War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (27 page)

Guntram first checked the street for any witnesses then turned to the Rose.
Bastard
, he swore inwardly. A man stood near the entrance to the inn, as if frozen, a shocked look inscribed on his face.

Guntram took a step towards him, shattering the man’s trance. The man reeled into the inn screaming, “Murder! The champion Caetes has done bloody murder!”

Cursing his ill-luck and with breaking dawn lighting the darkness, Guntram looked to the roof-tops once more.

* * *

Chapter XXXV

STRANGE
ENDINGS

“Beast knows beast.”

Aristotle

The trainer’s bulk was unmistakable when Guntram spotted his arrival at the Rose. He knew instinctively that Belua sought him out. Now leaving, the trainer stood at the brothel entrance, pausing only to raise a wine-skin to his mouth.

The area was devoid of other people, and Guntram left the roof-top, descending into the dark alleyway between the tenements. Like the cat that spies a mouse he watched, all the while knowing that despite his caution the trainer knew he was near.

Wiping a dribble of wine from his chin, Belua exclaimed in his direction. “Not a bad wine, and at a fair price too.”

Guntram stepped from the darkness into the light cast by the street torches. He stated clearly, “By seeking me, you’ve found only death.” His knife was drawn, held low and ready.

“It’s good to see that you’ve learned at least one important lesson during your time with me,” Belua stated with a sigh.

“And that is?”

“Always do the unexpected,” Belua began. “I knew you’d return here, because it’s the last place the watch would look for you...and I would have done the same.”

Guntram flexed his fingers on the hilt of his knife.

“The magistrates have dispatched soldiers to scour the coastal ports as far south as Paestum and up to Volturnum in the north.” Belua took another drink from the wineskin. “You’re to be crucified on capture.”

“Hah! So I’m guilty! Judgement without trial or hearing,” Guntram sneered. “It’s what I’d expect from Roman justice!”

“Guilty? Yes, without doubt,” Belua said. “When I learned who they were, I knew it was you. And, there is the matter of you being seen.”

“They deserved to die, and more!” Hate clung to Guntram’s every word, his knuckles squeezing white around his knife’ handle. He saw Belua stiffen.

The trainer breathed deeply. “That won’t matter when you hang from the cross. They plan to make an example of you, and your death will be...long.”

“I’ll not go easily when my time comes,” Guntram retorted. “And you’ll claim no reward for aiding my capture. Not with the street’ dogs grinding your bones!”

Belua raised a placating hand. “Fool! I’ve not come to betray you. If I did, do you think I’d come alone and unarmed?”

Acknowledging the logic in the trainer’s words, Guntram probed, “Then why?”

“To repay an old debt.”

“You owe me nothing!”

“It’s what I owe myself,” Belua said, some of the hardness gone from his voice. “I too had a life, before the arena.”

“Yet, when you won your freedom you stayed,” Guntram growled. “Stayed to train others to entertain the stinking mob.”

“True,” said Belua. “But, even free I doubted that my life could be very different. I was a fighter and the arena was the only way I knew of earning a living in this land. I could have scraped a living as a bodyguard to some noble’s snivelling whelp, but the pay was poor and I was tired of taking orders.” He sighed. “Rome is only kind to its citizens, and, that’s something both of us can never be.”

Guntram lowered the knife, sensing that there was no trickery in the trainer’s words, before asking, “Why didn’t you return home to find your people?”

“There was nothing to return to.” The trainer’s shoulders slumped. “I was once a fisherman, with a family...but they await me in the next life. Like you, Rome stole them from me.” A sad expression settled upon Belua’s face, surprising Guntram. Strangely, he never pictured the tough trainer as having a family, let alone one that he’d loved and grieved for.

His voice stronger, Belua said, “But, I found the strength to go on. Now my life is to train men to stay alive. Only a short time for most, but for a few – long enough to win their freedom.” He paused. “Men like you.”

Unsure what to say, Guntram rubbed his brow. He sheathed his knife.

“The Judean girl,” Belua’s voice was oddly gentle, “her death was...” Guntram’s eyes blazed, the colour draining from his face. Belua continued, “I heard that the remains of a burnt body was found by a goat herder on the mountain yesterday. Was it her?”

