Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  ‘It is a fine ship,’ Telemachus commented. ‘Trust me,’ he added.

  ‘I’m from Athens and we know our ships.’

  ‘You have not been in Athens for twenty years,’ Lysandra replied.

  ‘Things could have changed. It is too small.’ She looked around.

  ‘We should postpone until a larger vessel can be found. I will not end up in Poseidon’s palace because the boat I decided to travel on was undersized.’

  ‘It looks big enough to me,’ Thebe said, ignoring the venomous look Lysandra shot in her direction. ‘Are you all right, Lysandra?’ she asked after a moment. ‘You look unwell.’

  ‘It is not the Spartan way to complain of ill health. But it would be remiss of me not to admit it now – I might have a fever and I could infect all the sailors on the boat. Then, how could they sail?

  No, I think it is better if we postpone.’ She hated herself for saying it. She sounded like a trembler of the worst kind – a coward who did not deserve the honour of wearing Spartan scarlet. How hypo-critical of her in one moment to speak of the Spartan way and in the next completely go against its ethos.

  A stocky, balding man shoved his way through the crowd, making his way towards them. He had one of those faces that must have made him look old before his time and now belied his autumn years. Titus raised a hand in greeting which was returned by the newcomer. ‘ Salve, Bedros,’ the Roman grinned and extended his arm.

  ‘Salve, Titus, salve one and all,’ he smiled and nodded at the group. Despite a lack of hair on top, Bedros made up for it all over his body. To Lysandra’s eyes he looked like some sort of ape. His accent marked him as an Asiatic and therefore not a real Hellene at all and his name – which meant ‘rock’ – was hardly reassuring.

  Rocks, after all, did not float.

  ‘You are the one, eh?’ He kept smiling and looked Lysandra up and down. ‘I’m honoured to have one so famous aboard my humble vessel.’

  ‘I am thinking that I might postpone my journey after all,’

  Lysandra said to him. ‘I am unwell and your boat looks a little small for ocean travel.’

  Bedros’s grin hardly slipped, but Lysandra could see in his eyes he was affronted. ‘She’s a ship, my lady. Boats are for rivers. But the Galene is a ship to sail the Great Green, no mistake. Look at her – no, no – really look at her.’ His pique seemed forgotten as he gazed admiringly at the vessel. ‘Come, come,’ he gestured Lysandra forward.

  She glanced at her companions for support but none was offered, so she reluctantly followed the sailor.

  ‘It has no oars.’ she observed as they drew closer.

  ‘She is not a warship, my lady. She’s not built for speed but for space. Galene is a merchant ship, and she’s much more comfortable than any ’reme on the sea.’

  Now that she was closer, Lysandra could see that the ship was bigger than she first thought but she knew that, no matter how impressive ships might look in harbour, they were all nothing but insignificant chips of wood on the enormity of Poseidon’s realm.

  Thinking of her first and only voyage made her stomach churn with renewed fear: the roaring waves smashing into the hull, the screams of men as they were torn from the deck; the splintering sound as the mast sundered…

  ‘You have sailed before, my lady?’ Bedros asked, interrupting her horrific reverie.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Once.’ She glanced at the mariner to find him looking at her, his dark gaze glittering and intent.

  ‘Had a bad time of it, eh? I can see it on your face. Afraid to set sail again?’

  ‘Spartans fear nothing,’ she replied automatically, but she thought for the first time that this was not true.

  ‘What happened on your last voyage? Bad storm? Pirates, maybe?’

  ‘Bad storm,’ Lysandra replied, trying not to remember the horror of the rolling boat, the roar of the wind and the pitiful screams of drowning men. The despair in the eyes of her friend, Pavo, as he sank beneath the waves.

  Bedros sighed and patted her arm in what she thought was an altogether too familiar manner. ‘She went down, eh?’ he shook his head. ‘Terrible, terrible when that happens. Twice in thirty years at sea it’s happened to me,’ he held up two stubby brown fingers.

