War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (24 page)

Stepping close to the inn-keeper, he spoke quietly, “Welcome to the house where they make eunuchs.” Fagus’s eyes bulged in shock.

“For Chayna!” Guntram hissed.

The door closed, and the only noise was of the bolts sliding home.

*

It was just before midnight when he approached the Inn Of The Wolf. At the entrance he was greeted by a dimmed area, filled with smoke shrouded bodies seated under a low beamed ceiling.

Guntram stepped in, the busy room swallowing him up.

Picking his way between the tables he seated himself at a vacant table near the inn’s rear wall. The room was very warm and smelt of braised meats and freshly spilt wine, and he wasted no time purchasing a large jug of Falerian, having nurtured a taste for the local wine. Not wanting to attract undue attention, he’d decided to drink indoors rather than the street. And he needed to get drunk.

The inn had a reputation for serving good food and reasonably priced wine, and was popular with gladiators and local marines alike. It was rarely closed for business. Freshly strewn straw covered the floor and the large room was nearly full, boasting a motley collection of sun-darkened sailors, coarse mouthed marines and galley’ oarsmen from Misenum. The latter were easily recognised by their massive arms and shoulder muscles, clearly visible beneath their loose fitting jackets.

Guntram drank without pause and was beginning to feel light-headed, but his mind was set.
I need another drink
, he thought,
lots of drink.
The room was hot, yet he shivered, and his hands shook with emotion. The urge to break, scream, do anything, just to release the rage remained strong in him. He cursed, not wanting Chayna to see him like this, not wanting to worry her. Maybe, if he drunk enough he’d pass out and tomorrow feel...

He spotted a serving girl and ordered another jug of Falerian. Bent forwards, he glowered at his clenched fists, the bunched muscles of his forearms standing out like chorded bronze.

He drank quickly, hardly tasting the wine.

He’d been initially oblivious to the surrounding hubbub, but now he began to take notice: picking up the raucous laughter and the eager rattle of dice against the blurred babble of voices. The walls were decorated with colourful drawings, each depicting gladiators and wild beasts in battle with one another. Various names and messages were scrawled alongside them, barely visible in the flickering light generated by the reed tapers positioned around the room.

He refilled his cup, his mind tracking back to the night’s events. He pictured the inn-keeper and he clenched his teeth. Fagus had dishonoured his woman in the worst possible way and under Cherusci’ law there was but one penalty for such a crime. But this was Rome. He was pleased that he’d found a punishment of these people’s own making with which to afflict the inn-keeper. And, he’d kept his word to Chayna.

Guntram’s thoughts shifted to the
ludus
and he pictured Ellios – dead, butchered. Grief washed over him, like the chill wind in a slaughterhouse
. Gods! I’ll miss the fool’s grinning face. I’ll miss...my friend.

Feeling flushed, he drew off his burnoose. A number of customers turned in recognition of the champion in their midst, a few murmuring his name.
He knuckled sweat away from his eyes and took some deep breaths, trying to clear his head a little.

A large blue coloured fly settled by his hand and he idly swatted at it, driving it up to land on a room beam. Taper light glinted on the strands of a web, and slowly, with the patience of death itself, the web’s owner emerged from the shadow. It was big, patient, and aware that the fly now skimmed above the web. He lifted his cup to his lips, watching the fly gradually close with the web as though drawn by a force outside itself. Then, a wing touched, stuck. The fly struggled furiously, but its efforts served only to entangle it further. Abruptly, the spider’s delicate steps became a headlong rush. It settled its bloated body over the fly, and the buzzing ceased.

Guntram wondered if there was some way that he too could

lure Servannus into a trap?

“Hey! Caetes!” shouted a hoarse voice off to one side. “Come and join us! We could do with a juicy tale or two about the noble sluts you’ve screwed.”

He glanced in the direction of the voice, and saw that it came from a table seating three marines. Drinks raised, the marines grinned luridly in his direction.

Guntram returned his attention to his cup, answering bluntly, “I drink alone.”

One of the marines rose from his chair, kicking it backwards and toppling it over. Without turning, Guntram tracked his path towards him. He halted a step away from his table. When he spoke it was the voice of the invitation. “So! Too proud to share a drink with three defenders of the Empire,” he jeered, adding acidly, “Not good enough are we?”

