Valerian had to admit that the general did manage to bring a touch of Rome to the field. The command tent, crowded as it was with officers and allies, was as luxurious as could be, all drapes and discreet décor. He had even thought to bring incense on campaign, which meant that the entire proceedings were touched with a gentle haze that fortuitously masked the smell of the vulgar Dacian collaborators present who would profit from their association with Rome once the mission objectives had been satisfied.
All in all, the food and drink were pleasing enough, but of course Marcus had been foisted upon him to entertain. Valerian was ten years older than the general’s nephew but listening to his inane chatter, it began to feel like fifty.
‘Simply can’t abide Seneca’s plays,’ the young man was saying, a distasteful cast on his handsome features. He looked altogether too much like that painting of Alexander the Great, all high cheekbones, curly hair and limpid eyes.
‘Quite so.’ For once, Valerian found himself in agreement.
Seneca ‘the younger’ – which was an amusing title – was a boring old windbag whose stoicism was a product of being able to afford it.
‘Now, if I want real diversion, it’s the arena for me,’ Marcus enthused. ‘And the emperor is most skilled at providing new entertainments. Why, there are women fighting in the Flavian Amphitheatre now – in the main events! Who would have thought such a thing possible? And, what’s more, the mob loves them.’
‘I have seen women fight in the provinces,’ Valerian was pleased to surprise the younger man. ‘In Halicarnassus they were all the rage at one time. Why, I even supped with one of the creatures.’
‘No!’ Marcus affected a scandalised air, his eyes alive with the need to hear details that he obviously hoped were of the sordid nature. ‘Did the wench entertain you, my friend?’
Valerian chuckled despite himself, recalling the night. He had been drunk and made an ass of himself. Frontinus had indulged the matter but for a while it had been a source of great embarrassment to him. ‘She was not the beddable type,’ he said, suddenly realising that he had left an overlong pause.
‘A sow then?’
‘Far from it,’ Valerian called for more wine. ‘A proper beauty.’
‘So it is in Rome,’ Marcus nodded. ‘There’s something quite exciting about a creature that can fight… and fuck, don’t you think?’ He laughed at his own wit. ‘There was one particularly fine piece of German stock that I hear,’ – he looked both ways and lowered his voice – ‘that Domitian himself took a fancy to.
But she’s ‘retired’ now, packed back off to Germania – Auriana I think she was called. But they have a new darling of crowds now.
Aeslon Nocturna…’ he affected a theatrical impression of a man in love.
‘The Midnight Falcon?’ Valerian raised an eyebrow. ‘They do so love their colourful names.’
‘You’ve never seen anything like her,’ Marcus enthused. ‘They say that she’s a Roman, too. Took up the oath of her own free will: fights for fun and she’s damn good at it.’ He paused, looking heav-enwards for a moment. ‘What a body! It’s as though Venus herself strides out on the sands when she fights.’
‘I’m sure,’ Valerian responded. Unlike Marcus and old Frontinus, he was not really a connoisseur of the arena spectacles. He went because it was the thing that men of his stature were obliged to do on occasion. But the truth of it was he was more for the Circus Maximus than the Flavian Amphitheatre. Any brute could pick up a sword and fight, but chariot racing took skill, courage, audacity and guile. To see the races was to see true Roman virtus – despite what the gladiatorial fans said. ‘Tell me,’ he decided to change the subject. ‘How goes your first campaign?’
‘What would you have him answer, Tribune?’
Valerian started, and felt a rush of angry heat in his ears. Fuscus seemed to enjoy making him jump. ‘Merely asking for the asking’s sake, sir,’ he snapped, immediately regretting his defensive tone.
Fuscus pulled a couch closer and reclined. ‘Well, Marcus? Valerian asked a question.’
‘It is a fine adventure, uncle,’ the younger Cornelius responded at once. ‘I am learning much about soldiering and harsh life on the frontier.’
Fuscus regarded the boy with doting affection and Valerian realised that he was not going to point out that a perfumed tent and as much wine as you could drink was not exactly harsh. ‘And you, General?’ he put in. ‘How do you feel we fare?’
