War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One

by Nick Morris

  “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 pla
n 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.

  The customers’ talk seemed overly loud within the confines of the small room, and rain pounded the flimsy roof adding to the din. He kneaded his temples, trying to ease away the tiredness. Mixed with his aching weariness was an anxious feeling to quickly push on. The weather was getting steadily colder and he needed to reach the Cherusci’ lands before winter took hold.

  His mind turned to the rumours of events in the North, whispers of unrest amongst the German tribes, of a Roman Governor bent on expansion and the likelihood of a coming war. He was heartened by the knowledge that there were those amongst his people who resisted the greed filled ambitions of Rome. He prayed to mighty Tiwaz that when war came, he’d have a chance to play his part, and find Servannus, either on a battlefield or during a raid.

  The wine was cheap and sour, but the quality didn’t matter, and he drank without tasting. Soon, he began to feel the steady beat of his heart and a throbbing in his head. Queasy, he grabbed a servant by the sleeve and ordered a meal of whatever slop could be quickly served up.

  A bowl of mutton stew arrived. Guntram took a mouthful and then pushed the luke-warm gruel aside, no longer hungry. He refilled his cup.

  A shadow spread across the table, alerting him to another’s presence. Easing himself backwards from the table, his hand snaked to the hilt of his sword. He looked up at the stranger standing at the table’s edge.

  “May I sit for the time it takes to have a brief word?” A short, wiry man of middle years addressed him.

  “No, you may not.”

  “Very well, I’ll stand,” the man said. “My offer will only take a little of your time, and then I’ll trouble you no further.”

  Guntram scowled through the thickening haze of wine, scrutinising the man more closely. A civilian at first glance, dressed plainly but serviceably. Matched with this was a hard countenance and straight bearing. Possibly an ex-soldier, he thought. Yet, the man had a feel that Guntram had come to know so well over the last two years. It was the mark of the arena, unseen, but as telling to one of their own as the brand on their heel.

  Keen to be left alone, Guntram instructed gruffly, “Say your piece and go . . . arena man.”

  “Good,” the stranger responded. “We recognise each other then. My name is Ferromanus, former gladiator and lanista for the last ten years. I’m recruiting for the Imperial School at Arelate, but the men I’ve purchased so far are poor, and will serve as little more than blade fodder, even with training. So, I’m badly in need of some talent.” His hand moved to rub his jaw. “I’ve license to enlist volunteers, and at a good price. And, when I came in for a drink...I spotted you.”

  “I’ve finished with the arena,” Guntram said, knowing that denial was pointless, as the lanista saw through him. He returned his attention to his wine cup.

  “Don’t be hasty,” the lanista countered. “I know a man with steel in his spine when I see one...By Mithras I’ve had enough practice. Arelate is not Rome or Verona, but it has a growing hunger for the games. The town will soon attract visitors and talent from all over the province, and I can foresee a time when the games will grow -”

  “Have you no ears?” Guntram cut in impatiently.

  “Listen,” the lanista persisted, undeterred, “I’ll pay you generously for your experience, and you’ll not get a better offer-”

  “Enough!” Guntram said loudly and heads turned. “I’m travelling north in the morning and won’t pass this way again. Now, you’d be wise to leave.”

  “So be it brother.” The lanista raised his hand, palm open in acknowledgement. “But, let me buy you a jug of wine for your time.”

  Guntram started to object, but the lanista waved it away and the wine quickly arrived.

  “A free word of advice if you are determined to travel north,” the lanista said, hands on hips. “Your journey would be easier if you obtained passage aboard one of the wine barges that ply their trade along the river. The season is changing, and the days grow shorter and colder, but the barges still travel north as far as Cavillonum and sometimes beyond.”

  Guntram made no reply.

  “I wish you good luck, and if you ever come south to Arelate and you change your mind, look me up where I can be easily reached – at The Inn of The Ass.” Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Farewell.”

  Guntram neither acknowledged the lanista’s words nor watched him leave.

  *

  As he trudged towards his lodgings, Guntram hardly felt the chill drag of the wind. His head pounded, his stomach rolled and he was very, very tired. Some drunken legionaries staggered passed him singing a bawdy chorus, and the sound of their hob-nailed feet made his gut’ muscles clench.

  Unsteady, Guntram leaned against a nearby shack, an outstretched arm propping him up. His eyes crept shut and the darkness beneath his eye-lids began to spin. He felt like puking. Swallowing hard, he moaned as sounds and images crawled into his head: a whore’s lewd invite, a slave-bolt snapping tight around his neck and Chayna’s pallid face, her life-blood staining a spotless floor. He
cursed, driving them away.

  He pushed off from the wall, lurching forwards. His lodgings took shape ahead of him. Lucky, he thought, I was beginning to think I’d never make it.

  *

  Ferromanus edged the door open and peered into the room’s darkness. A Gaul stood at his shoulder, and two others waited close by in the corridor. All carried drawn swords.

  He approached the shadowed bed, drawing in a long, slow breath in readiness...

  * * *

  Chapter XXXVII

  ROAD TO VETERA

  “What is left when honour is lost?”

  Syrus

  Exhausted and covered in road dust, Servannus’s small band arrived at the inn just as the sun was setting. Servannus immediately encamped to the dining area. Galenus joined him after stabling their horses, together with Lucanus who positioned himself at Servannus’s shoulder, alert to his every gesture and request.

  Servannus yawned as Otho, the inn-keeper, placed a large plate of bread and fruit and a jug of his best wine on the table before him.

  Despite Servannus ignoring the inn-keeper’s attempts to engage him in conversation, he was subjected to an account of how the retired legionary had used his savings to build the inn on land granted to him for his military service to Rome. He’d run the inn for five years, informing Servannus that business remained good despite the ever-increasing taxes levied by Governor Varus. He enlightened Servannus that together with his wife Porcia and beautiful daughter, Salonina, he adequately coped with the practical demands of running the business without the added expense of hired help.

  As if I care, Servannus thought testily, all the while noticing how Galenus’s attention was glued to this very daughter as she went about her chores. The girl was slender, pretty, and there was no mistaking the undisguised lechery in the body-guard’s stare. Not for you, Servannus inwardly affirmed.