by Nick Morris
“Yes, there is,” Guntram agreed, and then taking a deep breath. “But, to find them...I must first be free.”
A thoughtful silence settled on them. Chayna then managed to divert their talk to less serious matters; such as gossip about local magistrates and other trifling topics associated with the daily running of the city.
The afternoon passed quickly, too quickly. Guntram eventually hinted that they should return to the city. although Chayna sensed that he was reluctant to leave. His whole bearing hinted that he wished to speak about something, but felt uncomfortable to do so.
“You look troubled Guntram. Haven’t you enjoyed today?” she asked, prompting him to speak. “Because I have, more than I can remember.”
“Would you see me again, Chayna?”
“Yes, I’d like that very much,” Chayna replied. “But what about Fagus?”
“There’ll be no problem with him,” Guntram replied with a dry smile.
* * *
Chapter XXII
FLAME
“Bear patiently, heart – for
you have suffered heavy things.”
Homer
Brushing the wood chips from the table, Guntram took a sip from his wine cup. He turned back to the small carving. The heavy dagger he’d used was not ideal for such a task, and he’d promised himself to one day purchase a more suitable blade. The carving always helped him relax, and the Falerian helped too.
Pursing his lips he made a final few cuts. He held up the carving, examining his handiwork. Not bad, he thought.
Looking past the carving he saw someone rise from a nearby table, also set in the shade of the forum’s portico, and then head towards him.
It was a young boy, finely dressed. A sturdy looking
individual shadowed the boy, a few steps behind. A slight
bulge under the man’s light cloak hinted at a concealed knife or short sword, and he had a watchful look about him. Guntram guessed he was the boy’s bodyguard.
“Good day,” said the boy.
Guntram tipped his head in response.
“Could I enquire what you are carving?” the boy asked.
Something about the boy’s polite tone and disarming smile stirred Guntram. Despite the different colouring, his age, the wide mouth and trusting eyes were the same. His stomach clutched tight, realizing that he reminded him of Strom.
“Is it a bird” the boy asked, pointing at the carving.
“It’s a Raven,” Guntram told him.
“I thought it might be an eagle,” the boy ventured, “the emblem of the legions.”
“Not an eagle,” Guntram answered tightly. He saw the boy flinch at his tone. He continued less sternly. “It’s a War Raven, the emblem of Woden, the king of my Gods. It stands for strength and good fortune in Germania.”
“Then you are Caetes the champion!” the boy exclaimed, his smile returning. “See!” excited, the boy turned to his bodyguard. “I told you it was him, Titus.”
A smile crept to Guntram’s mouth.
“What’s your name lad?”
“Clodian. And my father is Gaius Caecilius, the magistrate,” he replied proudly.
“How old are you Clodian?”
“Eleven.”
“You’re tall for your age.”
“Thank you.” Clodian’s face beamed. “My father tells me that you defeated the Capuan champion, and that he was very dangerous.” A small frown appeared. “Were you afraid?”
“A little, always a little,” said Guntram. “It keeps me alive.”
“Really?” said the boy, surprised. “My father says that one day you will be a great champion, like Carpophorus the venator.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes. I trust my father, and he wouldn’t lie to me.”
“Then who am I to disagree?”
Serious, the boy asked, “Are you making fun of me?”
“Just a bit lad,” Guntram reached out and placed his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder and his smile returned. He saw the bodyguard step closer, wary. “It’s good that you trust your father, because he is your blood. Always remember that there’s nothing stronger or more important than the bond of blood.”
“I will.” Clodian tilted his head to the side, as though puzzled. “You stare at me, as if you know me.”
“You remind me of someone. Very much.”
“Your son?”
“My brother.”
“Is he a great warrior like you Caetes?”
“His talents are very different,” Guntram answered, suddenly sad. “He is special in his own way. He’s clever, and enjoys talking with people. Like you.”
