Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  Lysandra rose to her feet. ‘Are you saying that I am fat?’

  ‘How could you think that? I was trying to give you a compliment!’ Titus was all wounded innocence, but Lysandra could see in his eyes that he was lying. ‘You’re not a fighter anymore,’ he went on, ‘so it is good that a lady of your social standing should carry a bit of extra padding. Makes you look less…dangerous…’ he trailed off, beginning to wilt under her furious gaze. ‘Well, I’m going to see to my things anyway.’ He did a swift about-face and marched off briskly before a counter-offensive could be launched.

  Lysandra sat down slowly, the pain of Titus’s remarks striking her as hard as iron. True, she did not train as hard as she once had, but she was no overweight heifer as he had accused her of being.

  Just because he was feeling tired after his journey, she felt it was unjust of him to take out his frustrations by insulting her personally. Besides, it was patently untrue. Exasperated, she got up once again and moved to her full-length bronze mirror – a gift an admirer had sent her when she was a gladiatrix. Gladiatrix Prima. The Queen of the Sands.

  She pulled away her peplos to reveal her torso. The woman revealed in the reflection was not the Gladiatrix Prima. But nor was it an obese matron as Titus had implied. Her breasts were high and firm, her stomach flat. Though not as hard as once it had been, an accusing voice in her mind whispered. Covering herself, she went to the wine tray and poured herself a cup. Yes, it was early in the day, but Titus had upset her and besides which, she was working too hard as it was. She threw back the first cup, wincing at the full-bodied taste, and then poured herself another.

  Wine, she contemplated, truly was a gift from the gods. For many years, she flirted with Dionysus only occasionally, but since her retirement from the arena, she had got to know the old god quite well. Of course, it was not the Spartan way to err to excess, and Lysandra knew well that she was in control. If she got drunk, it was because she had chosen the time and place to be drunk. It was not so with other people; some could not command their passions, their base desires. She glanced at her undone paperwork, feeling the fire of rebellion spark in her belly. It seemed ages since she had just done nothing. Everyone else seemed to have time off for revels, free time to do as they pleased, but never her; from her youth in the priestess’s agoge to the training in the ludus to the running of the Deiopolis, her life had been dominated by routine.

  It was hardly fair, but still there was work to be done. She sat at her desk and began to go through her papers. As she wrote, she found her responses to various requests were amusing her – proving to herself that a comedic bent was not the sole province of Athenians.

  She glanced at the scroll that Titus had left; it looked intriguing.

  She decided that she would read it after the more onerous tasks were done with.

  After spending a little more time on correspondence, she decided that she had done enough for one day. She pointedly ignored the remaining dockets and moved to her couch. ‘Nikos!’ she shouted, calling in her secretary.

  The wiry, dishevelled-looking Asiatic Hellene appeared in her doorway. ‘Yes, my lady,’ he said.

  ‘Have a priestess of Apollo attend me,’ Lysandra ordered. ‘I want to hear the lyre and some singing. And I’ll need more wine too, this krater is almost empty.’

  ‘It is only just after noon, lady,’ Nikos observed. ‘I was hoping to send out some more dispatches that require your signature…’

  It was true that Lysandra had never applied the same strict Spartan discipline on her employees that she herself had been subject to in her formative years, and now she was reaping what she had sown.

  Insubordination was insinuating itself into the very walls of the Deiopolis: first Varia’s defiance, then Titus with his rudeness, now Nikos with his blatant disregard for her instructions. She felt her temper snap. ‘I did not ask what time it was,’ she stormed. ‘I just gave you an order, man! Get on with it, or by the gods I’ll have the skin flayed from your ungrateful back. You were a slave of Balbus, now you are the freedman of Lysandra – do not take your status for granted or I will cast you out of here. Now get out of my sight!’ Nikos bowed stiffly and left, disapproval evident in his gait. If the secretary started getting above himself, Lysandra swore that she would make good on her threat and have him expelled.

  She finished her wine and waited with growing impatience for the Apollonian priestess to arrive. Fortunately, the girl appeared just when what was left of Lysandra’s goodwill had all but eroded.

