The Dacians laughed at his agony. The searing heat charred his flesh, roasing away his legs, his groin, his very manhood. Valerian screamed his throat raw, hearing and hating the way the pitch in his voice changed.
‘Tribune!’
They mocked him, shouting out his rank in Latin as he begged almighty Jupiter to end his life, to spare him the suffering. Then he was aware only of his agonised cries: the gods had not heard his call…
‘Tribune!’
Valerian’s eyes flew open and he shrank away, groaning as the pain from his wounds flashed through him. In the darkness, he could see the helmeted, armoured shape of a legionary crouching by his bedside.
‘You were dreaming, sir,’ the soldier said.
Valerian flushed with shame. He must have been crying out like a babe in the throes of a nightmare. The soldier lit the oil lamp by the bedside, banishing the darkness. Valerian was surprised to note that there was no trace of scorn or mockery on his face. Most rankers would have delighted in this pathetic behaviour from a superior of the equestrian rank.
‘I still dream,’ the soldier’s voice was quiet. ‘I experienced one of the first raids the Dacians made into Moesia. They tortured everyone, sir. Impaled them. But she let me live.’
Valerian was taken aback by the man’s candidness. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Marcus Sabinus, sir. I’ve been assigned to guard you. I heard you crying out and I knew what hell you were in. Been there myself, as I said.’
‘Thank you, Marcus Sabinus.’ Valerian meant it. ‘You had it rough? Did they...?’
‘Oh no, sir,’ Sabinus shook his head. ‘Didn’t lay a finger on me. I was covered in my own shit when they found me. I was hiding under the dead. It was like a vision from Tartarus,’ he said, his dark eyes flattening as he recalled the horrors he had seen. ‘I know different now, of course, but it was a shock to see that they was all women. Like them Amazons, you know. But they spared me, so I could let the army know that they meant business. I’ll never forget it. Their chief – tall woman – she was knocking on a bit, but still looked iron-hard. She told me that I’d be the only one of us to be left alive, and only so that I could tell everybody back in Rome what I’d seen and take a message. I had to tell them of the fate that awaited every one of my kinsmen who crossed into her homeland. Then she said something that made little sense to me, but she made me repeat it over and over so that I’d remember:
‘ Tell them that Sorina of Dacia has made good her promise once made to a Spartan. Tell the Romans that I have returned to take back what is mine. ’
‘Sorina of Dacia?’
‘That’s what she said, sir.’
‘I’ve met her.’
‘Ah.’ There was an uncomfortable silence as both men realised that, though they had shared an experience that crossed over their social boundary, the army would not tolerate such familiarity in the ranks. ‘Well – you need your sleep, sir.’
‘Yes,’ Valerian nodded. ‘Thank you, Marcus Sabinus.’
He saluted and went to the door. Without turning he spoke again. ‘I couldn’t understand what she meant about promising a Spartan. Do you know what it means, sir?’
Valerian sighed. ‘Yes, I think maybe I do, Sabinus.’ More than that he was not prepared to offer. The legionary waited a moment longer and then, realising that no more was forthcoming, he shut the door quietly behind him.
Valerian lay back on the bunk, staring up at the ceiling. In the wake of the nightmare, he was disgusted to find that he was afraid to extinguish the lamp. Closing his eyes, he realised what he had lost in the battle and its aftermath. Virtus was a concept that only a Roman could understand as it was a trait abundant only in their race. It was more than simple manliness and honour; it was the very essence of a Roman’s being. Valerian had always thought of it as an abstract concept when he had possessed it. But now, in the wake of his dreams he knew that he had left much of himself in the stinking forests of that cursed land. He squeezed his eyes tighter closed, but his tears were hot on his face.
Valerian began to hate the hospital bed. The days dragged by with depressing slowness and he found himself almost becoming desperate for the company of Rullus. Indeed, when the medicus was delayed or missed a scheduled visit, Valerian’s nerves began to fray. Though he hated himself for this behaviour he could not prevent it. This place had robbed him of any strength of will that he once possessed.
