Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  ‘I hope it might go differently today, Poseidon willing,’ Bedros offered. ‘I want to make a deal with you.’

  ‘Why should I make a deal when I can take everything you have right now?’ Though his smile never slipped, the pirate captain’s tone oozed menace.

  ‘Because what I have will take all of you some time to get through.

  By which time me – and my cargo – can just sail away. You win.

  I win – everyone wins.’

  ‘I’ve wine enough to drink – no deal.’

  ‘I’m not talking about wine!’ Bedros laughed. He turned and made gesture. Phampilos hauled Lysandra to the side of the ship.

  ‘Climb up there,’ the old man ordered, prodding her in the back with a short sword. As she clambered up to join Bedros, he handed the weapon to the pilot.

  Bedros leant against the ropes and grabbed Lysandra by the hair, holding the tip of the blade to her throat. At the sight of her, the pirate crew began to cheer and whistle. ‘Better than wine, I think!’ the pilot shouted. ‘Come alongside, I’ll throw her over to you.

  You and your men can have your fun. And I’ll just sail away.’ His sword ripped Lysandra’s tunic away, leaving her naked all but for her subligaculum loin-cloth. ‘Small tits, I know,’ Bedros added, ‘but I’ll warrant her slit is tight enough – and you look Greek to me, so both ends ought to service the lot of you. Do we have a deal, Ambrosia? ’

  The pirate captain seemed to be considering matters, but his crew were screaming at him to get her aboard. From her position on the side of the ship, Lysandra could see their eyes wild with anticipation, faces and necks florid with lust.

  ‘I’m in a generous mood,’ the captain shouted back after some time, ‘My men deserve some fun!’ At this, a thunderous roar of approval erupted from every man on the Ambrosia. Her captain gave the order and the trireme drifted closer to the smaller merchantman.

  The trireme came in close and as she did so, Lysandra could see the captain’s eyes appraising her. He would be the first one, she knew. After him there would be more. Many more.

  Lysandra snatched the sword from Bedros and, with a cry, leapt the short distance between the two vessels. She relished the look of shock on the pirate captain’s face as she flew towards him, weapon poised to strike. The moment seemed to last forever as her leap carried her to the Ambrosia. For Lysandra, time slowed and everything around her came into sharp relief. The pirate’s face, the twine of the rope he was holding, the whorls on his ship’s planking. Just like in the arena, she was aware of everything. And just like in the arena, it was her sword that struck first.

  Her landing was good and she was able to snag a rope to steady herself as her weapon sank into the pirate captain’s neck. Huge sprays of arterial blood erupted from the wound, spattering her skin with hot, red rivulets. Slowly, the Ambrosia’s captain toppled from the side and into the horrified cluster of crewmen below.

  ‘Now!’ Bedros screamed as he too leapt the void between the two ships.

  Some of the Galene’s crew hurled grappling hooks at the pirate ship to ensnare her whilst more followed their pilot onto the Ambrosia.

  In moments, they were among the stunned pirates, weapons rising and falling.

  Lysandra leapt into the fray, her senses alive with the thrill of combat. Staggered by the intensity of the assault, the pirates were at first pushed back in disarray as the crew of the Galene swarmed into them. But despite their shock, the pirates were tough and experienced and though the initial wave of violence had rattled them they held firm. Then, as their fellows arrived from below, they began to regain ground.

  Lysandra tore into them, aware that in battle, morale was the most fragile of things. If the pirates were allowed to gain momentum, the tide would turn on the Galene and all would be lost. As a trained fighter, she knew well how to kill quick and how to kill slow. It was all about speed now – strike with such venom that the enemy’s will to fight back would be eclipsed by their fear of death.

  A pirate swiped at her – he could not have been more than nine-teen years old and he would get no older. Lysandra ducked under the swing and rammed her blade into his groin. The boy wailed in agony as he sank to the deck, his cries cut short as the breath was trampled out of him.

