War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (4 page)

The two horsemen approached Guntram, smiling as they spoke to one another in their Roman tongue, which he could not understand.

The commander removed his helmet and casually wiped the sweat from his brow. Short black hair framed his face, and a thin-lipped, cruel mouth grinned arrogantly. His dark eyes perused Guntram as he spoke. He gestured towards him and Guntram had no doubt that the death he prayed for was near. He begged the mighty god, Tiwaz, that his family and Jenell’s suffering would be over too.

Then Stoneface spoke. His voice was clear, even, and drew the attention of the surrounding warriors, their respect for his words clearly etched on their faces. The commander seemed annoyed as he listened, but at length nodded his head. Stoneface’s words were foreign to him, yet Guntram with a mixture of fury and incredulity, sensed that for the moment his life had been spared.

Stoneface stepped back and the commander spoke to the second horseman, who pointed in the direction of lingering women’s cries. The commander smiled in response, prompting the other to lead his mount towards the awful sounds. Fresh fury raged inside Guntram, but he was so weakened now he could hardly move at all.

The commander barked final words to Stoneface, and then striding to his mount, swung deftly into the saddle. Kicking up dirt and tufts of grass, he rode away.

Stoneface approached and issued a short command to Guntram’s guards. Half-dragged, half-carried, he quickly found himself at the rear of his father’s burning long–house, where soldiers were busily rounding up the villagers’ horses. The shrill cry of pigs being slaughtered echoed over the shouts of officers giving orders for departure, and the fresh sound of screams and wailing carried on the wind. Pain was a noise that rose above the others, and Guntram measured his people’s death by their fading cries. Eventually, not even a whimper could be heard.

His body felt leaden and it was hard to think. Stiffly lifting his head he gasped in horror. His mother’s naked body was spread-eagled on their own lodge door. Four knives were driven brutally through her wrists and feet, crucifying her fast to the wood. Her once beautiful body was covered in ragged cuts, bite marks and livid bruises. The place between her legs was a bleeding maw; witness to the fact that she’d been violated many times. His beautiful little sister, Faiga, sat whimpering as she cradled their mother’s lifeless head in her lap. As he helplessly looked on, an iron-shirt stepped up behind the infant and lifted his shield almost casually skywards. He brought it swiftly down. The bronze shield rim made a dull, cracking sound on impact, as it split the little head open.

Guntram heaved bile down his front. Inside him, he felt something die.

*

Time lost all meaning for him then. He could not wipe the terrible vision of Faiga’s death from his fevered mind.

His body hung limply between the guards and he’d closed his eyes hoping that death would soon come. A noise brought his head up, and through the pain Guntram recognised his name being called. It was Strom’s voice.

The horse soldiers were leaving in ordered ranks and at the rear of the column was his brother. Strom was mounted on one of the village’ horses, his hands and legs securely tied, and he’d called out to him. Jenell was close behind, led by the German looking horseman Guntram had met earlier. She turned her head, a sob breaking from her lips when she saw him.

Even through Guntram’s exhaustion and despair, hope now flared, because with Jenell and Strom still alive, then he had something to live for as well. But it wasn’t only hope than stirred within him, but fresh fury too, because there on her neck he saw bite marks, and there was blood smeared on her clothes.

He managed to call their names once, before the troop disappeared into the smoke.

A short time passed and he heard the tread of iron-shod boots, and then somewhere in his brain he sensed the touch of eyes. He lifted his head and saw Stoneface again. For brief moments their eyes met, and what Guntram glimpsed convinced him that Stoneface had in some way helped him.

Confused, through the shocking haze of grief, he recognized an unflinching resolve, and surprisingly, a flicker of great sorrow.

But Guntram did not care for this Roman’s sorrow. He wanted him dead, as he wanted all these Romans and their Suebi dogs dead. He didn’t weep, which surprised him. There was something inside him too cold for tears. Something that made him realize that he must not surrender to his own sorrow, but live to protect his brother and Jenell. And have vengeance for this.

* * *

Chapter III

SLAVE
OF
ROME

“Sometimes even to

live is an act of courage.”

Seneca.

