War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (21 page)

Guntram felt as if a band of steel was being tightened around his chest. The rage growing inside him, he sucked in great draughts of air, trying to calm himself.
I’ve waited too long
to let anger force my hand,
he chided inwardly. Closing his eyes, he prayed,
Great
Woden, don’t let the Roman dogs look down
. There was a moment of utter blackness, the rumble of thunder seeming part of the dizzy roaring inside his head.

Clenching his fists, Guntram stepped back into the shadow of the wall.

*

Soaked through, Guntram climbed out from the irrigation ditch to glance back at the villa, now a vague shape in the dark. He’d run a kilometre in a crouch through the ditch and he stood up straight, stretching his cramped muscles. The storm still pounded all around him.

Getting away from the villa had tested all his nerve and skills of concealment, but he’d managed to avoid detection by the guards, who were probably more concerned with keeping dry that than looking out for any intruders. A shiver ran through him, knowing that he’d been so close to the object that was at the centre of all his hatred. But, the visit had been a success. He was now familiar with the layout of the villa, important for the future, as well as confirming that Servannus was closely guarded, and that getting to him would be extremely difficult.

Guntram now understood that after he got the information he sought from Servannus he’d have to slay him, because the noble would not hesitate to have him killed regardless of the consequences, such would be the slight on the bastard’s honour. Getting away would then be hazardous and he’d not risk Chayna’s safety.
I’ll have to take her away, somewhere safe, and then return for Servannus,
he conceded
, and only a fool would attempt this while still a slave.
A rough plan took shape in his mind, and despite his weariness he felt satisfied.

Flexing the tightness from his shoulders Guntram turned east, towards Pompeii.

* * *

Chapter XXV

MARCUS
ULPIUS
SCARO

“Friendship neither finds nor makes equals.”

Publius Syrus

In the shade of the colonnades, Ellios sat watching the hectic throb of city life, Guntram at his side.

It was a familiar scene as they reclined in the north-west corner of Pompeii’s forum. Fruit sellers and food stalls were in abundance, and wine vendors littered the covered floor space surrounded by rows of
amphorae
. The mouth-watering aroma of cooking fish and sweet meats mingled with the smells of herbs and spices imported from across the empire. Street artists eagerly painted gaudy wall-displays depicting gladiators in combat, and others of wild beasts with bloody jaws fighting hunters with bright spears. A city crier bawled the latest news and hawkers pushed fliers into people’s hands before hurrying on. And, while beggars pleaded for handouts, busy slaves scurried across the shimmering expanse of the city’s most popular meeting place.
Just like the scurrying of ants in an opened nest,
thought Ellios.

In an effort to educate his companion regarding the forum’s significance to the citizens of the city, Ellios proceeded to name its impressive features in turn. He pointed out that all the buildings involved in the administration of Pompeii’s public life were located on the forum’s southern side, before identifying the magnificent Temples of Jupiter and Apollo gracing its northern flank and then the renowned podium for orators on the western edge in front of two rows of towering columns. Lastly, he highlighted the buildings connected to the city’s economic and trade interests on the remaining eastern perimeter; low, blocky structures set amongst the offices of the moneychangers and other religious buildings.

Despite the passion of his remarks, he saw that Guntram was only half-listening to him, his mind distracted elsewhere. He poured them both another cup of wine, diluting its potency with a generous helping of water.

“A beautiful day and your face is like the grave!” Ellios said, aiming to break his companion’s reverie.

Guntram remained quiet, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Ellios had seen the look before.

“Are you thinking about your brother and the woman again?”

“Yes.”

“There’s nothing you can do for the present my friend,” Ellios offered earnestly. “Only torture yourself.” Guntram had told him that the noble, Servannus, might hold the key to their whereabouts, but also that was very closely guarded, leaving him untouchable for now.

“So you’ve said.”

“It’s true.”

Pursing his lips, Guntram made no reply.

Ellios understood that his friend struggled to contain his frustration regarding his brother and the woman Jenell. He knew that Guntram was not an individual given to dejection, and was impressed by his resilience in the face of terrible loss. But, he also realized that Guntram was sorely pained by his inability to help his brother and the woman so far away.

