Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  The Dacian laughed in triumph and stepped in to finish him off, but through the sickening pain the will to live was strong and Valerian swung his booted foot at the man’s groin. It was the last thing the Dacian expected and with a retching choke he collapsed, cradling his testicles. Valerian drew his dagger with his left hand and fell upon the injured tribesman, plunging the blade into his face over and over again, shearing away flesh to reveal the bone beneath. He kept on stabbing until exhaustion and pain overwhelmed him. His throat burned and he threw up convulsively.

  When his stomach was vacated he looked about, fearing fresh attack. But the battle was over. All that remained were desperate, last-ditch scraps as men fought not to survive, but avoid capture.

  All knew the agonies that awaited them at the hands of the Dacians.

  The sky was growing dark and it was almost quiet now save for the laughs of the enemy and the desperate cries of those who were dying. Valerian looked about for a sword. Taking his own life was the only thing to do. It would save his honour, and it would spare him a lengthy, agonising death.

  He reached out, his blood-begrimed fingers closing on the hilt of a dead soldier’s gladius. Like him, the blade was coated in filth and viscera: it did not look so fine a Roman thing now – much like himself. He examined the weapon, steeling himself, working up the courage to place it against his throat and lunge forward. It was the Roman way, it was the thing to do.

  ‘Gaius Minervinus Valerian!’

  He was so startled that the sword spun from his grip. He looked up to see a rider staring down at him. One of the Dacian amazons: she was alone, and Valerian’s gaze fell on the sword he had just dropped. The horsewoman’s derisive snort echoed from within her helmet. ‘You should not try for it,’ she indicated the weapon with a jerk of her chin. ‘I will call out and my comrades will come.

  They’ll skin you alive just to hear you squeal.’

  Valerian swallowed, trying not to look afraid. Then he realised that she had called him by name. ‘How do you know me?’

  Slowly, she reached up and removed her helmet. She was not young – well over thirty five, nearer forty he reckoned. Her hair was long and dark, and Valerian could see the streaks of grey even in the fading light. She waited in silence as he examined her, evidently expecting him to recognise her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at length, his eyes flicking back to the sword. If she was going to be affronted, he decided that he would kill himself before she and her nearby harpies got her claws into him.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ she hissed, her accented Latin full of contempt.

  ‘I have seen you many times, lapdog. You sat at the side of your master Frontinus as I killed for your entertainment. Too high and mighty to know those who died for your games. ’

  Yes. He could see it now in the way that she carried herself in the shape of her body. ‘ Amazona,’ he whispered. ‘ Gladiatrix Prima.’

  Her lip curled in something between a smile and a sneer. ‘Very good.’ She nodded slowly, as if considering something. ‘Very good.

  Hai!’ she called out to her warriors. Valerian was confused for a moment, but the sickening realisation that she meant to have her fun tormenting him after all rushed up to him. He leapt for the sword, but with the merest touch of her knee, Amazona’s horse stepped forward and knocked him from his feet. He scrambled up, but more horsewomen had come to surround him, their spears levelled at his chest.

  Amazona’s eyes were as cold as her voice. ‘You had your sport with me. Now we will have our sport with you,’ she said.

  VII

  Lysandra had wanted to send a letter to the Deiopolis advising them of her intentions, but Telemachus would have none of it. He insisted that she return to her temple and tell those closest to her in person. At first, the thought of facing them all again was too much to bear but, as the days passed, Lysandra found that she could think of meeting them without cringing in shame.

  Telemachus had housed her in her old room. It seemed to her that she was coming full circle as, many years ago, she had lain on the same bed in dire need of help. It was the Athenian who had succoured her then as now, never asking anything in return. She was grateful, but it was not the Spartan way to gush grateful plat-itudes: indeed, her acknowledgement might shame the man. He knew she was indebted without her having to say so.

  A few days with a clear head did wonders for her psyche. She admitted privately that the days were easy enough, but her nights were restless and sleep did not come easily even though exhaustion weighed heavily upon her. It was in the silence of her room in the darkest hours that the shame returned, though its fury ebbed each successive night so that it only came now in waves and not the crashing flood it once had been.