The daylight glowed soft amber inside the tent, and a brazier burned bright at its centre where Servannus sat warming himself, a cup of hot wine in his hand. A dark haired female barely into womanhood sat on a cot in one corner. Pale and simply dressed, she stared down at small hands clasped tightly in her lap. Like a young pup her whole body shivered every now and then.

As Servannus studied her he could see that she’d been crying again.
She cries easily
,
as I hoped
, he mused.
Yes, definitely a good purchase,
he congratulated himself, recalling the meagre sum he’d paid for her at auction
. And, with no one to care, she’ll not be missed when I’ve finished with her
. He played out his plans for her that night and felt himself stiffen beneath his loin-cloth.

The centurion entered like a stranger. “You sent for me Tribune?”

“Yes,” Servannus replied. There were other chairs, but he wanted the centurion to stand. The silence dragged on, taut, until Servannus eventually looked up. Wearing a false smile he scrutinized the veteran.
He looks as hard as his reputation
, he reflected
, and his name – Dracco, the Dragon.

“The German,” Servannus began, “will he lose the eye?”

“The surgeon did his work, but it’s too early to say,” the centurion replied.

“You spoke up for him,” Servannus stated casually. “What do you think an agent would pay for a one eyed German?” He saw the centurion stiffen, uneasy. He’d planned for the German to be crucified at the village, before Dracco pointed out that he would fetch a good price on the slave blocks, particularly if his eye was saved. He’d also advocated that alive he’d bear harsh testimony to others who might think to defy Rome. Servannus had reluctantly agreed, aware of the centurion’s popularity with the men. But, he sensed the man’s dislike and had heard whispers that Dracco deemed him cruel and overly ambitious. And, there was the centurion’s look of contempt when he’d sanctioned the rape of the Cherusci’ women. Yet, he was useful, and Servannus would welcome the silver.

“Half blind, he would still sell for at least two hundred sesterces,” Dracco snapped his response. “The boy is a fighter with a head of rock. The blow I struck him would have put a lesser man out cold for a day. He’d make a good body-guard, and failing that he could always be put to use as a field hand.”

“You seem to admire him?” posed Servannus.

“I admire courage in all men.”

“Go on...”

“With both eyes any experienced
lanista
would pay at least six hundred sesterces for him. I’m told that German gladiators are a great attraction in the arena; popular with both men and women for their great size and strange looks.”

“I see that you’re aware of my interest in the arena.” Servannus smiled, his eyes bright.

“Your knowledge of good fighting stock is well known.”

Servannus knew that Dracco was fuelling his ego. He also knew that the wily centurion had cleverly out-manoeuvred him, realizing that he didn’t want to lose face in front of the men. It was a lesson learnt, and he’d not forget it...or the cocky bastard’s part in it.

“Your appraisal of the German’s value is satisfactory, and concurs with my own, of course,” Servannus said. “But, I’d like your opinion on another matter.”

The centurion raised an eyebrow.

“Do you think the destruction of their village has taught these German dogs a lesson?”

“It’s not my place to question orders, Tribune.”

Servannus saw the centurion’s wary look. “Come now,” his smile widened. “There’s just you and I...and the girl.” He tilted his head towards the cot. “She has no Latin. So, speak freely.”

“These people needed to be taught a lesson in steel that they understood.” The centurion took a deep breath. “But...”

“Go on.”

“I believe the raping of their women was unnecessary,” Dracco answered, his gaze steady.

“Yet, you are no stranger to such practice.”

“True, but Germans need no excuse to wage war, and they regard their women-folk highly. When the news of the womens’ fate spreads, the tribes will fight all the harder and men will die...our men too.”

“Dead mouths tell no tales,” Servannus stated smugly.

“My lord forgets the Suebi auxiliaries.”

“I assure you that I forget nothing of importance.” Servannus leaned back in his chair, his face now serious. “We’ve brought civilisation to many lands, and with it always the fear of Rome’s retribution. Retribution and death to any who’d defy us. The great Julius Caesar struck the hands from every man, woman and child of the Gaulish tribe that dared to rise up against him. He understood the value of fear, the weakness of mercy.” Servannus felt his face grow hot, his temper flaring. “Rome is great because she is merciless, and you would do well not to forget it.”