Despite Guntram’s fearsome reputation and German pride, Ellios was not afraid of him, remembering the moment when Guntram had asked him to use his German name when they were alone – a token of friendship. Ellios felt, rather a rare and unexpected affection, a closeness tinged with sadness. For all Guntram’s brutal determination, he perceived that loyalty and trustworthiness were ingrained in his nature to a depth that he’d not seen in any other man.

“Mithras, I could drink a well dry!” Ellios exclaimed, keen to change the subject. He drained his cup without pause.

“What is wrong with you Spaniard?” Guntram asked, his tone sober. “In practice you sweat like a goose on a spit, and gasp for breath like an old dog.”

“It’s just a passing thing,” Ellios answered dismissively, before ordering another
amphora
of water.

“Have you spoken to Neo about this passing thing?” Guntram persisted.

Sighing, Ellios knew that his friend would not be put off in his present frame of mind. “Yes I have...twice.” He coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Neo tells me that it’s caused by one of the afflictions of Venus. My cock smells like shit and seeps yellow muck, and I even bought some perfume to disguise the stink when I lie with Drusilla.” Drusilla was an Egyptian whore of many talents, a new arrival in Pompeii who was commanding considerable attention, including Ellios’s.

His expression grim, Ellios added, “I can live with these things, but, when I take a leak, Jupiter! It’s like pissing hot sand!”

“I swear your cock will be the death of you.” Guntram shook his head. “Is there a whore in the city you haven’t had?”

Ellios grinned in response to the gruff rebuke, despite the fact that the attacks of breathless and the sweats left him feeling drained and privately troubled.

“So what did the cheery Greek advise?” Guntram enquired.

Grimacing, Ellios described his recent ordeal at the hands of the school’s physician. “He convinced me to let him push a rod dipped in some medicine up the eye of my cock, and without a sniff of opium. The pain was so bad; I almost beat his head in! The heartless bastard said that opium was for those who received wounds in the arena and not the whore-house. Then, he instructed me to drink enough water to drown a horse and to keep clear of the women.”

“Which you haven’t done, by the stupid look on your face,” Guntram chastised.

Ellios grinned sheepishly.

“My friend, I could more easily live without food,” Ellios answered, still smirking. He acknowledged that when it came to women, his appetite was like a bottomless pit. His past was littered by upheaval caused by his numerous relationships with females, with his own enslavement resulting from an incident involving a magistrate’s wife near his home in Spain.

He was born Marcus Ulpius Scaro, the only son and heir of a wine growing family in the seaport of Cartegina. His upbringing was a happy time, with him being taught the use of numbers and how to read and write Latin. However, his horniness had caused his parents concerns even in his early teens. Eventually, his sexual dabbling landed him before the elderly town magistrate and the very man he’d cuckolded. To make matters worse, the magistrate’s young wife bore Ellios’s child in her belly, and to lighten her own punishment, belatedly cried rape. The outcome was never in doubt, and he was lucky to escape the lead mines, with his father paying the magistrate a costly sum to soften the damage to his pride. He recalled how bitterly his mother cried when the sentence was passed. His father, too stricken with shame, stayed away.

“You’ll need to save all your strength for your match in Nola,” Guntram began, his face earnest. “I hear that the
editor
will be keen to please the mob with an election coming, and there’s likely to be no mercy for those who fall.”

Ellios responded a little more soberly. “My friend, I’m no raw apprentice. Five victories, remember, with three sent across the Styx. I’m not the mighty Guntram, but I do have a little fame of my own.”

Guntram reached out and clasped his wrist in a vice-like grip. He spoke sternly. “Listen fool! I’ll not be there at Nola to knock advice into that thick head of yours. Remember one thing if nothing else, even though I’ve told you often enough. When you cut overhand with your sword, don’t over-reach to make up for your lack of height. You still do it in practice, leaving your sword-arm open to attack. With your sword-arm crippled...” He made a slicing motion across his throat.