Encouraged, the boy asked, “What’s his name?”
“Strom.”
“I’ve never heard this name, but I like its sound.”
“It’s German, meaning ‘gentle water’”
“I see,” said the boy, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps I’ll meet him some day?”
“I doubt that lad, because,” Guntram struggled with the answer, before stating, “he’s far way.”
“I like you Caetes, and wish you good luck in your next fight. But, it’s sad that I won’t meet Strom. We could have been friends.”
The likeness hurting, Guntram knew it was time to leave. He stood up from his table, towering over the boy. Taking Clodian’s hand, he placed the small carving in the palm. The boy’s face arched wide, surprised.
Tousling the young Roman’s hair, Guntram stepped past him and away.
*
Chayna flitted from corner to corner, her face glowing like a child as she voiced aloud what changes could be made to the small room: a drape for the window, a pot of sun flowers for the small table, the list went on. Guntram smiled at her from the doorway, looking amused.
After their first day together outside the city there had been regular meetings and even another day on the mountain. Chayna had enjoyed every minute they had spent together. When she’d been preparing to leave the inn to meet Guntram, Fagus had given her sour looks but had said not a word. She was not surprised. Today was the first time Guntram had brought her to his lodgings despite her constant nagging to see it.
“It’s small, but clean, and no bugs, no lice,” Guntram said, when Chayna finally settled on the edge of the bed.
“It’s lovely.” Chayna’s voice was almost a whisper.
Guntram walked slowly towards her. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and coaxed her to her feet. His mouth touched her hair and she felt herself tremble.
“Chayna...” His voice was hoarse with feeling. “I’ve –”
“I know,” Chayna said, her hand lifting to his cheek.
He kissed her mouth, then her neck, his hands gliding to the sides of her hips.
Chayna crossed her arms and then slowly drew her tunic over her head. She stood naked before him. He drank in the firm mounds of her breasts, tipped with dark nipples, before his gaze dropped to her thighs and the black thatch of her mound. His arousal was obvious beneath his tunic, but she sensed that he was hesitant to touch her. Chayna snaked her hand beneath his loincloth to grip his swollen manhood. Guntram gasped.
Lifting her off her feet, Guntram laid her onto her back across the bed. Dragging off his tunic, he scooped his hands beneath her, clasping her buttocks. She groaned as he entered her, arching her back to meet his thrust. Wrapping her legs around his back she felt him move deeper inside her. His mouth crushed onto hers, and her tongue found his, tasting him.
Their initial love making was brief, intense, with Guntram’s final thrust being accompanied by a choking cry of pleasure. He braced himself upwards, relieving her of his weight, although he still remained inside her. Blood dappled her lip, her stomach and breasts glistened with sweat, and her heart still pounded in her chest. Her dark, liquid eyes bored up at him, the pupils wide.
“I’ve prayed for this moment,” she said, breathing heavily. “Love me again...please.”
This time their lo
ve making was less urgent, and Guntram caressed her with a new tenderness, delaying his climax to meet her own. Spent, they just lay together...safe.
*
It was evening when Guntram lifted Chayna’s face from where it rested on his chest.
“Chayna,” he hesitated, and then the words came in a flood. “Chayna, I want you to leave Fagus and come to live with me...as my woman.”
“How is it possible?” Chayna asked, shocked. “Fagus wouldn’t release me.”
“I will buy you from him. I have the money.”
“But you know one slave cannot buy another.”
“I will make Fagus an offer he cannot refuse,” Guntram told her. “And you will have your own papers of freedom; on the day that I win my own.”
Staggered by the revelation, Chayna seemed unable to find any words.
“Chayna, don’t play with me,” he urged. “Give me your answer.”
“Yes! Yes!” she replied, her smile dazzling. Pulling his head down, she kissed him fiercely on the lips.
“It will be the first home of my own,” Chayna said. “But, how will you get Fagus to agree?”
