Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  ‘Master!’

  A taut whisper stopped Valerian in his tracks and he whirled around, recognising the voice at once. ‘Tancredus,’ he said to the ancient German house-slave. ‘It is good to see you.’

  Tancredus smiled back tightly. ‘And you, master. And you. This…’ he gestured to the house, ‘is a tragedy. A tragedy.’

  Valerian forced a cheerful note into his voice. ‘All will be well.

  I have just seen the new owners. They look to be decent sorts.

  You’ll be all right.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, sir, and you know it. I can’t believe what they’ve done to you. It ain’t right.’

  His answering smile was bitter. ‘The price of failure, my friend.

  Rome doesn’t take to defeat too well and someone has to carry the latrine bucket.’

  ‘Wotan’s balls!’ the old man exclaimed. ‘You’re only a tribune, not the general.’

  Valerian walked back to the locked gate. ‘That’s why I’m still alive. The empire has inherited everything I own, has taken everything else as punishment. I think that Governor Vettonianus thinks me less of a man for not falling on my sword in shame. But,’ he tried to introduce some humour to his voice, ‘as you say – I am only a tribune.’

  Tancredus pressed his lips together in an expression that was somewhere between a smile and grimace of pity. ‘Sir, I’ve looked after you since your parents passed on,’ the old man said, his pale blue eyes moist and red-rimmed. ‘This is shameful what they’ve done, shameful. But…’ again he looked both ways. ‘Wait here.’

  Before Valerian could say anything else, Tancredus scuttled off.

  He was gone for some time and Valerian began to wonder if the old boy had got himself into trouble with his new owners. It might be best if he just slipped away before Tancredus returned. What the slave had said was true, he had taken care of him since the death of his parents. Roman law might say that on the passing of his father he became the pater familias but the truth was, whatever the law said, at thirteen years old, Valerian was ill-prepared to run a well-to-do household and its clients. Tancredus had schooled and cared for him. It would not do for him to be punished because Valerian wasseeking self-indulgent melancholy at his old home. He took one last look at the house and was about to turn to leave when Tancredus returned.

  ‘Here,’ the old man thrust a weighty-looking sack through the gate, clinking with the unmistakeable sound of coin on coin. ‘It’s not much, sir, but…’

  ‘I can’t take this,’ Valerian was both touched and appalled at the old man’s offer. ‘These are your savings! To buy yourself free!’ Guilt welled up within him. The German had been a good servant; he deserved to be manumitted years ago. But Valerian had always been ‘too busy’ to arrange it. And now it was too late. ‘I can’t take it,’ he said again, trying to push the money back through the bars.

  Tancredus stepped away, his chin thrust out. ‘You’ll take it or someone else will! Because I’m not going back with it in my hand.

  I don’t need the money anymore, boy,’ he added, his voice gentler.

  ‘You take it.’

  Valerian looked down, need, pride and honour warring within him. His own purse was virtually empty – the last few denarii of his army pay would not last him long. But how could he take his former slave’s life-savings? It was a deed so mean and base that no man with an iota of virtus could contemplate taking it. Even as he thought it, Valerian saw his own hand reaching out for the sack.

  He had left any right to virtus, to his manhood, back in that forest in Dacia. He met the old German’s gaze. ‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘I will pay you back ten-fold,’ he promised.

  Tancredus smiled. ‘I know you will, master. I will see you again.’

  ‘Yes. And soon. When I am back on my feet I will…’

  The slave held up his hand, cutting Valerian off before he could continue. ‘Until then.’ Without another word, he turned about and made his way back inside. Valerian watched him go, throat thick with emotion. Shame bore heavily down upon him, mingled with gratitude to Tancredus. The old man had given up any chance of freedom so that Valerian might have a second chance. He would, he promised himself, be good to his word, and repay his former servant.

  He turned away then, slinging the sack over his shoulder. It was heavy – heavy enough to buy a man’s life or indeed a new life for a man.

  Valerian offered a prayer of thanks to his ancestors and to Fortuna but knew well not to tempt the fickle goddess. Despite the overwhelming need for a bath, a change of clothes and a good meal, he ignored the urge and strode purposefully in the direction of the forum.

