War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (13 page)

His next destination had been the Shop of Han.

Han had been barely visible in the dark recesses of the tiny shop. A small, wizened, monkey of a man, he’d only became visible as Neo’s eyes adjusted to the shop’s cavern light. It was rumoured that the old man had originally arrived as a boy with his parents, a lifetime ago, having travelled there on a spice ship from the east. Now, only Han remained, alone.

Neo had purchased two small jars of dark honey, which he used to treat those wounds that became infected. The local honey that he also utilised as a wound dressing was paler in colour, but it didn’t have the same healing qualities as the honey purchased from Han. All enquiries regarding the nature of the ingredients would simply be met with an indulgent, toothless grin. Neo had never pressed the old man; it was not his way.

Despite Neo’s frustration regarding Han’s secrets, he would continue to buy the treatments while they were available. If his eastern gods willed it, Han would hopefully endure another hundred years.

Easing back in his chair, Neo mulled over the itinerary of treatments that awaited him back at the
ludus
. He would need to inspect the usual collection of sprains and muscle tears, common after the day’s practice.

Belua had been vigorously training the men in preparation for the approaching
munera
. As usual, the men would be in peak condition. But, there would be only light training for the next three days, in order to avoid any last minute injuries and to allow any bruises and strains time to adequately heal.

Yes,
thought Neo,
I’ll need to redress the gash in Felix the Gaul’s head.
The skull had been exposed, and Neo was keen to prevent any infection from seeping into the bone itself. Failure to do so would result in death. Felix was yet another training casualty struck down by the pugnacious Caetes. Neo had complained often enough to Belua that the German created more work for him than the rest of the troupe put together. He’d had the opportunely to raise this matter again with Belua the previous day, shortly after he had sewn Felix’s head back together. Belua had shrugged, acknowledging his complaint, before telling Neo that Felix’s defence had always been weak.

Belua had little sympathy for Gauls.

Neo envisioned the stubborn trainer: a bull in the flesh and by nature, with his blunt honesty, iron discipline and uncompromising training methods. But, the physician knew that there were worst men to work with than Belua. They had worked tolerably well together over the years, and an unspoken mutual respect had grown between them.

Neo always liked to be busy, and Caetes’ handiwork ensured that he was. And, he was aware that the German was the
tiro
the other men most talked about with his first match approaching. He acknowledged that Caetes was undoubtedly an impressive physical specimen, but, he perceived that there was more to Caetes than simply his brawn, something which set him aside from the other men. He was smart, being constantly eager to learn new things, whether it was a new fighting skill or a method to treat a wrenched limb or troublesome wound.

Neo recalled the occasions when he’d had to treat Caetes. Their dialogue had always been brief. He smiled to himself, thinking,
not surprising, bearing in mind our dispositions
. Despite this, the German’s queries and comments had always been thoughtful and pragmatic.

There’d been an occasion when Neo had been preparing to stitch a small wound the German had acquired, and he’d observed Caetes looking at some of his anatomy scrolls with their written directions. There was no mistaking the look on Caetes’ face – the longing to understand the drawings and to be able to read the squiggly markings. Caetes possessed a hunger to learn about everything that was useful. Neo believed such men were rare, having the potential to make great leaders, as well as very dangerous foes.

The feeling in the
ludus
was that Caetes had the makings of a champion, and for long moments Neo pondered on how Caetes would fare in the coming
munera
? Neo had seen other gladiators with great potential fall at their first hurdle – when faced with stealing the life of another. Also, the champions Neo had ministered to, had all said that their
first
battle on the sand had been the hardest.

Didius’s arrival with his drink jolted the physician’s thoughts back to the present.
Goat’s milk with a generous helping of ice.
Neo took a sip, savouring its anticipated coolness.

He raised his cup, silently toasting the air,
May your German gods be with you, Caetes.

