War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (6 page)

Gordeo flashed a wan smile, and swallowing down the sour taste of the man, waved his handkerchief in farewell.

*

Guntram had listened carefully, understanding some of the words. Enough to realize that some kind of barter had taken place between Luba and the new group’s leader – one involving himself and his fellow captives.

Slave.
That’s what the exchange made him. A slave
owned
by the Roman dressed as a woman. But Guntram would never belong to anyone. Never in his heart, he swore to himself. At the same time, he thought of Strom and Jenell and dared to hope that they too might be deemed worthy of being kept alive.

His face on fire, he studied the one who struck him as he spoke with their guards. To Guntram’s keen senses danger oozed from the man. It hummed like a nest of bees in the forest. Heavily muscled, his bare arms and huge fists bore the marks of old wounds, still visible despite the darkening effect of the sun, and his voice sounded strong, comfortable with giving orders. But, it was his face that Guntram found most shocking. His nose was flat with bands of long healed scars framing both his mouth and eyes, giving him a hooded look, like a bird of prey. He puzzled what sort of torture or weapon could do this to a man without killing him.

Despite the hot glow of his anger, Guntram knew that this man, Scar, was not to be lightly crossed. He knew also that his barked words and the stick was a test. A test he had passed.

Guntram watched as the finely robed leader departed in the direction of the great stone settlement. Shortly after, the foul breathed Luba disappeared into the surrounding crowd along with his men. The remaining guards positioned themselves to the fore and rear of his group, and, on command, they were steered in the wake of the leader. Scar strode forwards at their head.

Taking a deep breath, Guntram moved onto the road that rose steadily towards the entrance of the settlement. He glanced down, marvelling at the large, evenly paved stones beneath his feet.

As he shuffled upwards, he turned to study the long stretch of the bay that piled endlessly into the distance to the north and south, noting that the settlement dominated the whole of the coastal plain. He looked to the south-east, and saw the thread of a river entering the bay, shining bright silver in the day’s growing heat.

A short climb brought him to the west-facing gate, a paved ramp leading into the gates’ two archways. People were passing through on the left, and animals and light carts carrying goods from the sea on the right. He entered, and looking up was impressed by the dark masonry that curved over his head. Once inside he saw that the two roadways continued upwards, still separated, and that each was slightly raised in the centre. He thought it was a good plan, guessing that it would allow water to drain into its gutters. He saw that the gutters themselves were filled with many kinds of filth, including rotting food and man-waste.

Their route took them across a paved area of considerable size, its surface bleached white by the sun. Many people were gathered there; talking, shouting, and laughing. Impressive rows of stone pillars – between which merchants had set up their stalls – fringed the busy square and its frantic activity. Led onto a wide avenue, he stared at gleaming buildings and figures shaped in stone. Spellbound, he puzzled how this race of killers could shape such beautiful things.

His size and appearance drew the attention of curious males and females alike, and he glowered back, before his attention was drawn elsewhere; to one of the many shops, taverns and bars that lined the busy thoroughfare. He picked out a bronze smith’s and a shop selling clothes, but others he didn’t recognise.

Numerous small entrances to dwellings were set between the shops, and bright paintings of men, women, and god-like figures decorated nearby walls. Women with gaily painted lips and eyes, and bared breasts, called out to his group from upstairs’ windows, and his guards shouted back rude words Guntram had come to recognise. The women laughed as they passed and he was amazed, repelled, all at once. They pushed by sellers laden with trays of produce and squatting workers sharing bread. The guards’ sharp elbows and shoves were met by curses and angry looks, and then by a scramble to move aside as Scar was recognised. He glimpsed walls painted with bright scenes that appeared alive and he felt drunk on the sheer wonder of it all.

As he shambled on he saw that smaller roads branched from theirs, and his group turned into one of these, heading south. Eager hands reached out to touch him and he flinched away, trying to focus on the road head. After a while the crowd thinned out and they approached a great structure in the shape of a half-moon. Guntram stared up at its towering height, and then a barked command re-routed them into a covered alleyway and with it abrupt relief from the sun. At its end they were delivered into the shadow of a large two storied building, hobbling to stop before its iron-gated entrance.

