by Nick Morris
Guntram swallowed his drool, and peering into one of the side streets, saw that it was significantly narrower, with its houses smaller and less impressive. Above several of the entrances was a male member carved in stone and above others a figure with his own enormous member thrusting forwards and decorated with bells. Ellios had told him that these carvings identified the city’s many whore houses, and that the figure was Priapus – the Roman god of fertility.
The guards called a brief halt, enabling the troupe to have a drink of water at one of the small water fountains positioned along the main avenue. Guntram saw that alongside the fountain was a wayside shrine to Venus, the city’s favourite goddess, with a small painting of her close by in a sheltered nook.
In turn, Guntram dipped his head to drink from the small stream of trickling water. His attachment to Ellios via his neck shackle made drinking from the font’s spout a difficult feat, made worse by their difference in height. Most of the water eluded his mouth, only succeeding in soaking his face and tunic, much to the amusement of the guards. Annoyed but determined to persevere, Guntram’s attention was drawn to a light touch on his shoulder. When manoeuvring about, he was faced by a young woman holding out a clay amphora of water. She gestured for him to drink.
Overcoming his initial surprise, he lifted the amphora to his lips and took a long, cooling draught. Roughly wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he returned the amphora to the woman who’d quietly watched him drink.
The woman was dressed in a simple linen tunic, pink in shade from repeated washings, her small feet were bare, and he guessed she was in her late teens. The top of her head barely reached Guntram’s chest, and looking up at him were black eyes whose depth and lustre snatched the breath from his throat. Like a raw youth he stood dumb, able only to stare at the upturned face. A fine sculptured nose sat above a wide full-lipped mouth that at first glimpse appeared almost too large for the small dark face. Thick hair, the colour of a raven’s wing hung to the middle of her back, and the loose fitting dress did little to disguise the firm rounded breasts and shapely hips beneath.
Offering neither thanks nor acknowledgment, Guntram continued to stand, gripped, his eyes devouring every detail of her face and bearing. Long seconds passed before he realised that Ellios was speaking to her.
“What is your name pretty one?” His smile was confident, teeth flashing. “I am Ellios, and my large, staring friend here is Caetes. As you can see, he is a German.”
“My name is Chayna, and I am the slave of the inn-keeper Silius Fagus,” the young woman answered, her voice characterised by an unusually deep and husky timbre, “who owns a nearby tavern of the same name on the Via Dell Abondanza.” White, even teeth peeked through plum coloured lips as she spoke, and despite speaking with Ellios, Guntram saw that her eyes never left his own.
“Girl, you are wasting your good looks on him,” Ellios continued, unabashed. “Now, I’m sure the two of us could find something interesting to talk about.”
“Caetes . . . his name means death. Why such a name?” the young woman enquired, unperturbed by the Spaniard’s suggestive tone and Guntram’s stony silence.
“Because he has a special skill.”
“You look like gladiators, but what special skill does your handsome friend have?” the woman asked, smiling naively.
Guntram listened, as if in dream, while Ellios spoke for him.
“He is skilled in the ways of killing, and will claim many victories in the arena.”
“I see.”
Guntram saw something sad in the woman’s eyes.
“You’d do well to remember meeting him, for one day his name will be acclaimed throughout the empire, even to your homeland,” Ellios advised. “And where is your home pretty one? You have the look of the East about you...Egypt? Syria?” He raised a finger tutor-like to his lips.
“My parents were from Judea.” She frowned as she spoke. “The Romans killed my father, and my mother was pregnant when she was sold into slavery. I was that child. My first master bought my mother on the slave blocks of Misenum, and I was born the following spring. My mother is also dead.” Her eyes dropped.
Guntram noted that for once Ellios offered neither a witty nor lewd reply.
