Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  She thanked Hermolaos and turned to leave.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked.

  ‘I am going to practice,’ she replied, finding that she relished the idea.

  The next few days followed a similar pattern. The men hardly relaxed, staying alert both day and night. After her evening meal, Lysandra would move away from the main group to practice sword techniques and perhaps spar with Hermolaos, the comparatively youthful Milo, and a few of the other men.

  Despite her lack of physical fitness, she was gratified to learn that her skill with the blade had not been too diminished by her absence from the arena. Although she had trained at the Deiopolis less and less frequently as the years had passed, she had still kept her hand in and this was serving her well now. Of course, the crew of the Galene were rank amateurs in comparison to her, but for their part they seemed to enjoy the opportunity to spar with a celebrity such as herself. It was, she surmised, something they could boast to their grandchildren about.

  Lysandra had grown bored with asking the men about their edgy behaviour: plainly, they were trying to hide something and it occurred to her that despite the legitimate front, Bedros might be indulging himself in some illegal activity. Though she had seen no real evidence of it, smuggling seemed to be the most logical assumption. It was petty crime as far as she was concerned but the Romans took a dim view of anything that would deprive them of revenue and, if caught, Bedros and his crew would face severe punishment. That would be a shame, as she had grown fond of them. But, ultimately, the law was the law. Without it, they would be little more than savage barbarians. Bedros and his men knew the consequences of their actions.

  She hinted at the possibility of being aboard a smugglers’ vessel as she stood at the rudder with Bedros one morning, but the pilot merely laughed her off. ‘Would you like to have a go at steering,’ he asked.

  Lysandra knew well that he was trying to deflect her line of questioning but the opportunity to take control of the ship was too exciting to pass up.

  ‘It’ll be a shock,’ Bedros warned. ‘She’s heavy and it’s harder than you’d think, so brace yourself.’

  Lysandra nodded and did as he said. He stepped away from the rudder and at once, Lysandra felt the Galene try to pull away from her. ‘It is like a horse,’ she shouted. ‘Like a new horse that does not know you!’ Her heart pounded with exhilaration as the ship rode over the waves, first sinking and then rising. Lysandra felt nothing of the sickness that had so plagued her before, just a sense of power and excitement she had known only in the arena.

  Bedros laughed, seeming to enjoy her enthusiasm. Indeed, having a new hand at the stern seemed to lift the mood of the men for once. They ceased in their work, some of them calling encouragement to the new pilot, others pretending that the ship was rolling as though in a storm and imploring Bedros to save them.

  Bedros was correct in his assessment, however. It was hard to control the ship, wearing on the endurance. After some time, Lysandra’s calves, shoulders and forearms began to burn with fatigue.

  She glanced at the pilot with a new-found respect – his strength must have been prodigious to steer the vessel for such extended periods. ‘You were right,’ she said, but then trailed off as she saw the expression on his face.

  ‘Give me the rudder, Lysandra,’ he barked. His tone left no room for argument and, at his signal, she stepped away.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  He jerked his chin out to sea.

  There, on the horizon, she could see a tiny black shape. Like a bee to summer wine, the shape was drawn towards them. ‘Another trader?’ she asked, knowing that the question was pointless.

  Bedros shook his head. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘Pirates. The Hellene waters are thick with them. That is why we have been alert these past days.’ He raised his voice. ‘Pirates, lads! Coming fast!’

  Behind them, the sailors began pounding around the deck, hauling covers off their weapons cache. It was, Lysandra decided, rather amateurish, but effective for all that. Despite the lack of order, the men seemed so familiar with each other that where there should have been utter chaos, some sort of order emerged. Probably because, as Phampilos had told her, these men were veterans – long in the tooth and experienced.

  She rounded on Bedros. ‘Why did you not inform me of this potential danger?’ she demanded. She was a little irked at the decep-tion. ‘I am not a child. If there was a risk, you should have advised me.’