  It was a fair walk in the heat of mid-afternoon. The streets swarmed with people, pushing, shoving and selling. Valerian noted the distasteful glances he received from some of his fellow citizens.

  His red tunic, scars and unkempt appearance marked him as a newly discharged soldier. They glared at him. Some muttered insults and accusations, whilst others merely looked shocked and disbelieving.

  No one wanted to be reminded of the shame of defeat, and Valerian was walking testament to a Roman failure.

  Valerian ignored them as much as he could, embracing instead the chance to once again drink in the sights of the most beautiful city in the world. The Flavian amphitheatre now dominated the heart of Rome – it seemed as though the colossal building was visible from everywhere – as one approached from the Esquiline, it rose majestically from the earth; walking through the streets it was a constant presence that loomed over the bustling populace. It seemed that every glance down a side alley would reveal parts of its gigantic walls. A potent example of Rome’s might, it cast a shadow over the entire capital and only served to add to the feeling of wretchedness that hung around Valerian like a cold mantle. He tried to ignore it as much as he could, keeping his eyes to the ground until he finally reached the forum.

  As usual, all manner of business was being conducted, from the purchasing of sacrificial doves to offer in one of the many temples to the business of empire being transascted behind the great brazen doors of the Senate building.

  Valerian wove his way through the crowds until he found the section set up for the argentarii, the bankers who could safely look after the sum of money he carried. The area was dominated by Greek, Egyptian and Judaean freedmen working for their Roman masters.

  Easterners were famously parsimonious and their love for money meant that they could always be trusted to seek the most profitable transactions, which for Valerian meant a hard day’s negotiation. He was almost destitute and, though once he would not have given a fig for the best interest percentage, he could no longer afford such laxity.

  Fortunately for Valerian, his misfortune and bedraggled appearance could not rob him of his education: as such, he was able to barter and argue with the bankers about the finer points of profit – and was gratified by their surprise.

  Eventually, he placed his custom with a Judaean called Ezra. ‘You could ruin my employer,’ Ezra said, as he again weighed Valerian’s meagre fortune.

  ‘I’m ruined myself,’ Valerian admitted. ‘I had to drive a hard bargain, but I think a fair one.’

  ‘The Lord will forgive you even if I don’t,’ the banker muttered.

  ‘Legionary’s wage for the month,’ he said, counting out twenty-five denarii and sliding them across the table to Valerian. ‘You’ve got a good year’s pay left here but that’s all. It’ll slip through your fingers like sand if you keep coming back to me and asking for more, though. We’ll return a good profit on your investment, but it will take time. I’ll see you right each month, hopefully out of your interest and we can increase the value of your initial investment.’

  ‘Thanks. Have you got a purse?’

  ‘You want my scrotum, perhaps,’ Ezra clasped his hands together and lifted his gaze skywards. ‘I give you the best deal and you have the cheek to ask me for a purse to put your gilt in?’

  The Judaean’s p
antomiming was endearing, and Valerian was unable to stop himself from grinning. ‘Yes.’

  Ezra shook his head. ‘Now I know why you bastards own the world. Where one man would be satisfied with the best deal, the Roman squeezes the last drop of blood from the honest man. Here,’ he tipped out a small pile of money from one of the bags on the table. ‘Take this.’

  ‘Thank you, Ezra. It was a pleasure doing business with you.’

  ‘A bit of advice, soldier,’ the banker offered. ‘Don’t spend it all at once on boozing, whoring and gambling. God hates a sinner.’

  ‘What about the gods of wine, love and chance?’

  ‘There’s only one God.’

  Valerian opened his mouth to jest some more, but then held his tongue. As a Roman, he had a healthy respect for another man’s religion, even of it was one as strange as the Judaeans’. ‘Yes, well, each to their own,’ he placated. ‘But don’t worry. I plan on getting myself some digs and sorting myself out. I’ve had a rough time of late, but we Roman bastards don’t own the world because we cry into our wine cups when things go tits up either.’ This effort at nationalistic bravado sounded forced even to his own ears.