  ‘Play,’ she ordered.

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ The girl confined herself to this comment before beginning her work. She was a pretty little thing, Lysandra thought to herself as the priestess’s fingers plucked the strings delicately. She closed her eyes and listened as the girl began to sing a gentle hymn to Apollo.

  Food was brought, but Lysandra ignored it. Food always seemed to take the edge off wine, dulling its potency. What was the point in drinking if not to feel the effects? It was insulting to Dionysus to pretend otherwise, and Lysandra was always careful not to insult the gods. Even Poseidon, who had tried to kill her with his storm and through whose actions she had ended up a slave. Still, she opened one eye and gazed at her cup; if not for him, she would not have become a gladiatrix and found a better way to serve Athene. That would have upset the old man of the sea; she pictured him stamping around Olympus complaining to Zeus and the thought made her laugh.

  The girl stumbled in her playing and looked a little crestfallen.

  Lysandra realised that the priestess thought her chuckle was one of her derision and motioned her to continue. ‘You play beautifully,’

  she said by way of encouragement.

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ the girl said.

  ‘Do you think I’m fat?’ Lysandra asked.

  ‘No, my lady, you are as beautiful as Aphrodite.’

  Aphrodite, Lysandra thought. Not Athene. Athene was the lithe and powerful warrior, Aphrodite the soft and pampered princess.

  Was that what people thought of her now? That she was soft? She had not fought in the arena for two years, but that had not made her forget a lifetime’s training. She was still Gladiatrix Prima.

  Undefeated. Yet that was what people were beginning to believe: that she had lost her edge. Varia… Titus… even this girl. She would show them.

  She lurched to her feet and made her way to the hall, leaving the girl staring after her. Annoyingly, her peplos caught between her legs, causing her to sway and stumble somewhat. She grasped the doorframe for support, steeled herself and strode purposefully down the hall towards the exit.

  It was bright outside, the sun beating down on the workers and visitors to the Deiopolis. Lysandra headed straight towards the palaestra where the women trained for gladiatorial combat. Her vision juddered as she took each step and it was then that she realised that she was slightly the worse for the drink. Nevertheless, drunk or sober, she was more than capable of teaching her detractors a lesson they would not soon forget.

  The palaestra was crowded with her gladiatrices at various exercises – duelling with wooden practice swords, wrestling or going through the punishing callisthenics regimen that she herself had designed. She knew well that her methods were the finest in the empire, second only to those employed in Sparta itself. But the training regimen could only take a person so far: these women were not of Lakedaimonia and were therefore her inferiors.

  ‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Stop what you are doing!’ She was forced to repeat herself a few times, but eventually the clack of weapons and the grunts of effort finally subsided to an expectant buzz of conversation as all eyes focused upon her. ‘Shut up,’ she shouted.

  ‘Shut up all of you!’ Without waiting to see if they obeyed, she ploughed on, the truth suddenly rushing up to her like a tide. ‘I know what you’ve been saying about me. I know it. You think that you are better than me – that I am so busy with papers and contracts that I can no longer even hold a sword, le
t alone use one! I know what you’re saying about me behind my back! The goddess Athene speaks to me…’

  ‘From the wine cup!’ someone shouted.

  If Lysandra was angered by these soft-bodied whores’ ingratitude for her work on their behalf, she was furious now. ‘Who said that?’

  she screamed, tearing a rudis from the grasp of a nearby fighter. ‘I shall beat some respect into you. None of you know what I have had to sacrifice…’

  ‘Lysandra!’ Thebe shoved her way through the crowd of fighters who were grinning openly now. ‘What is wrong?’ The Corinthian woman’s expression seemed to be one of mingled concern and anger. She was caked in dust and sweat, her own practice sword still in her hand. She moved closer to Lysandra. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I am fine,’ Lysandra responded at once, wondering why Thebe recoiled as she opened her mouth. ‘It’s these others, Thebe. I know what they have been saying about me!’