As long as the days were, the nights were much worse. He was afraid to sleep because of the dreams. Morpheus came every night to terrify him with visions of torture or humiliate him with visions of his rape and debasement. The visions were more real than any dream he had experienced, staying with him long after he had snapped to wakefulness. Often he was awoken by Sabinus. The legionary never again mentioned his own experiences at the hands of the Dacians but, as far as Valerian could tell, the stories of his night terrors were not spread around the camp.
In the end, he was forced to confide in Rullus and ask for a sleeping draught.
‘You should have mentioned this earlier,’ the medicus chastised him. ‘I’m under pressure to get you out of here and if you’re not sleeping, then you won’t heal.’
‘Why are you under pressure?’
‘I told you before that the general is anxious to meet with you.’
Valerian could tell that he was forcing a hard edge from his voice – evidently it was more than gentle pressure being applied. ‘But you’re still too weak to be allowed out on your own recognisance.’
‘I feel much better,’ Valerian lied. The truth of it was that the sword wounds ached abominably and every movement sent waves of agony flooding through him. He was heavily reliant on the opiates that Rullus gave him, even if the effects were neither sufficiently potent nor protracted.
Rullus sighed. ‘With respect, sir, you look like hammered shit.
I’ll have a sleeping draught prepared for you tonight and we’ll see how we go in a few days.’
Valerian nodded his thanks. ‘Any more survivors coming in from the battle?’
‘A few here and there,’ Rullus answered. ‘It’s only a trickle now, though.’
‘Officers?’
‘No, sir, I’m afraid not. I guess that’s why the general is keen to see you. As I say – a few more days rest and we’ll see if we can get you over to him. All right?’
‘I’ve had enough of it in here, Rullus.’ Valerian could hear the whining tone: it should belong to another man, he thought, but this was the man he had become.
Rullus tried and failed to keep the shock at the admission from his face. ‘Look,’ he said after a moment. ‘I know it can’t be easy after what you’ve been through, but you’re going to have to bear it for a few more days. Try and keep your chin up, eh?’
‘I’ve no one to talk to. Nothing to read… I feel like I’m in prison, not on a sickbed. I hate to say this to you, Rullus, but you cannot understand…’
The medicus smiled tightly. ‘I’ll get you some reading matter, sir.
Fair enough?’
Valerian was absurdly grateful for this gesture. ‘Yes, thank you, Rullus. I’m in your debt.’
‘Just doing my job.’ He retreated to the door, unwilling to speak further and was gone before Valerian could trouble him further.
He was, however, true to his word. He brought Valerian a number of books to pass the time during the day, and the sleeping draught the medicus prescribed sent him into such a deep sleep that only the most potent of nightmares could pierce it. Even then, when Valerian awoke, he felt fuzzy and though he knew he had been terrified in his sleep, thankfully he could not grasp the memories. As an equites he had been taught that it was cowardice in the extreme not to face his fears, but the truth of it was he was glad not to have to relive the hellish aftermath of the battle. The fighting itself had been bad, but as a soldier he had become as accustomed to it as a man could be. But the tortures he had seen and what Cotiso had done to him were things he could not overcome.
The nights of barely-broken sleep revived him and after a few days Rullus eyed him critically. ‘I think that you might be ready to see the general,’ he said one morning. ‘But that is up to you. Are you still in a lot of pain?’
‘Yes,’ Valerian admitted. ‘But I know the urgency of the general’s summons. I must obey orders. I am still a soldier.’ He felt like a liar as he said it.
‘Well, you don’t look much like one,’ Rullus smiled and the words were said with no malice. ‘You need a proper wash and a shave. I will have a slave see to this, but I’ll oversee it myself. I don’t want pulled stitches, bandages falling off and all the rest of it. Don’t worry, sir. We’ll have you looking like a young Caesar soon enough.’
That was far from the case, but by the time the sullen looking slave and Rullus had finished, Valerian felt he was at least presentable. Rullus insisted that he use a crutch to support himself and he did not complain. There seemed little point anymore as it seemed his lot to have indignity heaped upon him.