  She had thought to test herself by drinking only watered wine, but decided against it. Lysandra knew that she was possessed of Heraclean resolve and had little doubt that she would manage not to indulge to excess, but it was a foolish mortal that tempted the Moirae. So water sufficed as her refreshment as they ate.

  ‘You are looking much recovered’, Telemachus observed, a week into her stay. ‘Your bruises are all but healed and…’ he trailed off.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you look almost like your old self,’ he finished hastily.

  Lysandra’s smile was bitter. ‘If you mean I look less like a haggard, battered whore, then you are correct. But I fear there is a long way to go before I am my old self again.’

  ‘Well, there’s plenty of time.’

  They lapsed into silence for a while. Lysandra found her gaze wandering around the room and she decided to mention the shrine’s state of repair. She knew Telemachus well enough to be forthright, and besides which he would expect nothing less. ‘This place also is not what it once was.’ She saw Telemachus’s cheeks colour even under his beard.

  ‘I’m just going through a bit of a lean patch,’ he shrugged. ‘The offerings are down at the moment, but I am sure things will pick up.’

  Lysandra frowned. ‘That is strange,’ she observed. ‘My Deiopolis is vastly profitable. Though we are quite far from the city, many of the Hellenes travel to worship there. I imagine part of it is because of my fame, and you have to admit that the Deiopolis has much more to offer than any of the inner-city places of worship, including this one. People tend to make a holiday of their trip there and duly their expenditure goes up.’ She was pleased to be able to inform the Athenian of the economics. Evidently, he had much to learn.

  ‘I’m sure it must be wonderful not having to worry about money.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Lysandra. ‘Of course, Spartans do not placemuch value on material things but I will admit that not having those concerns is certainly an advantage.’

  Telemachus set his cup down rather too hard on the table and rose to his feet. ‘Excuse me, Lysandra,’ his voice was taut with petulance. ‘I will return presently.’ Without another word, he stalked off, leaving the room and almost slamming the door behind him; she noted that he stopped at the last instant and shut it gently. His inexplicable tantrum had her at a loss and, she conceded to herself, it had hurt her feelings. It was most inconsiderate of him to act in such a way when she was trying to heal herself both mentally and physically. Lysandra eyed the wine krater for a moment, and the all-too-familiar fire ignited in her mind. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and willed the urge to drink it away.

  Perhaps she should go to him. Athenians were well known to be sensitive souls – it came from too much philosophising and debate or, more accurately, navel-gazing as she saw it. Yet despite his unreasonable behaviour, Telemachus was her friend and she decided that she should be the bigger person and see what was wrong with him.

  She found him outside in the temple’s modest courtyard. He was sitting on a stone bench, bent low, his forearms resting on knees.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ she asked. ‘We were having a perfectly civil conversation and you storm out in the middle of it.’

  ‘By the Goddess!�
�� he shouted, rising to his feet with startling speed. Despite herself, Lysandra took a step back. ‘Lysandra, I love you like my own sister but the world does not only revolve around you!’ She opened her mouth to respond but he pressed on before she could speak. ‘I have my own problems, and now you and yours to add to them. We are supposed to be friends, yet all you do is take. When you were younger, I could understand it. But time it seems has not changed you. Your arrogance I can understand and forgive, but your selfishness is something else again!’

  Lysandra felt the binds that held her temper in check snap. ‘I am selfish?’ she screeched. ‘ I ? Lysandra, who builds a temple to honour all the gods, Lysandra, who raised the self-esteem of all Hellenes in this province by spilling her blood on the sands, Lysandra, who brought great riches to this temple. Your temple. Your friendship to me – so-called – was bought by Lucius Balbus and you call me selfish. How dare you! How dare you!’

  ‘Riches!’ Telemachus took a step towards her, eyes blazing in fury. ‘Aye, your fleeting fame and time here turned a profit. And now look at the place. Look at it!’ He threw his arms wide to encompass his shabby domain. ‘It’s in ruins!’

