War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One Read online

  WAR RAVEN

  A novel by Nick Morris

  “So shalt thou feed on

  Death that feeds on human men.”

  William Shakespeare

  PURCHACE PUBLISHING

  Published in the United

  Kingdom by Purchace Publishing

  Copyright © 2012 Nick Morris

  Author’s website

  www.nickmorris.me.uk

  Nick Morris has asserted his

  right under the Copyright, Designs and

  Patents Act 1988 to be identified

  as the author of this work.

  ISBN 978-1-84396-200-7

  A CIP catalogue record for

  this ebook is available from the

  British Library.

  Kindle edition production

  www.ebookversions.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in or

  introduced into a retrieval system

  or transmitted in any form

  or by any means electronic,

  photomechanical, photocopying,

  recording or otherwise without

  the prior written permission

  of the publisher. Any person who

  does any unauthorised act in

  relation to this publication may be

  liable to criminal prosecution.

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT & CREDITS

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  GLOSSARY OF TERMS

  About this book

  The War Raven narrates a barbarian's epic bid for liberty and revenge and heralds the beginning of the end for his mighty Roman oppressors . . .

  When a Germanii village is savagely decimated by the Nineteenth Legion of the Roman army, the young warrior Guntram is captured and bound for the gladiatorial school of 1st Century Pompeii. He has had to watch the horrific murders of his mother and sister, but he has also witnessed the survival and abduction of his sweetheart and young brother; if only for their sakes, he determines to channel his relentless fury and formidable strength into ensuring his own survival.

  With time and several joyless victories, the tribesman and his Spanish sparring partner win the partial liberty of living outside the gladiatorial school, in between preparing for their next rounds of mortal combat. This affords Guntram the consolation of his love for the beautiful Judaen girl Chayna, yet his sights remain firmly set upon winning the ‘rudis’ – the traditional grant of complete liberty for those rare champions who survive long enough to win the heart of the mob.

  Servannus, an enthusiastic sponsor of the games who is remembered by Guntram as the Tribune to the Nineteenth Legion, has not taken the fierce gladiator’s oaths of revenge lightly. Guntram's freedom is set to carry a higher price than he can have imagined, sending him on a harrowing journey that will lead him to the famous historical battle of the Teutoberger Forest, where he longs to settle old scores and pick up the pieces of his broken past.

  About the author

  The author was born in 1957 in South Wales and began his working career teaching history in Kent. His lifelong passions have included a love of military history, the martial arts, and the history of the fighting arts in all its various forms. He has studied under some of the world's most respected masters, obtaining black belt ranking in Aikido, Judo, and Karate, as well as holding an instructor's certificate in the Israeli Krav Maga combat system.

  Nick Morris has travelled widely throughout Europe and the Middle East, and had the opportunity to work in the field of unarmed combat with various Special Forces units including the Sheyatet (navy commandos) and the Golani Regiment in Israel, the American Navy SEALS and the British Parachute Regiment. He now rests his old bones once again in South Wales.

  Another novel involving characters in War Raven is in the pipeline. The intended focus will be on a young Roman noble and a Dacian barbarian.

  The author looks forward to your responses, once you've emerged from some very bloody armchair battles!

  www.nickmorris.me.uk

  Chapter I

  ARENA – POMPEII A.D. 9

  “Let no one weep at my funeral,

  for I will live through the mouths of men.”

  Gladiator graffiti

  The crowd’s roar rent the sky above the arena; twenty thousand voices screaming, “Death! Death!” A sea of thumbs jerked towards straining throats and the cry rang out again, this time longer, suspended in the stifling air.

  As the clamour receded, the swordsman peered out through the grid of the tunnel gate. Touts scampered amongst the packed rows of spectators, eliciting any last minute changes in the betting stakes. Peddlers threaded amongst the crowd, selling sweetmeats, drinks and seat cushions, keen to secure sales before the spectacle resumed. The swordsman’s gaze swept over the packed higher tiers, where the faithful opened parcels of food and supped from skins of wine as acrobats and musicians performed. A sea breeze rose up, with filtered beams of light from the gently swaying, multi-coloured awning tinging the crowd; one moment coral, emerald, and then amber. Beautiful, he thought.

  The air seemed to shimmer above the arena surface. The bout had reached its climax, with one man down and the other poised above him. The defeated gladiator was an axe fighter. He lay flat on his back, his bloody thighs bearing testimony to the effectiveness of his opponent’s spear thrusts. Prising off his helmet he raised a shaking hand to the crowd. It was a plea for mercy.

  In contrast, the spearman
wore only a loin-cloth. His breathing laboured, he placed his spear tip into the hollow of the axe man’s throat, waiting for the Games’ editor’s verdict.