* * *

Chapter XIV

THE
SWORD
DRAWN

“Now he is travelling that

dark road to the place they say no one

has ever returned.”

Catullus

The tunnel’s gloom fell behind as Guntram emerged into the searing heat of the sun and the crowd’s swelling applause.

The greeting burst upon him in a solid wave of sound, raucous against the clash of symbols and strident crowing of trumpets. As he strode towards the centre of the arena, the excitement, like the flame in summer grass, swept across the packed tiers of Pompeii’s
amphitheatre
. A shiver ran through him.

Viewing the surrounding tumult through the grid of his visor, he saw the faces flushed red with wine and emotion, the mouths agape, shouting his name, the fervour building towards a release as his match was about to start.

As instructed by Belua, he raised his sword arm aloft in acknowledgement to the twenty thousand throbbing voices. The cheering grew louder and he gripped his sword tighter, trying to stop his hand from shaking.

All around him the air reeked of coppery blood and opened bowels. Scanning the arena, he spotted attendants dancing amongst the crowd, sprinkling perfumed water in an attempt to quell the stench. He felt the sand’s grip beneath his bare feet, the raked surface a brief distraction from the hot sun on his chest and shoulders, and the sick feeling in his guts.

Small rivulets of sweat seeped through his scalp, and his face, already filmed with sweat, prickled from the heat inside his helmet. He was aware that his helmet, despite providing good protection, would restrict his breathing if the fight was drawn out, and he was determined to end it quickly.

Guntram was one of three matched pairs to fight. His opponent was tall, massive in the shoulders and thick at the waist. Guntram noted that he had unusually long arms, chorded with thick muscle. A conical helmet with visor covered his head, and he was armed with a large, two handed sword – a sword forged to cleave a man in two. Guntram’s mouth felt very dry, with him realizing that it would be match to the death.

Trumpets blared, signalling the combatants to approach the editor’s podium.

Guntram raised his sword, acting out the expected tribute to the
editor
and the honour of performing before him. In turn, the
editor
stood, and elevating his hand in casual recognition, exclaimed, “For your honour and the glory of Rome.”

Guntram was eager for the match to commence, but could not help to be awed by the sight of the towering podium. Set high above the arena floor, it was protected a strong metal net that was topped by a row of huge, white animal tusks. Ellios had spoken of these things, telling him that they belonged to great beasts that that were transported from the dark nations far to the south. Guntram realized that the
editor
and his fellow nobles would be protected from harm by this barrier, all the while enjoying an unhindered view of the fighting.

The clamour in the arena briefly fell, the packed audience lulled into relative silence, anticipating of the start of the contest.

Guntram and his fellow gladiators moved apart, establishing their starting positions. The nearby games’ referee gestured with his match cane for his attendants to move away from the combatants and for the match to begin. Guntram saw that the attendants were armed with the customary hot irons.
Come near me with those and I’ll take your fucking arm off,
he cursed inwardly.

Facing his opponent, Guntram shifted the weight of his heavy shield to his front. He gripped his
gladius
tightly, his hand wet with the sweat of fear
.

Wasting no time, Guntram bore straight into his adversary, driving a barrage of stabs against his chest and abdomen. Taken by surprise the swordsman hastily blocked the attacks, before countering with big sweeping strokes of his own. Guntram easily evaded them, thinking,
he’s big, but slow
.

His confidence growing, Guntram attacked again, searching for openings in the swordsman’s defence. His blade licked out; slicing open the swordsman’s left bicep. Blood spurted. Useless, the arm dropped to his side. The swordsman now wielded the heavy blade one handed.

Through his visor Guntram could see that sections of the crowd were on their feet, screaming their appreciation at the sight of fresh blood. He switched his focus back to the wounded swordsman.

He’s beaten,
thought Guntram, his sense of relief soured by the baying of the crowd and the knowledge of what he must do next.
Bu
t,
I will make his end quick, merciful.
Feinting to the swordsman’s right side, Guntram then struck at his opposite flank where he’d be unable to wield his sword one handed to protect himself.

