by Nick Morris
The feelings of helplessness at being unable to aid his brother and Jenell seemed at times unbearable, and tonight’s dreadful tale had confirmed the worst of his fears about Chayna’s former treatment. A shiver tracked his spine. He knew what needed to be done . . .
“Chayna, you are my woman, and we’ll face whatever lies ahead together.” He forced a smile. “The women of my people are wise in matters of child bearing, and we’ll seek their counsel on our return to Germania.” He moved to stand beside her. “We were alone in this world before we met, and now we have each other. Isn’t that a good thing?” His fingers caressed her cheek and she placed her hands over his.
“Yes, it is my love,” she said.
Bending close to her, he coaxed, “Now wipe your tears, because I must go out for a while.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, looking worried.
“To make sure that the Spaniard doesn’t throw away all of his winnings, as he’s sure to be legless. He’s a terrible braggart in wine and who knows what trouble he’ll get into without me around to wipe his nose?” Guntram tied back his hair, before adding, “Hopefully, I’ll be back before mid-night.”
He kissed Chayna’s forehead softly, and for a while they held each other in silence. Then, stepping to the bed, he retrieved his knife from under the mattress, slipping it through his belt at the back.
Chayna handed him his cloak, her face full of worry. “Please do not kill Fagus for my sake,” she implored.
“I’ll not kill him, Chayna,” Guntram replied. “You have my word.” He touched her cheek reassuringly before walking to the door.
When reaching the street Guntram looked up at their room. It appeared dark, peaceful, and he was glad that Chayna could not see his face – cruel, bloodless in the torchlight.
*
Interrupting his talk with the guards, Belua switched his attention to the figure emerging from the shadow of The Small Theatre. Despite the darkness, he recognised Caetes’ build and fluid movement.
“Have you seen the Spaniard?” the German asked briskly. “I’ve visited that rat-hole he calls lodgings, and the usual whore-houses, but no one has seen him.”
Neither guard said a word despite exchanging awkward looks. Belua answered for them, his tone subdued. “Yes...He is here.”
“Sleeping off a gut-full of wine as I expected,” the German grumbled, turning on his heel to leave.
“Wait!” Belua said. “Ellios sleeps...but he’ll not wake in this life.” His voice lacked its usual rough edge.
“What do you mean?” Caetes snapped.
“He fell in Nola, and, as expected, no one was spared. Rufus, the Gaul, was also lost, and we sent three of theirs to Hades in return.”
Caetes stepped closer, a stunned expression on his face. “H...How can it be?” he stuttered. “Despite his bragging, the Spaniard was more than a match for any of his opponents. Was a champion brought in to fight him at the last minute?”
“No,” Belua countered. “But, it was a strange match for sure. The Spaniard began strongly, as was his style, and then suddenly weakened. I’d guessed that something was wrong when watching him struggle in practice. When I spoke to him about it, the grinning ass laughed it off, saying that his Egyptian whore was draining his sap, and I knew the bastard would hump a frog if it stopped hopping long enough.” He shrugged lamely, adding, “He said he was ready for the match at Nola, and I took him at his word.”
“Was it a clean death?” Caetes asked.
“No,” Belua said. “He was cut many times as his strength failed, and the end wasn’t quick. The mob was in a spiteful mood and the editor was keen to please them.” He snorted and spat. “It’s regrettable, but, if there was something wrong with him, something that he didn’t confide to me, then he was a damned fool!”
Belua saw the colour drain from the Caetes’ face, his eyes glaring like those of a wild animal, and he cautiously took a step backwards. It was long seconds before he broke the silence. “The Spaniard will be buried tomorrow, in the school’s cemetery by the Porta Gate. He’s been washed and dressed as is customary, but as I said, it wasn’t pretty. Do you wish to see him?”
“No,” Caetes replied through drawn lips. “His spirit’s flown and I’ve no desire to keep the company of a husk.”
Frowning, Belua watched Caetes delve into the leather pouch at his belt, retrieve, then hand him four glinting, gold coins.