Gritting his teeth, Guntram nodded. He’d wanted no other to touch her body, and she’d loved their times on the mountain. He swallowed hard, answering bitterly, “The dead are dead.”

“True,” Belua said. “But you are very much alive, for the present.”

They stared at each awhile, before Belua asked, “What will you do?”

“There’s a man I must kill, whose every breath is an insult to the memory of my family and my woman.” It was if a red veil was drawn across Guntram’s eyes and he answered through clenched teeth. Strong emotions had clashed inside him since Chayna’s death and what remained was an overriding desire to kill the man who’d wronged him.

“You mean Servannus,” Belua stated confidently.

“Yes!”

“A powerful man, mad with ambition,” Belua responded, “and not without guile. It won’t surprise you to know that he was the one who planned and paid for your match with Carpophorous.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Rubbing his chin, Belua added, “I must admit that you pick your enemies well.”

“Rome gave me no choice. But, it will not stop me-”

“You’re too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“Servannus has sailed for Gaul,” Belua confirmed. “Rumour has it that he was bored spending Titus’s money and decided to rejoin his old legion. And, there are rumblings that Germania’s Governor will soon be campaigning east of the Rhinus...and now Servannus with him it seems.”

“Then I will find him there.” Guntram said. “I will go to my Cherusci bothers, and with them will make war. I will leave his bones in the mud of Germania for the crows to pick clean.”

“Have you a plan?”

“I had one, when Chayna was alive. We were going to take ship to Massilia in Gaul. I’ve enough gold to bribe a passage and will take my chances from there.”

“But with a price on your head, with such a plan, you’ll be caught and die,” the trainer countered. “Heed my advice and at least you will have a chance of reaching Gaul alive.”

Guntram bristled and was about to reply. Belua held up a hand, stating bluntly, “I’ll make this offer but once. First listen, and then decide.” A small voice in Guntram’s’ head told him it would be wise to hear the trainer out.

Unfastening the canvas sack tied at his waist, Belua handed it to Guntram before instructing without pause. “Inside, there are two things that will help you. One is a blade that has served me well, and the other is a ring marked with a fist. Tonight, go to The Inn of Lunaris on the southernmost tip of the harbour, and seek out a captain by the name of Rufus. He’s an ugly bastard and easily recognised by his mop of red hair and beard. If he isn’t there, approach Trebius the innkeeper and tell him I sent you, and that you need to meet with Rufus. He will ask no questions and can be trusted. Speak to no one else. Understood?”

Guntram nodded.

“When you meet Rufus, show him the ring,” Belua said. “He’ll know who sent you and understand the need for caution. Tell him that you need transport to Arelate in Gaul, and he’ll arrange it. Arelate is a gladiator town that boasts of little else, but you’ll pass more easily amongst the crowd there than at Massilia. Servannus must suspect that you will try to find him, so the magistrates will doubtless soon forewarn the authorities in Gaul of your possible arrival, so you’ll need to keep your wits about you.” His look was intense when he asked, “Your answer?”

The moment hung.

“I’ll follow your plan,” Guntram answered, realizing it was his only chance. He delved into the sack and retrieved a plain iron ring scored with the shape of a fist. Returning it, he lifted out a sheathed
gladius
. Drawing the blade from the worn scabbard, he raised it into the torchlight.

“Note the markings,” Belua said. “The stamp of a true Damascus blade.”

Guntram was aware that such blades were unrivalled, with the secret of their making closely guarded by the guild of smiths in Damascus. The blade was pale grey, with exotic, whirling patterns decorating its surface; the shapes giving it a distinctive look that was beautiful to behold. It was resistant to rust, and when honed held an edge second to none. It was a rare and deadly gift. He re-sheathed the blade and eased it through his belt. Frowning, he tussled to understand the night’s turn of events and the tangle of his feelings.

“Time to go,” Belua said. He hefted his wineskin over his shoulder and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Guntram said, a request, not a command.

Belua swung about to face him.

“What was your name...before Rome?” Guntram asked.

“It was Dragan.”