  ‘It takes courage to face the Great Green again after you’ve felt her wrath. I guess a different kind of courage to what you’re used to, my lady. To face someone sword-to-sword, you’re relying on yourself. At sea, even the greatest pilot and the mightiest ship is at the mercy of the sea. She can turn on you,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘like that. And there’s nothing you can do. Not like a sword-fight,’ he pantomimed waving a sword in the air. ‘If you lose a sparring match, you think “I should have done this,” or “I should have done that, I should have trained harder.” In the arena, you raise your finger for the missio. But the sea is implacable – and there are no second chances.’

  ‘You are not instilling me with a great desire to set sail once again,’ Lysandra snapped.

  Bedros spread his hands. ‘I’m just telling you how it is, lady. I honour Poseidon, I am a skilled pilot and, at this time of year, the Great Green should be as flat as a table. Should. But sometimes – as you yourself know – things can change. But,’ he laughed then, -uch things are rare. You survived your ship; I survived two of mine.

  The question is, my lady, is your fear of the sea greater than your need to traverse her?’

  Lysandra did not answer, lost in thought. His gruff voice washed over her and in a few almost Laconic words he had seen straight to the heart of the matter. Life was about choices; the left hand path or the right. She could turn now, go back home and train there.

  But then, things would be no different. She would not be different and, eventually, she would have to face this journey – the emperor would not take an outright refusal well. Lysandra knew she had to get away and, as Bedros regarded her, she knew that he already had his answer. She smiled tightly. ‘No – my need to travel is very great,’ she said.

  Bedros chuckled with genuine pleasure. ‘Good, good. It is my honour to have you on board. Shall I send some men to get your things?’

  ‘Do that,’ Lysandra ordered, feeling better now that her decision was irrevocable. ‘I will speak with my companions, then I will board your fine… ship.’ Lysandra made her way back through the crowded wharf to Thebe, Titus and Telemachus.

  Before she could speak, the Athenian pre-empted her. ‘Titus and I have ensured all is in order in Italia,’ he said. ‘Bedros will take you to Brundisium, and from there you will travel across country to the town of Paestum. I have ensured that you have a small dwelling rented near the ludus there. You don’t need to worry about anything.

  When you have docked at Brundisium, look for the offices of Memmius Grumio, our agent there. He will see you safe to your destination and cater to all your needs.’

  ‘You have thought of everything, Telemachus,’ Lysandra smiled.

  ‘It’s an Athenian trait. And Titus assisted me,’ he acknowledged.

  Lysandra regarded them – her friends who had been with her since the beginning. She was acutely aware that Varia was not with them as she should have been and somehow that made the parting even more difficult. Lysandra felt an inappropriate rush of emotion and it took all of her willpower not to embarrass herself. Thebe had not such qualms and was already welling up with tears, as was Telemachus.

  ‘Well,’ Lysandra decided that matters would get out of hand and she should curtail them. ‘I had better be going.’ With that, she turned away and walked towards the ship.

  ‘Goodbye, my friends. I will miss you.’ She could not say it, of course. Now there was no room for softness in her, no place for weakness. Lysandra knew well that she must become again what she once was. Only the hard and strong could call themselves Spartan.

  XII

  Only the hard. Only the strong.

  Lysandra continued to repeat that as her mantra, but nothing could stave off the awful s
ickness she felt as soon as the Galene began to roll. It began with a sudden attack of sweating, the signal to the inevitable trauma to follow. Lysandra learned to recognise the signs well and as soon as the heat began on her brow, she would bolt for the side and commence vomiting into the sea.

  When she had begun to believe that all food and sustenance had fled from her body, she began to throw up green bile that burned her throat and made her teeth feel gritty. The only relief to be had was by wedging herself against the timber and curling into a ball – much to the amusement of the Galene’s crew.

  These bouts of sickness were a source of acute embarrassment to Lysandra: it was hardly befitting to see a former champion and a Spartan to boot curled up like a child, vomiting all over the place.

  Inwardly she felt as though Poseidon had singled her out for this treatment and she struggled not to curse the sea-god and thus bring down his wrath on the vessel. In her darkest heart, she knew that was his game – as soon as she vocalised her antagonism towards him, it would be his excuse to smash the Galene to driftwood.