“I will be sure to remember it, Tribune.” Dracco’s words sounded cold, obligatory.

Servannus took another drink from his cup. “Now, I’ve other business to attend to.” He looked away, irritated. “You are excused.”

A cold draft of air against his legs marked the centurion’s departure.

Servannus rose and went to the cot. He gently lifted up the girl’s chin and looked into her eyes. They were full, as if she was about to cry. Wondering how badly she feared him, he unfastened his belt.

*

The stink of rotting flesh washed over Guntram and he clenched his teeth. There was just enough light to make out the figures huddled against the pen’s wooden bars. Mostly men, a few were young boys, hunched up beneath ragged blankets. Hollow, frightened eyes stared back at him. Those nearest cringed back from the booted sound of the guards’ feet, clinging harder to their blankets as if they might be torn away.

Shoved forwards by one of the guards, Guntram stumbled into an empty space.

He rested his back against the pen and gave out a deep sigh, relieved that his journey through Gaul was at an end. Grimacing, he recalled the wheeled cage shared with the two foul smelling Gauls, the pain in his face, and the thoughts about Strom and Jenell. The thoughts never seemed to leave him.

As with himself, his brother and Jenell had been deemed more valuable alive than dead. Strom was still a boy, but he was Cherusci, and as such his captors knew that he’d grow up strong. And Jenell was a gentle soul whose beauty would draw the Roman dogs like flies to honey. He remembered again the blood on Jenell’s clothes and the bite marks on her neck. He tore his mind away.

Raising a hand to his cheek, he traced the puckered edges of the wound. He was pleased that it no longer throbbed or seeped yellow muck, and that there was no lasting damage to his sight. He closed his eyes for a moment, sniffing the air. The sea was near; he could smell its salty breath on the wind.

Not far from him, one or two of the occupants began making a high keening noise, but he was unable to tell who. It put his teeth on edge, the sound creeping up the walls and soon filling the whole of the holding pen. He covered his ears with his hands, trying to shut out the terrible lament.

*

Almost every day there were new arrivals, and as the numbers grew so did the stench and the fights. During one of these fights he came to know the Spaniard.

It was the time of the daily meal, and the trough in the centre of the pen was being filled with the swill they served up as food. Elbowing his way to the trough, Guntram filled his bowl to the brim, before retiring to his own spot to eat. It was a privilege he’d earned, through fighting off others who’d tried to take his share. He’d soon learned that that everyone here looked after themselves. Anything left over for the weaker men was quickly scooped up by the strong. Guntram took what he could in order to survive.

Fights at meal times were common and he watched over the rim of his bowl as a fight broke out between a Spaniard and one of the Gauls. The Spaniard was doing well, striking the Gaul to the ground, when a second Gaul grabbed him from behind. Guntram went to the Spaniard’s aid without thinking, his inherent contempt for his age-old enemies sparking his reaction. The fight was soon over, with both Gauls left battered on the ground. Satisfied, Guntram returned to his place to finish his meal.

“Bastard!” he swore, seeing that his bowl was upended, its contents smudged into the dirt. He kicked the bowl aside and sat down heavily, cursing himself for interfering. Yet another lesson learned.

A shadow blanketed his legs, and looking up he saw the Spaniard; one eye swollen shut, smiling. He dropped by Guntram’s side, the words pouring out in a flood. A few were repeated and repeated, words that Guntram would remember, like “thank you” and “friend.” Then, the Spaniard held out his bowl, prompting him to share what little there was. Despite his surprise, Guntram dipped his hand into the gruel.

Afterwards, the Spaniard regularly sat by him, always smiling, always talking. As the days passed Guntram learnt more words of Rome: food, drink, slave, whip, and chains – bitter words of survival that fed his hate.

Days and longer nights crawled by in the pen, and he lost count of how many. Then one cold dawn – together with a pair of Gauls and the Spaniard – Guntram was bustled to the nearby docks. On arrival they were given a bucket of cold water and bundle of rags and instructed to remove some of the encrusted grime.