War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (15 page)

Beautiful Jenell
, he pictured her, recalling the first time he’d stolen a kiss, and how she had smiled when he had stroked her hair. He remembered the warmth of her against him in the long winter nights as they listened to the old stories of dragons, demons and how the gods and giants would fight in the afterlife.

He had never questioned Jenell’s love for him, and did not question it now. Yet, when he’d met Chayna, something inside him had sparked to life; a new feeling that he had never experienced before. The longing he felt for her didn’t even come to him as words, just as a kind of hunger, a dull pain in his belly. It had set something in motion, like the cry that starts a landslide. And alongside the hunger was the fear.

A fear that Chayna was repulsed by what she’s seen, by the killer he’d become.

Chayna, Jenell,
the names clanged in his brain, reminders of his duty and the weight of his responsibility. He struggled to swallow the bolus in his throat. Lifting his hand to cover his eyes, all the emotions he’d been holding in flooded over him: anger, worry, doubt.

Suddenly he felt very cold.

* * *

Chapter XVII

THE
CAPUAN

“Fortune favours the bold.”

Virgil

Guntram’s eyes had adjusted to the startling brightness of the arena.

Around him the terraces were packed. The day was baking hot, with the curdling blood’ pools sending up a terrible stench into the assembled crowd. Attendants had erected braziers burning incense in the stands, and strategically positioned fountains sprayed saffron and rose scented water over the sweating throng, but Guntram knew it would do little to detract from the arena’s all-pervading heat.

A rapturous, trumpeted fanfare signalled his match to commence.

Prior, the Capuan, balancing his net in his left hand, quickly moved to align the sun at his back, its glare intruding into Guntram’s face. Familiar with this ploy, Guntram moved decisively forward at an angle to nullify any advantage.

He watched as the Capuan
began to whirl his net halo-like above his head in preparation for casting, the three metre net designed to ensnare, trip and whip. Edged with lead weights, Guntram knew that the net, if lashed with sufficient power, could easily blind an opponent. Rope was threaded around its edge, the ends of which were tied to the net-man’s wrist, and if the net was thrown without success, it could be jerked back to hand. Prior also carried a small dagger, which he would use to cut himself free if his net was captured. Equipped for speed, his only protection was a leather sleeve worn on the left arm and a bronze shoulder plate that guarded the exposed left side of his head. His main weapon, the trident, now targeted Guntram.

Guntram flexed his grip on his
gladius
.

Prior’s net was in constant motion, splinters of light flashing from the vicious barbs and gilded lead weights that edged the mesh. Drawing nearer, he cooed a traditional taunt, “I do not hunt you, I seek a fish. German, why do you swim away?”

Ignoring the words, Guntram focused his attention on the central area above Prior’s bare breast-bone as he danced forwards, aware that movement here would pre-empt any attack.

The net whirled faster, making a whipping noise as it cut through the air.

Guntram shuffled forwards, his shield held close to protect the bulk of his body. He was careful not to expose his upper left arm and shoulder as targets for the trident’s probing bite. His
gladius
was pointed forwards, partly hidden by the cover of the shield.

Dispensing with the usual feinting tactic, Prior surged forward, thrusting his trident directly at Guntram’s visor. Guntram instinctively raised his shield, deflecting the attack upwards over his left shoulder, at the same time feeling the sharp sting of Prior’s net as it wrapped around his front leg – a clever tactic accompanying the trident strike. Prior attacked again, the trident’s tines passing within a whisker of Guntram’s’ throat before being batted aside.

Guntram felt the Capuan jerk his net violently backwards, the aim to topple him to the ground where he’d be skewered like a fish.

Within a heart-beat Prior’s head was jolted backwards, his teeth crunching together as Guntram’s shield rammed onto his face.

Not attempting to retract his leg, Guntram burgeoned forwards into the stunned Prior. His sword darted out, spearing into Prior’s bare middle, slicing easily through firm flesh. The blade entered the covering band of muscle on Prior’s side, grating along ribs before retracting from the wound as Prior desperately torqued himself backwards. Blood spouted from the crimson-lipped mouth, painting Prior’s loincloth red. He quickly retreated.

