Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  She had a lot to organise before leaving for Italia, and salving Varia’s wounded pride would have to wait for now.

  X

  Valerian was lost.

  The forest was dark and it was difficult to tell day from night, let alone north from south, so he just stumbled on aware only that he had to escape. The barbarians had sent men looking for him but, thus far, he had managed to stay hidden and avoid their scouts. Valerian knew all too well what would happen to him if they caught him and the need to spare himself their tortures was pushing him on.

  But he was so weary now. The pain from his wounds was an ever-present companion that sent bolts of agony through him with each step. He moved slowly, hunched like an old man as moving that way was less painful than standing erect.

  It started to rain, the heavy droplets piercing the dense canopy of trees above him, soaking him once again. It was cold, but not chill enough to numb the pain – instead it was as if the gods wanted to add to his misery.

  He stumbled and fell, gritting his teeth to avoid crying out in agony, instead uttering a mewling growl that came from the back of his throat. He tried to rise, to push on, but the ground was sloped and he slid helplessly down on his belly, each bump bringing fresh waves of nauseating pain. Finally, his descent slowed but Valerian found he lacked even the strength to rise. All he could do was crawl into a nearby copse and curl into a foetal position, clutching at his hurt.

  He started to cry. He did not want to die but the awful certainty of his death loomed before him. He was wounded, lost and alone, surrounded by savages who desperately wanted to kill him. Sobs wracked his body and he cried into his arm lest the sound of it alert any Dacian scouts. He felt impossibly weary now and the fingers of sleep began to crawl through his body, offering him comfort and succour. Valerian knew that to sleep was to invite death but the will to fight had deserted him. His eyelids fluttered and he forced them open, trying to make his body obey him but he was drowning in the flood of exhaustion. The copse suddenly seemed safe, warm even, and without being aware of it, Valerian allowed himself to drift into slumber.

  A moment later, his eyes flew open. At least to Valerian it had felt like a moment. But it was utterly black now and he knew that it was the dead of night. He cursed himself for a fool: sleeping like a babe he could have been caught. Rain still fell heavily, the sound loud on the leaves around him – so loud that he almost failed to hear the sound of voices close by. His ears strained, trying to mask the noise of the rain yet trying to catch the faint mumbling.

  At first there was nothing, but then there was an unmistakeable coughing followed by a hawking spit to eject phlegm from a man’s throat.

  The rain was heavier now and it was too noisy to pick out individual words or phrases but Valerian knew that his hunters were close by. Terror flowed through him, turning his blood to ice. Any notion of virtus was gone and all he could do was pray and beg the gods to spare him. But it seemed that the gods wanted to make yet more sport of him.

  Shadowy figures walked into the clearing. The sputtering light of wooden brands they carried, along with the obscuring rain, made them appear unearthly. Some of them began to fashion a crude bivouac and few wandered around the clearing, giving it a perfunc-tory examination. Valerian’s heart almost burst with terror as one began to walk straight towards his hiding place. He began to shake and had to curl even tighter into a ball to stop the fearful shuddering. He could see the man’s legs close enough to touch them.

  Steam began to rise and then Valerian smelt the unmistakable stench of beer-laced piss as the man relieved himself into the bushes.

  It took a long time, but the hunter merely whistled tunelessly until his business was spent, then he turned swiftly and strode back to the bivouac where his mates had managed to get a small fire going.

  Valerian envied them. They had the comfort of company, the heat of a warming blaze and the knowledge that they were safe.

  His hatred for them burned strong – a few days ago, he had been sipping wine in the tent of Cornelius Fuscus discussing female gladiators with Marcus. Now he was alone and slowly bleeding to death in a freezing, sodden copse whilst his enemies warmed their hands on a fire not thirty yards away.

  His vision began to swim as he stared at the silhouettes of the men and nausea swept through him. Don’t be sick, he told himself.

  Don’t be sick. With infinite care, he curled back up into a ball, his cheek resting on the muddy earth and once again he was dragged into unconsciousness.

