‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Settus.’
Settus grunted and they sat in silence for a while which he would endure for only so long. ‘Last time I saw you, you were in your pomp,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
Valerian sighed, wondering how much he should reveal. Settus was the hardest man he knew, a Roman’s Roman. Probably, like most, he would have expected Valerian to take his own life – if not for the defeat in battle then certainly for the perdurable shame of his treatment by the Dacian barbarians. He told the optio most of what happened, though he could not bring himself to say more than that he had received ‘a rough time’ at the enemy’s hands. He hoped that Settus would realise there was more to it, but think him more of a man for sparing the details.
‘And, as it turned out,’ Valerian finished the bulk of the tale, ‘I was so delirious, I ended up hiding from our own men.’ He was slurring a little and he eyed the second jug, realising that it was almost empty. ‘Anyway, they patched me up and sent me to see the legate, who, in his wisdom, decided that the entire fuck-up had to be blamed on someone. As the highest ranking officer to survive, that someone was me.’
Settus shook his head. ‘Funisulanus Vettonianus was it? He’s a cunt.’
‘Can’t argue with that.’ Valerian caught the eye of a slave and gestured for another jug. ‘Despite Vettonianus’s suggestion, I opted not to fall on my sword. But still, my property and everything else is forfeit.’
‘How come you were with the argentarius then?’ Settus might be a pleb but he was anything but thick.
There was no point in lying anymore. The wine had made him mellow and anxious to unburden himself of the truth. ‘My former slave gave me his freedom pot,’ he said.
‘Fuck’s sakes!’ Settus looked impressed. ‘Good slaves like that are hard to come by.’ If he thought less of Valerian for the admission, he did not show it. ‘So, what now for you?’
Valerian shrugged. ‘Get some work, I suppose. Maybe as a pedagogue… I’m sure that I can find something. I’ve got enough money to tide me over for now. But it won’t last forever – and I have to get the money back to my old slave. So I can’t just sit on my arse poncing off the state.’
‘A man should pay his debts,’ Settus tipped back the wine cup and dived straight in the new jug. ‘I could help you out, you know.’
Valerian was touched by the offer, but he held up his hands.
‘Thanks – but I can’t borrow from you to pay back Tancredus. I’d just be moving the debt.’
‘That’s not what I meant, you twat,’ Settus looked incredulous at Valerian’s lack of perception. ‘As if I had that sort of money, anyway. No, I meant I can sort you out a job at the arena. Security, like me.’
Valerian hesitated. Like himself, Settus had drunk more than his fair share of wine and this could be the booze talking. Also, he doubted very much if he would fit in with the former optio’s rough crew. ‘I couldn’t ask you to put yourself out like that.’
‘Bollocks,’ Settus waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’s the least I can do. You saved my life once and, like I said, a man should pay his debts. It won’t even the score, but it’ll go some way, eh, sir?’
‘Valerian.’
‘What? Oh yeah. Force of habit. But what do you reckon?’
Valerian smiled blearily, full of booze-filled appreciation. Despite his misgivings about the work, Settus was putting himself out to offer him a hand. It would be churlish to rebuff him. ‘I’d be grateful for any help, that’s the truth,’ he said.
‘Fucking brilliant!’ Settus gave him his chipped-teeth smile. ‘It’ll be great working with you – you’re army, after all. There are a few of us, but most of the cunts that work at the Flavian are ex-gladiators or would-be hard men. You know the type, they sit around getting pissed up and going on about all the rows they’ve had. The cunts,’ he added for good measure.
‘When should I start?’ Valerian wanted to get the practicalities out of the way as now the wine was starting to go down like nectar.
‘Not tomorrow, that’s for sure,’ Settus noted sagely, probably aware of the skull-crushing hangovers they would both be enduring the following day. ‘I’ll square it at the arena and get a message to you. Where are you staying?’
Valerian spread his hands. ‘I’ve not covered that yet.’
‘Fuck’s sakes! All right, you can kip down in my room at the insula,’ he referred to one of the countless high-rise apartments that housed the poor and lower-middle classes of Rome. ‘Just make sure that you stick a cork up your jacksie before you pass out: the place is small enough and I don’t want to be breathing in your arse-gas all night.’
Valerian was genuinely touched. ‘Thanks, Settus, but I couldn’t impose on you like that. I’ll find a hostel.’
‘Bollocks,’ Settus dismissed. ‘A hostel in the city will cost a fortune. Besides, it’s not forever.’ This, Valerian decided, was added as both promise and warning. ‘Once I sort you out at the arena, you’ll be fine. You can even stay there till you get on your feet.’
‘Settus, I don’t know what to say.’
‘That’s easy,’ Settus winked. ‘You say “next jug on me, and I’ll also pay for tonight’s whores.”’
‘Of course,’ Valerian grinned. He could not help but think of the argentarius’s admonitions about soldiers, booze and prostitutes.
Still… this was a celebration of sorts. He had some semblance of hope at least, and that, coupled with the wine, made him feel a little less powerless.
It was a start.
XIX
The steps were the killer.