Without any warning, the woman calmly moved the clay amphora into the crook of her arm, and reaching up, gently traced the vivid scar that spanned Guntram’s face. Despite his surprise he made no attempt to resist. His colour slowly rising, he felt as if a small bird was set loose in his belly. No sound escaped his lips as he studied the woman’s expression, her eyes seeming to map every aspect of his face before she let her hand fall once more to her side.
Then stepping away, the young woman refilled her amphora. Smiling a brief farewell she turned and hurried away, nimbly weaving through the busy crowd.
As he watched her back disappear into the throng, Guntram’s stomach lurched, a chasm opening up inside him. The woman’s face, her voice, the tenderness of her touch had stunned him.
Suddenly the words tumbled from his lips in a flood. “Wait! Chayna!” he shouted over the sea of bobbing heads.
Ignoring the sharp jabs of the guards’ spear butts urging him to silence, he called her name once more, adding the only words that he could think of from the whirlpool of his thoughts. “Chayna, what does your name mean?”
People turned at the sound of his voice, and then she reappeared. Smiling and waving her hand, she called back to him. “Life, Caetes. It means life.”
He watched her disappear once more, barely feeling Brutus’s blows, nor hearing his angry warning to move on or suffer Belua’s wrath on their return.
A frown bitten deep between his brows he stood staring, struggling to make sense of things he didn’t understand.
* * *
Chapter XI
ENCOUNTER
“Fate will find a way”
Virgil
It was during one of his father’s many lectures that Servannus learnt that in Rome’s infancy the provision of games to celebrate the approaching festival of Saturnalia lasted only a single day, and that gradually this had been extended to cover as many as seven days of games and festivities. He also learnt that this festival was special, with it celebrating the rites of Saturn: the Roman God of harvests. The mob was always in good humour at this time, with every city, town and village on the Roman mainland partaking in a spree of drunkenness and sexual abandon. And, whereas his father had abhorred it, he’d revelled in this time of excess.
On the third day of the festival Servannus made his first visit to the munera, the games that were held at Pompeii’s impressive amphitheatre. He was accompanied by two of his gladiator bodyguards.
It was barely two hours into the day and eager spectators were already filling the stone amphitheatre. Servannus surveyed the familiar surroundings. A great open space lay to the south of the arena, where a number of men were carrying out physical exercise, and a bathing pool was situated at its centre. Tall trees dotted the open spaces, under whose shade numerous vendors were encamped; setting up stalls and selling a variety of foods and refreshments. Sellers had also laid out their wares beneath the arches of the amphitheatre itself, and public latrines were located close by. The arena itself was accessed through two vaulted tunnels, both paved with stone blocks to allow passage of carts that transported equipment necessary for the spectacles.
As Servannus approached the entrance, he lifted his hand to brush along the smooth surface of the wall, as always, impressed by the masonry’s perfection. A shiver of anticipation ran through him.
A rattle of chains to his rear caught his attention. It was an escorted gladiator troupe. He immediately recognised the heavily built trainer with the scarred face at its head. It was Belua, ‘The Fist’, of Ludus Gordeo. Servannus raised his hand and the troupe shuffled to a halt.
“Greetings,” Servannus said, then pointing to the trainer’s charges. “Tiros on their first visit by the look of them.”
�
�Yes,” the trainer confirmed.
Servannus stated evenly, “Today will certainly be enlightening for them.”
“No doubt.” The trainer’s tone was pithy.
Servannus detected the frostiness in the other’s words. He was familiar with Belua’s history, together with his fierce reputation as a fighter. He’d won the rudis, and as such was a man to be respected, and to be careful around.
“Please indulge me with a quick look,” Servannus asked, forcing a smile.
The trainer bowed his head, concurring, although somewhat reluctantly.
Servannus stepped passed him. The usual hairy Gauls, he mused, and an impressive Spaniard by his build and colouring, and... His eyes stretched wide, focusing on the tallest of the group.
“I know this one,” Servannus said, his smile thin. The German was unmistakable: his size, the facial scar and the burning hatred in his gaze. “Can he understand me?”