The height of three men, the gate was tipped with spikes and manned by two armed guards. Guntram peered through the gate’s stout grid, and saw an open area of ground that was surrounded by buildings on all four sides. Closer inspection revealed the presence of more armed guards. Scar barked a command and the gate opened. They were herded in.

Quickly brought to a halt, Scar spoke to them, his voice a harsh rasp. The Gauls started murmuring to each other. Scar thundered a command, and there was silence.

Scar then spoke again, briefly. Guntram picked out certain words, although many were new to him. At his side the Gauls were murmuring again, and he recognised the look of fear.

* * *

Chapter V

LUDUS
GORDEO

“You are gladiators in order to die and

we are sending you where you will die.”

Procurator motto.

Following a brief exchange with the guards, Belua barked a command for the gate to be opened. His party was ushered inside and quickly brought to a halt.

“I am Belua, head trainer of this gladiator school.” He went on, the words familiar, well used. “Some of you will understand what I’m going to say. Those who don’t, it doesn’t matter, because it will change nothing. This is your new home, where you will live and train to kill others like you.”

He paused, and the Gauls started to mumble to each other.

“Silence!” he thundered. “You have much to learn, but remember that you are the property of the Imperial Gladiator School of Rome. In practice, it means you are mine, and that you will train when I tell you, and also eat, sleep and shit when I tell you to. Disobey me and you’ll suffer badly.” He paused again, briefly. “Most of you will live only a short while before you fight and die in the arena. This aside, I will teach you how to die well, and with pride.”

He drew a deep breath into his chest. His closing words to the party were spoken with undisguised candour. “Work hard, listen well and you may live a little longer. Welcome to Ludus Gordeo.”

As if on cue, Belua was joined by two of his fellow trainers. Both were hardened veterans of the arena, and similar to Belua, both had won their freedom on the sand of the arena. Belua joked and smiled with the shorter of the two as they approached the new recruits.

“Well, Dertosa. Do you think that you can do something with this Spaniard?” Belua asked the taller of the trainers. “I’ve been told by that ass-hole Luba that he’s had some experience with the short sword. He’s too stocky and short in the arm for the net and trident, but the Thracian sword may suit him? What do you think?”

The light-skinned Dertosa was Belgae, from the far north. With powerful shoulders and lean muscular arms, he was now an instructor of the sword. He’d acquired a reputation as a skilful and ruthless adversary in the arena, and was cold, uncompromising, like his home-land.

Dertosa stepped forward and slowly circled the Spaniard before replying, “He has the depth of chest. If he has the wind to match and some speed, I may be able to do something with him.”

“Well?” Belua queried, prompting a definite answer.

“I’ll take him.”

Belua addressed the second instructor, who hailed from the eastern province of Cilicia, and who had a lean, whip-lash quality. Coarse, black hair was pulled back from his face and tied in a tight plait at his nape. His eyes were just as dark, and a full-lipped mouth betokened a relaxed yet unflinching nature.

“Prudes, I’m afraid the shortest straw goes to you.” He grinned wryly. “These Gauls look like dog shit and probably have the ability to match, although I’m sure the bastards will be able to run. After all, it’s in their blood.”

The young trainer of net-men smiled in response to Belua’s remarks, and his well-known contempt for Gauls, stating, “The scrapings of the barrel again. They have the look of frightened rabbits, and will probably hang themselves before the week is out. I’ll do what I can with them, but tonight’s wine is on you.”

“As always, your pocket is as long as your tongue,” Belua jibed, smiling. “Very well, it’s settled.”

“What about him?” Prudes asked, indicating the giant of the group. “A German by the size of him, and with fire in his eyes. Now, he’s one I could do something with!”

“Put it out of your mind. He’s mine. You could say we’ve picked each other. He will train in the
myrmillo
style.” He turned to Dertosa. “Can you speak his tongue?”

