War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One by Nick Morris Page B
Authors: Nick Morris
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curve of her lips. After, she spoke to him in quiet tones, as if the world listened. “My love, this private place will always be ours, and will always have a place inside me.” She touched her heart.
He mouthed Jenell’s words, clear in his mind, and had to swallow hard, damming back the moisture in his eyes. Easing back onto his mattress, he studied the night’s stillness for a while. His tired lids closed and sleep came, and with it the slipping away of all he had seen.
* * *
Chapter VII
A DEATH IN CAMPANIA
“The soul becomes dyed
with the colour of its thoughts.”
Marcus Aurelius
Servannus watched the young slave boy refill his guests’ wine cups as they reclined beneath the villa’s make-shift awning. The day was hot and their thirst seemed insatiable. Other slaves cleaned blood-stains from a close by grassy area where the gladiator matches had been fought.
As the new master of the estate, he’d ruled that every bout was fought to the death; the occasion being the funeral rites of his father, the late Marcus Tullius Titus. Heir to Titus’s considerable holdings, Servannus spared no cost in purchasing six gladiators of above average skill. The paired contests were over relatively quickly but had nevertheless pleased him.
“A satisfactory display,” Servannus addressed his two drunken companions. His statement was geared to elicit a predictable response.
“E...excellent, tr...truly excellent Servannus,” responded Marius, a well known socialite. His slurred words were quickly echoed by his companion, Gallio.
Servannus gave a short laugh, aware that his guests knew little of the gladiator’s trade. Rather, they simply agreed with anyone who was likely to fill their cups, and kept refilling them. It was the price he paid for company.
None of his father’s friends and associates had come to the villa at Herculaneum. They said their farewells at the family tomb at Pompeii earlier in the day when the old man was interred, and then left. He knew they had no time for him, with some doubtless suspecting that he’d played a part in old Titus’s sudden death. The suspicions were unfounded, with him being away kicking his heels on the empire’s northern borders. Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He’d just never had the nerve to attempt it. The old noble died in his sleep, with his physician diagnosing that his heart had simply given out. Servannus had wasted no time returning home on his receipt of the tragic news and he was now a very wealthy young man.
He was his father’s sole heir, his mother succumbing to the lung fever when he was barely old enough to walk. His father over-indulged him as a boy but they were never close. Servannus recalled the scoldings he received when his father learned of his mistreatment of a slave or household’ animal. But, the reprimands only succeeded in teaching him to use cunning and veiled threats to conceal his misdemeanours. He knew that his father had hoped he would outgrow his meanness, and that military service might engender a sense of camaraderie in him. It didn’t, and he returned home, unchanged.
He’d been bored with events on the frontier, and the news of his father’s death was the timely gift from the gods that he’d prayed for. He now possessed the finances to engross himself in his pleasures to the full. There was the continuous supply of women, of course, as well as the feasts and drinking sessions with those shallow enough to keep his company. Yet, it was the gladiator contests that captivated him more than anything else.
More importantly his new status gave him greater power to control the lives of others, to shape their futures according to his will. And now, there was no over-bearing old fool to sanction his actions.
Servannus tilted his wrist and his wine cup was re-filled. The fair headed slave quickly moved around him to refill the cups of his companions.
“Will you form your own troupe now that
He mouthed Jenell’s words, clear in his mind, and had to swallow hard, damming back the moisture in his eyes. Easing back onto his mattress, he studied the night’s stillness for a while. His tired lids closed and sleep came, and with it the slipping away of all he had seen.
* * *
Chapter VII
A DEATH IN CAMPANIA
“The soul becomes dyed
with the colour of its thoughts.”
Marcus Aurelius
Servannus watched the young slave boy refill his guests’ wine cups as they reclined beneath the villa’s make-shift awning. The day was hot and their thirst seemed insatiable. Other slaves cleaned blood-stains from a close by grassy area where the gladiator matches had been fought.
As the new master of the estate, he’d ruled that every bout was fought to the death; the occasion being the funeral rites of his father, the late Marcus Tullius Titus. Heir to Titus’s considerable holdings, Servannus spared no cost in purchasing six gladiators of above average skill. The paired contests were over relatively quickly but had nevertheless pleased him.
“A satisfactory display,” Servannus addressed his two drunken companions. His statement was geared to elicit a predictable response.
“E...excellent, tr...truly excellent Servannus,” responded Marius, a well known socialite. His slurred words were quickly echoed by his companion, Gallio.
Servannus gave a short laugh, aware that his guests knew little of the gladiator’s trade. Rather, they simply agreed with anyone who was likely to fill their cups, and kept refilling them. It was the price he paid for company.
None of his father’s friends and associates had come to the villa at Herculaneum. They said their farewells at the family tomb at Pompeii earlier in the day when the old man was interred, and then left. He knew they had no time for him, with some doubtless suspecting that he’d played a part in old Titus’s sudden death. The suspicions were unfounded, with him being away kicking his heels on the empire’s northern borders. Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He’d just never had the nerve to attempt it. The old noble died in his sleep, with his physician diagnosing that his heart had simply given out. Servannus had wasted no time returning home on his receipt of the tragic news and he was now a very wealthy young man.
He was his father’s sole heir, his mother succumbing to the lung fever when he was barely old enough to walk. His father over-indulged him as a boy but they were never close. Servannus recalled the scoldings he received when his father learned of his mistreatment of a slave or household’ animal. But, the reprimands only succeeded in teaching him to use cunning and veiled threats to conceal his misdemeanours. He knew that his father had hoped he would outgrow his meanness, and that military service might engender a sense of camaraderie in him. It didn’t, and he returned home, unchanged.
He’d been bored with events on the frontier, and the news of his father’s death was the timely gift from the gods that he’d prayed for. He now possessed the finances to engross himself in his pleasures to the full. There was the continuous supply of women, of course, as well as the feasts and drinking sessions with those shallow enough to keep his company. Yet, it was the gladiator contests that captivated him more than anything else.
More importantly his new status gave him greater power to control the lives of others, to shape their futures according to his will. And now, there was no over-bearing old fool to sanction his actions.
Servannus tilted his wrist and his wine cup was re-filled. The fair headed slave quickly moved around him to refill the cups of his companions.
“Will you form your own troupe now that
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