Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  Lysandra had always found Halicarnassus fascinating. The city was a mixture of cultures, ancient and modern, and somehow always seemed at odds with itself: the gross Roman architecture piled alongside superior Hellenic designs, which in turn were built atop the old Carian stonework. Dominating the city was the crypt of old King Mausolos, beautiful in an old-fashioned way. And of course, as she went further into the city proper, there was the arena.

  Its edifice could be seen from most side streets, beckoning people to its bloody embrace. From the outside, it looked so much smaller than it actually was. Then, Lysandra supposed, when one stood on the sands, the place was bound to be more awe-inspiring. No matter how experienced a fighter became, it was impossible not to feel a pang of trepidation when stepping out from the Gate of Life. She realised that a part of her missed that feeling, but there was little enough to be done about it now. She tore her gaze away from the amphitheatre’s walls and moved on.

  Halicarnassus pulsed with a life of its own and it was a different kind of animal at night, its industrious façade flung away, the city embracing all manner of revelries. Crowds of people moved from tavern to tavern, performers and hawkers delighted and annoyed in equal measure; the very air was alive with the tang of cooking meat, torch smoke and the heavy pomades worn both by reveller and whore.

  Lysandra kept one hand on her purse, knowing full well that thieves preyed on the unwary. She shouldered her way through the throng, deciding in that moment to steer clear of both the Hellene quarter and the more affluent central area where she might be recognised. Though she had not fought in some time, she still had her admirers and she did not want to be bothered by well-wishers.

  She wondered if a part of her was also ashamed to face those who had once chanted her name.

  Away from the main walks the crowds were less thick and the inns and taverns less full. That suited her well, and she turned sharply into an establishment that looked enticingly middle-class.

  It was one of those artistic places she realised as she went inside, full of actors, poets, dramatists and other low-life dilletantes. Of course, there was a place for war poetry and paens, but Lysandra considered the rest of it to be Athenian nonsense. When one had Homer, what else was needed?

  ‘What can I get you?’ If the proprietor had noticed her disdainful glance at his clientele, he did not show it.

  ‘Do you have a room for the night?’

  ‘I’m sorry’ the man spread his hands. ‘We’re full – there’s a new troupe from Hellas who are to perform in the amphitheatre,’ he gestured to a group of perfumed fops with their adopted expressions of artistic intellectualism. ‘I can offer you a drink,’ the barkeep continued smiling, ‘and send a slave to find you lodgings at the nearest inn? All part of the service – I get a cut, see.’

  This was more like it, and for the first time since her drinking session, Lysandra began to feel something like her old self. ‘Excellent,’ she said. Even as she spoke, the barman gestured to young Carian boy who took off in the direction of the door. No doubt expecting a tip on his return, Lysandra thought sourly.

  ‘What’ll it be?’

  Lysandra hesitated, realising that her uncontrolled outburst to the gladiatrices had been the result of drinking on an empty stomach.

  But she had decided to get drunk – yes, she had acted shamefully, but she had consumed an awful lot of wine and no food and it was well known that that was a fatal combination. She was Spartan, and she would control herself. ‘Dinner – whatever’s going that has barley – and some Falernian.’

  ‘Of course,’ the barkeep gestured to a table. No sooner had she sat than a slave was bringing bread, olive oil and the brimming krater of amber wine. Lysandra ignored it as the girl poured and started on the bread. There would be no loss of self-discipline, she told herself. Only when the first piece of flatbread had gone down did she pour a cup and watered it in the Hellenic fashion. It tasted weak and soulless, so she decided that the next cup would need a dash more bite.

  The food, when it arrived, was excellent and she wolfed it down with gusto. The Carian boy returned, and she tipped him more than she should have even though his directions to her lodgings were vague at best. A few cups of wine had lifted her mood from the crushing depression that had weighed on her like Atlas’s burden.