“I know he paid nothing into the burial fund, preferring to spend his money on...on the whores that killed him,” Caetes said tautly. “That should be enough for a head-stone.”
Caetes turned to leave, then hesitated. He addressed Belua again. “He’d have wanted his name marked on the stone. Can you arrange it?”
Belua closed his hand around the coins, nodding his head.
“His name was Marcus Ulpius Scaro,” Caetes said, then swung away into the dark.
Yawning, Brutus the guard nudged Belua as he stared after the German. “That bastard makes me jumpy. He’d rip our throats out as good as spit, and he’s the last one I thought would have made any friends.”
Shaking his head, Belua murmured, “So did I Brutus . . . So did I.”
* * *
Chapter XXIX
THE INN 0F THE WOLF
“Nothing is to be preferred before justice.”
Socrates
He waited, concealed in the side street until every customer had left the inn. His face was obscured by the cowl of a burnoose, and a rough burlap sack was slung over one shoulder. Fagus was drunk and his new chambermaid was nowhere in sight.
Guntram swiftly entered the inn.
Seizing the inn-keeper from behind, he dragged him into the street. Fagus cried out once as he struggled in his grip. Guntram clamped his hand savagely over his mouth, and whispered, “Quiet dog, or I’ll gut you where you stand.”
A pool of steaming wetness appeared at Guntram’s feet, the inn-keeper emptying his bladder. Drawing his dagger, he inserted its tip upwards into Fagus’s arm-pit. Hot blood coated his knuckles.
Fagus moaned, his head jerking from side to side.
Guntram squeezed his hand even tighter over his mouth, snot befouling his fingers. “No more noise and no more pissing yourself!” he warned. “Do you understand?”
The inn-keeper managed to nod. Guntram slowly removed his hand, wiping off the muck on Fagus’s tunic. He drew out a small vial from a pouch at his waist.
“Drink this!” Guntram ordered. He felt the inn-keeper stiffen. “Don’t fear, it’s opium not poison.” The opium would take some of the fight of the dog. With a whimper the inn-keeper complied.
Clutching Fagus to him, Guntram heading southwards in the direction of the Stabian Gate. To the casual eye, they appeared to be unsteady revellers returning home from a night of drinking. Tiwaz, thought Guntram nervously, I hope I haven’t given him too much. I’ll never be able to carry him the whole way if he passes out.
Progress was slow with Fagus stumbling and breaking into groggy tears. When the gate took shape ahead of him, Guntram made a detour eastwards via a series of quiet side-streets, before again turning south. They eventually arrived at the place he sought, located in a partially deserted section of the city.
The building was shrouded in darkness, but Guntram was sure it was the house he’d visited earlier that night.
Guntram turned his attention to Fagus. He slammed him backwards against the wall, the inn-keeper wheezing as the air was forced from his lungs before slumping to his knees. Guntram delved into his canvas sack, removing a coiled length of rope and a strip of cloth.
On seeing the rope, Fagus let out a small animal cry. Hands clasped together, he pleaded for mercy through a welter of sobs, his words slurred by the effect of the opium.
Guntram quickly tied Fagus’s hands and gagged him with the cloth. He left him on his knees.
As agreed, Guntram gave four loud knocks on the building’s large wooden door. For a while there was nothing, and then
came the metal grate of bolts being drawn back.
A short, squat shape appeared around the door, holding out a torch in front of him. Guntram recognised the man he had dealt with earlier. The shaven head and large gut were easily placed.
“Have you the rest of the money?” the man asked, thick lips peeling back off small, pointed teeth.
“Here,” said Guntram, handing over a small pouch.
The man made a quick inspection of the pouch, grunted his satisfaction, and then tucked it into the leather apron that stretched around his bulging stomach. Dark stains like dried blood spotted the apron.
The man swayed past Guntram and pulled Fagus to his feet.
Fagus groaned, his eyes his opening up, the opium beginning to wear off.
“Go,” the man advised Guntram as he bundled Fagus towards the waiting door.
“A moment,” Guntram replied, holding up his hand.
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.”