‘Let’s just say I had a bit of a head start on today,’ Fronto grumbled.
As fast as they could, relying on the Mithraic centurion to grant them freedom, the party of seven hurried across the open gap and through the heavy stone archway, out into the night, where the ground sloped down to the river and the quiet, uninhabited docks, half a dozen ships and boats tied up beside it.
‘Where do we go?’ the camp prefect asked quietly.
‘Down to the river,’ Ocratius replied. ‘There’ll be locals who’ll row us across for a few coins.’
‘I can’t leave the children,’ breathed Tiberia with wide eyes.
‘You can, and you must,’ her betrothed replied, calmly. ‘You said they were with Rubrius the baker. He’ll look after them ‘til we return, and they’ll be safer with him than with us. We have to leave now. Fronto’s friend might have let us exit the fortress, but even now other men on those walls will be questioning the decision, and soon someone will come after us.’ He turned to Ocratius again. ‘And where do we go when we’re across the river, then?’
‘The only place I can think of, sir. Half my century are away to the south building a fortlet. My lads will be a safe haven.’
They peered at the black ribbon of water, glittering with moonlight beneath them, and then at the hills in the distance beyond. Hills that contained the rest of the Ocratian century and marked the only place of shelter for the fugitives.
10. THE GERMAN
Hours earlier.
Lupus peered into the Gate of Life and the dark tunnel that it guarded. Leonidas was there with his lanista and some thug, engaged in a tussle. It came as no surprise after what the Greek had said in the arena about being told to throw the match, and for a moment, Lupus considered going to the other gladiator’s aid, but then stopped himself, reasoning that any retiarius who could hold his own against Lupus of the Chatti would need no help against that pair.
It had come as something of a surprise to Lupus to find himself warming to the retiarius after the fight. The German prided himself on the white-hot anger that burned in his heart, forming the core of his entire being, and which helped him label all other gladiators – as well as his master and any other Roman - enemy. Lupus did not have friends; only captors and victims. A gladiator who befriended his peers was simply opening himself to extra pain when he was forced to put a blade in the man’s gut. Lupus had one goal in his sights and one only: a return to his fellow Chatti in Germania. To achieve that goal he had to become a free man. Oh he could flee, of course. He’d had a dozen or more opportunities to flee the coop in the past year alone. But the Romans were just too good at hunting down escaped slaves, and he had no intention of letting that happen to him. To spend the rest of his miserable days with a, ‘F’ for fugitivus branded on his forehead, knowing that he would never be free. It was too much of a risk.
His predecessor champion at Camulodunum had achieved the dream. He had won the rudis and his freedom, and had been a wealthy man by the time he did it. Of course, he had stayed on to train other gladiators. Few who achieved that glorious goal of freedom knew anything other than the trade of death, and most went on to fight as free men or to train others to do so.
Lupus was already a rich man, his lock-box back in his own ludus almost bursting with gold coin. His cut of winnings from the past few years would afford him a luxurious lifestyle, and already he had his pick of the women in Camulodunum, including those married to Roman dignitaries. And he had fourteen victories over nineteen fights, already more than his lucky predecessor, so he felt that elusive wooden sword of freedom hovering close to his fingertips. Soon he would return home a free man, but more than that: a trained killer the likes of which his people had never seen and a man richer than any Chatti chieftain could imagine. He would be a king among his people when he returned.
His eyes strayed back to the tunnel. Leonidas had left, but the big thug was on the ground and the lanista was ranting, kicking his guard.
Lupus frowned at himself. Why was he even interested?
Not through respect – that was for sure. But when the crowd had been about to change and demand their death, the retiarius had defied his own lanista and put both his life and reputation on the line when he dropped his weapon and effectively ended the fight. Lupus had felt the natural urge then to drive his own blade deep and chalk up another victory. But that would not have been right. Gladiators did not have a code… but the Chatti did. And a life-gift was a debt that hung heavy on a man.
Not only that, but the man had fought better than any of his kind Lupus had come across, and he had been inventive and focused like few others. To be armed with little more than a sharp stick and some rope and manage to bring a heavily armed and armoured veteran of nineteen fights to the point of demise was impressive. In years of fighting, Lupus had faced that moment of death only once, and that man had died in his next fight. No one came close to defeating Lupus of the Chatti. Except this one.
And when faced with the threat of mutual destruction, the man had risked his neck to give Lupus life.
He found himself watching the retiarius’ lanista suspiciously as the man moved back up into the stands where his other cronies and thugs remained. The man was up to something, and the Greek deserved to be looked after by his lanista, not treated poorly. Lupus’ owner was busy involved in some negotiation with the procurator and Lupus took a deep breath and tromped across the sand towards the Gate of Life. As he approached, he noticed the Deva Lanista once more descending from the stands with his goons and, his interest piqued, Lupus moved to the entrance, slipped inside and lurked in the deep shadow by the door, watching.
The lanista emerged into the tunnel with his men, already talking in hushed tones. The men glanced up and down the tunnel to make sure they were alone, the blinding light of the tunnel’s arena gateway making the shadows at the edge impenetrable and hiding the bulk of Lupus from view.