‘Not as well as I had hoped,’ Fuscus admitted. ‘Progress is slow, and we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the enemy.’
‘Uncle!’ Marcus scoffed. ‘Of course we have not. The stinking barbarians have seen the temper of Rome’s response to their rude incursions. Why, if one were to step out and listen carefully, one would hear their teeth chattering in terror.’
‘That’s the spirit, boy,’ Fuscus chuckled, but then sobered instantly.
‘But I fear not an entirely accurate assessment. Valerian, your view on the enemy?’
‘My view?’ Valerian was pleased to be asked. It proved two things: firstly, that Fuscus evidently rated him as an officer; second, that the old general was not one of those commanders too foolish to listen to the opinions of their subordinates. ‘We know that Diurpaneus is no amateur. This is his land – for now, of course. However, he knows it well, better than we do and, I suspect, better than our local guides. He knows we’re here, and he’s probably out there watching us right now.
But he won’t attack. Why should he? We can march up and down the Olt till we’re blue in the face and not achieve a thing. We’ll need to turn inland, which will put us into wooded country and stretch our supply lines. It’s a risk, but a necessary one to flush him out.’
‘Indeed,’ Fuscus waved for more wine. ‘And if you were Diurpaneus, where would you want to face us?’
‘The mountains,’ Valerian responded at once. ‘The pass at Tapae is a perfect site for an ambush. We’ll have to go through it to getinto Dacia proper, and I suspect that Diurpaneus has hidden his forces in the pass. Once the entire army is bottled up, if I were Diurpaneus… well, that’s where I would strike.’
‘This is my thinking also,’ Fuscus agreed. ‘It’s a conundrum but, one way or the other, we must deal with it. I think I have a solution.’
‘Sir?’ Valerian had to ask.
‘We’ll swing away from the Olt and cut straight through the forest towards Tapae,’ Fuscus said. ‘Once there, we’ll dig in for a while and establish a semi-permanent base, and then turn our attentions to finding an alternate route through the mountains. In the meantime, we’ll be living off the land. The local farmland, I mean.
If this Diurpaneus is the ‘champion of his people’, then I suspect he won’t sit idly by while we raze the whole country our side of his mountain stronghold. If he attacks from the pass, he’ll be on a narrow front anyway, and we’ll crush him. If we can find a way through the mountains, we’ll trap him in there and crush him. In either scenario, I can see nothing but complete victory.’
‘To victory!’ Marcus raised his cup, and Valerian followed suit.
Like Frontinus, Fuscus seemed to have that innate gift of seeing straight to the heart of the matter. He was, however, a much more cautious commander. Valerian had the feeling that if his old mentor had been in command, the legions would be preparing to assault the pass at Tapae already. But he was forced to admit that whilst Frontinus’s audacious tactics won him great renown, Fuscus was putting the lives of his soldiers first and that was a very comforting notion.
Matters current were put aside and Fuscus began a tale of his youth, which Valerian had heard before; judging by the wink that Marcus tipped him, he too had endured this particular epic more than once. However, with his mood buoyed by the wine and promise of a cautious advance, Valerian felt positively mellow towards both uncle and nephew: indeed, a few more nights like this and Marcus could actually become bearable. The weather aside, this campaign could actually turn out t
o be rather enjoyable after all.
V
The blackness began to fade to purple, then to green, then finally to a sickly yellow. And there was pain.
Lysandra opened her eyes slowly, her lids as heavy as iron gates. Above her was a plain wooden ceiling and spirals danced at the periphery of her vision, but when she tried to move her head a wave of nausea washed over her. She swallowed, fearing that she would be sick, but the motion caused a spike of agony in her throat.
‘Awake I see.’ A man’s voice sounded at her side. ‘Here. Some water.
‘Move slowly,’ he admonished.
Lysandra steeled herself and struggled to prop herself up on her elbow. As she did, her stomach lurched and she could not stop herself from vomiting. A pair of sandalled feet stepped deftly backwards as she heaved into a conveniently placed bucket. The gagging reflex caused fires of agony in her neck but she could not stop herself from vomiting up a hot rush of purple, stinking liquid.