  It was daylight when he awoke. The hunters had gone, the bivouac and blackened earth evidence of their passing. Valerian became aware of a maddening itching in his side. He glanced down at his wound; his tunic was stuck to it, going someway to clotting the blood. For a moment he thought it was healing, but then, where the sword cut had parted the rough cloth, he saw a fat, white maggot squirming in the wound. He cried out in shock, the sound too loud in the stillness of the forest. In a panic, he tried to pull the creature away, but the action sent waves of agony through him. Unable to bear touching the wound, he was left with knowledge that parasites were now gorging themselves on his flesh, burrowing into his body.

  He lurched to his feet, rage and disgust flooding through him, giving him strength. Like a madman, he stumbled into the dense trees, neither knowing nor caring which direction he was heading.

  He ran on till exhaustion overwhelmed him causing him to fall to his knees gasping for breath. He knelt for some time, trying to ignore the maddening, crawling sensation as the maggots gorged.

  Valerian hauled himself to his feet and continued on.

  As the day moved on, Valerian had to hide several times from hunting parties. It seemed that everywhere he turned he could hear the whispered voices, the tramp of feet on wet ground, the gentle ring of armour and kit; these once-familiar, even comforting sounds had become the stuff of nightmare. Some part of him realised that he too must look like something from a bad dream: his face was stiff with dirt and stubble; his arms, legs and tunic were covered in mud, gore and unspeakable filth from the woodlands.

  The days and nights seemed to merge into one unending odyssey of terror; the hunters were closer now, all around him. In the blackness near dawn, he had crouched in the bowl of a tree as some had marched past, their bare legs and booted feet close enough to touch.

  After they had gone, he thought that he should have reached out and grabbed a handful of flesh, just to hear them shriek in terror.

  Carefully, he crawled from the bowl. Centipedes and other creatures had settled on him, but he no longer cared.

  ‘Hey!’

  The sound of the voice startled him and he dropped into a crouch, eyes darting wildly this way and that. For a moment, sheer terror froze him, and then instinct took over. Valerian bolted for the trees, scampering over fallen logs, diving through the foliage.

  He no longer felt the pain from his wounds or the gnawing hunger in his belly. The need to escape consumed him. He knew what they would do to him if they caught him.

  He found a ditch and hurled himself into it, rolling about in the mud, trying to make himself harder to see. More men trampled past, asking each other in whispered tones had they seen him. Fear clamped Valerian’s throat and he wanted to cry out in terror but he knew that to do so was to invite torture and death. Nevertheless, he could not stop a small whimper from escaping him.

  As he did so, a group of men stopped.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ one said.

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘Sounded like someone crying.’

  ‘You’re imagining things. Let’s keep moving.’

  ‘No…wait!’

  One of the hunters began to shove through the undergrowth, moving straight towards him. No, no, no, please, no. Valerian began to tremble and felt his bladder go. They had him. He screamed in terror and rose from his hiding place.

  The hunter screamed as well, falling back in shock as Valerian loomed over him. Valerian’s legs tensed and he ma
de to run, but more men crashed through the bushes piling into him and bearing him to the ground.

  ‘He’s talking Latin,’ one was shouting as Valerian screamed at them. ‘He’s one of ours… he’s Roman!’

  Like the first spike of dawn, realisation pieced the fog in Valerian’s mind. He began to laugh; it was a chuckle at first but soon it had turned into a gale of manic hysteria.

  For now he realised that these past days he had been hiding from his own men.

  XI

  Several days passed and Varia had still not returned. Despite the rush of preparations for her departure, Lysandra was beginning to worry. Typically, Thebe attempted to assuage her fears.

  ‘It’s not the first time she’s disappeared, nor will it be the last,’ the Corinthian advised her as they packed a chest with Lysandra’s belongings. ‘She’s taken money and will probably blow it all on drink and clothes in Halicarnassus. That or she’s going to try living on her own for a while in the city. Either way, she’ll be back soon enough. Varia has no concept of money.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I want people out looking for her, Thebe. The city is dangerous.’

