Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  This was as close to an admission that drink was her master as he was going to get. Telemachus knew her well – it would have been an excruciating decision for her to admit to it. ‘Tell me of the vision,’ he said.

  ‘It was some time ago. I wrote it down, but have not had time to think about it much.’

  ‘Tell me what you can recall. We Athenians are masters of interpretation, you know. After all, there’s an advocate in every one of us just bursting to break free.’ It was a small joke, like the ones they had so often shared in the past with each other, mocking their respective polis’ s foibles, and he was gratified to see her smile.

  ‘I saw an eagle trampled by horses,’ she said. ‘And then a god that had a thousand faces and voices, roaring in terrible hunger, and a bloody fist, raised in victory. And I saw myself drowning – like before, during the storm that brought me here. Drowning in the wine-dark sea.’ She lifted her cup and drained it. ‘It seems that I drown overmuch these days. Telemachus, I am ashamed.’

  She told him of the aftermath, of how she had made an exhibi-tion of herself. When he probed deeper, he determined that drink had owned her for nearly two years now. No wonder she was in such a state, he thought.

  ‘And there you have it,’ she finished. She was half drunk by now, but seemed to be controlling herself. ‘I tell myself each time that I will never drink to excess again, and yet when the krater is before me I forget my remorse, my good intentions and the shame of what has transpired before. Telemachus, you must understand,’ her eyes implored him, ‘I do not acknowledge or even ignore what I have promised myself. It just does not occur to me. I cannot understand why this is so but, as soon as I see the drink, it is as though I have no memory of the bad things that always happen when I have too much…’ she trailed off. ‘Sometimes I just want to die, the shame of it is too much to bear. But then it passes, life goes on and all is well. I do not drink to excess each time the wine cup touches my lips. But, sooner or later, Dionysus curses me and,’ she spread her hands, ‘you can see the result.’

  Telemachus was touched by her words. Lysandra’s seal had always been her pride, her refusal to seek help when she needed it. It was this self-reliance that had made her a supreme fighter, her iron will that had cast her into the invincible Gladiatrix Prima. But, like a shield wall, if that will was broken, she was all too vulnerable. He cursed himself that he had not found time to see more of her: perhaps he could have averted her fall, saved her from herself. But it was not too late. Lysandra was a Spartan. All Spartans were unimaginative and, thankfully, easily led. ‘I can see the result,’ he said at length. ‘But it is not your doing that things have come to this.’

  ‘I should have more self-control,’ she sighed, and he realised that, though she was not totally inebriated, the melancholy of the drunk was descending upon her.

  ‘Athene has spoken to you,’ he said gently. ‘But Dionysus screams so loudly in your ears that you have not heard. I think I can understand most of your vision. Drowning in a wine dark sea, I am afraid, is all too obvious. The god with a thousand faces and voices – Lysandra, this is the arena that you once ruled. It hungers for you, as you hunger for it. The bloody fist raised in victory – your fist. The horses and birds of prey… that is unclear,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe your soul is being trampled… or it could be nothing. That’s the trouble with visions sent by the gods – they’re never that straightforward.’

  ‘I do not know what to do, though. I cannot carry on like this.’

  ‘That is one thing we can agree on, Lysandra. The goddess Athene walks by your side as ever,’ he said. ‘Though it may not seem like it. For her own reasons she has a hand in your life, but you are but mortal and cannot always see clearly. It helps to have another person’s perspective from time to time. Like before, when we first met.

  Athene had her purpose then, and I believe she has it now.’

  ‘I fail to see it.’

  ‘Your mind is dulled. I am sorry to say it, but it is true. And no wonder – the Spartans’ greatest strength is also their greatest weakness. You don’t need me to tell you that, our jokes aside. Remember that Sparta hated sending men away from the embrace of the city.

  Too long spent away from Sparta would lead to corruption, would it not?’

  ‘That is so,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘The debauchery of inferior societies is an affront to Spartan eyes.’

