War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (25 page)

Caetes fixed him coldly in his gaze, stating, “I’ve seen these things and been sickened. I’ve watched the women tear their cheeks with excitement, and leap into arena to lick at the spilt blood of the fallen, and seen how men and women fondle themselves and each other, aroused by the sight of slaughter and death.” He hawked the distaste from his throat. “These Romans are an idle people without honour, content to receive their free handout of bread and games, rather than earn a living by the bending of their backs and the sweat of their labour. They are swine, drunk on brutal sex, suffering and death – the only feelings they understand. Their lives would be unbearable if these foul desires were not met in the arenas.”

Dama remained silent, unsure what to say. Bright sun-light pushed through the cover of clouds.

“Enough for today,” stated Caetes. Wiping sweat from his brow he walked away, in the direction of the armoury.

Tired, Dama breathed a sigh of relief. Familiar with Caetes’ dark looks, he knew that someone was sure to suffer. Thankfully not him.

As he flexed the ache from his shoulders he reflected on events leading up to Caetes’ coming match with the
venatore
. With Caetes dispatching each new opponent sent against him directly to Hades, Gordeo had been unable to entice other schools to pit their best fighters against him. The match against the beast man was a rare but much needed solution to Gordeo’s problem. Yet, Dama wondered who was paying the great sum doubtless required to lure Carpophorus out of retirement.

Dama smiled. What a contest it will be! The excitement in the city was unrivalled, with every noble, commoner and slave talking of little else since the news of the match was posted. He’d placed a handsome amount on the favourite, of course, but, a gut feeling cautioned him of a different outcome. Never one to ignore his instincts, he decided to visit the same betting shark that afternoon and place a covering amount on Caetes.

Yes, he reassured himself, it always pays to edge one’s bets in matters of life and death.

* * *

Chapter XXXI

THE
RUDIS

“It is the characteristic of

human nature to hate the man you have wronged.”

Tacitus

“I must leave soon.” The room was quiet, and Chayna started when he spoke.

“Yes . . . I know,” she said, her eyes moist beneath the curtain of her hair.

The whole city buzzed with talk of the pending match and Chayna had woken early, unable to sleep. After a while Guntram had coaxed her to go for a walk, which she did, but it didn’t help, and she returned looking tired and on edge.

The previous night he’d insisted that they revisit the
necropolis
, where, under the cover of darkness, they located the cache of gold coins that was hidden under the corner of one of the crumbling tomb-stones. He wanted to be sure that she remembered its location. The gold was for her use if he fell – enough to pay for passage away from Pompeii, enough to make a new life in another place with people who didn’t know what she was. Fagus no longer had any interest in reclaiming her. A broken and ridiculed man, his inn was up for sale. And, with Ellios gone, there was no one he trusted with her future. For that, he placed his trust in gold.

He laid his hand gently against her cheek and memories of their precious time together thronged about him. Chayna’s heart was the purest he’d known and she was dearer to him than life itself. When she looked at him she saw only him, and not what the world imagined he was, and he knew that no other woman would ever look at him so. He couldn’t imagine a world without her.

She never pressed him about his past, about Jenell, and he loved her all the more for it. Sometimes, he tried to remember Jenell’s last words to him, but he couldn’t, and it saddened him. He wondered how he’d explain about Chayna if he found her, but there was no ready answer. It was a question that might never be answered.

“I will see you later,” he said reassuringly, “and wear the red dress for me.”

“Yes,” Chayna managed, pulling herself to his chest and wrapping her arms around him. He kissed the top of her head and she squeezed herself closer. He felt the wetness of the tears that she tried so hard to hold back.

Still close, she whispered, “I’ll make your favourite cakes, the ones with honey, and...I will pray to my God that he brings you back safely to me.”

From the street, the buzz of voices and clatter of rushing feet grew louder as the faithful converged on the arena.

Closing his eyes, he knew that it was time.

*

The atmosphere boiled all around him, as he stood in the centre of the arena, waiting for the beast–man to emerge from the opposing tunnel.

First, Guntram saw a dim figure in the dark tunnel mouth. The figure grew bigger, taking shape.