  The crowd bayed for death, and on the podium the editor’s hand cut to his throat. The spearman drove his spear down – a quick death.

  The swordsman’s attention was drawn to the bead of sweat creeping down his own brow. It stopped at the band of pig grease smeared above his eyes. The next to fight, he knew that any momentary blurring of vision could result in an early passage through the gates of Hades. Ignoring the pervading stench of blood that clung to the tunnel’s stone walls, he watched the victor, spear raised, soak up the crowd’s acclaim. The chants rose higher and a wave of nausea eeled through his guts. But, the tension was no stranger, and he concentrated on his breathing, slowing it down.

  Four pairs had already fought, with his school losing three of the four matches to the visiting Capuans. He knew the home crowd would be livid. With his time approaching, he turned away from the gate, towards the waiting area and the first sight of his opponent.

  Prior the Capuan was silently performing his stretching exercises. The sleek muscles of his legs and torso shifted smoothly beneath his dark skin like coiling serpents, and his body bore few scars; a testament to his skill. Discussion sometimes took place between gladiators, but the swordsman never spoke with an opponent before a contest; he had no words for the men he must kill.

  The Capuan was a retiarius; a net and trident fighter, and his reputation as a ruthless killer had preceded him, with twenty victories to his name and many of them kills. His dark, handsome looks and famed prowess in the bed-chamber had made him a great favourite with the women of Capua. Despite the mob ranking his fighting style relatively low, the swordsman was aware that the betting was slightly in his opponent’s favour. The coming fight would be the last of the day and the highlight of the programme.

  “How long boy?” he asked a passing attendant.

  “Soon.”

  Nodding acknowledgement he flexed his fingers, noting the moistness that was beginning to form between them. His palms were tacky with the juice of lemon that he’d applied to aid his grip on his sword hilt, and he slowly rotated his wrist. The double-edged gladius felt light, although he knew that its weight would increase tenfold if the contest wore on. He rehearsed a pattern of tight, circular cuts and short, darting thrusts into the air before him, each stroke aimed to kill or cripple. Lifting the blade, he studied the rib running the length of its spine to aid the flow of blood, and the vicious point for opening opponents’ vitals. He smiled sardonically, admiring its deadly beauty, reminding himself that it was the weapon that gave his kind their name.

  The prospect of bloodshed drawing nearer, a sudden shiver coursed his limbs, and he made a final check on his equipment. He tested the bindings on the leather sleeves that protected his left arm and matching left leg, and then slipped his arm into the straps of the large, curved shield that provided defence against the needle sharp trident of the retiarius. They felt just right. His helmet rested against his leg; its peak decorated by a fish and crowned with a huge dorsal fin. Two single ostrich feathers dyed a deep vermilion were fitted above each ear, adding to its exotic appearance.

  “Next pair, the crowd is waiting. And let’s give them something worth watching.” The trainer’s voice reverberated off the walls, his frame filling the tunnel as he moved out of the half-light into the waiting men’s view. He grimaced, as if trying to swallow something foul. “That was the worst kind of loss!” he berated. “Fucking Gauls! No guts, and no skill. The sheep-brained bastards forgot everything I taught them. May their souls rot in Hades.”

  The Capuan, his net and trident hefted onto his shoulder, walked past the swordsman towards the clamour of the arena. As he passed, the swordsman’s gaze flicked briefly to a small band of tasselled leather that adorned his upper arm, with each tassel representing a past victory. Watching him walk away, the swordsman noticed that he displayed a slight limp on his right side. Hardly noticeable, it was probably an old wound. It was an observation that could well prove useful when the match began.

  “It’s time,” the trainer announced, stepping towards him. “And I expect something better than the horse-shit we’ve seen so far. Let's see if you can put on a show like the one you gave those navy scum at Misenum.”

  “I’ve never disappointed before,” he replied, his temper prickling.

  “True.” The trainer rubbed his chin. “Just remember this one is fast, very fast. It’s as hot as a furnace on the sand and he’ll probably try to tire you.”

  Limbering his sword arm he replied, “I’ll do what is needed.”

  “He’s a fox,” the trainer told him, smiling glibly and revealing yellow, dog teeth. “Don’t underestimate him!”

  He met the trainer’s gaze and held it. Smile now, Roman, he thought, because there’ll be no smiles when I deal with you and those who’ve condemned me to this life of bondage. He forced down his anger, his mind switching back to the task ahead, knowing there was no room for distraction. The Capuan would surely do the unexpected, but he was ready for him. Ready to win, prepared for death.

