War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (14 page)

As Belua the Fist he terrorized opponents throughout the Dalmatia for three brutal years. His growing fame and continued success inevitably drew him closer to the Roman heartland, and finally, to the mother city itself. His day in the Great Circus in Rome was fixed in his mind. He shivered as he recalled leaving the
ludus
’ enclosure for the city before dawn, each member of the troupe wrapped in their woollen cloaks to ward off the early chill.

They travelled by way of the Milvan Bridge, skirting the Field of Mars where the Republican armies traditionally gathered for war, watched by vacant statues of by-gone heroes, their shapes eerie in the mist. Their route then dipped towards the darkened streets of the valley floor, with ramshackle tenement blocks cutting off light and air, until they came to the spot that Belua loved best. The road curled around the brow of a steep rise, the view opening up before him; revealing a shocking expanse of white marble – the heart of the city itself. It lasted no more than a few heartbeats, and then a wall of tenements rose up to hide it, the moment passing like the flash of lightening in the night. It was always breath-taking.

The troupe trudged on, the sound of their sandaled feet seeming loud on the roads of the sleeping city. They followed the Flaminian Way until they reached the prison building; dark, gaunt, near the Quirinal Hill, before diverting into the shadow of the magnificent Circus Maximus itself.

They entered the Circus via one of many rear gates – one that was regularly used to admit the wild beasts on route to their waiting cages. Once within the Circus walls their shackles were removed. He remembered the faces of the waiting novices: pale, with dark shadows under their eyes. Some paced continuously, dread preventing them from sitting and conserving their energy. A few cried, convinced that death awaited them, and others just sat in mute shock, like sheep for the slaughter. The waiting was always hard.

Before a fight he always ate a bowl of boiled barley and millet which he consumed slowly, barely tasting it. Most sat trance-like, picking at their food, while some gulped it down in great swallows before heaving it back onto the floor. They would learn...if they lived.

The hours passed and the cheers of the crowd grew louder, until, like the sound of surf in a storm, the volume of noise told him that his time had come. The time of the
pugiles
.

He clenched his fists, glancing down at his gloves. They were brutal tools, comprising of a leather knuckle-duster worn over the lower joints of the fingers of both hands, leaving the thumbs and finger tips exposed as well as the palms. The glove covered most of the lower arm and was held in place by a wrapping of leather that gave it stability. Brass spikes added to the knuckles converted it into a vicious weapon.

He felt the weight of a hand on his arm. It was Patrobius, his trainer, a veteran whose reputation was a legend in the city. His advice that day stuck in his mind, like the brand of an iron.

“The mob’s blood boils hot and the talk is that the Emperor has a new concubine...a Spanish girl of rare beauty.” Patrobius brandished a hard smile. “There are few things that still get the old man stiff, and I’ve heard it on good authority that he’s in a generous mood.”

The trainer moved to stand directly in front of him, gripping his shoulder tightly as he spoke, “The crowd is restless and needs something special Belua. Now is your time!”

“The Greek won’t last long, I promise you,” he reassured the trainer.

“I don’t doubt it,” Patrobius agreed, “but, it won’t be enough.”

“Can I do more than win?”

“Have you nothing but porridge between your ears?” the trainer growled, spittle flecking his lips. “Is that broken nose of yours so flat that you can’t see the chance you have?”

He frowned darkly, not understanding what Patrobius was getting at.

“You must crush the Greek! Then you must beat the other two victors!” The trainer urged passionately. “The yellow-skinned Nasica will be one of them. Have you enough steel in your guts for this?”

Belua was familiar with Nasica’s fearsome reputation. A champion that hailed from a land beyond the great inland sea that fringed Rome’s eastern borders, Nasica was undefeated in eighteen contests; killing all but three of his opponents. The crippled survivors now begged for a living. Taken aback, he hesitated before asking, “Can it be done?”

“Wrong question!” Patrobius shouted, his face livid. “You must ask yourself, ‘Who can stand before me today?’ And your answer must be, ‘No one! Not today!’”

Belua nodded in recognition.

Trumpets sounded.