‘Sabinus here will take you,’ the medicus advised Valerian, as he hobbled out of the room. He nodded a greeting at the legionary who kept his expression neutral. ‘Please don’t rush about,’ Rullus said. ‘Take things easy, and straight back here when your debriefing is complete.’
Valerian thanked him, eager now to be away from the hospital.
With Sabinus hovering at his elbow he squinted into the daylight, taking in a deep breath of cold, fresh air. There was a comfort to be had in the familiar sights and sounds of the base. Centurions screamed at their charges, armour clattered as troopers jogged here and there on a thousand different errands. Sentries stood atop the high walls looking out towards Dacia. It was a rock of safety in a sea of barbarity, but Valerian knew that this security could be all too transient.
‘It’s not too far, sir,’ Sabinus said, as they made their painfully slow progress through the base.
Valerian glanced at him. Stocky with jutting, unrefined features, Sabinus was a man cast from the mould that had produced so many legionaries. Most of them cared nothing beyond where their next whore, drink or fight was coming from. But Sabinus had that look behind his eyes that Valerian knew that he also carried now. ‘That Amazon. She was a gladiatrix in Asia Minor,’ he said at length.
‘Sorina, sir?’
‘Yes. She was one of the finest arena fighters in the province.
But a new girl came, a Greek from Sparta – Achillia was her name.
Younger, more beautiful than Sorina, the crowd loved her: they would, being Greek themselves, I suppose. As you can imagine, enmity between Sorina – or Amazona as she was called then – and Achillia was great. The barbarian’s niece or something was killed, and she blamed Achillia. The niece happened to be Achillia’s lover as well and naturally she blamed Sorina… it’s not very Roman, but what can you expect from slaves? Anyway, I understand that it all got out of hand and… well… I imagine that threats were made.
That must have been what she was referring to when you last…met her.’
Sabinus looked a little crestfallen. ‘That’s it?’
‘Well… yes,’ Valerian was a little put out at the lack of enthusiasm.
‘I thought it would be something more than an argument between slaves, that’s all. That there would have been some meaning to it.’
‘Maybe she meant it as a message to Achillia.’
‘As if I’ll ever get to Asia Minor to tell her,’ Sabinus grunted and seemed to dismiss the matter. ‘You know the army, sir. One shitty posting after the next. I imagine we’ll be sent to Judaea after this.’
Valerian appreciated that Sabinus was once again establishing professional distance. ‘Gods save us from that, Sabinus,’ he said.
Their talk had taken them to the praetorium – the commander’s lodging that was the centrepiece of the fortress. ‘I’ll wait here, sir,’
Sabinus said, leaving Valerian to make his way forward alone.
XVI
She loved this place as she loved no other. It was more of a home to her than the house on the Oppian Hill or even the beautiful estate near Capua. For Aemilia Illeana, the Ludus Magnus was the place that completed her. If the Flavian Amphitheatre was the beating heart of Rome, then the Magnus was the main artery that fed it. It was here that the finest gladiators in all the empire trained and it was here amidst the dust, sweat, exertion and pain that she felt whole.
Illeana believed that perhaps Fortuna walked by her side and, whilst other arena fighters would make offerings to Nemesis, she honoured the goddess of chance above all others. The path of her life had led her unerringly to this place, each happenstance bringing her closer to a life that she cherished more than anyone could know.
She could, had she so wished, lived a life of luxury unimagined by any former slave. But Illeana considered that to do so would be to spit in the eye of Fortuna. It was evident that the goddess had a plan for her and wanted her to pursue this path. More, the life of a rich yet despised freedwoman held no appeal whatsoever. All the money in the world would not buy patrician acceptance. She had learned this from her husband and the truth of it was that she neither craved nor cared about their recognition.
She cared only that she was the best at what she did. It was, she often thought, ironic that the same people who had once poured scorn and derision on her husband for marrying her now screamed and chanted her fighting name – Aesalon Nocturna – to the rafters of the Flavian.