  ‘Anyone can live but dying in the arena is an art.’ The discipline was drummed into him. Those he’d beaten had died well, with no fuss, without begging. Yet, their stranger faces in those final moments, before he snatched away their lives, stayed with him; each look of disbelief, grim acceptance, fear. All had stood in the way of his freedom. Freedom – the one word that cut through to the core of his being.

  He lifted and then carefully donned his helmet. Bending to lift his shield he caught his own reflection in the mirror of its iron boss. He looked grotesque, transformed. He felt different; no longer a man, but a creature, a terrible creature trained to kill.

  The weight of the arena’s stone pressing down on him, he moved into the dim light of the tunnel, following the path of his opponent, towards the clank of the portcullis chains and the baying of the mob.

  * * *

  Chapter II

  GERMANIA A.D. 7

  “Man is a wolf to man.”

  Plautus

  The young warrior entered the glade, treading softly on leathered feet. His hunter eyes searched the forest wall, alert for anything unusual, while high above the canopy of giant fir-trees a hawk screeched.

  In his right hand he clasped the German framea; a six-foot long spear topped by a slim, double-edged blade. It was a recent gift on his twentieth birthday. A long bladed knife of iron was thrust though the belt at his waist.

  The son of a Cherusci war-chief, he’d been dispatched on a scouting trip into the borderlands of their neighbours and enemies, the Gauls, with instructions to report back on the movements of the soldiers of the Roman eagle that were crossing the Rhinus river in ever-increasing numbers.

  He’d first encountered the Roman iron–shirts three years past when on a trading mission with his father and a party of his tribesmen far to the north of the German lands. He recalled his initial feelings of excitement for the adventure ahead, his eagerness to see these new places.

  It was during their stay at one village that they learned of a party of iron-shirts raiding in that area; a reprisal for a minor skirmish with his countrymen in the border land.

  On leaving the village, his cousin, Volkar, had scouted ahead of their wary party. He didn’t return. They tracked him, his trail eventually leading them to a sacked German settlement. There were no people, and he’d moved to his father’s side, chilled, afraid. All that remained were black, smoking timbers, the stench of spilled blood and a small mound in the centre of the village. When they’d drawn near he remembered crying out, and then emptying his stomach. The mound was built with the severed hands of the village’s men, women and children.

  They found Volkar close by in the woods. He was nailed to a tree, his eyes, ears and tongue cut away.

  Even now, his dreams were scalded by the awful spectre of poor Volkar, stumbling blindly to
find his way home. His hatred for the iron-shirts burned like hot iron. And, he despised their allies, the Gauls, regarding them as a people who’d whored themselves in exchange for peace, trade goods and the glitter of gold. He would be proud to live up to the meaning of his name, Guntram: the War Raven, by contributing to their ruin.

  Yet, his anger was not reserved for the Romans and Gauls alone. He’d seen fellow Germans at some of the gatherings, too. He knew of the trade agreements between Rome and the Gauls, and also those recently established with several German tribes; including the powerful Suebi. But, the Germans he saw had been dressed in the manner of Roman horse-soldiers and were equipped to fight alongside them. The betrayal left him sick to the belly.

  On the night in question he’d slipped into their camp-site, to spy what weaponry and horses they possessed. He’d been nervous about discovery, hardly daring to breath, and then a sentry had surprised him. He’d silenced him with his knife. It was the first man he’d killed.

  Now, having re-crossed the Rhinus, he pondered on his father’s reaction to receiving this news, as well its consequences. There would be fury, and blood. Blood, he remembered it now, how the sentry had fought for life during his final moments; the iron smell of fresh blood and the man’s sweat when up close. After, unbidden, the thought came that the sentry might have a family, a lover, people he would never see again. The killing had left Guntram with an awful, hollow feeling; as if part of him had been lost. His father had told him that only madmen and fools enjoyed killing, and he now understood the truth in these words. He swallowed hard. What he’d done was right. If he’d not killed, he would surely have met his own end, and failed his people.

  He looked skywards. Grey clouds scuttled towards ice-sheathed peaks that glistened in the distance above the forest. Winter had arrived and the trees around him seemed like brown sentinels in the morning mist. All year in such clearings – with the exception of the darkest, coldest months – wild flowers dotted the pine needle carpet of the forest floor, where elk, deer, hare and even wild fowl visited in search of forage. So too the bear, wolf and the most savage and unpredictable of all – the wild boar. Guntram snapped his head to one side, and it was with relief that he spotted the tail of a frightened squirrel that had suddenly dropped to the ground and then scurried into the forest shadows. He took a drink from his water-skin, and then crossed the clearing to re-enter the screen of trees.