  ‘We’ll find her and keep an eye on her.’ Thebe’s gaze challenged Lysandra. Keeping an eye on her did not mean that she would have the girl brought back to the Deiopolis, which is how Lysandra would have preferred matters. ‘It makes sense to give her some space,’

  Thebe added weight to her statement. ‘And you shouldn’t be worrying about Varia now. You keep your mind on your training.’

  ‘True enough,’ Lysandra said. She did not want to get into an argument with Thebe; besides which, it occurred to her that perhaps she was being a little over-protective of Varia.‘Is everything in order for your journey?’ Thebe asked.

  It was an obvious enough steer away from the Varia conversation and Lysandra took it with the best grace she could muster. ‘Yes.

  Telemachus has handled matters with extreme efficiency.’

  Thebe nodded appreciatively. ‘He’s a good man to have around.

  I like him and he’s even managed to get Titus onside. I thought that there’d be a cockfight at first.’

  Lysandra stuffed another pair of sandals into the chest. ‘They’re both good men, Thebe. Titus is not a decision maker – but he is good at carrying out orders. Telemachus, on the other hand, is well used to making harsh choices to maintain a profit. He kept that shrine of his running long after it should have closed down. I think that the two of them will do well.’

  ‘I’m sure things will be even more profitable than they were,’

  Thebe replied and then coloured as Lysandra glared at her.

  ‘You believe they will do a better job than me?’

  ‘You know the Athenians, Lysandra,’ Thebe was appealing to what everyone supposed were her natural prejudices. ‘They can talk and they can make money.’

  Lysandra sniffed in response and went back to her packing. Thebe was probably right, but it hurt that she would come out with it so readily. ‘I have not done so badly, have I?’ she asked.

  Thebe looked around from where she was rummaging in a cupboard. She seemed to be weighing up what she was about to say. ‘No,’ she replied at length. ‘But you’re too honest for business, Lysandra. You work hard changing business decisions which must be changed back to how they were before.’

  Lysandra felt a prickle of anger colour her ears. ‘Are you suggesting that my staff have been insubordinate to my orders?’ There was nothing worse than disobedience.

  ‘Frankly, yes. They were obeying my instructions. And Titus’s,’ she added.

  ‘I suppose you have an explanation,’ Lysandra was tempted to slam her chest shut, but mastered her fit of pique – it would be unfitting to bluster.

  Thebe sighed. ‘Lysandra, you have no head for business. Making deals is not something you have been trained to do – I believe that in Sparta, commerce is still considered somewhat distasteful. So we let our brokers do what they do best, make the deals and keep the Deiopolis running. None of it could have happened without you, of course.’

  Lysandra tried to conceal her shock. ‘You mean I have been making a fool of myself these past years.’ It was a statement of fact and she hated the words on her lips.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Thebe’s tone was gentle. ‘As far as everyone is concerned, you are the one that has built this. Without Achillia the Deiopolis would not exist. Your name opens many doors to this day. It’s a unique temple you have built here, Lysandra, and that is no mean feat. But really – base commerce is hardly something you should trouble yourself with. You are a warrior and a priestess. Not an accountant.’

  Lysandra was about to respond but Thebe’s words suddenly cut through the anger. ‘ Not an accountant,’ she repeated, a smile forming.

  Thebe grinned and then exploded with laughter. ‘The truth hurts, Lysandra,’ she gasped.

  The Spartan could not hold back and she too collapsed into gales of mirth. It felt just like back in the old days when there had been no temple, no money, no commerce: all they had was the cama-raderie of their sister gladiatrices. Perhaps, Lysandra thought, as she tried to compose herself, things might be the same in Italia.

  Varia was restless. She had been at the inn for over a week and there was now a nagging sense in her that she had to move on.