“He’ll be able to understand me.”

“Good,” Belua said. “Then you can help me train him.”

Dertosa responded with a slight dip of his head.

“Are you sure about this?” Prudes asked, persisting.

“I am. Be satisfied with your Gauls, because he’s not for you. Understood?”

“Understood,” Prudes confirmed, still scrutinizing the German. “This one hates you Belua. You can see it in his eyes and smell it on him. Just watch your back my friend,” he warned, resignedly slapping the head trainer on the shoulder.

“If his hate strengthens his sword arm and his will to win, then all the better. But, if it blinds his ability to learn, it will be a different matter.” Belua rubbed his hands briskly together in a business-like fashion. “Now, on to their names and the oath.”

He placed his vine-stick deliberately onto the shoulder of each novice, each
tiro
, repeating their Roman’ names aloud. The two Gauls – Bolanus, Felix, and the Spaniard – Ellios.

“And, a special name for you,” he spoke lastly to the scowling German. “A slayer of legionaries, and me too if given the chance. You will be Caetes...the Death Bringer.”

The
tiros
were prompted to repeat their names back to Belua, with no little encouragement from the sting of his vine-stick. Next came the mandatory oath sworn by every new gladiator. “Right, you heathen bastards! Just mouth these words after me – ‘To endure burning with fire, shackling with chains, to be whipped with rods and killed with steel.’”

In time-worn fashion Belua repeated the oath once in full and then in parts, enticing the
tiros
to parrot the pledge that ratified their slavish status. Completed roughly to Belua’s satisfaction, they were marched to a waiting brazier, where a hot iron bearing the boar symbol of Ludus Gordeo was applied to the bare flesh of each man’s heel. Belua watched, impassive, as they gasped in pain, his nostrils flaring with the stench of seared flesh. A guard applied a sprinkling of finely ground salt to each raw wound.

The German was the last to be branded, and two of the guards had to pin him down, ready for the iron. Belua looked into his eyes as he was pinned, and he saw that Prudes was right – the German wanted him dead. Yet, Belua enjoyed a challenge like the German most of all, and he would turn all of that hate to good use.

The branding complete, Belua ordered that they were given water to drink. Unshackled, they were then led to their cells.

Belau watched the German disappear into his cell, flanked by two armed guards, pondering if he’d progress beyond
tiro
.

I hope so
, he thought
. If I don’t have to kill him first.

* * *

Chapter VI

WAY
OF
THE
GLADIATOR

“Begin, be bold and venture to be wise.”

Horace

The guards’ torches sent shadows dancing across the cell’s walls, and Guntram recoiled, seeing that his new home measured no more than three strides by five. His tongue flicked over his top lip, tasting salty sweat despite the coolness of the evening.

A bundle of clothes sat in one corner of the cell and the guard gestured for him to strip. He stepped out from the rags that barely covered his private parts and was quickly shown how to attach his loin cloth. Once fitted, he donned a coarse, woollen tunic that fell loosely to mid-thigh. A poncho–like outer garment doubled as a sleeping cover, and thickly soled sandals, laced to above the ankles, completed his scanty wardrobe.

The hard, metal click of a key signified the guard locking the door behind him. He fought down the urge to retch, breathing deeply.

As the nausea subsided he looked around the cell. His eyes adjusting to the gloom, he realized the walls were covered by faint etchings. He traced the gouged out-lines with his fingers, recognising sketches of men fighting and training, and others of men and women engaged in lewd coupling acts. What appeared to be names were scratched alongside them. Past guests, he thought grimly.

He moved to the iron door, bent, then looked out of the small aperture that provided his sole view of the outside world. Peering between the nearby stone columns he scrutinised the dimly lit grassy area a few meters away. It was bordered on all four sides by a two–storied tiled colonnade, and guards lounged around a coal brazier on its opposite side, near to the barred entrance.

Weary, he turned away from the door to lie on the straw-filled mattress that served as both bed and chair.