  ‘Good for you…’ Ezra stopped and looked over Valerian’s shoulder at a sudden commotion that had sprung up in the Forum.

  Valerian followed his gaze to see a chubby fellow being hoisted up on a platform by several burly compatriots.

  ‘Citizens!’ the fat man shouted. ‘I am here to announce a clash of titans… a battle worthy for the arena on high Olympus… a contest fit for the eyes of Mars himself! In seven days time, Lykaios the retiarius will face the fearsome Canis, champion murmillo with seven clean victories on his slate. Who will triumph...’

  The hyperbole went on, but Valerian was not interested in gladiators and arenas. As he had said to Ezra, he needed to sort himself out. ‘I’ll see you in a month, then.’ He turned back to the banker.

  ‘As you say,’ Ezra nodded, and handed him a parchment. ‘Keep it as safe as you can. I’ll have copies of our transaction made, of course, but that’s yours in case you need it. Have a good day.’

  That was a clear dismissal: Ezra had bigger fish to deal with than an impoverished former equites, after all. Valerian secured his new purse inside his tunic and made off.

  The crowd that had gathered around the fight promoter was beginning to disperse, but there was still a sizeable knot of people now arguing the various merits and flaws of the two gladiators.

  ‘Tribune!’ someone called

  Force of habit caused Valerian to turn. As he did so, his eyes widened in shock. ‘Settus!’ he exclaimed. ‘By the gods, it’s good to see you, man. I thought you had stayed in Britannia!’

  With a gap-toothed grin, Settus disengaged from the gang of bruisers that he was with: Valerian realised then that he was part of the crew assigned to the corpulent fight promoter.

  Settus had changed since last they had met: his hair was sparser and his arms were decorated with barbarian tattoos. ‘Fuck Britannia,’ the former optio stated, showing that whilst his appearance might have changed, his language had not. ‘Bad weather, bad booze, poxy natives. Bastards got me in the end,’ he added, pointing to his knee.

  An ugly red scar ran upwards and into his tunic.

  ‘They didn’t…’

  ‘Thank the gods, no!’ Settus looked affronted. ‘They missed the jewels, but carved out a good chunk of my leg, the bastards. And then, you know what it’s like – the army doesn’t give a fuck about you when you’re no longer fit for active service, so I took my pay-off. How about you, sir?’ Settus’s face screwed up inquisitively.

  Valerian hesitated. ‘Well, you know how it is…’ he offered.

  ‘Yep,’ Settus was obviously prepared to take that. ‘I’m guessing that you’re not a tribune any more, though.’

  ‘Well… you know how it is,’ Valerian said again.

  ‘Dacia, was it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Settus nodded, his expression grim. He had been a soldier, and he knew the realities of war: the civilians knew only what they heard in the forum or the trumped-up lies written by Greek correspondents. ‘It must have been shit.’ He pressed his lips into a thin line of sympathy. ‘Fucking shit,’ he added for emphasis.

  Valerian wanted to say that Settus had no idea; that Settus had always been on the winning side. Yes, it had been hard against the Silures in Britannia, but Rome was always going to win that fight.

  Valerian was in that most rare and unwanted clique of Romans who had lost a war. ‘It was fucking shit. I took the fall.’

  ‘Sir,’ Settus sighed. ‘All officers are cunts. You were less of a cunt than most, though. You could have a scrap, unlike most of the jumped up twats who run the army these days. And,’ he grinned, ‘you did skewer that spiky-haired bastard who almost had me when I lost my balance and fell over.’

  Just being with Settus made Valerian feel less wretched; recalling their time serving under Frontinus reminded him – just for a moment – that he was once a good soldier. ‘You fell over? The way I remember it was that he had you all day and you were lucky I was there to save your arse.’

  ‘I forgot to say,’ Settus clapped him on the shoulder, ‘that all officers are lying cunts.’ His face turned serious. ‘Sir, if you don’t mind me saying, you look like you don’t have a pot to piss in at the moment. You need some help?’

  For all his good nature, Settus was a plebeian. There was once a time when Valerian would have spat on his hand for all his well-meaning intent. But that had been before – when he was equites.