  A part of her regretted her decision to leave the Deiopolis in such haste, but Lysandra’s insufferable arrogance knew no bounds and she could not bear it a moment longer. Varia had wanted to bridge the gap that had grown between them. After all, there had been a time when she idolised Lysandra. The Spartan gladiatrix was all that the bullied slave girl of Balbus’s ludus wanted to be. But that admiration had lessened as the years passed and Varia had begun to despise the older woman. Lysandra was a shadow of her former self, a deluded braggart who drowned herself in wine and lived on past glories. The Spartan often mocked Titus for his boring war-stories, but the truth of it was Lysandra was no better. Once she had been a champion, but what was she now? She did not even manage the Deiopolis. Everyone, save Lysandra herself, knew that the business was done by brokers and the Spartan’s interference in these matters increased rather than lessened everyone’s workload.

  Lysandra acted as though she owned Varia just as Balbus once had. Lysandra made the decisions on Varia’s education; Lysandra decreed that Varia could not fight in the arena. But it was not Lysandra who had to endure the taunts of the other girls who were allowed to fight. What was the use of all the training if she was never allowed to test herself ?

  In her heart, she knew Lysandra was only doing what she thought best. Varia had tried to reason with her, tried to tell her how she felt, but Lysandra was either too obstinate or too stupid to listen. She constantly shamed her in front of others, and her casual dismissal at the dinner party had been the final abuse. She had been trying to help Lysandra, to support her when the others were against her but typically the Spartan had thrown this show of solidarity back in her face.

  Varia could take no more.

  Furious, she had forced the scribes to write up several drafts that would allow her to withdraw money from the the money-changers’ offices. They could not refuse her. She was Lysandra’s ward. Now she sat with documents that entitled her to a fortune should she wish to draw upon it. She would need the money: she had no intention of returning to the Deiopolis.

  Now she was forced to confront the wider question of what she would do next. The Deiopolis, as insufferable as it had become, was all that she knew. The other women there had often told her that the world outside was not the same. Women had few rights in the real world – this she had heard time and time again, in different stories. That she was rich meant she could buy her way through life for a while. It also meant that any sort of prominence money brought her would also attract flatterers and suitors.

  And if she became the talk of the town, they would learn of it in the Deiopolis and then there would be an excruciating exchange, as she knew Lysand
ra would demand her return. It was a confrontation in which she had no desire to become involved. Her mind was made up: whatever Lysandra said, she would not return. Nor would things ever be the same between them again. The Spartan had a need in her to control others. Varia doubted if it was malicious or even conscious but, nevertheless, it was there. Some, like Thebe, ignored it or mocked it. Titus seemed to enjoy having someone give him directions, but Varia could no longer close her eyes to it.

  The truth of it was that Lysandra needed to be taken down a peg for her own good.

  Perhaps, Varia thought, that she herself was the woman to do it.

  She told herself that if she could do that, she would finally be free.

  Lysandra was afraid.

  It was absurd, irrational and acutely embarrassing. She composed her face into a stoic mask but her stomach churned and flipped more than it had in her fighting days. Back then she had been taut and ready – like the bowstring before the arrow flew. This was different. Her hands were clammy, she felt sick and she began to rehearse what she would say to get her out of this situation. Excuses, lies, anything to escape; she was ashamed of herself for even entertaining such thoughts, but she could not force the terror from her limbs.

  ‘She looks like a fine ship,’ Titus observed.

  ‘Thank you, Admiral Themistocles.’ Even to her own ears, this response was a little mean-spirited.

  ‘I’ve been on a fair few in my time,’ Titus muttered.

  He was standing with her and Telemachus and Thebe on the Halicarnassus docks. It was a scene of chaos; sailors, slaves, merchants and passengers swarming about with no apparent order at all. Beasts were being driven up gangplanks, adding their own bleats and bellows to the cacophony. The stench was worse than the arena after the venatores had been at work, Lysandra thought to herself.