Carphorous emerged into the day-light. The arena erupted.

At last
, thought Guntram, glad the waiting was over. He felt the tension ease away.
Let’s see how good the legend really is.

As the beast-man strode towards him, Guntram saw that he wore only a short tunic around his loins, and his legs and torso were latticed with old scars. He was of similar height, but leaner. Broad shoulders and a deep chest denoted great power.

The referee marked two lines in the sand with his staff, indicating where the two gladiators would commence their battle.

Guntram stepped up to his mark, silent, unmoving, as the referee issued his final instructions. Carpophorus stood ten paces away. On the editor’s command a blast from the trumpeters signalled for the match to begin. Despite the beast-man’s impressive travelling support, Guntram smiled as the sound of his name resonated across the arena.

Crouched behind his shield, Guntram shuffled towards his opponent, taking in details that could make the difference between leaving the arena on his feet or by a hook through his heel. The beast-man casually gripped his only weapon, a seven foot lance, whose iron head was fitted with a disc-like collar two feet from the point – a necessary addition to prevent beasts from forcing themselves along the lance to reach the wielder. The lance gave the beast–man a significant reach advantage.

Guntram edged closer, noting Carpophorus’s large, powerful hands, and massive thickness of wrist. He’d do his utmost to keep clear of their deadly grip.

As he took his next step forward, the beast-man swung his lance down and into his face in one swift motion, the point striking his face-guard. He felt his nose break on impact. Another thrust over the rim of his shield opened up the flesh above his collar bone. A short delay, and then the pain registered; an ice sharp sensation that quickly became a burning throb. Shaken, he retreated.
Holy gods
! he swore,
the bastard’s too quick for a man!
Flexing his shoulder, it responded. Despite his carelessness the wound wouldn’t hinder him.

Not wasting his breath on taunts, Guntram looked into the face of the man that lived to kill. The eyes were dark, hooded, the mouth unflinching. The shifting lance head weaved spirals in the air before him, and then stabbed again, gouging a bloody groove along the length of his sword arm. Gasping, Guntram backed off.

The beast-man advanced and began to circle him, stalking him like one of his beasts. His lance feinted, stabbed out – continually seeking openings in his defence. A darting thrust punched into his leg, just above the knee, and Guntram bit his tongue in pain. Blood filled his mouth and throat, thick, coppery, and breathing through his nose was difficult.

About him the crowd was strangely quiet, unused to seeing their favourite dealt with in this way. His wounds bled freely and he knew that he desperately needed to unsettle the beast-man opponent before he was cut to shreds. And he realized that there was little chance of getting close to the beast-man while burdened with his shield. Yet, if he discarded it, he would expose his left flank to attack. It was a massive risk to take.

The beast–man lunged forwards and Guntram blocked an attack to his legs. Slipping his left arm out from the shield’s strap, he let it drop to the floor. Not hesitating, he darted forward, aiming a powerful sword-cut at the beast-man’s shoulder. He felt the contact along the whole length of his arm as the blade bit into flesh and then bone. The beast-man pulled away, blood spraying Guntram’s neck and chest as the blade jerked free.

Guntram saw his chance, raining blow after blow onto the beast-man, who swerved away, wildly deflecting the hail of steel with his lance head. His body drenched in blood, Guntram felt his legs wobble, his strength ebbing away. Their eyes touched for a moment and the beast man grinned, and then lightening quick, launched a counter-thrust that whistled past Guntram’s left side, the spear haft chaffing his ribs. A hand’s breadth to the left and he would have been stuck – finished. Snorting thick blood from his nose, he decided on a final gamble.

He whipped his arm forwards, feigning an overhand cut. As the blade began its downwards arc, he released it! The
gladius
streaked dagger-like into the beast-man’s chest, punching through muscle, bone and lungs, before erupting between his shoulders.

Carpophorus dropped his lance, clasping both hands around the horror that sprouted from his chest.

A swaying Guntram watched the skewered beast-man collapse forwards onto all fours.