“Yes, the Spaniard’s taught him,” grunted the trainer.
“Excellent.” Servannus moved forwards, his bodyguards positioning themselves at his side. Both were armed with knife and sword, ready for any trouble.
“You obviously remember who I am, because a man’s eyes seldom lie,” Servannus stated coldly.
“Yes, I remember.” The German’s response was hard, clipped by feeling.
“Your trade is my passion, and I’ve been fortunate to have known some of the arena’s greatest champions.” Servannus paused, pursing his lips. “I also have a modest troupe of my own, and it intrigues me that our paths should cross again, considering the small part I played at the outset of your journey. Perhaps I should’ve asked more for you in Gaul?”
“You killed my people, my family. Do you now seek my death too?”
Servannus recognised that the German was fighting to keep his anger in check, and out of the corner of his eye he saw his bodyguards edge forward. Belua had also moved nearer, ready to intercede if needed.
“You hate me, and with good cause,” Servannus replied. “However, my interest in you is purely professional, and I can assure you that you’re of more interest to me alive than dead. I will be following your career very closely...slave.”
“Follow it well,” the German’s words were deliberate, almost a whisper, “because there will come a day when I’ll be no man’s slave. And when it does-”
Belua stepped between them. “Silence!” he commanded the German, then added curtly to Servannus, “We must be away, or we’ll be sure to lose our seats.”
Bridling at the trainer’s brusque intrusion, Servannus watched him shove the tiros back into an orderly line before quickly leading them away.
A cold shiver tracked Servannus’s spine. He’d been threatened before; making enemies both in Campania and in the legionary camps of Germania and Gaul, but the German’s words unnerved him.
Swallowing hard, it was with some relief that he watched the troupe disappear onto the growing crowd.
*
Servannus entered the amphitheatre, still reflecting on the chance meeting with the German. Pompous resentment and anger broiled up inside him. How dare he threaten me! Even in so veiled a fashion. The dog wouldn’t be so brazen if he knew of his brother’s fate. He smiled cruelly, feeling a little better.
The German presently posed him no danger, but he’d found the cold certainty of his words unsettling. It was also possible that he might one day win his freedom, and, with gold in hand could pose the kind of a threat that he’d not even considered, until now. The German’s grim confidence had planted a seed of doubt in his mind, and Servannus hated doubts of any kind. He had no desire to be looking over his shoulder for the blade in the shadows, the creeping assassin in the night. The threat could certainly be removed, although he knew it would be difficult while the German resided at the ludus. There’d be repercussions – even for him – if it was suspected that he’d murdered the valuable property of the Imperial School.
No, he would watch and plan for another day, and, there was no guarantee that the German would survive beyond his first contest. But if he did, that too would be entertaining.
*
Lucanus watched his master enter the amphitheatre.
Young, vital, Lucanus, was accompanied by a fellow slave, Leon, who was old and tired. Lucanus smiled, listening to the old man’s snores as he slept nearby on a seat in the shade.
Their master’s enthusiasm for the games was common knowledge, and when Marcus Tullius Servannus was not preoccupied with his own troupe at Herculaneum, he was travelling to numerous games and private gladiator shows throughout Campania. But, his servants never complained, because the more time he spent at the games meant that the less time he spent at the estate. Less time to vent his spleen on them.
Lucanus knew his master as a conceited bully, a man easily bored, spiteful and callous in his treatment of those he owned. He was one of Servannus’s more recent acquisitions, and had quickly learned how to avoid his master’s wrath, by being diligent in his chores. Servannus hated incompetence and Lucanus often wondered why he’d not dispensed of Leon’s services? Probably because he enjoyed ridiculing the old man as he struggled to go about his daily tasks.