  Thebe frowned. ‘Come, Lysandra. No one has been saying anything about you. You have…’ she looked around. ‘You have heard the words of the goddess and you are tired and emotional from the experience.’

  Lysandra felt the anger suddenly drown in a tidal wave of sisterly affection for Thebe. Thebe of Corinth, who had been with her since the beginning. ‘You have always known me the best,’ she said, her emotions bursting to the fore. She felt the need to hold one who she had come to regard as a sister. ‘You are the only family I have, you know.’

  Thebe returned the embrace somewhat awkwardly, patting her on the back. ‘Come, I’ll walk you to your quarters.’ She whirled on the fighters who were watching. ‘Get back to work or I’ll have you out here all fucking night, you idle bitches!’

  ‘Titus thinks I am fat,’ Lysandra said as Thebe guided her from the palaestra.

  ‘Titus talks too much,’ Thebe responded. ‘You shouldn’t be out.

  Not the way that you are now.’

  ‘It is my temple; I’ll do as I like in it. People are talking about me behind my back, you know. The goddess sent me a vision, Thebe.’

  ‘About people gossiping? I would have thought Athene had more pressing matters to worry about than that.’

  ‘I can make no sense of it.’ Lysandra suddenly felt very weary and a gloom descended upon her, making her fight to hold back the tears. ‘Eagles and horses, dead eagles trampled by the horses.

  And a god that wants to devour me…’

  ‘I’m sure that we can find a meaning. Tomorrow.’

  Lysandra had not even realised that they were back inside her quarters. Thebe helped her to her bed. ‘I still miss Eirianwen,’ she said, her own voice sounding distant in her ears. Thebe responded but Lysandra could not make it out; she was so tired, the need for sleep suddenly overwhelmed her and the pillows seemed to engulf her in a blanketing warmth that was unending.

  III

  It was dark when Lysandra regained consciousness. For a few moments, she lay in bed, trying to get back to sleep but knowing it was a futile effort. She sat up unsurprised that she felt no ill-effects from her bout with the wine. That would come later, when she sobered – for now, she knew that she was still partially drunk, a state that would last for some hours yet. She considered having another cup of wine to send her back to sleep. That often worked well.

  She sat up the darkness, trying to piece together what had happened and it only took a moment for the realisation to hit her.

  She recalled fragments of the day and squeezed her eyes tight shut as a tidal wave of guilt rushed into her mind. ‘I am never drinking again,’ she whispered into the night. She had made such utterances before, but this time she meant it as the images of her actions filled her mind’s eye. What must people be saying about her? How could she face the gladiatrices after her display? How could she face Varia after admonishing her to drink watered wine? ‘Never again,’ she said, this time louder. She repeated it over and over, screaming it eventually as though the sound of her cries could blot out the images in her mind.

  She rose from the bed and padded to the balcony, somewhat unsteady on her feet. The Deiopolis was still, save for the guards that patrolled both perimeter and interior. Despite the fact that she would like to believe that others viewed a place of worship as sacrosanct, Lysandra knew well that the riches in both goods and flesh contained in the temple would be irresistible to thieves and brigands. Some had tried to rob her in the past but the security of the temple was good enough to ensure they had failed. Examples had been made of these miscreants: they had died hard on the cross for their trans-gressions against her. The thought distracted her only momentarily, and again the shame of her drinking session buffeted her mind. The guilt was unbearable, and she found herself thinking that it would be easier to step onto the balcony and leap into infinity than it would be to face the knowing looks and hear the snide remarks.

  She tensed to climb onto the balustrade and then froze. She realised that she lacked the courage. This bitter thought in mind, she went inside and sat at her desk, lighting a single lamp to stave off the darkness. Papers were still scattered, unread and unopened correspondence that she should have dealt with days ago. And there was the letter from Rome; she glanced at it again, her heart jolting as she recognised the Imperial seal.

  She reached out and opened the scroll, a part of her knowing that concentrating on the missive would give her a few moments sweet relief from the crushing drink-born humiliation.