  Whilst she remained silent, she frustrated him. On the other hand, if she was honest with herself, the vomiting and lack of appetite was a useful way of shifting some of the excess weight she had built up.

  The sickness did not come upon her every day and when the sea was utterly calm she found herself almost enjoying the journey.

  Bedros had given her the freedom of the ship, for which she was extremely grateful. She was unused to having so many men in close proximity but Bedros allayed her unspoken fears as she stood with him at the rudder.

  ‘These are good men,’ he jerked his chin at the crew. ‘Wives and families, most of them. I don’t have the mean and the desperate on my ship.’

  ‘That is comforting,’ Lysandra admitted. ‘I would hate to have to injure one of them should their interest in me became more than friendly.’

  Bedros winked. ‘I’m sure that no one fancies annoying the Gladiatrix Prima.’

  Lysandra grunted and turned her face to the sea. The sun glittered on the waves that splashed about the stern and broke with a foamy whiteness. Unlike the docks there was no stink on the open sea, just a salty tang that she was coming to quite enjoy. In the vast-ness of what the men called ‘the Great Green’ there was a strange tranquillity to be had, a feeling that one’s own goals and desires were somehow less important than they were on dry land. ‘How long till we beach?’ she asked Bedros.

  He looked upwards. ‘A few hours yet.’

  The Galene, Bedros had explained to her, would reach Brundisium in around two weeks, with allowances for good or poor wind and stopoffs. They could not travel at night so, each afternoon as the sun began its descent, the Galene would beach on one of the numerous islands scattered across the Hellespont and Aegean.

  After a few evenings of keeping to herself, Lysandra had begun to feel more comfortable with the crew. She began to wander amongst the men as they made camp for the night, offering a greeting here and there. They were a friendly enough bunch, if a little coarse.

  Lysandra had the feeling that their stories and songs would have been far more ribald had she not been present; as it was, most of them teetered on the border of bad taste but as they sat in the light of the campfires, she found herself coming to like these simple, honest men of the sea. She had also noted how many had scars on their forearms indicating that they could hold their own in a fight.

  There was Phampilos, dubbed ‘grandfather’ by the rest of the crew due to the recent arrival of his daughter’s son. As the eldest on board, Phampilos commanded the respect of all the men, though they masked this by constantly mocking his grey beard and creaking joints. Hermolaos, a thin, unassuming man with wispy hair and hawk nose, was the musician of the crew and it was his deft fingers on the lyre that entertained them all as they camped for the night.

  He always had a word, a nod or a wave for Lysandra which quickly endeared him to her. Milo, nicknamed ‘the Ram,’ doubled as the cook and, to Lysandra’s surprise, his fare was most enjoyable. She hardly dared ask why he had been landed with the epithet ‘Ram’ until Hermolaos assured her that it was because of the thick mane of curls of which Milo was very proud.

  Bedros, despite his jovial demeanour, was a canny and cautious man. Each night he would post a cordon of guards around their loose camp and there were always three men on board the ship. The islands were always inhabited, some more sparsely than others, and the people – and Lysandra thought some of the mangy, goat-skin clad inbreeds barely qualified as part of the species – were always curious.

  She thought the pilot wise in his vigilance; even though the natives came to trade, she would not have been surprised if they had attacked the crew and plundered their bodies given the chance.

  As it was, in exchange for olive oil and bronze, they gave wine, food and their daughters’ virtue. Listening to the grunting and moaning that went on throughout the night, Lysandra realised that life as a sailor might carry risks but the rewards could be great. It seemed like a good life for a man, especially those of middle years like most of the crew.

  ‘In a storm, I’d rather have a veteran beside me any day,’ Phampilos said to her when she brought it up one evening.

  ‘Some of us are more veteran than others, Grandfather!’ Milo offered as he sauntered past.