‘Dear, dear.’ The man’s tone was sardonic and disapproving.
‘Finished?’
Lysandra nodded, taking the cup that the man offered her. ‘Where am I?’ she croaked, sipping gratefully on the water and then wincing as it hit her stomach. She knew that it would not stay down for long.
‘Temple of Asklepios,’ the man informed her. He was short, with thinning hair and wore a green tunic that marked him as a temple orderly. ‘A couple of soldiers heard you crying for help last night.
They chased off your attackers and brought you here. You’re a lucky girl,’ he added.
Lysandra was about to respond waspishly on the nature of luck when the water she had just drunk came up. She felt the man take the cup away as she puked. This time, the pain was worse as her guts heaved emptily.
‘Here,’ he said again, handing her a fresh cup. ‘When you’ve finished that you can leave,’ he indicated a door at the end of the room. It was like a barracks, she thought; just rows of beds on each wall, occupied by the dregs of Halicarnassus.
‘I was attacked,’ she said, pleading. She could not just leave now, she was too ill.
‘As I said, you were lucky. You’ve taken a bit of a hiding, but you’ll be all right. Nasty bruising on your neck, though, so you won’t be working for a few nights, I imagine. Not exactly at your best, are you?’ he smiled thinly.
‘Working? I am not a prostitute!’ she said. Her cracked voice sounded alien to her.
The orderly sighed. ‘Don’t bother lying to me, all right? I’ve heard it all before. The fact is if you hadn’t been beaten, I’d not have taken you in at all.’
‘The hospitality of the Asklepios’s servants is legendary.’
‘Listen, love. There are sick people that need our beds. You’ve no money to make a donation and, frankly, by the look and smell of you, I won’t be taking payment in kind. Now be so good as to drink your water and fuck off.’
Lysandra bristled momentarily, but the anger quickly left her.
She could only imagine how she looked. The orderly was already on his way, talking to an old woman who occupied the next bed.
She sipped her water for a few moments when she felt the disapproving eyes of both orderly and patient upon her. She willed herself not to be sick again and climbed out of the bed. She was still dressed in her filthy tunic but there was no sign of her sandals. She knew it would be useless to ask for them. Clutching her churning stomach, she shuffled painfully from the room and made her way outside.
Hunched in pain and squinting in the bright, Carian sun, she left the temple compound and went into the streets beyond. It was crowded as always, but people were giving her a wide berth, and no wonder. She could barely stand herself the stink that emanated from both her clothes and body. Sadness welled up inside her as she wandered the street, unsure as to what to do. With no money, she could not bathe, nor could she get Hades from the stable.
She made her way into an alley between two wine shops and hunched down. Unbidden tears sprung to her eyes and she wept, clutching her arms about herself. How could she have come to this?
Why was she being punished when all she had done was live in service to the goddess? She sat there for some time, wrapped in her own misery. She would climb to some place up high, she decided, and this time she would not baulk; she would give Athene the ultimate sacrifice, her own life! Suddenly full of purpose, she tried to stand, but the pain from her wounds caused her to sway and stumble.
‘A fine sacrifice,’ she muttered. ‘You cannot even stand on your own two feet.’
She had never been so low as this, even when she was first at the ludus. But then, there had been someone to succour her in her moment of doubt. ‘Telemachus,’ she murmured. But she could not go to him. Not now. Not like this. She was so ashamed, so full of regret. What would he think of her? He might even turn her away, recognising her as the worthless profligate that she was. She hauled herself straight. If Telemachus refused to help, it would be a clear sign that her life was worth as little as she feared. She resolved that if this turned out to be the case she would hasten her own death by the swiftest means possible: it was better to die than live in ignominy.
Athene’s sanctuary had grown larger under Telemachus’s auspices.
What once had been a small haven had now grown to encompass the buildings on either side of it. Lysandra knew that it was a large donation by Lucius Balbus that had sparked the initial expansion and her own stint in the temple at the height of her fame had filled the coffers even more. The height of her fame. She smiled bitterly.
That had been a long time ago.