Guntram looked up, appraising the marine. A big man, his face was coarse, with red, pig eyes. His balding head was set squarely on a thick bull neck, and a worn, leather cuirass failed to hide that he was running to fat.

“I’m waiting for your answer...bustuarius!” The last word was spat out. Bustuarius – funeral
man, Guntram recalled -
a slight
and
relic from the past, when men first fought over the graves of the dead as part of the custom of burial. Dribbles of wine ran down the marine’s jowls, and Guntram’s knuckles clenched white beneath the cover of the table as a throbbing desire to bury his fist deep in the man’s gut flooded into his mind.

As Guntram looked past him, he saw his two companions rise and then move to stand at his shoulder. The first marine exchanged a few words with them and all three laughed aloud. The others were younger, although smaller, and each held a cup of red wine.

The leader, the talker, leaned forward, arms widely splayed, clutching the table edges as he prepared to fire more abuse. Guntram silently recoiled as his face loomed closer, stale breath wafting over him.

“It’s as I thought Crixus,” the leader sneered. “The bustuarius has taken it up the arse so often he’s lost his voice...and his guts.” His laughter was chorused by his cronies.

Guntram felt the heat of the room billow around him. He put down his cup, and the laughter stopped.

Guntram spoke slowly, clearly. “Leave now, before you get hurt...pig fucker.”

There was a sudden, deep silence; like throwing a stone down a well and waiting for it to hit the water, and waiting and waiting. The leader’s hand flexed, and then jerked towards the knife at his waist.

Guntram struck.

His extended thumb speared into the leader’s left eye, gouging inwards and rupturing the eye-ball. Retracting his hand from the screaming man’s face, Caetes rounded quickly on the others. The talker collapsed to his knees, cradling an eye that was smeared like a crushed grape across his cheek.

The nearest marine, briefly stunned into inaction, was unable to avoid the punch that Guntram drove against the side of his face. The blow shattered his jaw, sharp bone shredding his tongue, before careering him into the third marine, with both men flailing backwards over a table.

All around them customers scampered frantically from the inn or retreated a safe distance to watch the bloody spectacle unfold.

At the edge of his vision Guntram saw that the talker had stopped screaming and was levering himself to his feet, using the bar’ top to assist him. His initial cries of pain were replaced by a barrage of foul curses as he tried to push what remained of his eye back in place.

Guntram advanced on the two who were struggling to get to their feet.

Hefting an abandoned chair, he struck the un-bloodied marine a shuddering blow across the face as he attempted to draw a knife from his belt. The chair impacted just above the man’s brow, splitting open his forehead. Pole-axed, he crumpled in a heap. Guntram reversed the swing of the chair, blocking a thrust from the marine with the shattered jaw who’d drawn his own knife, the chair checking the strike and jolting the knife free. Guntram dropped the chair. His hand snaked out to grab the attacked by the hair, before wrenching down his head to meet his rising knee. The impact on the marine’s chin bolted him upwards off his feet. Out cold, he didn’t feel his head hit the floor.

“Bastard!” The cry accompanied the gleam of the talker’s knife arcing towards Guntram’s face. Despite instinctively jerking his head backwards, he knew that he couldn’t avoid the blow.

The blade shuddered to a stop, its tip barely pricking the skin on Guntram’s neck, with the talker’s arm being gripped at the elbow by a huge clam of a hand.

Stunned, Guntram recognised Belua’s bulk ploughing into view. The trainer squeezed then shook the arm, the knife clattering to floor. A back-handed blow to the marine’s face slammed him backwards against the wall, where he slowly slid downwards, his head lolling senseless onto his chest.

Belua, rubbing the back of his neck, addressed him across the carnage of the inn, “Go! Before the watch arrives.” He looked about him. “Jupiter’s cock! What a mess! At least you didn’t kill any of the bastards. That aside, the Admiral doesn’t take kindly to his men being dealt with so harshly, so you’d better leave quickly.” He sat, reaching for a half-filled cup. After a swallow, he grimaced. “Shit! Even the Falerian tastes like piss tonight.”