  ‘No point in worrying you if nothing was going to happen,’ his answer was infuriatingly logical. ‘In every hundred voyages, ninety-nine pass without incident. This is just bad luck.’ His expression was almost accusing and Lysandra surmised that he was thinking of her only other voyage and the ill fortune that had cursed that journey.

  ‘What will happen?’ In her gut, Lysandra could feel the beginnings of the once-familiar nervous thrill that was synonymous with walking into the arena. Her senses began to tingle with delicious anticipation.

  ‘Well, it would be bad form not to try to outrun her,’ Bedros said. ‘But it’ll be a ’reme – three banks of oars at least. If she wants to run us down, she will do and there’s little enough to be done about it. Then they’ll demand we surrender. If they think they can take the Galene with acceptable losses, they’ll attack. If they win, the men be enslaved and the pirates will have a new ship. The men will be enslaved, Lysandra. If things start to go badly, you should…’

  A stab of fear spiked through her, mingling with the anticipation. She knew all to well what would happen to her. She swallowed. ‘Are there any alternatives?’

  Bedros tried an encouraging smile, though it did not reach his eyes. ‘Normally, pirates don’t want to fight. They want our cargo and getting the ship herself is nearly always too costly. And my men are hard bastards,’ he added. Lysandra looked back at them and, now geared for battle, they looked nasty and desperate. ‘Which will put them off, I think. So we could hand over our cargo, but in all likelihood they’ll just take our consignment, ram us and send us to the bottom. So we must pray to the gods that their captain is an honourable man.’

  ‘You do not sound hopeful.’

  He chuckled. ‘I’m not a religious man. But I’m an experienced one. You know, Lysandra, there’s one thing that we have that every pirate wants. One thing we can offer them.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  Bedros’s smile was as hard and cold as a winter morning. ‘We have a woman on board.’

  XIII

  ‘They will be back!’

  Sorina stood in the centre of the great hall, knowing that their eyes were upon her, but their ears were deaf to her words. ‘You don’t know the Romans as I do. They are relentless – like ants at their work.’ Her chestnut-coloured eyes swept over the assembled clan chiefs, imploring them to listen, but this was not her arena. She felt uncomfortable in the stone building, almost entombed by its immensity. It was not as huge and grandiose as some of the buildings she had seen in Halicarnassus, but it was large enough. In the years that the Romans had stolen from her, much had changed. Many tribes had abandoned the old ways and were moving to settlements and cities – like the enemy. It was a virulent disease in the southlands that bordered Domitian’s empire, and like all diseases it would spread.

  ‘We have crushed them!’ Moxon, a young chief rose to his feet, nodding at the grunts of agreement as he did so. ‘They had five legions, Sorina. Even if they wanted to strike back, where would they get the men? I say these are the last days of their empire. We will sweep into Moesia and beyond – to the gates of Rome herself!’

  The other chiefs stamped their feet in approval as Moxon sat, his face flushed with success.

  Sorina felt a spike of anger. Here, in this dark, smoky chamber, her peers looked and sounded just as the Romans labelled them – stupid barbarians. ‘Rome was built on the bones of men like you, Moxon! You have not seen them at work as I have. None of you have!’ she accused the rest. ‘ Sweep into Moesi
a and beyond? Do you know how vast their dominion is? How many swords they can bring against us from beyond the sea? Do you? Any of you?’

  ‘Sorina fears the Romans,’ Moxon waved a dismissive hand.

  ‘And she is wise to.’ The silence was almost instantaneous; when the man who had once been Diurpaneus spoke, all listened. ‘We have dealt them a crushing blow, yes. But prudence and preparation must now be our watchwords. If we attack – as I know that many of you wish to – we will indeed make great gains in territory and wealth. We will also threaten the security of the entire Roman Empire. For them, it will become an issue of survival and they will hurl everything they have against us.’

  ‘And we will win, Decebalus!’ Moxon used the honour-name Diurpaneus had been given for masterminding the great Dacian victory. He looked about for support and found it in the eyes of his peers.