Guntram’s experienced eye told him that his opponent’s wound was not fatal. The exchange had also proven that the rumours about Prior’s strength and speed were true.

Spurred on by his success, Guntram drove forwards, whipping his blade in a vicious arc aimed that targeted the side of the net-man’s head. The full weight of Guntram’s arm and shoulder drove the blow.

The protective lip of Prior’s shoulder-guard blocked the strike. Despite being checked, Guntram’s blade bit deep, chopping away a section of the guard together with a chunk of Prior’s ear. Gasping in pain, Prior frantically backed away.

The sight of fresh blood and the scampering net-man, stirred the crowd on. Shouts of laughter and derision for the victim were accompanied by shrieks of encouragement for the hunter who now pursued him. Slippery patches of gore, left by earlier combats posed a constant danger to both men as they crossed the arena.

Guntram saw that Prior was weakening, but he also knew that the Capuan
was now at his most dangerous. Old lessons came to him.
Get in close and finish it
, flashed into his consciousness.

With barely three paces between them, Guntram edged Prior backwards to the arena wall. The response was a desperate net-cast. The net briefly enveloped Guntram’s head, the lead weights stinging his shoulders, before his reflexes carried him down and under. He’d narrowly escaped fatal entanglement.

Trident held spear-like in both hands, Prior drove a vicious thrust over Guntram’s shield. Pain erupted in his chest as the tines struck home. He instinctively dropped his shield, his left hand darting forward to seize the trident shaft, briefly preventing deeper penetration or withdrawal for a second thrust. Guntram’s muscles made a tearing noise as Prior wrenched the trident backwards, attempting to free it.

Grunting with the effort, Guntram chopped downwards, his blade cutting through the trident shaft and the fingers of Prior’s hand. Four bloody fountains erupted from the severed stumps as Prior released his grip on the trident, clutching the ruined hand to him.

Without pause, Guntram plunged his sword into Prior’s belly, powerful legs adding strength to the blow. The razor point cut through flesh and sinew, before exiting, a bloody spike from Prior’s lower back. Guntram twisted then retracted the blade, its full length splashed red.

Prior dropped sack-like to his knees. Transfixed, he watched his innards slop from the gaping hole in his gut.

Guntram took a step backwards, thinking,
stay down fool
. But Prior staggered upwards, both hands fumbling at the greasy coils that slipped between his fingers to dangle at his feet.

Turning to face the
editor’s
podium, Guntram knew there was one final act to perform.

With the crowd’s cry of “Death! Death!” echoing in his ears, the
editor
rose to his feet. His thumb extending outwards from a clenched fist, he performed a cutting motion towards his throat.

Guntram stepped forwards. He clamped his hand firmly on Prior’s shoulder, before pushing him to his knees.

“Draw your head back and I’ll make it quick,” Guntram stated hoarsely.

Prior looked up at him.
His eyes are like glass
, thought Guntram,
as if he stares into some bottomless pit
.

Prior clasped Guntram’s leg to steady himself, then tilted his head backwards, neck fully exposed, his eyes now closed to the overhead sun.

Swiftly reversing the grip on his sword, Guntram plunged its tip dagger-like into the spot above Prior’s collar bone. Using his full weight, he drove it downwards to rupture the heart in one stroke. Prior slumped forward onto the sand.

Attendants moved in quickly, dragging away the body.

Arms aloft, Guntram commenced his parade of the arena. Strident chants of “Caetes! Caetes!
”
rang out, and he sucked in the adulation in great gulps. Garlands and coins of silver and bronze rained into the arena, the crowd rewarding their champion. Scurrying attendants collected the tribute on glinting, silver trays.

As was his custom, Guntram pulled the stifling helmet from his head. He fingered back damp hair from his brow, and unfastened the leather tie that gathered his mane. Droplets of sweat patterned the sand as he vigorously shook his head, his hair tumbling loosely across his shoulders. He lifted his sword high, the sun flashing along its edge. The crowd responded, screaming his name even louder, the sound seeming to crack the very air of the arena.

All eyes focused on him as he completed his ritual lap below the
editor’s
podium. He felt light-headed, a familiar experience after a kill. His hands trembled now that it was done, and the old scar on his face tingled hotly.