‘I want that piece of shit dead. When we get back to the ludus, arm the best men I own and send them after Leonidas. I want him dead, and I want that money back.’ The big thugs nodded and the small group moved away towards the exit and the town beyond.
One thing was certain: the retiarius certainly didn’t deserve that!
Lupus closed his eyes. He owed a life-debt to Leonidas, and it seemed the gods had just placed in his hands the manner in which to pay back the debt. But in doing so he would have to temporarily leave the amphitheatre, and his lanista would be furious. He would not kill Lupus for such presumption, of course – a champion gladiator was too much of an investment for such short-sighted harshness. But such a decision would almost certainly kill any hope of Lupus winning his freedom.
It was a crippling decision. To go to the gods’ halls with a life debt hanging over him would be a dreadful thing. But to leave Leonidas to die would likely condemn him to a life and a death in the arena. What choice? A bleak life or a doomed afterlife.
The gods would know the answer.
With a frown he stepped back close enough to the arena for the light to penetrate the gloom. Holding out his hand, palm flat and face up, he placed the very tip of his blade on the join of the lines in his hand.
‘Óðr, guide me.’
With the slightest of pressure, he drove the point into the flesh so that blood welled up in a small bubble. Withdrawing the blade, he watched carefully, being sure to keep his hand level, lest he interfere with the will of the Great Father.
A tiny rivulet began to trickle along a line in his palm towards the sands of the arena, but the strongest flow by far ran down that curve around the base of his thumb in the direction of the town and the departing lanista. He’d thought as much, but it was always worth having the confirmation of Óðr, who would rather he lived and died a slave but was a free man in the afterlife.
Nodding to himself, he glanced back across the arena to where his lanista was laughing gaily with the procurator of Britannia. The man probably wouldn’t even know he’d gone for
a while. It was not uncommon, after all, for Lupus to be freed from captivity for short periods, especially on the request of a wealthy woman with a mind for an evening of dangerous excitement. He would assume Lupus was busy living up to his name and reputation. It was only when the man got back to their rooms at the mansio and found that Lupus was not there that he would be concerned.
Perhaps he could help the retiarius and still be back in time to save himself from such a fate?
No. That was not the way the dsir spun the warp and weft of a man’s fate.
Lupus took a resigned breath, nodded sharply and turned, striding through the tunnel. As he reached the exit, his eyes squinting to focus into the brightness, he could see the lanista and his thugs in conversation with a cloaked man across the open square. After a few moments the other figure moved away and Lupus caught a glimpse of weapons at the man’s belt. He felt a momentary indecision, wondering whether to follow that man, but decided to stay on the thugs and the lanista, who were now moving towards a building that showed all the hallmarks of a ludus.
Moving into the shade of some miscellaneous building, Lupus folded his arms and leaned against the wall, observing the ludus. The lanista disappeared inside, rubbing the bruising on his face gently. The thugs with him – not one of them brighter than a bear’s testicles – looked around, scoping the street before they followed, completely missing the big German watching them from the shadows.
Lupus gripped and ungripped his hand, feeling the blood of his divine guidance sticky on his palm, the white heat of the cut a reminder of the heavy life-debt that now hung like a quern-stone around his neck.
For quarter of an hour he stood in the shade, sword hung in the leather loop on his wide belt. If he’d had the chance he’d have thrown on a tunic and cloak, and even grabbed the sheath for his sword, but he’d not had the time. He was about to turn back and head for the amphitheatre once more when the ludus door swung open and five gladiators emerged, each armed as if for the arena. Lupus narrowed his eyes.
A hoplomachus with his spear and small buckler shield – the one who had been popular at today’s games, Lupus surmised. A murmillo – much the mirror of Lupus, though smaller and less talented, clearly. A retiarius like Leonidas. A scissor with his brutal bladed glove and sword. And a dimachaerus, with a gladius in each hand. None of them wore their helms, since this was not a match in the arena, but a hunt and an execution.
Five men – all trained killers. His life-debt would certainly be paid, and Óðr would reward him in the dead-halls when the time came.
There was a brief discussion and the hunters moved off down the slope, past the amphitheatre and in a southerly direction. Where would Leonidas have gone? Lupus had no idea of the geography of this place, which was as alien to him as anywhere he’d ever been. Clearly the hunters had an idea, though, and so Lupus hung back, keeping out of sight and following on as they rounded corners.
A few heartbeats later the big German rounded a corner and his gaze fell upon a wide bridge crossing a deep, sluggish, muddy river that seemed to be flowing in every direction at once due to the tide. It appeared from the near-bank’s terrain as though the river formed a loop around at least half the town, which clarified their direction. The bridge would be the only feasible way for the retiarius to have left Deva.
Lupus shadowed the men as they crossed the bridge and the lithe and bright-looking hoplomachus crouched to speak to a beggar sitting by the parapet. Tossing a copper as to the mendicant, the spear-man rose again and discussed something with his friends, gesticulating with a pointed arm. Lupus watched with interest. After flailing a little, the arm ended up pointing off down a lesser road to the right.