  Next to her, Bedros was roaring in battle fury. Hurling his stocky frame into the fight, he looked like the Minotaur. He fought with reckless bravery and Lysandra knew that his mind was set: for Bedros, it was win or die. He pushed on past her. So intent was he on attack he did not see the axe blade that hurtled towards his head. There was no time to shout a warning: Lysandra reacted. Darting forward, her sword intercepted the haft of the axe and deflected it. But in leaping she had lost her balance and the force of the blow knocked her to one side. Panic surged through her as she began to fall. Being crushed to death on the deck would be a slow and agonising death.

  Lysandra cried out in shock as her hair was yanked nearly out at the roots. She was hauled painfully away from the front line by a florid-looking Phampilos. ‘Just like I said,’ he shouted above the swell of battle. ‘Fighting and fucking, you young ones always rush!’

  Though her smile of gratitude was tight, it was heartfelt.

  Phampilos had just saved her life. He acknowledged her with a wink before bellowing encouragement to his fellows not to falter. Lysandra turned and pushed back into the fight. She was annoyed with herself; she should not have been caught off balance. It never would have happened in her prime.

  The fighting was desperate now, more brawl than battle. There were no tactics, no order and no objective other than to kill the man in front of you and stay alive long enough to kill the next.

  The Ambrosia swayed and pitched in the sea, making the battle doubly perilous. Lysandra saw more than one man on the verge of winning lose his life as his balance went. She pushed on into the fray, killing till her arm was weary and soaked to the elbow with gore. She could feel the tide of battle shifting as they fought on. The pirates were becoming frantic as the men of the Galene clawed back the advantage. With the death of their captain the Ambrosia’s crew had no one to turn to, no one to lead. And this was their undoing.

  Exhausted, Lysandra let the sailors surge past her, herding the last knot of pirates to the helm. She crouched down, chest and back heaving with exertion. The deck was awash with blood, so much more visible than on the sands of the arena that soaked up the worst of it. Butchered men rolled this way then that as the ship pitched, some leaving thick sheets of blood in their wake. The agonised cries of the dying were all too loud and all too familiar. To hear even the most vile and base creature wail in unmerciful pain was unsettling. Lysandra rose wearily and set about finishing off the wounded pirates. Some pleaded and begged for life, others just lay back and waited for release from their agonies. She made it as quick as she would with any opponent who has been denied the missio.

  Amidst the dead were some of the Galene’s crew. Lysandra noted the blood clotted curls of Milo the Ram and saw his dead eyes staring up at her. She felt a twinge of sadness at his passing; though she did not know him well, she would miss his easy smile on the rest of the voyage. There were others too, and more wounded. She could tell at a glance the ones who could be saved and the ones that would have to be helped on their way.

  The fighting had ceased now and the sailors had begun throwing the surviving pirates over the side, leaving them to Poseidon. She was shocked at the cruelty of this. Better to give them a clean death.

  ‘They deserved it,’ Phampilos seemed to read her thoughts. His blade was wet with blood and she saw that he had taken it upon himself to end the suffering of his crewmates who were beyond help.

  ‘Why not just kill them cleanly?’

  ‘It is not the way of the sea. We were lucky – Bedros’s plan worked and they were caught by surprise. If it had gone the other way, I’d now be floating on the Great Green and you… well… you know what would be happening to you.’

  ‘Even so,’ she gest
ured as she heard the splashes, the pleading and the screams. ‘We are not barbarians.’

  Phampilos grunted. ‘ You’re not a sailor. They knew what they were doing, Lysandra. They were willing to risk the danger for the prize. But sometimes the risks don’t pay off and there are consequences.’ His voice turned cold. ‘They got what they deserved.’

  Lysandra did not respond. This, she realised was real battle, not the staged and stylised fight she had been involved in for Domitian’s birthday. That had been both savage and desperate and many more had died in the fighting than in this skirmish. But it was the aftermath that was truly horrifying. The callous act of revenge was made all the worse by the jeers and laughs of the Galene’s crew as they consigned the pirates to their death. They were enjoying their suffering.

  That would not happen in the arena. Nor should it happen after battle.