  ‘I told you before and back then it was in jest, but it was also true. You Athenians are effete snobs, and there is nothing but rhetoric in your so-called lessons from the goddess,’ she hissed. ‘It is no wonder your coffers are bare, as they were before my ill-fortune came to your rescue all those years ago. The fact is, Telemachus, that you are not a very good priest.’

  The retort of the slap was whip-loud in the small courtyard. She saw the blow coming. She even could have blocked it. But her brain would simply not allow her to believe it was happening. Only when the stinging pain registered did she realise that it was real.

  Telemachus’s face crumpled from furious to aghast, his eyes registering the shock of his action. ‘Lysandra,’ he began, ‘I…’ but she raised a hand, silencing him.

  Her temper was doused in an instant by the look of horror in the priest’s eyes. If she could not believe he had slapped her, it was evident that neither could he. Now that the heat of anger was gone, Lysandra realised that his plight must be grim indeed. She took a deep breath. ‘I apologise,’ she said. Again he made to speak, and again she over-rode him. ‘You are an excellent priest: I was angry and I used my words like weapons to hurt you. There was no truth in that, Telemachus, and I am sorry.’

  ‘I struck you.’ The statement was part incredulity, part self-loathing. ‘Please forgive me, Lysandra.’

  ‘It did not hurt,’ she dismissed it with a wave of her hand. She understood why he had reacted so, but she had spent most of her life learning to endure: a few years of soft living were not going to change that. ‘You must not let such a thing bother you, Telemachus,’ she tried to make him feel better. ‘Really, you do not hit very well at all.’

  He shook his head, but she saw the relief in his eyes at her forgiveness. It pleased her that she could demonstrate the superiority of Spartan manners by showing her magnanimity in such a way.

  Telemachus sat heavily on the bench and she joined him. ‘Well, I am glad that is over,’ he said. ‘We have never had cross words before.’

  ‘Why were we having cross words?’ Lysandra asked. ‘As I said, we were having a conversation and something upset you. I would like to know what it was,’ she paused, an idea occurring to her. ‘I can recommend some very good artisans if the state of the temple is the issue?’ Athenians valued finery, so perhaps that was it. Still, having a Spartan point out inferior décor must be like eating nails, so she tried to soften the blow. ‘It will not do to have the place looking shabby…’ she trailed off, the expression on his face telling her that she was not helping. ‘All right, then. Why were we having cross words?’

  Telemachus hesitated for a moment. ‘I am all but ruined,’ he said quietly. ‘The temple is falling into disrepair because I don’t have the money to fix it. I could sell my slave, but he’s not worth much and, even so, that would only be a temporary solution. The truth is that this temple is somewhat surplus to requirements in this quarter of the city.’

  ‘Do not be absurd,’ Lysandra was derisive. Self-recrimination was something that she had dealt with all too recently and she recognised it now in the Athenian. ‘The Hellenes here would not abandon the goddess.’

  ‘They have not,’ Telemachus admitted. ‘They now go to the Deiopolis.’

  The shock of his admission caused a lurch in her stomach that was almost like a physical blow. This then was why the shrine was in such a state of disrepair: her fault that her friend was struggling when she lived in the lap of such luxury that she had allowed herself to fall into the ways of drink and debauchery. And in her hour of need, with no thought of himself, once again Telemachus helped her. She felt sick with guilt that she had also come to him asking for money. Admittedly, her plight was temporary but, still, it shamed her that she had presumed upon him. ‘Why did you not tell me?’ she asked. ‘I am rich – more than rich. At the stroke of a stylus I could have refinanced you!’

  ‘It is a hard thing to ask, Lysandra. I am not a beggar to ask for handouts.’

  ‘A handout is what one gives a beggar. A hand up is what one gives to a friend.’