  Lysandra’s eyes widened as she read the beautifully scripted note; it was a personal invitation to Rome from Domitian himself, no less. It was surprising that he remembered her, but then she knew that in her prime she was not easy to forget. However, the initial felicity that she felt on opening the communication soon soured as she read on. It was not simply an invitation to enjoy the emperor’s hospitality: it was a challenge. A battle of champions, greater even than the clash between Achilles and Penthesilia at the walls of Troy – the scribe’s language suddenly dipping from the genial to the hyperbolic, but Lysandra was impressed that he had researched his flattery and made mention of the inspiration for her own arena-name, Achillia. Her would-be opponent was named Aesalon Nocturna – the Midnight Falcon, Lysandra translated into Hellenic.

  The letter then went on to detail her achievements: thirty bouts, thirty wins – no draws or losses. At twenty five, she was a year younger than Lysandra but, at that age, an active gladiatrix was at the peak of her powers. A pity then, that the match could not take place. Lysandra was no fool: she knew that she could not return to the arena; she would be cut to pieces. It had been too long since she had fought and, besides, that part of her life was over. There was the Deiopolis now, and the people who had come to depend on her.

  Those same people who laugh at you, she thought bitterly – and with every right.

  She tossed the letter aside and stood on unsteady feet. The krater beckoned and she turned away from it with effort. She could not face the stares of her women. Not now. Not after her performance that afternoon. In the half-light, she threw on a clean tunic and filled a purse with money, resolving to ride at once for Halicarnassus.

  She scribbled a note for Titus, advising him that she was taking some rest from the Deiopolis for a few days. She had to get away until things had moved on, until her antics were no longer the topic of discussion.

  Lysandra paused at the door, thinking for a moment. Hung on the wall were her old weapons, the twin swords of the dimachaeria; their presence in the room coupled with the letter from Domitian seemed to mock her. She sighed and took them down – an unarmed woman riding alone would be too tempting a target for the brigands that preyed on the route to Halicarnassus. Even if she was no longer worthy to wield the weapons, she hoped that their presence would dissuade any would-be attackers. Stepping out into the night, she made her way swiftly to the stables and rode out, offering the guards a few mumbled assurances before galloping away, wrapped in her own mantle of gloom.

  As night turned to day, Lysandra began to feel
the full physical effects of her drinking session. Sick and miserable, she hunched in the saddle, sipping from her water sack. Halicarnassus was less than a day’s ride from the Deiopolis, and soon she began to encounter caravans of traders and other travellers. She was cordial enough to those that greeted her with a smile or a wave, but her demeanour let it be known that she had no desire for company.

  Lysandra tried to blot out what had happened at the Deiopolis, but the thought of it stayed with her, worsened by her hangover.

  The day passed as though she was a shade wandering the banks of the Styx, where she could see the world but seemed somehow distanced from it. She must have dozed off, because the horse jolted her and she glanced up to see the city walls looming suddenly ahead of her. Her mount, Hades, knew the route well enough, having carried her here often. The sun had sunk low in the sky, reddening the horizon and she realised that she could not remember the last time she had eaten. Her stomach growled in agreement, and Hades glanced over his shoulder, eyeing her as if demanding that he would receive a meal too. She patted him on the neck in assurance as they made their way to the main gate.

  Even in late afternoon there was still a long queue to enter the city. Roman bureaucracy assured that visitors would be searched before entering the metropolis, an insurance against malcontents and smugglers. It was pointless to get annoyed, so Lysandra dismounted and waited her turn. To busy herself, she wrapped her swords securely in canvas, ready to hand over to the duty watchmen.

  Civilians were not permitted to carry weapons inside the city walls and, though it was almost an impossible law to enforce, Lysandra considered it beneath her to try to secrete her swords like some sort of criminal.

  The guards on duty hardly bothered to search her and looked genuinely surprised when she passed over her swords and asked for a receipt. However, it was all procedure and the army – even these auxiliaries – excelled at procedure, so her weapons were taken to a guard house and she was issued a receipt by a bored-looking optio who then instructed her to stable her mount and be about her business.