  No Spartan would act in such a way – especially towards fellow Hellenes which most of the pirates had certainly been. Of course she was not so naive as to realise that the death of the pirates was expedient. They could not take them prisoner, nor could they just let them go. They had to die. It was the manner of their demise that appalled her.

  She was, however, wise enough to keep her views on the matter to herself.

  No sooner had the last man gone over the side did the crew of the Galene begin to ransack the pirate vessel. Anything that could be turned for a profit was kept, everything else joined its hapless former owners at the bottom of the sea. Lysandra was once again impressed with the easy organisation of the veteran sailors who went about their work with casual efficiency. Once the Ambrosia had been picked clean, Bedros gave the order to fire her, which took Lysandra aback.

  ‘We don’t have the men to crew her now and we aren’t big enough to tow her,’ the pilot explained. ‘It hurts like a knife in our guts to lose so rich a prize but,’ he spread his hands, ‘I won’t tempt the fates by trying to tow her back and have her drag us down in a squall.’ He looked away then. ‘I’ve lost enough men already.’

  Bedros beached the Galene at the first available inlet, not daring to risk nightfall at sea. The first order was to send out men to find deadwood in order to make pyres for the dead and give them their rites. Lysandra was very impressed with Bedros’s funeral oration, hardly able to believe the bluff sailor was capable of conveying a message to the gods. Yet, his swarthy face was wet with tears as the hecatombs drifted skywards.

  ‘It’s an odd thing,’ Hermolaos said to Lysandra as they drifted away from the pyres.

  ‘What is odd?’

  ‘The feeling you get after a fight like that one. I am ashamed, Lysandra,’ he whispered. ‘It is said that you were once a priestess and I know of your work at the Deiopolis. Can I speak with you about this shame?’

  She glanced at him as they sat on the sand. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘But you do not need a priestess for that, Hermolaos. I imagine that your shame comes from the sense of joy and relief you are now feeling.’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. It is true what they say then.

  That the goddess speaks to you!’

  ‘I think she has done on occasion,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘But she does not have to in this case. You feel guilty because you think that you ought to be wrapped in gloom. You have lost friends and comrades and it is disrespectful to rejoice. On the other hand, you have survived; you have made much profit and want to sing for joy because of it.’

  Hermolaos hung his head. ‘Yes. I wish it were not so, but it is.’

  ‘I imagine that is why people drink after a battle funeral,’ Lysandra said. ‘That way, when the jokes and laughter start, they can say that they are giving the dead the farewell that they would have wanted.

  But I imagine the truth is that we are just happy to be alive for one more day.’

  ‘You see right through me.’

  ‘Hardly. It was the same for us in the arena – most of the time, anyway.’ She clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Find yourself a drink, Hermolaos. The gods do not punish a man for being himself. You fought and won and you observed the funeral rites. The gods do not ask for more than that.’ She rose to her feet and strolled off, moving away from the camp, taking her sword with her.

  Her sword.

  Lysandra spun the weapon twice as she used to in the arena before a bout. It had been her signature and the crowd had loved it. For some it might be a bitter truth, but it occurred to Lysandra that it was the thrill of combat that inspired her. The truth of it was that she had enjoyed the fight on the ships. The sense of danger, knowing that each moment could be her last and the exhilaration when she downed an opponent. The heady drug of victory was stronger than wine and more addictive. Her arm weary and her sword bloodied confirmed what she had suspected. She had made the right choice in deciding to fight again.

  ‘Lysandra?’

  Bedros’s gravelled tone interrupted her train of thought and she turned to face him. ‘Greetings, pilot. You fought well today.’

  ‘As did you. It’s all the lads can talk about. Do you know how many you killed?’

  She smiled slightly. ‘Four or five. Perhaps six. Maybe even seven.

  It all happened very fast and I failed to keep track.’

  ‘You killed more than anyone else. It’s no small thanks to you that we made it. You were the spearhead today.’ He paused and looked down. ‘You saved my life. Phampilos told me you stopped an axe that would have finished me off. And nearly finished yourself off doing so.’