“In Germania, my name was Guntram.” There was a lump in his throat and he swallowed hard to clear it. “Dragan, I know that our paths will never cross again, and I owe you a debt that I can never repay.” It was the first time that he’d referred to him in terms other than Roman, and the words felt strange on his lips. “My thanks.” Guntram’s words couldn’t have been simpler, and the look of gratitude in his eyes could not have been deeper.

A crooked smile split the trainer’s face. “Then, until the next life Guntram, when you can buy me as much good Falerian as I can drink. For now, may the breath of Mars quicken your sails on your journey home.”

* * *

Chapter XXXVI

NORTHWARD

“I will either find a way, or make one.”

Hannibal Barca

The sea crossing to Arelate passed without incident. During the rare occasions Guntram ventured from his cabin, he spent his time gazing out to sea. Despite crew members casting uncomfortable looks his way, his menacing air guaranteed that the naturally superstitious sailors kept their distance.

On arrival, he disembarked without gesture or word. He immediately sought out a stable where he purchased a workman-like mare. After buying essential provisions, he left the busy gladiator town without delay, and without any detection he was aware of.

*

Bone tired, he’d hardly slept for a week, and there was rawness to his emotions that wouldn’t let him rest. As the dusk settled in his wake, he questioned whether he should have rested overnight in the last town. No, he reassured himself, the longer he dallied, the greater the risk of being recognised.

Following the advice gleaned from an old trader at the docks, he’d chased the straight Roman road north towards Lugdunum. His rough plan for the remainder of the journey was to secure passage on one of the many river barges ploughing north on the Rhodanus River. Then, he would make the short land trip eastwards to meet the Rhinus, the great river transporting him by barge through Lower Germania to the large barrack town of Moguntiacum. The final stage would be undertaken by land, crossing the Hermandurani’ tribal lands on horse-back, before finally entering his home-land. He could barely wait for that day.

Pushing his mount at an exhausting pace, it was after midnight when he stopped at a roadside tavern.

Content that his mount was properly stabled, he entered the tavern’s reception area. He promptly declined the owner’s offer to make use of – for a reasonable sum – one of the establishment’s females. Careful to avoid being seen as acting out of the ordinary, he informed the landlord in rough Latin that he was a merchant in the business of olive oil. He said that his trip to the south had been successful but exhausting, and tempting though his offer was, he’d opt instead for a good night’s rest. The landlord grinned tiredly as he showed him to his small room above the bar, repeatedly tutting, before joking aloud that the young men of the day sadly lacked the stamina of their fathers.

Rolling awake in the dark room, he felt muddled and only slightly refreshed. His sleep had been fitful, dark dreams and memories disturbing him, his mind invaded by stark images of Chayna’s death. With her death it was as if his right arm no longer existed. He’d planned his whole future around her and now there was a gaping hole in his world. She was gone in the time it took to say: Chayna is dead. Gritting his teeth, he twisted his troubled thoughts away from the pain, trying instead to focus on his plan to reach the land of the Cherusci.

Further sleep eluded him, and following a breakfast of watery porridge he set out with the rising of the sun.

*

The road ran on further than he’d gauged, and night was falling as he picked his way down through the foothills towards the flickering lights of Lugdunum, sprawled out along the banks of the Rhodanus River. His mare walked slowly, crimson froth bubbling from its nostrils with every breath. The unrelenting pace had taken its toll.

Still mounted, he arrived at the city gates within the hour. The guards, noting his size and fierce demeanour, ushered him in without challenge or question. Once inside, he dismounted, keen to seek out lodgings for the night. Weary, Guntram selected a cheaply priced hostel butted up against the town’s wall.

As expected, his room was meagre, containing a wood-slatted bed, basic washing materials and a large flagon of water. It was suffice for his needs. Quickly rinsing off the grime of travel from his face, he left the lodgings. He made his way to an inn he’d spotted a short stroll away.

Curious faces turned to inspect him as he sidled through the smoky room to take seat at a corner table. He ordered wine. Scanning the room, he saw that it was frequented by a rag-tag of river-men and wagoners. No legionaries, he confirmed, feeling a little more relaxed.