At twenty-five, she was in her prime, the finest gladiatrix ever to fight on the sands of the arena. But she knew that she would not remain so unless she worked harder.
Pushing thoughts of her past from her mind, Illeana began her morning’s work. First, loose stretching to loosen the muscles. Then she would run, down the long tunnel that connected the Magnus to the amphitheatre proper and it was here that the real work began.
The arena was a third of a mile around and each day she completed fifteen laps, punctuated with lung bursting sprints up the rows of stone benches to the top of the stadium and then down again. She had seen many gladiators go down because fatigue set in during the long bouts or when a bad injury had been sustained. She vowed that she would never fall prey to this, that if the time came for her to face defeat it was not because she was unprepared but because she had met a better fighter.
The truth was, she did not think that likely – but she knew also that, now she had reached the top, there was but one way for her to go and she would not allow complacency to be her undoing.
Her laps completed, she returned to the ludus to work on strength building exercises. Lifting iron bars was common practice amongst the male gladiators: it was a sure way of putting on muscle and increasing power. But for the gladiatrix, strength had to be tempered with speed and agility – and certain physical standards had to be maintained. She was not a barbarian and no one wanted to see a Roman woman carrying unsightly muscular bulk. Illeana was not so naive as to think that it was for her fighting prowess alone that she was admired.
Aesalon Nocturna was regarded as one of the most beautiful women in Rome and indeed the entire empire, if some of her more besotted admirers were to be believed. She was not sure that was the case, but she knew that her face was as much of an asset as her fighting skill, more so because her features were so exotic to the Roman eye. Her lips were full, almost overly so and her green eyes gave her the sultry look of the Syrian or the Egyptian; she wore her dark brown hair long and paid a fortune for it to be kept in good condition, investing in all sorts of potions and unguents. Hers was not the look of the coldly beautiful Roman patrician: her husband had told her this. Hers, he had said, was a look that inspired both men and women to lust. And he had been right. Deadly and erotically beautiful, this combination had won her admirers that ranged from the lowest slave in the Subura to the emperor himself.
As she began her set with the iron weight, she saw one of the trainers strolling over to her. She ignored him until her repetitions were complete.
‘Greetings, Illeana.’
‘Laenus,’ she acknowledged with a slight smile. She liked the powerfully built former murmillo; he was not quick with the vine staff and had an inherent skill at knowing just how far to push the new tiros without breaking them. She recalled that she had thought herself physically fit when she had first come to the Imperial School.
Laenus had shown her the error of that assumption and Illeana believed that the foundation he had given her was responsible in no small way for her success.
‘I need a favour.’ He came straight out with it.
‘How much?’ she asked, wiping the sweat from her brow with a dirty cloth. Laenus might apply centurion-like discipline to his charges but the same could not be said for his habits outside the ludus, which ran to gambling too much at the Circus.
He spread his hands, looking hurt. ‘No, I’m not after money.’
‘Not this time, anyway.’
He ignored that. ‘We have some new female recruits, slaves and an auctorata,’ he used the professional term for a contract fighter.
‘There’s one that I’d like you to look over for me.’Illeana frowned.
‘Why me?’ she asked. ‘There must be… what… thirteen or fourteen gladiatrices here in the Magnus and more at the Dacius?’ She referred to another school nearby. ‘Can’t you use someone else?’
‘There’s something about this one,’ he explained. ‘She’s young but she’s had training: you can see it a mile off and I don’t want to risk one of my experienced girls getting knocked on her arse by a fucking tiro. Bad for discipline if one of these new girls gets above herself.’
Illeana chuckled. ‘So you want the Gladiatrix Prima of all Rome to put on a show for your new beginners, is that it?’
‘You wouldn’t be Gladiatrix Prima if not for me,’ Laenus was wearing the grin of a man who knew he was going to get his own way.
‘And I won’t be much longer if I keep going on fool’s errands for you and not training properly! I’m supposed to be fighting a
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