The
editor
stood, arm raised for silence.

“Victory once more!” The
editor’s
voice resonated down to him. Then, with arms spread to the crowd. “Is there anyone in all of this land who can challenge our champion?”

The crowd roared and the
editor
continued, smiling. “What lucky girl will you bed tonight Caetes, with your blood still hot from the kill?” The question elicited numerous cheers and crude catcalls.

“Tonight,” Guntram replied, “I will rest my wounds and thank mighty Tiwaz for granting me victory.”

“Alas,” The
editor
answered with an exaggerated sigh, “then some fluttering heart will be disappointed. Regardless, let the fruits of victory be yours!” He gestured to his aides, who handed him a number of items. Firstly, he tossed the palm branch: a traditional token of victory. Guntram casually caught it as it floated lazily towards him. Inverting his hand, the
editor
let fall seven gold coins; an impressive sum. One of the attendants hurried to retrieve them.

The crowd continued to cheer, a withering hail of coins spattering the sand. Guntram conveyed his gratitude with a succession of practiced bows to all parts of the arena. He’d learned from Belua and Ellios how to court the crowd’s support, understanding its value in unsettling his opponents during a match. He scoffed inwardly, acknowledging how much they loved him. A tainted, fickle love that someday would free him.

Turning on his heels, Guntram headed towards the entrance tunnel, his sword thrust high in final tribute to the crowd. On route, he caught a red briar rose in the hollow of his shield. His legs buckled briefly as he compared the flower’s colour to the blood that coated his arm. Then the cool of the tunnel embraced him.

Easing himself to the floor, Guntram felt hot blood pulse from the holes in his breast. He faintly recognised Belua’s voice nearby, numbness seeped down his arms, and he could not help wondering if the Capuan had finished him too.

* * *

Chapter XVIII

THE
CITY

“Pompeii, a delightful and most desirable place . . .”

Tacitus

He leaned forwards, resting his chin on his propped right hand. His heavy lidded eyes were half open, as if ready for sleep. Gordeo regularly commandeered the white-washed room that doubled as Belua’s living quarters when he had business to settle at the school, reflecting often that the room was as sober as the trainer who leaned against the wall at his rear.

Caetes stood before him.

“I’m told that the wound is coming along nicely.” Gordeo smiled as he spoke, in very good humour.

“Each day it improves,” the gladiator answered.

“Excellent. It’s good to see that Neo hasn’t lost his touch. Then, he should be good, considering the small fortune I pay him for his services?” He craned his neck around. “What do you say Belua?”

“A sullen fellow at best, but there’s no denying his skill,” Belua replied. “And, the men have faith in him,as I do.”

“I hope so,” Gordeo said, before pursuing more practical matters. “How soon can he fight again?”

“A month.”

“As long as that!”

“Any sooner, and Neo says and he could tear the wound open before it is properly healed.”

Gordeo sighed resignedly before addressing the gladiator. “Yet another victory, but not without feeling the Capuan’s claws, eh? Still, you fought superbly, and grow in stature every time I see you perform.” His smile returning, he added, “You also earned me a handsome amount won at the expense of those cocky Capuan bastards.”

With his face beaming, Gordeo turned to Belua. “One fool gave me odds of five to one on the back of that slippery Prior. Ha! – his face when Caetes opened him up – you’d swear someone had dropped a turd in his lap!”

“A memorable sight I’m sure,” Belua chorused.

Focusing his attention on Caetes, Gordeo sensed that the gladiator was curious, but that it was edged with wariness. After contemplating a moment, he stated, “You’ve proven to be a sound investment Caetes.”

“I’m glad the spilling of my blood hasn’t caused you any loss.” The gladiator’s response was spoken as through a mouthful of sand.

“Come now, less of the sour wit,” Gordeo said, his good humour undiminished. “Despite Belua’s fear that you’d be crucified before the year was out, you’ve proved him wrong, and me too. You’ve worked hard and displayed an eagerness to learn and improve, which is commendable.” His thumbs tapping together, he sat back. “The wind of fortune has been very kind to you – unusually so, for one so young. And, your recent victories have earned you a generous reward in silver.”