  ‘An affront?’ Telemachus raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps. But also a seducer. Lysandra, you have lived your whole life under the savage rod of discipline. From your agoge to the ludus your life had rules, structure and meaning. Your Mission was to bring Athene’s word to the people, your role in the arena was to honour her and your polis. You built a temple to all the gods on the back of your success.

  And then…’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘and then what? All your aims achieved, all your labour done and you not even near thirty years old. Discipline fled… and what is left?’ He gestured to the krate r. ‘You are many things, Lysandra, but the administrator of a temple? I think not.’

  ‘What must I do?’

  Telemachus chuckled. ‘Oh, Lysandra. Lysandra, beloved of Athene, I envy you. I am jealous because in all my years in her service, not once have I felt the touch of the goddess. Yet you…you she loves. What must you do? You ask this, yet on your desk in the Deiopolis is a letter from the Emperor of Rome requesting…requesting that you fight his champion in the Flavian Amphitheatre – the greatest arena on the face of the earth. Do you not think, Lysandra, that Athene has given you a purpose once again?’

  ‘I cannot fight again,’ she argued. ‘I am too old, too long out of the arena. I would be easy prey for this Aesalon Nocturna of theirs.’

  ‘Too old? Lysandra, you are twenty-six. You’re not too old – you are in your prime. At the moment, yes, you are not as… honed…as you once were. But that is easily rectified. Think, girl!’ He rose to his feet, knowing that his performance would impress her. ‘Your Mission is not yet complete. Here in the provinces you proved, beyond all doubt, that you were matchless on the sands of the arena.

  But in Rome? What a feat it would be to go the capital of the Empire and defeat a Roman champion in the Temple of Gladiators!

  Who then could argue against Spartan superiority? How better could you serve Athene? Your Mission was to teach others of her word.

  Where better to accomplish that than in the centre of the world.

  Rome! You will shout loud in their arena, and they will hear Athene’s name. That, Lysandra of Sparta, is your answer. You must go to Rome.’ He had, he realised, got a little bit carried away with the performance, but his audience was full of rapt attention. Awe, relief and hope were written all over her face, and Telemachus sat down, letting the branding of his words sizzle into her mind.

  ‘And you say that the goddess does not speak to you?’ Lysandra whispered. ‘I think that perhaps she speaks through you, Telemachus.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said modestly. ‘You will go then?’

  ‘I will. I must get away from Asia Minor. The east has always drawn the Hellenic warrior, and the east has more often than not been our undoing. From Achilles to Alexander – we win here and then die here. I will not die here.’

  ‘You will not die there either.’

  VI

  They left the marching camp at dawn.

  The ever-cautious Fuscus had left a garrison to defend the position should it be attacked. It was standard procedure to do so in supposedly hostile territory, and Valerian privately commended the old general on his thoroughness. Despite the fact they had had no contact with enemy forces, the old boy was playing it safe. Indeed, Valerian reckoned that this push through the Dacian forests to trap Diurpaneus in his mountain stronghold was an overtly aggressive move for the general. Then again, Domitian was not an emperor renowned for his patience and the political reality for Fuscus was clear: deal with this Diurpaneus or be replaced.

  To be fair to Domitian, he had provided the genera
l with the fighting machine to do the job: five legions was a massive show of force and a show of faith in his long-standing supporter Fuscus.

  Valerian suspected that the politicians in Rome probably expected the barbarians to just capitulate and beg forgiveness when they realised the severity of Rome’s intended chastisement.

  The truth of the matter was that the Dacians – whilst barbarians – were far from being Germans. The night before, Fuscus had referred to Dacia as a proto civilisation. Certainly, in this part of the country they had proper towns and villages, trading, sophistication and all the elements of rudimentary society. Further north that was not the case, of course – Valerian had heard tell of feral tribes, human sacrifice, obscene torture and all sorts of savagery. But on campaign there were always those sorts of tales about the enemy.