When they died, Belua touched his fist to his trainer’s, then entering the short passageway that led to arena, he joined the other
pugiles
. Forming up into two columns they marched out into the Circus.

*

Ragged pieces of flesh hung from Belua’s face. The metal tang of blood filled his swollen mouth and he thought he would vomit. Barely able to see he struggled to remain standing. Straightening his back, he swallowed down his gorge.

He’d taken the Greek in the throat with his second blow, who’d gone down choking and coughing blood. The Gaul, his second victim, was disposed of almost as quickly. Finally there was Nasica. The champion with the black pebble eyes and skin the colour of honey lay at his feet, neck broken.

Patrobius’s voice drifted to him, as though through water. “Belua! Get to the podium, you ugly bastard. The Emperor is standing. Walk you bastard! Walk!”

On that day, the Man-God Caesar Augustus, gifted him the
rudis
and his freedom.

Afterwards, the surgeon who tended his injuries jibed that his stitched face comprised of more thread than flesh, as well as later commenting on his exceptional ability to mend.

He often reflected on the yellow man’s prowess, and remembered with a grin how
he and Patrobius drank the taverns dry along the Tiber that night, and the following day, and night. No wonder he was unable to feel the throbbing in his face until two days later!

His fame spread quicker than a rat in a latrine, and there was no shortage of women willing to spread their legs to accommodate ol’ Belua – the new ‘Champion of the City’. The memory was a little fogged, but he remembered that every thrill seeking noblewoman and honey-tongued whore made sure that they doused their lamps, rather than look up at his face.

“He’s still cracking heads in training.”

Belua blinked hard, as if woken from sleep, his nostalgia broken by Prudes’ remark.

“What?”

“I said the German is keeping Neo busy and Dertosa sharp.”

Belua climbed back to the present. “Neo gets paid to be busy and Dertosa can look after himself, although I wish someone would buy the bastard some wit. Never smiles, doesn’t drink wine, never talks about women...strange. But, he does his job well and that’s what matters.”

“It’s the men’s whingeing after they’ve trained with Caetes that irks me,” Prudes complained, then joking, “but, I’m sure things were different in your day, old man.”

“What doesn’t break them will only make them stronger. And you’re right, when I was younger...” The old, aching sadness swept over him. He knew that Prudes had seen the look before; when they’d both been deep in their cups, when talk drifted to friends and loved ones. He coughed, trying to clear his throat.

“Do you still think of your wife and child after all these years?” Prudes asked.

He stared into his cup, answering softly, “Some days their voices come unexpected to me. At quiet times. It’s always their voices I recall so clearly, although their faces have grown dim with time.”

“Do you think you’ll see them again, in the next life?” Prudes asked, leaning forward.

There was a fire in his eyes, and when Belua spoke his voice was thick with emotion. “Prudes, on the day I cross the Styx, I will call their names. And, when they answer...neither man nor god will come between us.”

* * *

Chapter XVI

REWARDS

“He has committed the crime who profits by it.”

Seneca

Even empty it’s magnificent
, thought Servannus.

He shaded his eyes as he watched the slaves high above balancing on the awning’s wooden beams. Shuffling back and forth, they carried out repairs to the giant sun-screen and its holding lines. At the same time attendants scattered fresh sand across the arena floor, beneath which lay a warren of tunnels, cells and staging areas.

Servannus pictured his first visit to the bowels of Capua’s arena long ago: pitch torches throwing splotches of light on the heavy platforms, ramps and pulleys that were used to raise gladiators and beasts to the surface. He recalled the old-new smell of blood, and how it stirred his loins even then.

Four storeys high, the
amphitheatre’s
splendour was only outdone by Rome’s Circus, and seated in the
editor’s
podium Servannus felt very much at home.

“I’m glad you’ve reconsidered my offer,” Servannus began, dropping a weighty bag of gold coins on the table in front of the
procurator
, “and, I’m sure it bodes well for future business.”

“I hope it does,” Agorix hefted the gold in one hand, “but, I still believe our man will make swift work of the German.” Shrewd eyes narrowed in the dark, lean face. “I almost regret taking your money.”