Guntram kicked one of the marines aside as he picked up his cloak. He approached the seated trainer and enquired, “Why did you interfere?”

“Why?” Belua repeated. “Because you’re the property of Ludus Gordeo, and not to be damaged. And, because you are one of mine; trained and shaped by my hand. Do you think I’d let some navy arse sponge ruin all my good work?” He took another swallow from the cup, flinched, and then rasped, “Now go! Before I regret my good humour.”

Belua emptied what remained in his cup onto the floor, summoning the inn-keeper loudly, “Publius! You cheating old bastard! Some of your best wine for my old bones, and make sure that it’s not the watered stuff, or it’ll be your head that I crack next.”

* * *

Chapter XXX

CARPOPHORUS

“No wickedness has any ground of reason.”

Livy

Despite the warmth of the day the training was spirited. Drenched in sweat, the two gladiators moved into the shade of the portico to quench their thirst.

Dama watched Caetes drink, not for the first time noting the fairness of his skin despite the bronzing effect of the sun – so different to his own. Standing at just over seven feet he was as black as night shadow. An acclaimed warrior from the dark nations south of Numidia before enslavement, his wiry frame possessed formidable strength and endurance, and he was the sole member of the troupe able to regularly train with Caetes without succumbing to injury. Dama was aware that he was also the only gladiator who conversed with Caetes, whose moods had grown increasingly sullen since the death of the Spaniard.

Caetes handed him the twin-handled
amphora
, and he took a number of slurping draughts before tipping the remaining water over his pate. Scraped smooth each morning, it shone in the sun like polished jet.

“So how much should I wager on you?” he asked, blinking the water from his eyes.

“I advise no-one on matters of life and death, nor money and women,” Caetes answered gruffly.

“Hah! The answer I expected.” Dama’s teeth shined white as he smiled. “The betting places you as the underdog my friend, but that’s not surprising as many claim that Carpophorus is the greatest of all the beast-killers.”

Caetes shrugged his shoulders, commenting evenly, “He can bleed...and die.”

“Did you know that he is a German like yourself?”

“No, but it’ll make no difference when I face him on the sand.” Caetes thumbed the edge of his sword. “German blood is as red as any man’s.”

“I saw him fight once in Lucera and he is special,” Dama reflected. “He has immense strength and speed, and is more like the beasts he trains and kills than a man. That day, I saw him kill hyenas by snapping their spines with a blow of his hand, and finish a leopard by breaking its neck. I would not have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with these eyes. Wielding a long hunting spear, I watched him stalk a wild-eyed boar and full grown lion, and then kill them with ease.”

“Then I’d best kneel before him and offer my neck for the death blow without even lifting my sword,” Caetes’ derided. “Before this son of Mars himself!”

“Do not underestimate him,” Dama warned. “He’s killed giant bears as well as the great cats, and it’s claimed that he has the strength of three grown men and can bear the weight of a fully grown bull on his shoulders.” He paused, waiting for Caetes’ response. There was none and he went on, “A retired Thracian told me that he saw him slay twenty beasts in one afternoon in Puteoli, and that he drinks the blood of the great cats that he kills, their powers then passing to him.”

“And a pig sings when the west wind blows up its arse,” Caetes sniggered.

“I know you fear no man,” Dama said, choosing his words carefully, “and I have felt the strength of your sword arm, but, this fight will be different – because never before in Campania has a champion from the Imperial School been matched against a beast-fighter. There will be great danger, but also great honour for you when you face him.”

“Great honour? Horse piss!” Caetes fired back. “Belua’s spoken about this free man who possesses great wealth, yet still fights on, like a dog that returns to its vomit. He has the sickness of greed and continues to kill because it makes his manhood hard. Such honourable skills like the training of baboons to rape young girls, and hunting dogs to tear apart helpless criminals. He is filth, and I will paint the arena with his fucking blood!”

Dama flinched at the raw hatred displayed on Caetes’ face, the resolve that weighted his every word.

“Caetes, such practices aren’t to my taste, but Carpophorus gives the people what they desire. You’ve seen the pleasure on their faces, and heard their cries for more when the beast-men kill. In the arena alone are the mob rulers.”