  He glanced about, realising that the rain had stopped just as the vanguard breached the wall of trees that separated the Roman army from the Dacian heartland. Scouts had reported the way ahead was clear. The military had a healthy respect for enemy woodland, ever since the Teutoburg disaster of eighty years before – no commander in his right mind was going to send his men blindly into a wooded heathen maze without the absolute surety that no trap was about to be sprung on the legions when they were at their most vulnerable.

  Now that the rain had ceased, an almost unnatural quiet descended upon the army as it flowed through the woods. To a bird flying above them, Valerian reckoned that it must look like a scarlet and iron river was seeping into the tree line, the irresistible tide of Rome drowning the wild Dacian landscape as it progressed inland. As though in response to this invasion, a mist began rise about the legs of the marching soldiers as grey and cold as the waters of the Styx.

  Valerian could feel the trepidation in the vanguard as they marched on. As a matter of breeding, all rankers were superstitious oafs – they were either farmyard yokels or city scum, the vast majority of them illiterate, unimaginative and stupid. Not that these were neces-sarily faults in the average legionary; such men could be counted on to obey orders without question, fear no enemy and not realise when they were beaten, thus often turning defeat into victory.

  But here, far from home in the eerie embrace of the eastern European wilds, even the most prosaically-minded soldier could begin to see ghouls in the shadows. Valerian had to admit to himself that the forest had an unnatural feel to it; a strange malevolence seemed to permeate the mists as though the land itself was angered by the presence of the invaders from the west. He shook his shoulders, chiding himself for falling prey to fanciful imaginings.

  The legions pressed on, making good progress despite the mists that continued to rise. The trees were thick but not impassable and good marching order was maintained. The men, however, still looked anxious.

  ‘My old mum told me about places like this,’ Valerian heard a ten-year veteran confide to his mate. ‘These barbarian forests are haunted by the poor sods they kill in their human sacrifices.’

  Valerian leaned down in the saddle. ‘Your old mum also told her husband that you were his issue, Decimus, despite her servicing half the depot when he was on campaign.’ Decimus’s mate cracked up laughing, as did most of the men within earshot. ‘Haunted forests, indeed. What a load of bollocks.’

  ‘Yes sir, thank you sir,’ Decimus looked chagrined and baleful all at once. ‘Bollocks, sir,’ he added, his intonation making it the accusative: ‘ Bollocks to you, sir.’ It was as much a retort his rank would allow, and Valerian was pleased to let it pass. The exchange had broken the mood, which was the main thing.

  ‘Come on now, lads!’ Valerian raised his voice. ‘Not much further and we’ll be out in open country.’

  It was true. A few miles had passed underfoot after the exchange and the men of the vanguard could see the trees thinning out ahead.

  Valerian failed to notice at first, but the silence had been replaced by something else. A low, distant roaring that seemed to come from the very earth itself. ‘What’s that noise?’ he asked aloud. The expressions on the faces of the soldiers told him that they were thinking the same as him. He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth and nudged his mount into a canter.

  He had gone no further than a couple of hundred yards when his fears were confirmed. The sound had become the unmistakeable din of men shouting. Thousands of them. The shock hit Valerian like a hammer blow as he realised that, beyond the tree line, the Dacians were waiting for them. Fear leapt to his throat, but he had to go on. No scouts could be seen, so he, and he alone, was responsible for reporting the enemy’s dispostion.

  He urged the horse on, and soon he could see them: tens of thousands of infantry and horsemen in full battle array.

  Waiting for them.

  Valerian cursed, dragged his horse’s head about and galloped back to his men. ‘The Dacians,’ he gasped. ‘Get a message to the general – the Dacians are coming.’

  He gave the order to halt the line, and for a few bizarre minutes all was still. Then, as word began to spread, the confused expressions of the men became those of shock and fear. All at once, buccinas began to blare, commands shouted out and then ingrained discipline of the legions took over. Centurions, long experienced and well-used to the shock of ambuscade led the men to battle order.