Carpophorus tried to speak, but his voice was a bubbling rasp as his lungs filled up with blood. Blood belched from his mouth as he began to crawl towards his lance, the
gladius’s
handle carving a crooked trail in the sand. He stretched out to grip his weapon for the last time.

Guntram reached up and tore off his helmet in a shower of sweat and blood. The warm air felt good on his face.

His foot lashed out, booting the dying beast-man onto his back. Reaching down, he twisted his blade free. Capophorus grunted, fresh blood welling out from his mouth. His eyes fixed on him, and Guntram saw no fear, just pain and...acceptance.

All around him, the chant began slowly. It grew in volume as the massed ranks of the
cavea
took in up, until it rent the very fabric of the arena.

“Caetes! Caetes! Caetes!”

Guntram staggered, and then bracing his legs, raised his arms aloft, his blade flashing in the sunlight.

He snatched up Carpophorus’s lance, and stood over him.

“You’ve trained your last baboon . . . beast-man,” he sneered as he drove the blade home.

“Rudis! Rudis! Rudis!”

The ovation grew louder, and went on and on. Guntram turned to the podium, where all had risen to their feet, where the
editor
held in one hand a victor’s laurel crown, and in the other a wooden sword...the
rudis
and his freedom.

*

As Guntram left the arena through the Gate of Life, Gaius Caecilius, the
editor
, circulated amongst the podium’s dignitaries, soaking up their praise for the day’s success.

First among them was Servannus, who’d watched the match, enthralled. He’d thought that Carpophorous was unbeatable, but Caetes had proved him wrong, as well as costing him a small fortune. Then, Caetes’ performances had always been extraordinary.

A number of dignitaries were saying their farewells to the editor, and Servannus studied him as he was leaving the poduium, his young son close by his side.
Yes
, he told himself,
Caecilius’s influence is growing in the city, and he is clearly a man to be watched.
According to Servannus’s spies the popular magistrate was a family man, with few vices and no dark secrets...which was a shame. How he despised such men and their scruples.

The magistrate disappeared and he turned to stare out into the brightness of the arena. He could still heard the crowd’s cheers, and even as the echoes of the applause told him that Caetes had fought his last match, the memories of his time in the arena were still fresh. His mind tracked back to Caetes’ early displays, before he became the idol of the city. Even then, Servannus realized that he possessed something exceptional, a rare talent that one day would elevate him alongside the other great fighters he’d seen: such champions as Sarius the Capuan, the giant Merula and black Panthera. Caetes’ skills were now second to none, skills that the mob in their ignorance could not even begin to appreciate. Not as he did.

How his father had hated the mob and the games, and he could picture him, hard-faced, lecturing him. He recalled the old man’s words, “The mob is little more than a mindless beast my son. They watch the killing and gamble on it. They make money from the suffering and later rut with the whores in the alleys nearby, their passions enflamed by blood.”

He’d listened to these lectures, nodding his head, a token response. Inwardly, he sneered, not caring. Despite rarely commenting, when he did, it was to simply state that he wasn’t interested in these things, before making an excuse and leaving the room. He knew his indifference hurt his father, but he didn’t care, regarding his words as little more than the naïve sermonising of an old fool. Rather, it was Servannus’s belief that Rome was the mob, that her power resided not within the marbled walls of the senate, but on the sands of the arenas. He believed that bread and games would always win the day, with every new generation of Roman rulers competing with their predecessors by providing ever more extravagant displays. Each year there were more executions, more gladiators killed and beasts slaughtered, with ever increasing amounts of money being denoted towards the games, to placating the mob with bloody spectacle and the distribution of free food. The Emperor and the nobility gave the mob death, and the mob loved them for it.

And now, it was with regret that Servannus admonished that Caetes’ time in the arena was at an end. His father had always liked reciting epigrams, and one of his favourites was that there were no endings in life, just different beginnings. Servannus smiled, thinking about how ironic it was, that this ending time for Caetes – in more ways than one – would usher in a new beginning for himself. Life in Campania had grown tedious, with his drinking companions becoming insufferably boring and his bed-mates ever more predictable. A change of scenery was well overdue, but, not without first settling the score with the newly liberated champion.