  It was good to be away from the Deiopolis, she thought; a chance to get things into perspective. She was putting too much pressure on herself and Varia was right; there were others to do the tasks and, the truth of it was, the Deiopolis had become too big a propo-sition for any one person to manage. Of course, Varia’s astuteness was down to Lysandra herself. If not for the girl’s upbringing, she would not have had the foresight or temerity to advise her.

  Lysandra’s hand strayed out to pour herself another cup, but she clenched her fist, deciding against it. She had drunk just enough to regain her equilibrium and did not want to tip herself over the edge into drunkenness. She got to her feet and paid for her meal, advising the proprietor to keep the change before stepping out into the night.

  It had begun to rain heavily whilst she had been inside, forcing people into whatever shelters they could find. It was an eerie contrast to before, the once-packed streets now all but deserted. Lamps hissed and sputtered making the air stink of cheap oil, and rats moved here and there as their holes began to fill with water. Spartans feared nothing, Lysandra told herself as one particularly fat specimen chattered past, but her flesh crawled with revulsion at the sight of it. She glanced at a wall to get her bearings: she prided herself on her excellent memory, and the boy’s directions sprung to mind when bidden. They were, however, less than accurate. The rain grew heavier, sheeting down and sluicing the streets clean but also putting out lamps and torches, making it even more difficult for her to find her way. Lysandra resisted the urge to curse: she knew she was getting lost and now all the roads were beginning to look the same. To compound her darkening mood, the pleasant level-headedness that the wine had bestowed was being doused by the incessant downpour.

  She started as she noticed a man walking towards her. He raised a hand in greeting, smiling easily. Shorter than she by a head, he was bearded and trim, dressed in a tunic that was so loud she could make out its gaudiness even in the half-light. He greeted her in his barbarian tongue, but Lysandra had not deigned to learn the local language – everyone spoke Hellenic or vulgar Latin after all. ‘I do not understand…’ she began.

  She felt fingers grasp at the back of her tunic.

  Lysandra had no time to think. She lunged forward, her body remembering the hard-learned pankration that had served her so well. Her hand lashed out, the ridge slamming into the grinning Carian’s throat, smashing his larynx to sauce. He collapsed, choking on his own blood. Lysandra whirled about – too slow as a heavy blow caught her high on the temple. Heart racing, she stumbled, her back smashing into the side of a building. A man, bald and muscular, charged at her, hands outstretched as he reached for her.

  Lysandra kicked for his groin, but he was too fast, swarming all over her as he tried to bear her to the ground. Even as she struggled, another assailant waded into the fray. His movement distracted her and now the bald one had her in a grip and dragged her down.

  Snarling, he scrabbled for her purse.

  The darkness. The weight of the man on top her.

  Nastasen. The cell. She lived it all again in that moment.

  Lysandra screamed in terror, panic drowning her like a rising flood. Her wail was cut short as the man’s fist slammed into her cheekbone, breaking the skin. She struggled desperately, kicking and scratching, filled with only the desperate need to escape.

  ‘She’s like a wildcat,’ her attacker gasped as he fought to still her.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she heard the other say. ‘Just get her fucking purse!’

  ‘Hold still, damn you!’ The bald one’s hands clamped onto her throat, squeezing with sickening force. Blood pounded in her ears and Lysandra’s s
truggles became more desperate as her body screamed for air; she felt her tongue begin to distend as her attacker increased the pressure on her neck relentlessly. Her vision tunnelled and now the pain receded to a dull ache in the distance. She realised that she was dying. Not on the sands of the arena in glory, nor in old age having lived a life in service to the gods. Lysandra of Sparta would die alone, half-drunk in a filthy Carian alleyway.

  Brightness suddenly flared in her tunnelled vision and there she saw Eirianwen, swathed in light and colours. Lysandra called to her, reaching out as Eirianwen had once done in her own death throes.

  The beautiful tribeswoman did not move, but smiled sadly. Lysandra saw that her cheeks were damp with tears.

  There was no fear anymore, no pain. Just a sudden, infinite darkness.