  But now? Now he was less than nothing. ‘Yes,’ he said, hating the admission. ‘I’m not sure what to do from here.’

  ‘What happened?’ Settus asked.

  ‘Settus, you lazy bastard! Let’s get going,’ the fat promoter interrupted, evidently deciding that the army reunion was over.

  Settus was a small man, but Valerian had witnessed him terrorising raw recruits and ten-year veterans alike. He rounded on the promoter, his dark eyes glinting dangerously. ‘I’m busy,’ he hissed.

  ‘The men can walk you back to the arena, Roscius.’

  ‘Laenus will hear of this!’ Roscius snapped. ‘You’re not getting paid to socialise.’

  ‘My orders were to escort you to the forum. You’re at the fucking forum. Taking you back is a courtesy and the lads here will see that you’re kept safe. I’m going for a drink with my mate – we were in the army together.’

  ‘Touching,’ Roscius sneered.

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’ Settus took a step forward and Valerian had to suppress a laugh as the bigger man backed away. ‘All right then.’ Settus was suddenly all smiles. ‘Have a good afternoon, Roscius.

  Look after him, lads,’ he added, as the gang of enforcers began shoving a path clear for their charge.

  ‘Just like old times,’ Valerian commented.

  ‘I hate that fat cunt,’ Settus spat. ‘Should have just dragged him into an alleyway and kicked his fucking head in.’ He pantomimed kicking a man when he was down. ‘You know, till I was red in the face and couldn’t breathe.’ The last bit was added with a little too much relish. ‘Right then – a few cups of wine then, sir?’

  ‘Of course – and Settus… it’s just Valerian now.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Force of habit.’

  The two made their way out of the Forum and headed towards the Subura where Settus promised there was a tavern that sold ‘the best and cheapest wine to be had this side of Latium’, though Valerian was inclined to take the claim with a degree of scepticism.

  ‘This place has really gone downhill,’ Settus observed. The Subura had housed the lowest echelon of Roman society, those who relied on the grain dole and crime to make ends meet, but the former optio was adamant that it had taken a turn for the even worse. ‘I blame the foreigners,’ he extrapolated. ‘Rome should be for Romans. But nowadays it’s full of fucking barbarians and easterners, all coming here looking to ponce
off the empire. We’re taking in too many slaves as well– we should just kill them and leave them to rot in their own stinking countries. Ah,’ he stopped abruptly, ‘here we are. First jug on me.’

  Dingy was too grand a word to describe Settus’s preferred watering hole. Valerian could not recall ever having been in such a place, but yet he was reminded of the parties that he had attended when he had been equites. All the necessary accoutrements for entertainment were present – namely food, alcohol, women and even a half-sozzled ‘bard’ who was telling a dirty story about Venus and the gnarly satyr. Only the quality of the amusements and surroundings differed and the people here would ultimately end up doing the same as their aristocratic counterparts – drinking, humping, puking and passing out.

  He sat in a booth and was found by Settus bearing a jug as though he was Bacchus himself. ‘Here we are then.’ He poured for them both and Valerian was surprised to find that, despite his reserva-tions, the booze was not equivalent to drinking horse piss. ‘What do you reckon?’ Settus asked.

  ‘For once, your taste isn’t in the latrine. It’s not bad at all.’

  ‘Told you,’ Settus took a draught, winced and exhaled. ‘It’s the good stuff.’ He helped himself to another.

  ‘So, Settus,’ Valerian said, indicating the intricate blue spirals that decorated the older man’s arms. ‘Tell me – how did you come by the tattoos?’

  ‘I’m fucking smothered in them,’ came the rueful response. ‘I’ve got the bastard things all over my chest and back as well. I got hooked up with this native bird – you know how it is – and I thought that taking on some of the local customs would please her.

  It did, I suppose – I ended up marrying her.’

  ‘But you’re not married any more, I take it.’

  ‘Nah,’ Settus took a hit of wine. ‘She died. The weather in Britannia is enough to kill anyone, even the natives. I fucked off as soon as her pyre had gone out.’