Guntram was wrong.

In an amazing feat of strength, the swordsman parried the attack before heaving his sword up and against the side of Guntram’s helmet.

Hot pain coursed through Guntram’s head and neck. The force of the blow had knocked his visor to the side, blinding him.
Tiwaz, please don’t let me die now, not like this,
he prayed
. I must live to find my dear ones.

He struck out wildly in his darkness, expecting the death blow to come at any moment. Then he felt his blade make contact. It was accompanied by a startled cry of pain.

Guntram jumped backwards, wrenching off his split helmet.

The swordsman was down, a gaping cut opened up at the side of his neck. Guntram watched his life slip way with each pulse of blood from the wound
. He’s not long for this life,
he gauged
. Gods, I was Lucky.

Guntram swayed unsteadily. His head throbbed with pain, testament to the force of the swordsman’s blow. All about him the crowd chanted, “Finish him!”
Fucking Roman dogs
, he thought.
They want more blood.

He let his sword drop from his fingers.

The crowd responded with foul curses and boos.

Guntram looked down at the swordsman. His lips were forming words, but too quiet for Guntram to understand. He bent closer. The swordsman’s final words jolted him back on his heels. Regaining his balance, he stumbled away from his victim.

Looking around, Guntram spotted then followed what he guessed were the other two victors. He touched the side of his head and winced. The flesh was swollen and his fingers came away sticky with blood. He staggered on, towards the dark smudge of the tunnel entrance. Stones, pieces of bread and excrement rained all around him, tokens of the mob’s displeasure. He gazed into the crowd above the tunnel entrance, sneering out the reproach, “Crawl back to your rat’ holes, Roman filth!”

Then, amongst the other slaves he saw her, a momentary glimpse. Chayna was standing, looking down at him. The look of anguish on her face could not have been deeper.

He tilted forwards into the tunnel, Belua’s arm wrapping around his waist, holding him up.

Through the raw pain in his head he remembered another day and the disappointed look in Chayna’s eyes when Ellios had called him a
killer
.
Will she ever speak to me again
? he questioned anxiously.

As the last of his strength left his legs, his thoughts turned the swordsman and his words of thanks. Words spoken in German.

* * *

Chapter XV

FISTS
OF
STONE

“To sup with a devil

you must first enter hell.”

Dalmatian saying

“Adrift in paradise I see,” Prudes ventured, entering the refectory.

Belua craned his neck as he pushed his empty plate to one side, still preoccupied with events long gone.

Prudes poured himself a cup of wine from the
amphora
sat on the table. “Or reliving old battles again?” he asked, slumping into a chair opposite.

“The ones that still hurt,” Belua replied, rubbing a scar above his eye.

Prudes nodded his head in agreement, smiling. He took a sip of wine, then reflected, “Talking of battles, the German’s won seven matches in six months. A shaky start, but still an impressive record.”

“He’s not faced anyone of quality, yet.”

“Come on!” Prudes exclaimed. “The Syrian was good, with four kills under his belt.”

“Horseshit,” said Belua. “We’ll see his true worth when his life’s in the balance. The others, apart from that big German he fought...What was his name?”

“Milus, the swordsman.”

“Milus, yes,” Belua smiled a little, remembering the how Caetes had almost lost his head to his fellow German. “The others he finished too quickly. He needs to entertain the crowd more, before he kills.”

“Can he win the
rudis
?” Prudes asked bluntly.

“You know it takes more than just strength and speed.” There was a firm edge to Belua’s voice.

“I know,” said Prudes, who was quiet for moment before asking, “Is the Circus as magnificent as they say?”

“It is,” Belau replied, aware that Prudes was humouring him. Pensive, he pictured the Circus: Patrobius, Nasica, and the blood and pain. It seemed like only yesterday. He poured himself another drink, and the years rolled back.