  IV

  ‘I hate this country.’ Gaius Minervinus Valerian wiped his nose on his sleeve, resisting the urge to shiver as the bitter wind gusted about him. It was raining still. It rained constantly in this gods-forsaken place, and it was not even proper rain. It was a chilling, endless misty drizzle that seemed to be able to permeate through iron, leather, cloth, flesh and finally to the bone. Even his horse seemed offended that they were here.

  ‘It is the ends of empire, Tribune.’

  Valerian stiffened as he recognised the pristine tone of his commander in chief, Cornelius Fuscus. The general nudged his horse to fall in line with his own despondent nag and chuckled, as if unaffected by the chill. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ Valerian said. ‘I was thinking aloud.’

  Fuscus leaned in closer for a moment. ‘Doesn’t do to moan in front of the lads, Valerian: carping is for rankers, not gentlemen.’

  ‘Sir.’ Valerian responded.

  ‘But,’ Fuscus squinted into the gloom, ‘if it’s any consolation to you, I feel the same way. Dacia is worse than Britannia, and that’s saying something. Gods awful climate there too.’

  ‘I know, sir. I fought there alongside Sextus Julius Frontinus, my former sponsor.’

  ‘Frontinus, yes. A fine soldier,’ Fuscus commented. ‘You’ve trod similar ground to this then. Look there... ’ The general pointed to the mist-shrouded mountains looming above the seemingly endless forest that flanked them. ‘I read that they had trouble in that sort of terrain in Siluria.’

  ‘That’s so, general,’ Valerian nodded. ‘The natives were expert mountain fighters. But in the end, Frontinus – and Rome – triumphed. The result will be the same here too.’ Fuscus glanced at him, holding his gaze for a moment as though trying to ascertain if his statement was heartfelt or mere sycophancy.

  If he was honest with himself, Valerian knew it was a mixture of the two. But then, what did commanders expect? Total honesty was liable to get you into trouble. No wonder that military service was an essential stop on the road to political office. In his second stint in the military he was learning, once again, that one had to be adroit in communication with both superiors and subordinates and strive to remain popular with both.

  ‘How far have we marched today?’

  Valerian knew that Fuscus was testing him. ‘Eighteen… twenty miles,’ he replied after some thought. ‘You can’t trust the natives – even the supposedly loyal ones – so our maps are probably inaccurate.’ He gestured at the river to their west. ‘Following the Olt is slowing us. In the circumstances it’s still the best option, but the going is hard.’

  ‘Your suggestion?’

  ‘I’d call a halt now, get the lads to dig out the marching camp early. If I’m feeling the cold and miseries with my arse sat on a horse, the boys must be feeling it twice as badly. It’ll do their morale the world of good to have an easy day of it today.’

  Fuscus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good. I like that in a soldier, Valerian. Putting the lads first. Good.’ There was a pause, and Valerian steeled himself as Fuscus bellowed for his standard bearer at a level that would have put an enraged Jupiter to shame.

  The signifier was not long in coming. A huge man, he carried the honour-laden standard of the Fifth Alaudae high, his bearing as straight as the staff he bore. And he was probably warmer than everyone else in his heavy lion’s head cloak.

  ‘Call a halt, Cilo!’ Fuscus ordered. ‘Let’s get the camp built early tonight.’

  ‘Sir.’ Cilo saluted and made off. Shortly, the massive column shuddered to a stop as the general’s command rippled through the ranks.

  Valerian grinned, despite himself. No matter how many times he had seen this, it never ceased to amaze him. They had brought five legions – thirty thousand men – across the Danube to put paid to the Dacian incursions into Roman territory: it was a huge army by any standards, but the logistics and organisation that made Rome master of the world were demonstrated in the genius of her military routine.

  Like a giant colony of ants, each man knew his particular role.

  They had practiced this manoeuvre so often they could probably do it in their sleep. Two legions marched to the fore, taking up a defensive position as the rest of the army began to dig. The old adage was true – the most devastating weapon in the legionary’s arsenal was not the gladius but the shovel.