  Despite all of it, Telemachus chuckled. ‘It is always black and white to you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Lysandra shrugged. ‘I can make you rich,’ she snapped her fingers, ‘like that. But I sense that this would not sit well with you. You speak of my arrogance,’ she added gently, ‘but you have your pride too. I cannot see you living on a … pension… from me.’ He looked at her, and she saw that his eyes were moist with tears. Lysandra rose to her feet, avoiding his gaze so her observa-tion would not shame him. ‘I am leaving Asia Minor for Italia as it is. Someone will have to help manage the Deiopolis in my absence.

  That role would fall to Titus, but he will need help.’

  ‘I’m not sure he will agree that he needs the help of a virtual stranger.’

  ‘Titus excels at obeying orders and he owes me. They all owe me.

  In any event, the Deiopolis is mine to do with as I will.’ As she spoke, Lysandra began to pace, arms folded across her chest, index finger tapping her chin. ‘We will refurbish this place. Summon another priest from Athens to take over, as you are bound for greater service to the Goddess. You will assist in the management of the Deiopolis in my absence. That you have managed to keep this venture going with such little income is proof that you have some business acumen after all. And, most importantly – I trust you. The Deiopolis is worth millions – money enough to tempt anyone except the fastest friends.

  There are others that would probably try to take advantage of my absence and Titus is only one man, he may miss something. I know with you both working together, you will be able to keep what we have built safe. Will you help me once again, my old friend?’ Lysandra knew that Telemachus had his pride but he was a caregiver, someone who was happiest whilst helping others. She considered that wrapping her more than generous offer up as a request for aid would spare any humiliation on the Athenian’s part.

  ‘Lysandra,’ Telemachus’s voice was thick. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Just say yes,’ she suggested.

  Telemachus smiled through his tears. ‘Of course the answer is yes. I am in your debt, my sister.’

  Despite herself, Lysandra felt a warm glow at the epithet. She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good.’ They sat in silence for some time as she allowed Telemachus to collect himself after his emotional outburst.

  ‘You do not hit very hard,’ she informed him again by way of changing the subject. The truth was, he could use some instruction. ‘You should put your hips into the blow – it generates more power.’

  Telemachus did not respond, but after a few moments his shoulders began shake. Lysandra was confounded: was he weeping again?

  Then, he exploded into gales of laughter. ‘Lysandra,’ he said. ‘You are priceless.’<
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  ‘What is funny about that?’ she asked, but Telemachus just doubled up. She sighed, thinking that she would never understand the inferior Hellenes. As the thought occurred, she realised that she was beginning to feel like her old self again.

  VIII

  Crouched in the tiny wooden cage, Valerian shook with raw terror as the Dacian women took their monstrous revenge on the captured soldiers. Packs of them swarmed like harpies over their trussed, helpless prisoners and visited unspeakable horrors upon them. Lit bronze by the fires as they worked, they howled with glee and emitted a high-pitched, trilling cry that grated raw on the nerves. Eyes were put out, extremities sawed away, hearts carved from the chests of still-living men. These hideous trophies were held aloft to the cry of ‘Zalmoxis! Zalmoxis!’ steaming tributes to the foul barbarian god of the Dacians.

  Valerian moaned as he saw Cornelius Fuscus dragged forward. He had thought the old man dead, fallen with the Eagle, but the cruel fates had spared him for this awful doom. As the naked and beaten Roman commander was brought forth, the screaming and chanting reached fever-pitch. The women dragged him to the ground and fell upon him. Valerian closed his eyes: there was not enough room in the cage for Valerian to lift up his hands to cover his ears and shut out the sound. Amidst the female cries, he heard a man screaming.

  It went on and on till Valerian’s eyes flew open in self-preservation.

  They had nailed him to an x-shaped cross in parody of the very Roman punishment of crucifixion. The cross was sunk into the earth and beneath Fuscus’s spread legs, they had piled slow-burning kindle. It glowed hungrily in the cold night air and Fuscus roared in excruciating pain as the inside of his thighs, his testicles and penis began to roast. Driven mad, the stricken general thrashed and strained in his confinement as the howling taunts of the women mingled with his desperate cries. He shrieked for what seemed like an eternity before the agony eventually became too much for his mind to bear and his head fell forward onto his chest.