nola, and I took him at his word.”

“Was it a clean death?” Caetes asked.

“No,” Belua said. “He was cut many times as his strength failed, and the end wasn’t quick. The mob was in a spiteful mood and the editor was keen to please them.” He snorted and spat. “It’s regrettable, but, if there was something wrong with him, something that he didn’t confide to me, then he was a damned fool!”

Belua saw the colour drain from the Caetes’ face, his eyes glaring like those of a wild animal, and he cautiously took a step backwards. It was long seconds before he broke the silence. “The Spaniard will be buried tomorrow, in the school’s cemetery by the Porta Gate. He’s been washed and dressed as is customary, but as I said, it wasn’t pretty. Do you wish to see him?”

“No,” Caetes replied through drawn lips. “His spirit’s flown and I’ve no desire to keep the company of a husk.”

Frowning, Belua watched Caetes delve into the leather pouch at his belt, retrieve, then hand him four glinting, gold coins.

“I know he paid nothing into the burial fund, preferring to spend his money on...on the whores that killed him,” Caetes said tautly. “That should be enough for a head-stone.”

Caetes turned to leave, then hesitated. He addressed Belua again. “He’d have wanted his name marked on the stone. Can you arrange it?”

Belua closed his hand around the coins, nodding his head.

“His name was Marcus Ulpius Scaro,” Caetes said, then swung away into the dark.

Yawning, Brutus the guard nudged Belua as he stared after the German. “That bastard makes me jumpy. He’d rip our throats out as good as spit, and he’s the last one I thought would have made any friends.”

Shaking his head, Belua murmured, “So did I Brutus . . . So did I.”

* * *

Chapter XXIX

THE
INN
0
F
THE
WOLF

“Nothing is to be preferred before justice.”

Socrates

He waited, concealed in the side street until every customer had left the inn. His face was obscured by the cowl of a burnoose, and a rough burlap sack was slung over one shoulder. Fagus was drunk and his new chambermaid was nowhere in sight.

Guntram swiftly entered the inn.

Seizing the inn-keeper from behind, he dragged him into the street. Fagus cried out once as he struggled in his grip. Guntram clamped his hand savagely over his mouth, and whispered, “Quiet dog, or I’ll gut you where you stand.”

A pool of steaming wetness appeared at Guntram’s feet, the inn-keeper emptying his bladder. Drawing his dagger, he inserted its tip upwards into Fagus’s arm-pit. Hot blood coated his knuckles.

Fagus moaned, his head jerking from side to side.

Guntram squeezed his hand even tighter over his mouth, snot befouling his fingers. “No more noise and no more pissing yourself!” he warned. “Do you understand?”

The inn-keeper managed to nod. Guntram slowly removed his hand, wiping off the muck on Fagus’s tunic. He drew out a small vial from a pouch at his waist.

“Drink this!” Guntram ordered. He felt the inn-keeper stiffen. “Don’t fear, it’s opium not poison.” The opium would take some of the fight of the dog. With a whimper the inn-keeper complied.

Clutching Fagus to him, Guntram heading southwards in the direction of the Stabian Gate. To the casual eye, they appeared to be unsteady revellers returning home from a night of drinking.
Tiwaz
, thought Guntram nervously,
I hope I haven’t given him too much. I’ll never be able to carry him the whole way if he passes out.

Progress was slow with Fagus stumbling and breaking into groggy tears. When the gate took shape ahead of him, Guntram made a detour eastwards via a series of quiet side-streets, before again turning south. They eventually arrived at the place he sought, located in a partially deserted section of the city.

The building was shrouded in darkness, but Guntram was sure it was the house he’d visited earlier that night.

Guntram turned his attention to Fagus. He slammed him backwards against the wall, the inn-keeper wheezing as the air was forced from his lungs before slumping to his knees. Guntram delved into his canvas sack, removing a coiled length of rope and a strip of cloth.

On seeing the rope, Fagus let out a small animal cry. Hands clasped together, he pleaded for mercy through a welter of sobs, his words slurred by the effect of the opium.

Guntram quickly tied Fagus’s hands and gagged him with the cloth. He left him on his knees.

As agreed, Guntram gave four loud knocks on the building’s large wooden door. For a while there was nothing, and then came the metal grate of bolts being drawn back.

A short, squat shape appeared around the door, holding out a torch in front of him. Guntram recognised the man he had dealt with earlier. The shaven head and large gut were easily placed.

“Have you the rest of the money?” the man asked, thick lips peeling back off small, pointed teeth.

“Here,” said Guntram, handing over a small pouch.

The man made a quick inspection of the pouch, grunted his satisfaction, and then tucked it into the leather apron that stretched around his bulging stomach. Dark stains like dried blood spotted the apron.

The man swayed past Guntram and pulled Fagus to his feet.

Fagus groaned, his eyes his opening up, the opium beginning to wear off.

“Go,” the man advised Guntram as he bundled Fagus towards the waiting door.

“A moment,” Guntram replied, holding up his hand.