“I doubt it’ll keep you awake at night.” Smiling, Servannus took a sip from his wine cup, feeling satisfied.

“But, why take such a risk with the German?” Agorix asked, rubbing his chin. “He’s done well, but against our champion who is unrivalled in Campania...he has no chance.”

“I have my reasons,” Servannus replied, smile fading.

“No doubt, but-”

“The reasons are my affair.” Servannus’s tone was knife sharp and Agorix shifted back in his seat. “I recall you telling me once about your plan to buy your own villa in Stabiae when you retire.” Servannus took sip from his cup. “Is it still?”

“Y...yes,” sounding nervous, Agorix forced out the words, “it’s always been my dream.”

“Good, all men should have dreams. And let’s hope that nothing, such as say . . . prying, gets in the way of your dream shall we?” Servannus’s stare was unwavering.

Visibly blanched, Agorix shifted his gaze to the workers overhead.

Studying the
procurator’s
face, a slight smile pulled at the corners of Servannus’s mouth.

*

A chorus of whistles and coarse jibes accompanied the allocation of females to the gladiator’s cells.

Guntram looked up from kneading an aching leg’ muscle when his door opened. Belua led the woman in.

“Her name is Tullia.” The introduction was made with the trainer’s usual candour. “Use her as you will, but remember: no blood or broken bones, or you’ll answer to me.” He paused at the door. “Continue to win and there will be others.”

Guntram stood, silently studying the woman. She had dark hair with strong limbs, her full breasts clearly outlined beneath the coarse woollen fabric of her dress. There were purple smudges beneath her eyes and she looked tired, worn. He guessed that she was in her early twenties, maybe younger. She carried a small candle lamp and flask of wine. She placed the lamp by the side of his flimsy mattress and then offered him the wine. He saw that her hand trembled. Without ceremony he swung the flagon to his lips, taking a long swallow before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The fluid tasted bitter and vaguely fruity, giving him a warm and not unpleasant feeling in his belly. Encouraged, he took another swallow, then another.

The woman stepped towards him, and he could smell her breath; sweet, like honey. Her looks were pleasing, small teeth peeking out from lips shadowed beneath a slender hooked nose.

Guntram turned away, then held the flagon out behind him, gesturing for her to drink.

“Thank you, no.” Her voice had an anxious edge. “Am I so ugly that you must look away?”

He didn’t answer.

“If our masters think you’re not pleased with me, I will be punished,” she added. “Do you understand?”

He turned back to face her. “How will you be punished?” his voice was a whisper.

“I will be given to five, six, maybe more gladiators in one night. A guard will be ordered to watch, to make sure that I perform well.”

Guntrum’s stomach rolled, disgusted.
What vile creatures these Romans are, to abuse their women in such a way,
he thought, his anger rising.

The woman moved nearer, and smiled. Guntram saw it for what it was; a practiced gesture that didn’t touch her eyes.

“I am willing Caetes,” she said, pressing closer. “I just ask that you take care with me. I was given to a Nubian before, and he hurt me so badly that I needed the work of a physician. He was a pig!” Her tongue wiped her lips, leaving them glistening, and her hand moved to his chest. “But, you are not like him.”

“Woman, you know nothing about me, or what I might do.”

“I feel that you can be as terrible as your name and reputation, but also that you’re not the kind of man who would hurt a woman for no reason.”

His hands went to her shoulders, holding her away.

“I’ll not perform like some beast in the arena on Roman order.” He saw the edgy fear return to her eyes. “But, don’t worry, it will be our secret. I will tell our masters that you performed very well.”

“Thank you,” the woman replied. She breathed a weary sigh, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“You can have the mattress, and I’ll sleep here,” Guntram pointed to the floor.

The woman nodded her gratitude.

After draining the last of the wine, he blew out the lamp, and then sat with his back against the cell wall. As he listened to the quiet rhythm of the woman’s breathing, he still had the horrible feeling of sickness in him.
Fucking Roman dogs!
To him it was important how he treated all women, not just those dear to him; like his mother, his sister, Chayna and Jenell.