  ‘Yes, we will win,’ Decebalus agreed. ‘And in doing so, we will lose. Our power will be broken against theirs. The Romans will not roll over and die because we wish it. They will fight on till the end and bleed us of men and wealth. Now is not the time.’

  Sorina gazed at Moxon, trying to hide the triumph in her eyes.

  No one would dare oppose Decebalus – the brave one – so soon after their victory.

  ‘Moxon, you are young and fearless,’ Decebalus went on. ‘You are a great warrior, and I understand your impatience. But there will be time enough for conquest. Pay heed to my words – all of you.’

  He glared at the assembled council from beneath his grizzled brow.

  ‘Rome’s currency is her invincibility. It is through fear of reprisal that her conquered lands do not rise up against her. Their chieftains warn of the might of the legions – the legions who have never tasted defeat. How can the unbeatable be beaten, they ask? Well, now they have their answer. How long do you think it will take for word of our victory to spread? How for long other men realise that the Romans can be defeated after all. Our victory was the spark that will burn Rome to the ground. And as she burns, then we will strike.

  We will take – and hold – more land and wealth than any of you have dreamed. But we must be patient. And prepared. As Sorina says – they will return.’ He jerked his chin at her as he sat.

  ‘The Romans are not stupid,’ she said at once, not willing to let the momentum of Decebalus’s speech wane. For a brief while, she had the attention of the council and she was determined to press home the wisdom of preparedness. ‘What Decebalus has said is true and the enemy will not be blind to it. They must try to punish us for our victory, crush us utterly and prove that their defeat was an aberration,’ she gestured, ‘an accident. Better to let them come to us. We will beat them again and that will be the beginning of their fall.’ She noted a few of the older men in the chamber nodding.

  Now that her words had Decebalus’s endorsement they would pretend that this had been their opinion all along.

  ‘Make no mistake,’ she added. ‘I have more cause to hate Rome than any of you. They slaughtered my tribe and made me a slave.

  They took my youth and whored me to a screaming mob. I fought in the arena for their entertainment. I left my youth and my honour on those sands, and I burn with the desire to slaughter each and every one of them! I hate them so much I can taste it…’ she broke off, surprised at the intensity of her emotion. Taking a breath she forced herself to calm. ‘But I also know them,’ she went on. ‘It might make fine battle speech to your young warriors to decry their army and their will to win, but the truth is that their empire was not won with weak soldiers and poor leaders. They are iron-hard, disciplined and intelligent – they will have learned from their defeat.

  We must be ready for them when they return.’

  They stamped their feet in approval now at her words, but she could take no pleasure from their apparent support. She bowed briefly to Decebalus and stalked out of the chamber, anxious to taste fresh air and see the sky above her.

  The council had been in progress for some hours and it was dark as she left the squat building. On the northern plains, she and her people would be gathering around campfires at this time to tell stories and make merry. Here, in the small town of Perburidava, they made merry too, but not in the old ways. Men roved from tavern to tavern seeking drink and sex for coin. Brawls were being fought in the muddy, poorly paved main street. Hawkers and mountebanks preyed on the haplessly inebriated – mostly men who had fought in the battle at Tapae. Anyone who had drawn a blade on that bloody field had done well out of it. Money and booty were plentiful and the few Romans that had survived did not stay to fight for their possessions.

  Sorina had exulted in the aftermath of the victory, drinking herself senseless from noon till night, revelling in the glory of revenge, the righteousness of the tribes over the people from the middle sea. She recalled the Spartan, Lysandra, saying to her once that ‘no barbarian army can stand against disciplined troops.’ The hatred she felt at bringing the Greek’s face to mind surprised her with its intensity. It had been years since they had fought, years since she had failed to kill her hated enemy. Time had not diminished her loathing of the woman and everything she stood for.

  As she made her way to her lodgings, Sorina realised the truth in her words. No barbarian army could stand against disciplined troops. But Decebalus did not lead a barbarian army. The Dacians now fought almost as the Romans fought – but they retained that edge of tribal ferocity and sheer strength that had made them more than a match for the legions. They had defeated the greatest foe and in doing so were becoming more like them.