The German looked up at the pale blob of the sun behind the overcast, which seemed now to be clearing gradually, and judged the man to be pointing south west. He tried to remember what his lanista had said about that area on their journey into Deva. The man had rattled on about the place as if Lupus cared. He wished he’d listened, now. He couldn’t remember anything interesting being said about that direction. There was nothing but native tribes and mountains that way, surely? More south-easterly would lie Viroconium, through which they had passed a few days back, but the road that ran south west was a narrow and badly-surfaced one off through dull farmland and towards the distant hills.
Why would Leonidas be taking such lesser roads into the wilderness?
He answered his own question with ease: the retiarius would assume his lanista would have him followed, so he was taking a circuitous and less-known route. He could head for Viroconium that way, probably, and avoid any contact with pursuers or anyone from Deva who might intend to try and stop him. But he seemingly hadn’t bargained on beggars noting his passage. A gladiator out here would be rather obvious.
A humorous vision popped into Lupus’ head as he imagined events from the beggar’s viewpoint: a trident-carrying gladiator striding past, then five more hunting him, then another big murmillo on the tail of the five. The beggar would think his eyes were failing him. Few things brought a smile to Lupus’ face, but that did.
Something else did, too.
The bare bones of a plan.
Following them until they found Leonidas would do little good. He needed to change the odds first, and that meant being in front of them. It seemed an impossible task really, since he would have to be able to predict their movements, and they themselves were tracking someone and reliant upon Leonidas’ moves. But something occurred to him that changed matters. Romans were predictable. Unlike the forest tracks of his Chatti homelands, which wound and crossed and led wherever a man had needed to go, the Romans’ roads were defined and clear and often straight. Now that they were following the road, all he had to do was keep to that road, and they would meet again. And if, as he believed, the south-west contained nothing, then the road was unlikely to fork or spilt in any way.
With a smile, he waited until the five hunters had turned off down the road, and then ran on ahead, peeling off into the scrub and among trees, and thundering at a fast pace which he could maintain for some time when required. For more than quarter of an hour he ran, and then began to turn north again and sure enough, within a short time he emerged from the trees and spotted that highway crossing a wide flat plain dotted with farms, fields of crops, fenced animal enclosures and small stands of trees that shaded the road in places. He would be a hundred-count or more ahead of the hunters, now. They were not in sight yet, the road back to Deva curving off around a copse of ash trees.
Evening the odds…
Ducking behind the next small copse of trees beside the road, Lupus reached down to the linen hanging in front of his loincloth and tore off a short strip. Crouching, he removed one of the long leather laces that held on his greave, letting it fall away unheeded. Carefully, he used the tip of his sword to drive a small hole in both ends of the linen and then tied the thong to them. A quick cut of the leather in the centre and a loop tied on one end, and he held up his makeshift sling and nodded approvingly at it. There was no place in the arena for such a weapon, but long before his capture by Rome, this son of the Chatti had been able to bring down birds with a well-aimed shot. He would be rusty, of course, but then a grown man was a much bigger target than a gull.
He needed a better place for the ambush than this, though. He would have to be able to deliver a shot or two and then move on quickly and unobserved. A glance to make sure the five hunters were not yet in sight and he jogged on down the road, heading southwest.
Not far away, after passing a native farm where an old man watched him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion, he found his place. A wooden shed that had seen better days provided plenty of shelter and next to it a large, overgrown hedgerow marched on, parallel to the road. Lupus crouched by the roadside, selected three of the best stones he could find, and then ducked around behind the rotten timbers of the shed, peering between broken slats at the road.
Sure enough, less than quarter of an hour later,
he spotted the figures moving at a brisk walk down the road. They were not running, for that would engender a risk of encountering Leonidas while out of breath and unprepared for the fight. But to saunter would mean they would never catch up with their prey, and so they walked fast, jogging intermittently.
Two hundred paces. He used to be able to take down a small target at three hundred, but allowing for lack of practice…
As they reached an estimated two hundred and fifty paces, he lifted the sling, cradled the first stone in it and raised it. At two hundred and twenty, he gave the weapon one full rotation to seat the stone better, and then increased the speed for a second rotation, letting go of the thong at the top of the arc.
The stone flew steady and slightly elevated, and Lupus pulled his arm back in from the corner of the shed lest the source of the blow be obvious. As he selected his second rock by feel, he kept his gaze locked on his target.
The first shot whisked him straight back to his youth and a white bird plummeting from the sky into the woodland clearing, where a young Chatti warrior gathered up his dinner.
The stone descended from the low arc and took the scissor, who was currently out front, full in the face. The ruination of the man’s head was total. The stone caved in his nose and both orbits, pulping the eyes before embedding itself deep in the soft matter of his brain.
Bet he’s regretting not wearing a helmet now…
Lupus knew that he would not get the chance at the same ambush twice and so, stepping a half pace to his right, he whipped the sling around once and released, and then ducked and ran. As he left the safety of the shed and dipped behind the hedge, he took a momentary opportunity to peer between the highest waving fronds of greenery. The scissor was already on the ground, dead. The retiarius was now clutching his neck, his net and trident discarded, as blood pumped between his fingers from a wound, where the sharp-edged rock had torn out a piece of flesh containing the artery.
Deva Tales Page 18