Despite his youth, Lucanus, whose name had been given him by his new master, recognised that Servannus enjoyed causing pain for no reason, and took pleasure in watching others suffer. He’d witnessed it many times, both in the military camps on the frontier and on the estate. Lucanus was periodically subjected to his master’s cruelty, and although it was rarely a beating as his uses increased, Servannus chose instead to batter his spirit. He often reminded Lucanus that his future lay totally in his hands, and that one day all of his people would be slaves of Rome.
Lucanus tried to disguise his hurt, knowing that it would serve to only encourage his master further, but, privately his heart ached when he thought of a family now lost to him, with Servannus assuring him that none had survived on that dreadful day.
Yet, when the image of his brother’s battered face came to him at night, he cried. His poor, brave brother who always looked out for him, who found time to listen and understood that he was very different from the other boys of his age. His brother encouraged him to be true to himself. When death claimed him, it snatched away a part of Lucanus too.
The crying made him feel a little better, for a time, yet the pain always returned. Each night he said a prayer for his dead loved ones, all the while hoping that Guntram’s suffering had been brief.
* * *
Chapter XII
MUNERA
“There are those who quaff with
greedy thirst the blood of the criminal slain
in the arena, even as it flows
fresh from the wound.”
Tertullian
Belua’s voice jarred the troupe towards their seating area in the amphitheatre’s upper level.
One of the guards prodded Guntram into his seat, and he looked around, realizing that the surrounding tiers would soon be filled to capacity.
“You did well to check your anger my friend,” Ellios reflected, sat at his side.
“Do you know what the noble is called?” asked Guntram.
“I overheard Belua grumble his name to one of the guards. It’s Servannus.”
His heart still racing, Guntram mouthed the name to himself. It had been the moment he’d prayed for so often; the chance to repay the blood debt between them. Yet, this Servannus had commanded the attack on his village, and was likely to know what happened to Jenell and Strom. Meeting the Roman again, here, fuelled the hope that if he could get his hands on him, even for a short time, he could ‘persuade’ him to reveal the whereabouts of his loved ones. Yes, he was glad that he’d not acted rashly, and that he’d not mentioned Strom and Jenell. Betraying an interest in them might well have sealed their fates, if indeed they were still alive.
He’d have wait...for the right time and place to act. He shook his head, trying to empty it of the echoes of the Roman’s vo
ice.
Looking upwards, Guntram’s attention drawn to the huge awning high above that fluttered in the cool breeze off the bay. He guessed it would provide the crowd with welcome shade when the climbing sun baked the arena later in the day.
A chorus of loud blasts erupted, and a procession entered through the arena’s gate. Musicians playing trumpets led the way, followed by the editor of the games mounted on a dazzling golden chariot, drawn by four magnificent white stallions.
Trailing behind was a motley collection of acrobats, jugglers, woolly haired Nubians leading ostriches, and a group of dwarves; each bearing a huge, brightly painted member which they lewdly brandished to the glee of the crowd. The gladiators entered at the tail of the procession, each dressed in armour polished to a mirror finish, brilliantly reflecting the sun’s rays. The applause was deafening.
Guntram watched with a mixture of apprehension and awe as the editor took his seat in the arena’s stone podium. The gladiators positioned themselves directly below, where they raised their weapons in ritual homage to the sponsor of the games. Trumpets sounded once more and the entire company wheeled to exit the arena.
A brief interlude followed, and Guntram sensed the uneasiness that pumped like sweat from the other members of his group, spreading like a contagion through the tiros ranks.
Then, the games commenced with warm-ups by performing clowns and jugglers, followed by a series of mock fights between gladiators armed with blunted weapons. The crowd quickly became bored, whistling and jeering to make known its desire to be served something stronger.
Next came slaves armed with knives and wearing eye-less helmets. As they groped and slashed at each other in darkness, arena attendants goaded them on with red-hot irons. Their desperate plight became apparent when a veteran gladiator entered the arena. He casually approached the last pair standing, and with two precise blows, swept their heads from their shoulders. The crowd cheered.