  ‘You look gloomy,’ Teuta said as she opened the door to the quarters that had been provided for them.

  Sorina smiled and tried to keep the weariness from it. ‘I was thinking about the past. And the future. Neither vision fills me with a sense of joy.’

  Teuta shrugged and made to pour them a drink. ‘You should forget about the past,’ she advised. ‘Those days are over for both of us. I rarely think of the arena,’ she paused meaningfully and handed Sorina her drink, ‘or who I fought there.’

  Sorina took the cup from her and sipped, wincing at the fiery taste. ‘ Tzuica!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘A gift from Decebalus,’ Teuta explained. ‘His men came earlier and left it for us. They said that we had fought well and without our cavalry, the battle could have been lost.’

  ‘A princely gift indeed.’ Tzuica was an ancient drink, supposedly made from a mixture of human blood, alcohol and secret herbs known to only a handful. Sorina doubted that was the case anymore, but it was still valuable and time-consuming to produce.

  Teuta sat on their bunk. ‘Was the council as you expected?’

  ‘It was all about division of spoils and honour at first.’ Sorina joined her and went on to outline the events of the day up to her final speech and the backing of Decebalus.

  ‘It seems that he admires you greatly.’

  ‘He admires us because we are useful to him, Teuta.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you happy, my love? It seems to me that everything you spoke about…. back in the ludus… has come to pass. The Dacians are united under one king – oh, I know he doesn’t call himself that, but Decebalus leads all the tribes now. He has organised us and we have crushed the Romans in battle. This was your dream, Sorina.’

  Sorina gazed at her for long moments before replying. ‘My dream, Teuta, was to preserve the ways of the tribes. Our ways go beyond country, chief and family. The tribes of Germania, Gaul, Iberia, Sarmatia and beyond; we were kin – albeit fractious kin-living beholden to no one but the gods. To roam the plains is to know true freedom, isn’t it? Yet…’ she gestured the walls that surrounded them, ‘I get no sense of freedom here. I fear that the harder we fight to retain our way of life, the quicker we will lose it. As they did in Gaul. And in Britannia. And everywhere else the Romans have conquered. They want to make the world Rome.’

  Teuta rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘It is not only your fight, Sorina. There are othe
rs that think as you do. Decebalus is one of them and your words have made you his ally. To beat the Romans, we have had to become like them in battle. And these towns and cities… they make it easier to gather men and supplies. But when the Romans are beaten once and for all, then things will return to the old ways.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ she lied.

  ‘I am right.’ Teuta thumped her on the arm. ‘Let’s get drunk on expensive Tzuica and forget the troubles of war councils and the stupidity of men.’

  Sorina smiled at her. ‘You have a way of lifting my spirits.’ Teuta was more than just her lover: she was her friend and advisor and Sorina was profoundly grateful to the younger woman.

  Teuta poured for them. ‘The plains of the north stretch on forever,’

  she said. ‘No matter what happens here, we can always ride north.

  As you say, the tribes are kin. In the north there are peoples who will never know any other way than that of the plains. No one people – not even the Romans – can conquer the whole world. So you really have nothing to fear at all.’

  ‘Nothing to fear.’ She raised her cup in salute and rewarded Teuta with a grin. But the smile did not reach her eyes and the fears she had shared still lurked within her. They drank on in silence for a while and then when they had consumed enough, all thoughts of tomorrow fled Sorina’s mind. She laughed and they sang songs and later made love. Her last thoughts before sleep took her were languid and happy.

  Her dreams were not so.

  XIV

  ‘Ho, Ambrosia!’ Bedros shouted across to the pirate ship as she drew along side.

  His call was answered by a tall, dark-bearded young man. ‘Ho, Galene!’ he returned. His stance as he stood on the side of his vessel exuded all the arrogance of a man who knew he had already won. ‘You know how this goes!’ As he spoke, dark laughter rose from the crewmen below him.