War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One by Nick Morris Page A

the blood debt between them. Yet, this Servannus had commanded the attack on his village, and was likely to know what happened to Jenell and Strom. Meeting the Roman again, here, fuelled the hope that if he could get his hands on him, even for a short time, he could ‘persuade’ him to reveal the whereabouts of his loved ones. Yes, he was glad that he’d not acted rashly, and that he’d not mentioned Strom and Jenell. Betraying an interest in them might well have sealed their fates, if indeed they were still alive.
    He’d have wait...for the right time and place to act. He shook his head, trying to empty it of the echoes of the Roman’s voice.
    Looking upwards, Guntram’s attention drawn to the huge awning high above that fluttered in the cool breeze off the bay. He guessed it would provide the crowd with welcome shade when the climbing sun baked the arena later in the day.
    A chorus of loud blasts erupted, and a procession entered through the arena’s gate. Musicians playing trumpets led the way, followed by the editor of the games mounted on a dazzling golden chariot, drawn by four magnificent white stallions.
    Trailing behind was a motley collection of acrobats, jugglers, woolly haired Nubians leading ostriches, and a group of dwarves; each bearing a huge, brightly painted member which they lewdly brandished to the glee of the crowd. The gladiators entered at the tail of the procession, each dressed in armour polished to a mirror finish, brilliantly reflecting the sun’s rays. The applause was deafening.
    Guntram watched with a mixture of apprehension and awe as the editor took his seat in the arena’s stone podium. The gladiators positioned themselves directly below, where they raised their weapons in ritual homage to the sponsor of the games. Trumpets sounded once more and the entire company wheeled to exit the arena .
    A brief interlude followed, and Guntram sensed the uneasiness that pumped like sweat from the other members of his group, spreading like a contagion through the tiros ranks.
    Then, the games commenced with warm-ups by performing clowns and jugglers, followed by a series of mock fights between gladiators armed with blunted weapons. The crowd quickly became bored, whistling and jeering to make known its desire to be served something stronger.
    Next cameslaves armed with knives and wearing eye-less helmets. As they groped and slashed at each other in darkness, arena attendants goaded them on with red-hot irons. Their desperate plight became apparent when a veteran gladiator entered the arena. He casually approached the last pair standing, and with two precise blows, swept their heads from their shoulders. The crowd cheered.
    Elsewhere in the arena, the attendants went about their grisly work, wielding heavy wooden mallets which they used to crack the skulls of downed combatants. Their corpses, like ripped wineskins, were quickly dragged from the arena; long, bloody smears trailing in their wake. The spattered surface was then hurriedly raked over and fresh sand applied, ready for the next spectacle.
    Much of the talk in the ludus centred around the games and the killing, but to see it like this made Guntram’s skin crawl with revulsion. He hardly felt Ellios dig him in his side.
    “The hunt is next,” said Ellios.
    “Explain.”
    “It’s the time of the venators , the beast killers,” explained the Spaniard. “They are not ranked as highly as gladiators, despite being recruited in the same way. They are taught their skills separately and in their own schools, and the crowd loves them.”
    “Why?”
    “Because the bloodletting is great, of both hunter and hunted.”
    “Hah! They call me barbarian,” Guntram sneered, “yet they howl like wild animals as blind men hack each other apart. Where is the test of courage in all this butchery?”
    “The mob needs reminding that they’ve conquered an empire my friend,” Ellios answered quietly, his olive complexion pale. “These games are a