  ‘True. But Phampilos grabbed me before I could slip. So there was no harm done in the end.’

  ‘I wanted to thank you for what you did,’ Bedros lifted his eyes to meet hers. ‘If I can ever repay you, you only have to ask.’

  ‘As I owe Phampilos,’ she returned. ‘I thank you for your words, Bedros.’ Lysandra did not cheapen his thanks by brushing his gratitude aside. He did owe her his life and he was quite correct: she had been the difference in the fight and to deny it would be ludicrous.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘There is wine to be drunk and songs to be sung in honour of our friends that died.’

  Lysandra found that she did indeed feel like a cup of wine. She was aware that the maddening urge she often felt before drinking, though still there, was not as intense – as though the spilling of blood could sate her thirst for wine.

  It was a pleasing thought.

  XV

  Valerian awoke.

  He opened his eyes slowly, instantly aware of the dull pain coursing through his body. He felt weak, sick and disoriented, unsure for a moment where he was. He could recall fragments of what had happened – the battle, the Dacians and what they had done to him, his desperate flight into the bowels of the forest. He could recall crashing through the trees, remembering brief snatches of the horrors he had faced.

  He pushed the fragments of memory away and looked around.

  He was lying on a hard bunk in a low-ceilinged room, the walls white and recently painted. As he glanced at the door, it swung open to reveal a chubby, balding man who looked to be in his early thirties.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake, sir. Excellent,’ he smiled.

  ‘Where am I?’ Valerian was appalled at the weakness in his voice.

  ‘Moesia,’ the man replied mildly. ‘Here, let me get you some water.’ He walked to the table by Valerian’s bed and poured, handing him a cup.

  It tasted like heaven. ‘My thanks,’ he gasped.

  ‘Not at all. I am Rullus, medicus with the First Adiutrix.’

  ‘First Legion,’ Valerian acknowledged. Suddenly weak, he laid his head back on the pillow, barely able to hand back the empty cup. He wanted desperately to sleep but, more, he needed to ask questions. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘You need rest,’ the medicus admonished.

  ‘What happened?’ Valerian said again, despising the tremor in his voice.

  Rullus sighed. ‘You probably know more than me, sir. You were there – it wa
s a disaster of note. Stragglers are crossing the bridge in handfuls – ten here, twenty there. So far, a third short of a legion has come back in. But the last of them was a while ago and I fear that will be it.’ He shrugged. ‘What else can I tell you? You were there,’ he said again. ‘Anyway – the general wants to see you when you’re on your feet and I expect he’ll debrief you. Until then, you’re under my care, sir. I can’t order you around, but please – just rest and gather your strength. We’ll keep a close eye on you – you’re the highest ranking officer to have made it so, as I say, the general is keen to talk to you.’

  ‘The highest ranking…’

  ‘Yes, sir. Now please. Close your eyes. You’ve been through a lot, and you’re lucky to be alive. Those Dacian bastards have killed enough Romans for an eternity, sir. I won’t let you be another one, but you must listen to me. Rest. Please.’

  Valerian tried to argue, but fatigue washed over him like a tide and darkness took him.

  Filthy hands dragged him from the cage, hurling him to the ground. Valerian tried to flee, desperate terror overwhelming him, but his legs were numb from the many hours of cramped confinement and would not obey. The Dacians howled with laughter at his efforts. One of them – Cotiso – grabbed his hair and forced him to look at the glowing kindling.

  ‘That is for you,’ he said in his broken Greek. ‘We’re going to roast you alive.’

  Valerian screamed in fear as they dragged him towards it, begging and pleading for mercy. Tears rolled down his cheeks as they secured him: he could tell they were enjoying his fear and would offer no mercy. Yet he could not stop his pleas; he babbled and cried, his mind overwhelmed with the need to live and escape the agonies of torture.

  They raised the x-shaped cross and positioned him over the red hot brush-wood. He heard himself roar as the heat touched the inside of his thighs.

  Thrashing and straining on the bonds, Valerian could only scream as the stink of his own burning flesh assailed his nostrils.

  ‘Tribune.’