“With silver, enough to buy others to replace you,” he said. “I’ll also make it clear that if I should die and he tries to reclaim you, someone will visit him to convince him otherwise, and it will involve pain. He will understand.”
“Is it true?”
“As true as matters. And Ellios will see to your welfare if...”
“Please don’t say it,” Chayna placed her finger to his lips.
His heart went out to her. “Very well, but it’s important that you know your future is planned for.”
“I think you trust this Ellios very much,” Chayna said.
“I do.”
Smiling, Chayna dropped her back onto his chest.
Later, with Chayna’s head asleep on his arm, Guntram mulled over recent events and his struggle to come to terms with his new emotions. Like a flame Chayna had entered his darkness, and he swore that he’d not let the past repeat itself.
Pushing away the creeping pain of memory, he held Chayna closer, and the gloom receded.
* * *
Chapter XXIII
CHAMPION
“Success is man’s god.”
Aeschylus
Belua was enjoying his drink, feeling more relaxed by the cup when the stranger approached him and Prudes at their table.
The stranger addressed him. “The noble Marcus Tullius Servannus asks that you join him at his table,” then, indicating Prudes, “and your friend too.” The man was big, hard-faced, the clipped tones of Gaul spilling from his every word. With a sigh, Belua stood, telling himself that a promising evening was already taking a turn for the worst.
The inn was quiet, and the Gaul led them past customers engaged in a game of dice to a table at the rear of the inn. A pretty serving girl was delivering a fresh jug of wine.
“I hope you didn’t mind my request,” greeted a smiling Servannus as the two men drew near.
Belua tipped his head in response then pointed to his companion. “This is Prudes, a fellow trainer.”
Prudes too, inclined his head in greeting, but Servannus didn’t spare him a look.
“Excellent, please take a seat and share a cup of Falerian with me,” Servannus offered, speaking directly to Belua.
“Thank you, but we were about to leave when your...Gaul came over.” Belua motioned with his hand towards the bodyguard who remained standing, arms folded at Servannus’s rear.
“Come now, just a few minutes of your time, and I see you still have a full cup. And, our last meeting was, how shall I say...cut short.” Servannus’s smile remained in place, but Belua discerned a brittle edge to his tone. Fucking snake, thought Belua, recalling their last encounter.
Belua looked to Prudes, hoping that he would come up with a better excuse. Prudes merely shrugged his shoulders. Thwarted, Belua sat down on a chair across the table from the noble. Prudes occupied a vacant seat at his side.
Belua was familiar with the tales spoken about Servannus, notably his interest in gladiators and the arena. There were also the rumours of his excesses, his spoilt nature and his cruel mistreatment of the women that he bought and used. It was said that the only safe women around Servannus were the dead and the dying, and the dying only sometimes. Regardless, Belua understood that the ludus couldn’t afford to offend someone of his standing and local influence. He bit his tongue, knowing that he’d have to go on biting it.
“You have an envious reputation as a trainer of excellent fighters Belua,” Servannus complimented him.
“I try to earn my pay, nothing more.”
“Come now, I was just commenting to Galenus,” Servannus indicated his bodyguard with a motion of his hand, “that it’s been a long time since Pompeii’s produced a champion of the calibre of Caetes, and he was in agreement.”
“True,” Belua said, then casually, “The German has done well.”
“Well! You’re being overly modest. His fight ten days ago in Elea was magnificent! His strike to the Dacian champion’s hamstring was masterful, and his finishing was faultless.” Servannus’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Such skill in one who’s only been fighting for just over a year.”
“His record is impressive for one so young,” Belua remarked, then reflectively, “Thirteen contests, and eight of them–”
“Kills,” finished Servannus.
“You’re well informed,” said Belua. There’d been times when he’d worried about the German sparing the lives of those that he could. But what business was it of Servannus?
“I’ve seen every contest.” Servannus’s smile widened. The smile of a shark, thought Belua.