Mustering all the courage she had left, she walked down the steps that lead into the sanctuary. It was cool inside and she was grateful for the sudden relief from the unmerciful sun. The same statue of the Goddess stood at the far end of the temple, but the space inside was much widened. Telemachus had knocked out walls to increase the capacity. It was odd that the place was empty at this hour, but she was grateful for it. She sank onto a bench.
She glanced around, noting that the paint was peeling from the walls and there was a musty smell that the meagre smoke from the incense burners could not mask. Much like herself, it seemed that Telemachus’s shrine was all but destitute within.
‘Can I help you, lady?’
She looked up to see her friend emerging from his rooms behind the statue. He had lost much weight, she noticed, and there was more grey in his beard then when she had last seen him. ‘Telemachus,’ she croaked.
The priest hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, you have the better of me’. He spread his hands, that winning smile appearing on his gaunt face.
‘But I can see that you are in need of… Lysandra? ’
‘Yes. It is I…’ She was about to say more, but no words would come. Then, he was by her side, pulling her to his embrace, holding her close. She felt the warmth of him engulf her, the strength of his arms protecting her from the ills of the world. ‘Oh, Telemachus,’ she whispered. ‘I am a mess.’
Even though his slave had bathed and clothed her in a clean tunic, Telemachus was saddened by the sight of her. Lysandra’s hands shook and her face was bloated and the once imperious, ice-coloured eyes were dull and glassy. She ate hungrily, like the lowest beggar, her eyes constantly fixing on the wine krater before flicking away again.
After a time, she seemed to lose her internal battle and reached out to refill her cup, adding less than the proper amount of water.
‘I am sorry to impose on you like this,’ she said.
‘It is no imposition,’ he said. ‘I feel bad that we have not seen each other in so long.’ That was the truth. Lysandra was evidently in need and he felt no small measure of guilt that he had been so wrapped up in the affairs of the temple that he had not thought to visit her. She would not think to visit him, of course, but with Lysandra one had to accept that her friendship was unique to say the least.
‘I will not be under your feet,’ she promised. ‘And I will pay you back the money you have
loaned me, naturally.’
She had told him the whole story of her attack and the loss of her funds. The physical evidence of that encounter were plain to see but, as she tipped back the wine, Telemachus realised that this was not the same austere gladiatrix that he had once known. ‘You need more water in that,’ he indicated the wine cup and at once noted the spark of anger in her eyes before she masked her gaze and complied.
‘I have had a trying few days,’ she offered by way of excuse. ‘I just needed a drink or two to calm my nerves.’
‘I see.’
‘What do you see?’ She looked up, anger once again in her eyes.
Now, Telemachus knew, was not the time for constraint. He assumed an expression of hurt confusion. ‘Nothing… I… meant no offence,’ he said, marvelling at how contrite she instantly became.
She was, he realised, as credulous as ever.
‘I apologise for my rudeness, then.’ She bent her head and continued to eat.
‘How are things at the Deiopolis?’ he asked, changing the subject.
Lysandra scooped up the last of the food and poured more wine.
‘It goes well, though there is much work to be done. I have to double-check everything that goes through there else we would be fleeced blind by these Carian thieves.’
Everything in that case would have to be triple-checked, Telemachus reasoned. Probably by Titus and Nikos: Lysandra had many talents but business acumen was hardly among them – though he very much doubted that anyone would have the guts or bad sense to tell her that. ‘It has become quite the attraction,’ he smiled. ‘You have done what you set out to do, haven’t you? As Gladiatrix Prima, you honoured Athene, and then as victrix you set up the finest temple to the Hellenic gods in Asia Minor.’
‘Hellas!’ Lysandra raised her cup. ‘To Sparta and Athens!’
‘Sparta and Athens,’ Telemachus toasted. ‘So, what next for Lysandra?’ he asked.
Lysandra lapsed into silence for a time. ‘I do not know,’ she said at length. ‘I received an invitation to fight in Rome, but my fighting days are over. So many things have changed since we first met.’ She hesitated. ‘Telemachus… I have had a vision… but I made no sense of it. I think…’ she flushed with shame, ‘I think that it was Dionysus who sent it to me, not Athene.’
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