  With astonishing rapidity, a ditch and rampart was created and defensive stakes pounded into the wet earth. Then the marching camp itself began to take shape: it was a temporary city that would house the sleeping legions in the heart of enemy territory, a redoubt to which the army could fall back should a day go against them, and indeed it was a weapon of terror in a very real sense. To a barbarian it must seem as though some dark magic sowed these cities in their earth, fortresses that would spill out Roman soldiers bent on their destruction. Valerian always found this part of the day comforting.

  The prospect of hearty food, passable campaign wine and a decent night’s sleep in the safety of the camp was certainly reassuring. But, as much as he might want to get out of his sodden clothes and have his slaves prepare a bath, he knew he had work to do first.

  Valerian made his way to his cohort’s section of the camp. He could have found it with his eyes closed, of course; all marching camps were constructed in exactly the same way and everyone had an assigned billet. From Britannia to Africa, one could walk in any encampment and not get lost.

  Fires were now beginning to spark up all over the fortress as men settled down for their evening meal. Valerian quickened his step, anxious to see to his own needs. But Julius Caesar had made it a point personally to see to the welfare of the men under his command first, as had Gaius Marius before him. Valerian was sometimes unsure as to how effective this was as a morale-boosting exercise.

  Most of the men seemed to hold the equestrian class in deep contempt, which was hardly fair. After all, without the equestrians there would be no empire. Still, the average legionary was hardly liable to have a philosophical view on the matter.

  Valerian fixed a grin to his face as he approached a campfire.

  ‘Evening, lads,’ he said with as much cheer as he could muster.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  The response was a chorus of half-hearted ‘evening sir’s’ and no one met his eye. Valerian moved on, blowing into his hands to keep them warm. Most of the contiburnia, the eight-man squads into which each century was divided, responded to his questions in the same surly manner. Those that engaged in conversation did so only to complain. Boots were leaking, socks were wet, mules were going lame, the locals that came to trade were thieves and liars and their whores were poxy – the usual litany, but Valerian did scratch a note on his wax-tablet to requisition fresh boots and socks.

  It took some time to complete his rounds and, by the end of it, Valerian was as thoroughly miserable as the men had attested they were. But on seeing the warm glow emanating from his tent, he was immeasurably heartened. As he pushed the flap aside, a comforting sigh of warm air caressed him. Heraclitus, his slave, had pre-empted him and made the bath already. And to his credit, the instant Valerian got inside, the old Greek was pressing a cup of hot wine into his
hand.

  ‘Let me take your cloak, sir,’ Heraclitus said. He tutted. ‘You’re almost blue with the cold. Come, let us get you out of those wet things.’

  ‘Thank you, Heraclitus’. Valerian allowed the slave to undress him. As soon as his subligaricum been removed, Valerian tiptoed across the floor and clambered into the ‘bath.’ Not that this rude wooden tub could really be called such, but it was heavenly after the deprivations of the day’s march.

  ‘I have a message from the general for you, sir,’ Heraclitus advised him as he luxuriated in the water.

  Valerian sighed. ‘Read it then, please.’

  ‘He requests your presence for dinner,’ Heraclitus said with the air of a man who had been asked a rhetorical question. ‘I have your clean clothes laid out, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Valerian forced himself to smile, though he wanted to shout at the old man to relieve some of his own frustration. If soldiering was all a big adventure to Fuscus, it was nothing of the sort to him. This was a serious job and officers needed their rest and recuperation. The last thing Valerian wanted to do was sit in Fuscus’s command tent and listen to the old man go on about his past campaigns. It was not as if he were a novice; he had fought alongside Frontinus himself. But Valerian would take the general’s war stories any day over the vacuous waffling of his idiot nephew, Marcus.

  The man was an imbecile, and spoke with one of those affected upper-crust accents that they all perfected in the Greek academies.

  Dacia was Marcus’s first campaign, but he made up for the lack of any soldiering stories to tell by regaling his captive audience with tales of lurid highlife in the capital. It was going to be an excruciating night. And it meant he had to go out in the cold again.