  Phampilos made an obscene gesture at him, and turned his attention back to Lysandra. In the firelight, his grizzled face made him look like a nautical Chiron, each deep line of countenance marking his years of experience. ‘It’s true, though. A man who’s lived a bit is a steadier man. Youths rush everything, be it sailing, fighting or fucking.’ He put an apologetic hand to his lips. ‘I can say “fucking” in front of you, can’t I?’

  ‘I have heard the expression,’ Lysandra brushed over it. ‘What you say has some merit,’ she said after a moment. ‘In the ancient phalanx, the men of twenty-five to thirty-five were in the front ranks, behind them the un-blooded youths, and then the greybeards stood at the rear – to ensure no man fled his place.’

  The sailor chuckled. ‘At sea, there is nowhere to run, Lysandra.’

  Lysandra did not respond. Phampilos’s words had brought to mind the storm that had brought her to Balbus’s ludus and the memories of it were always grim.

  After a week of travelling, Lysandra found that the sickness that had so plagued her had receded. Phampilos told her that she had

  “found her sea-legs”, but the usually chatty old man appeared grim as he took the rudder from Bedros. The pilot too had a severe cast to his face.

  ‘We’re in Greek waters now,’ he told her when she asked after his mood.

  ‘The gods be praised,’ Lysandra said. Her heart swelled with emotion that surprised her. It had been many years since she had been to her homeland and the closeness of Hellas made her yearn to see Sparta once again. On this voyage that was not to be, but at that moment she promised herself that she would return to her motherland someday.

  Bedros only grunted at her comment and turned his eyes to the sea.

  As they journeyed on, the rest of the men were also tense and watchful. Lysandra’s questions were ignored enough times for her to cease asking. She thought it somewhat rude of them to skirt around her inquiries in such an obviously transparent manner, but then what could one expect from Asiatics?

  But it was clear that the men’s mood had changed. At night, the usual relaxed banter, drinking and fornicating were now absent.

  Bedros posted more guards than usual and broached only brief contact with the islanders they came across. There was no bartering now, only requests for ‘news’ from the crew, which forced Lysandra to ask once again what information they were seeking.

  Bedros sighed. ‘It pays to stay alert,’ he hedged.

  ‘You are not telling me all that you know, Bedros.’ Lysandra was annoyed and she noted the imperious tone in her statement. ‘If there is some kind of danger threatening us, I should like to know about it.’
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br />   ‘I’m just a cautious man,’ he replied. ‘And I don’t want you worrying over nothing.’

  Lysandra opened her mouth to press him further but the set in the pilot’s jaw told her that he would not be moved on the subject.

  Grinding her teeth in irritation at the stubbornness of men, she strode off to the Galene.

  Hermolaos was one of the sailors guarding the ship. His lyre, always nearby when they were ashore, was not in evidence. He nodded at her as she approached. ‘Greetings, Lysandra.’

  ‘Greetings, Hermolaos. Tell me – are there any spare swords aboard?’

  ‘Plenty. Are you planning on fighting me?’ he grinned.

  ‘To what end? I need to practice some techniques, not put an old man out of his misery.’ Despite her annoyance with Bedros, she made her attempt at Athenian comedy to put Hermolaos at ease.

  It was not his fault that his pilot was being mulish.

  ‘That’s a bit harsh. I’m only forty.’

  ‘A titan’s age. A sword?’

  ‘Of course.’ He got up and stretched. ‘Keep watch for me, I’ll get you one just now.’ With that, he sauntered off to the cargo boxes and was swallowed up by the darkness. A short time later, he returned carrying a gladius and handed it to her. ‘Here you go.’

  Her fist closed around the hilt and she almost shuddered with pleasure. The light from the fires on the beach caught on the blade as she held it before her face and she closed her eyes. It has been a long time since she had held a weapon and felt anything like the Gladiatrix Prima. It was a fleeting moment and then it was gone.

  The back of her head began to tingle maddeningly in the same way it would when the need for drink came upon her. There was a need in her, she realised. A need to live on the edge that no amount of wine could wash away. In that moment she knew that she had made the right decision to face this Aesalon Nocturna; by risking her life in the arena once again, she was indeed saving herself.