  Valerian checked to see all was in order with his own command before cantering away from the front ranks and seeking Fuscus’s standard. He was not alone, officers from all over the army were now bounding in for orders.

  Valerian, as the first man to contact the enemy, forced his way to the front and blurted out the size and disposition of the force in front of them. To his credit, Cornelius Fuscus was not unhinged by the news. Indeed, he seemed to welcome it. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said.

  ‘The enemy has made his error and it is for us to capitalise upon it.

  Facing us in open battle is at best overconfidence and at worst desperation. I neither know nor care which, only that Diurpaneus has saved us a long and drawn-out campaign of attrition. Instead, he has taken the honourable path of meeting us, face to face, man to man. I could almost admire him if it wasn’t my job to kill him!’

  Valerian and the others laughed politely. ‘Be that as it may,’

  Fuscus went on, ‘whilst the Dacian has done us this courtesy, I suspect that the longer we delay, the harder things will be. I have little time for Caesarian tactics, nor shall we need them in this instance. We must take the fight to the enemy, break the centre and allow our horsemen to envelop him. Keep your eyes and ears open for signals – I will convey more once I have assessed the situation first hand. To your posts, gentlemen.’ The general turned to him.

  ‘Valerian.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘On return to your unit, it will be your honour to signal the advance. Take it to them, son.’

  Valerian swallowed. ‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir!’ He hoped his expression was resolute as he turned his mount away, but the fear was crawling through him like maggots through a rotting core.

  He was not alone in this, he knew. No man, no matter how brave or experienced, was immune from the sudden jolt of terror when ordered into battle.

  Valerian rode back to his section, noting that his men were in a high state of readiness. Centurions and optios prowled the lines, dressing them with a curse here and crack of the vine staff there; it brought to mind a recent book that Valerian had read which cited that the Roman military’s drills were like bloodless battles, its battles bloody drills. This was where the Roman soldier found his courage: not in bluster or drink like a barbarian but in preparedness and routine. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves, trying to appear aloof. It was what the men expected.

  Suddenly, Valerian had to fight down the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all: here he was trying to look unconcerned whilst just beyond the tree line was horde of screaming barbarians who wanted desperately to kill him in the most grisly way possible.

  ‘You seem happy, Sir. Looking forward to the
fight?’ said Decimus.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Valerian grinned at the ranker. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  ‘The mark of a true officer, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Decimus.’ He looked left and right and then behind.

  The ranks of the legions were drawn up as best they could in the wooded terrain. That would change when they broke the tree line and got out on the flat ground beyond. Valerian sucked in air, expanding his chest. ‘Fifth Alaudae will advance by the right!’ his voice rolled through the forest. ‘Forward… march!’ As soon as he had given the command, signalmen and trumpeters relayed it and, with a shudder, the legions began to roll forward, an implacable wall of iron, bronze and muscle that could not be resisted.

  Valerian could feel the tension about him as they moved forward, each man picturing what awaited him beyond the trees. As the first line of men emerged, they could see the Dacians some quarter of a mile away, brandishing their weapons, their war horns answering the brazen calls of Roman buccinas. With the rising fog clinging to them, the Dacian warriors took on the appearance of wraiths conjured from Hades to do battle with the soldiers of Rome. Valerian knew that his imagination was running away with him, but he could not seem to restrain it. It was always the same before battle – his mind played tricks, magnifying the fear in his guts. Outwardly he knew he was the picture of the arrogant Roman commander but it was only the fact that the fear of cracking in front of his men was greater than his fear of the Dacians that kept him from running.

  Valerian’s eyes narrowed as he saw the front line of the Dacians shift and take a step backwards. He could see their full array clearly and, though it was a formidable force, they were still outnumbered by the legions. This realisation bolstered his courage as it did the men in the ranks. They marched a little straighter and the pace increased slightly. The Dacians responded by moving back even more.