War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (28 page)

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.

Coughing into his fist, the inn-keeper enquired if he could be of further service.

Servannus broke off a piece of bread from a small loaf on the plate. “Yes...there is one thing.” He didn’t look up as he spoke.

“What can I get you?”

“My room is acceptably clean, but this dreadful climate’s got into my bones,” Servannus replied, grimacing. “I’ll need my bed warming tonight, and I don’t find your girl unattractive.”

“Sorry...I...I don’t understand what you mean,” the inn-keeper stuttered, taken aback.

“Didn’t I make myself clear?” Servannus queried, now looking up. “The girl will share my bed tonight. I’ll pay of course.”

“Sir...,” the colour drained from the inn-keeper’s face, and he struggled to find the right words, “the girl is my daughter and betrothed...such a mistake is easily made-”

“Mistake!” Servannus burst out, his face red, spittle flecking his mouth as his temper flared. A jug was tipped over on another table. “Do you realize who you are speaking to?”

“Yes, but-”

“But nothing,” Servannus said. “You should feel honoured that a Tribune of the Nineteenth Legion graces your miserable inn.” Servannus retained his composure a little before adding, “Is that clear?”

Galenus rose from his seat, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“It . . . it is,” the inn-keeper managed to reply.

When Servannus spoke, it was with a cold deliberation. “Do you know what the penalty is for insulting a Tribune of Rome? What the outcome would be for you and your family if I chose to press charges against you with the magistrates at Vetera?”

“I meant no offence my lord. Please...please accept my apology,” he blurted out. His face was flushed and his hands trembled.

Servannus returned his attention to his plate, breaking the bread into small, precise pieces. He turned to Lucanus, who stood with eyes cast to the floor, looking uncomfortable.
Gods! The boy’s so soft
, he thought,
and a German too!

He looked to Galenus. The bodyguard smirked knowingly.

“Good!” Servannus said. “Then I’ll grant you a second chance, although I don’t know why I should? But, I warn you...it’ll be your last.”

The inn-keeper clasped his hands tightly together, his eyes moist with tears. Nodding his head, he gestured that he understood.

*

Servannus stamped his feet as he waited for Galenus and the inn-keeper to fetch their horses from the stables. A slight mist licked at the ground and the edges of the forest, and the wind raised goose-bumps on his hands and face. He looked at Lucanus by his side and the boy seemed unbothered by the cold.

Blowing on his hands, he fixed his gaze on the sunlight moving across the tree-tops, and the girl Salonina flashed through his mind. A virgin, their love making had been joyless; the girl keeping her eyes tightly shut throughout and not saying a word. He huffed, switching his thoughts to more important matters, such as making good time on the road, and with luck arriving at Vetera before another night drew in.

An ear-breaking scream made him jump. It came from the stables. His feet moved without thinking, and reaching the stables door he barged it open.

At first everything was shadow, and then his eyes picked out shapes from the gloom: the inn-keeper on his knees, weeping, and Galenus staring up at the rafters, at the young woman swinging gently in the chill morning air.

* * *

Chapter XXXVIII

HOMELANDS

“The more laws the less justice.”

Cicero

The docking area was abuzz with activity as Guntram strode from the river barge. Glad to be ashore after his time on the river, he quickly blended into the crowd of mainly tow-haired Gauls, dotted here and there with darker Romans. He struck a course away from the waterfront and then glanced behind. His suspicions were confirmed. The three Gauls – also from the barge – were jostling their way towards him.

Increasing his pace, his thoughts flashed to the previous night.

Despite the wine, he’d suspected that the man who called himself Ferromanus was a liar. His smile came too easily and he was overly free with his purse and advice. Guntram read the false kindness in his eyes, a rain-drip voice telling him that something was wrong, warning him against returning to his room. He’d barely made it to the inn’s stable, where he later spotted four men enter the lodgings, cloaked and armed, only to leave shortly after in a bluster of curses. The
lanista
was one of them.

When he boarded the barge at dawn, the Gauls boarded with him, heavily armed and equipped for hunting. It was him they hunted, and for whatever price was on his head. Moving to the opposite end of the barge, they’d avoided him like the pox, jerking their eyes away whenever he looked in their direction.
Fucking dogs!
They planned to murder him in the wild, but he’d give them no chance.

On enquiry, Guntram was directed to a string of traders’ wagons parked on the outskirts of town. Paying a criminal sum to an unwavering horse dealer, he purchased a piebald mount, together with a sizable supply of smoked meat, black bread and three large skins of wine. There was no time for bargaining. Despite the lateness of the hour, he swung himself into the saddle, determined to leave the town and pursuit behind him. Responding to the squeeze of his knees, the piebald broke into a trot.

With the ring of wagons dropping behind, his attention turned to the approaching forest. A flock of startled birds took flight from the reef of trees, screeching loudly as they scattered. He turned in the saddle to look back. There was no sign of pursuit...yet.

As the tree-line drew nearer he fixed his gaze on the northern horizon. Distant, hazy, it was the land where the Cherusci dwelt.

*

The weather remained chill but dry, and he made good progress, all the while hugging the Rhinus River. His journey had been uneventful, with him skirting the military township of Moguntiacum earlier in the day. It was now intuition rather than any clear warning that caused Guntram to reign to a sudden halt on the tree canopied trail.

His hand moved to his sword hilt.

He remained still, straining his ears for the faintest, odd sound. No creature scampered, no bird sang. His short neck hairs prickled and he was unsure whether to go on or to move off the trail into cover. Before he could decide, the web of trees parted and three men emerged, leading their mounts.
The Gauls
from the barge
! he cursed.
The dogs must have ridden through the night to get ahead of me!

The Gauls stopped and stared at him, also surprised by the abrupt encounter.