Ellios recognised Guntram’s concern. He was not a man to squander his words and Ellios appreciated the sincerity that underpinned them. His response bore no hint of his usual sarcasm. “I will heed your advice my friend, and I thank you for it.”

For a time, both men were content to sip their wine while they pondered on events past and approaching. Eventually, Ellios asked, “How is the beautiful Chayna? Feeding you well I see.”

“She’s fine.” Guntram smiled a little. “Still cooking enough to feed the
ludus
.”

With the mention of food, Ellios’s thoughts briefly tracked to the sumptuous pre-fight suppers funded by the editor of the games, held in honour of those gladiators due to fight the following day. In his mind he pictured the time-honoured feasts he’d attended in Pompeii. Wine had flowed like water, and the food was plentiful. The many courses had included boar cooked in wild mushrooms, whole suckling pigs, fresh lobster and goat simmered in damsons and wine. Other, more exotic treats had followed, such as honey coated mice, bowls of seasoned eggs, and platters of thrushes rolled in flour and stuffed with nuts and raisins.

“She’s a rare one,” said Ellios, again referring to Chayna. “A woman who makes a man feel rich with a smile, whatever his station.”

“Yes, she is,” Guntram agreed, peering into his wine-cup.

“Are you sure Chayna has no family hereabouts?” Ellios asked mischievously. “Maybe a cousin or aunt she could introduce me to?” The Spaniard’s teeth dazzled whitely as a smile split his face.

“No she hasn’t, you horny bastard!” Guntram responded with feeling. “And let me find out that you’ve been sniffing around my lodgings when I’m not there, and Neo’s rod will feel like a virgin’s kiss compared to what I’ll do to that weapon of yours.”

“Mithras! The insult. Surely you wouldn’t suspect me, your friend, of such lechery?”

Guntram’s hand leapt forward, buffeting him across the side of the head. The amicably struck blow sent him sprawling to the floor.

Dazed, he looked up innocently, before stating, “I assure you that I’d choose Neo’s rod every time.”

* * *

Chapter XXVI

HEALINGS

“The whisper of a woman can be

heard further than the roar of a lion.”

Judean Proverb

The streets were busy as Chayna weaved through the crowds of shoppers with her usual nimble grace. Her basket was filled with bread and fresh vegetables, and the warmth of the newly baked bread felt good where it touched the underside of her arm. She paused at a shop that sold an array of herbs and spices, where she scrutinized the displayed produce, searching out the ingredients she needed. Following the usual bartering, she paid for the selected herbs.

She didn’t notice the youth at her side until his question brought her head up from her basket. “Those herbs are very good for drawing the poison from wounds, as well as for cooking.”

“Yes . . . yes I know,” Chayna answered, slightly taken aback by the youth’s comments.

A fair haired boy smiled back at her. “These are also very good for keeping the heat from wounds.” He pointed to a number of herbs, some which Chayna didn’t recognise.

“Thank you,” she said. “Have you used them yourself?”

“Yes. My friend Leon is always cutting himself. He is old and always stumbling and the herbs have worked for him...and for others.”

The boy spoke with a quiet confidence that was disarming, with no hint of the braggart, and Chayna stepped back to better appraise him. Of medium height, he was slim with corn coloured hair and clear blue eyes. He had the look of the northern lands and his Latin was clear but weighted by a harsh timbre; not unlike...Guntram.
Yes
, she thought,
not so deep, but definitely similar.

“Perhaps I should ask these others their opinion?” she suggested, intrigued. “Where can I find them?”

A sad cast flicked across the boy’s face. “They are...they were in Germania, my home.”

“You’re a long way from home, as I am. My home is Judea. Have you heard of it?”

“Yes, many times, as well as other countries in the east, like Syria, Arabia and Great Parthia.” The boy’s face lit up when he spoke. His confidence was not forced and Chayna immediately liked him.

She returned the boy’s grin. “My name is Chayna.”

“Mine is Lucanus.”

She saw that his clothes were plain but quite new. “Have you no studies today Lucanus?” she asked.