“But, such is his reputation,” Servannus ventured, “Gordeo will doubtless find it difficult to acquire suitable opponents for him.”
“Even champions value their lives,” Belua said. “But, there will always be those who will fight...if the pay is enough.”
“I could not agree more,” Servannus said. “And, that reminds me. Please inform Gordeo that he’ll be receiving an invite to visit me at my villa.”
“Is that it?” Belua asked, frowning.
“Just tell him that I have an unusual proposition for him,” Servannus replied. “One that will be in our mutual interest.”
“Very well,” said Belua. Slimy bastard, he thought, deciding it was time to leave. “If there is nothing else...”
“There is one thing...” Servannus leaned forward onto the table, his look eager.
Belua shifted uneasily in his seat, and took another swallow of wine.
“I’ve been told that even the most talented gladiator can panic and crumple when faced with death on the sand.”
“Some find taking another’s life harder than others,” Belua told him, aware of Prudes awkwardly shuffling his feet.
“Apparently so,” Servannus said, his expression avid. “I understand that you won your freedom as a pugile, and that Augustus himself granted you the rudis.”
“He did.”
“The boxer’s gloves are cruel weapons, and few have won their freedom wielding them.” Servannus paused. “Your final match must have been exceptional.”
“It was painful,” Belua responded, “that much I can remember.”
Encouraged, Servannus leaned even closer. “Tell me...What was it like to kill another man with your bare hands?”
Belua grimaced, seeing the change in the noble: the eyes stretched wide, the mouth a cruel line.
“It’s so long ago...and the memory is unclear,” Belua lied. He’d said enough, and draining his cup rose to his feet. “I’m afraid we must take our leave. There are pressing matters that require our attention.”
“A pity,” Servannus said, looking disappointed. “Perhaps we could continue with our discussion another time...when you are less busy. Don’t forget to pass my message to Gordeo.”
Belua simply acknowledged Servannus’s wor
ds with a bob of his head, before turning to bustle his way to the street, followed closely by Prudes.
Behind him, Servannus sat back in his chair.
* * *
Chapter XXIV
STORM
“It is because we do
not dare that things are difficult.”
Seneca
The sun was dropping behind the hills when Guntram emerged from the tangle of trees high above Servannus’s estate. Heavy, black clouds piled above him, the storm barely holding off. I’ll welcome the rain when it comes, he thought, it’ll help to cloak my approach.
Gods! it’s like a small town, thought Guntram, surveying the vast estate. The villa sat in its centre, huge even in the gloom. He scanned the surrounding fields and buildings, working out a path that would provide him with the best means of cover as he converged on the villa itself. Satisfied with his plan, he gauged that it would probably take him an hour reach his goal.
Pulling forward his hood to mask his face, he set out at a brisk walk.
After crossing a large vineyard, Guntram passed quite close to one of the outer buildings. The smoky light from oil lamps spilled out from the open door. Inside, men were singing a bawdy song, and in a vivid flash of memory it brought back to Guntram the crowded wine-shops of Pompeii. If anyone stopped him before he reached the villa, he planned to tell them that he’d wandered off the dirt track that ran along the northern perimeter of the estate and then cut south to Herculaneum.
Guntram pushed on, the lighted doorway left behind. The night had grown dark and he broke into loping run that soon carried him to the villa’s outer wall. Pulling himself up, he took taking a cautionary look over its rim. He spotted an armed guard patrolling nearby, and he dropped back down.
As he waited for the guard to pass, Guntram pictured the plan of the large villa in his mind, picking out the route to the second storey chamber where Servannus slept. Guntram had learned that anything could be bought in Pompeii – for a price. And, after Ellios had made tactful enquiries on his behalf, Guntram had paid good silver to a local trader for information about the whereabouts of Servannus’s estate, as well as a sketched map of the villa itself. Most importantly the map marked out the position of Servannus’s private chambers.