‘Come on, Pyrrha!’ Illeana urged, as her young charge huffed and panted to the top tier of the Flavian. Illeana had, as usual, outstripped Pyrrha on the final tier and left her far behind. ‘It’s late in the day and I want a bath… Oh ho!’ Upon reaching the top step, the tiro collapsed to her knees and threw up.
Illeana chuckled to herself and strolled over. ‘Pathetic,’ she said as she reached the stricken form.
‘I’ll be fine in a moment,’ the girl said, wiping dribble from her chin.
Illeana regarded her critically: Pyrrha was all in and it would do no good to push her further. In the weeks that she had been at the Magnus , she had demonstrated her fighting skills admirably on the palaestra more than once – but it was her strength and stamina that the Gladiatrix Prima wanted to build up. ‘On your feet,’ she said, offering her an arm. ‘It’s enough for today.’
‘I can carry on.’ Pyrrha tried to be game, but the words came out in a choked rush as she doubled over and emptied what was left in her guts.
Illeana stepped away as the puke pattered on the stones. ‘I don’t think so. There is such a thing as overtraining, you know.’
‘Is there?’ Pyrrha wiped her mouth. ‘I thought you could never be fit enough.’
Illeana regarded her for a moment. ‘Your old owner teach you that, did he?’
‘Yes.’
Illeana waited for more, but Pyrrha was always closed mouthed about her past. Illeana respected that and resisted the urge to pry.
Like all mysteries, it was intriguing, but clearly the tiro was not going to reveal more at this time. ‘He’s right to a certain extent,’ she said, sitting on one of the stone seats. Looking down on the arena from the women’s seats, she realised how small the fighters must look; how the blood and death must not seem real from way up in the heights.
‘To a certain extent?’
‘Yes… it doesn’t do…’
‘Everything all right here, ladies?’ a man’s voice cut her off. Both gladiatrices looked up to see one of the ludus’s security men at the top of the steps. He carried a water bucket and a ladle. ‘I’ve just started my evening rounds,’ he said. ‘I thought you could use a drink… and that I should wash the steps.’ He smiled at Pyrrha, who turned bright red, and handed her the ladle brimming with clear water.
The guard was in his thirties, lean, very, very Roman and very, ver
y handsome. His smile was enough to make most women go weak at the knees. Illeana realised that this was no Subura boy; the man’s accent was cultured, the timbre enhanced by oration lessons.
She glanced then at Pyrrha and read in the tiro’s eyes: here was trouble.
‘Thanks,’ Pyrrha took the ladle, virtually swooning, and not from exhaustion this time.
The guard looked down, flushing with embarrassment – or something else, Illeana ascertained. He looked ashamed at the attention.
He was probably into boys, she decided, and thus not a threat. Pyrrha would have to endure the disappointment. ‘Thanks,’ she said when he handed her the ladle. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ the man’s grin returned. ‘My name is Valerian.’
‘Illeana,’ she unleashed her own devastating smile on him, gratified to see the reaction – boy-lover or not, he clearly appreciated her looks. ‘Or Aesalon Nocturna,’ she added.
‘I have heard of you,’ he proclaimed. ‘Venus herself must have touched you at birth,’ he complemented. ‘ Hail, sweetly-winning, coy-eyed goddess...’
‘Grant that I may gain the victory in this contest,’ she finished the line of the Homeric hymn. ‘It is my favourite prayer.’
‘And if you are Venus, this must be Diana?’ he turned his gaze to Pyrrha who turned even more red and looked down.
‘I’m Pyrrha,’ she addressed her toes, refusing to meet his gaze.
‘I’m a tiro. Gladiatrix. You know…’
‘Yes,’ Valerian took the ladle from her hand. ‘I know. I saw you at your training. You’re very good.’
‘A gladiator’s eye, Valerian?’ Illeana gestured to the guard’s scarred right forearm, the tell-tale mark of a swordsman.
‘Soldier’s,’ he corrected.
‘Of course.’ Whilst most of the men who worked at the Flavian were ex-gladiators, there were a few former legionaries and auxiliaries. Such men could be counted on to be loyal, steadfast, good at crowd control and well able to keep unruly fighters cowed if the need arose in the ludus. ‘Well, it was good to meet you, Valerian.’
Illeana rose to her feet. ‘Pyrrha and I must bathe and get a massage.’
She regarded him with hooded gaze and saw his throat work as he imagined the scene. Perhaps he was not a boy-lover after all.
‘ Vale, then,’ he offered, turning to the puddle of sick. ‘It was an honour to meet you. Both of you.’
Illeana made her way down the steps, Pyrrha following in her wake. As they reached the bottom tier, the young tiro seemed to find her courage. She turned around and shouted ‘ Vale!’ at the top of her voice, causing it to echo around the empty arena. Illeana turned to see Valerian emptying the bucket over her vomit. Pyrrha was cringing at this, but the new guard was now too far away to see that. He raised his hand in farewell and made off on his rounds.
The two women walked in silence towards the tunnel that linked ludus to arena and were well inside before Pyrrha broke the silence.
‘He was nice,’ she commented.
Illeana could not resist the urge to tease. ‘If you like that sort. I think he prefers boys, though.’
Pyrrha’s panicked look was priceless. ‘Surely not,’ she squeaked.
‘No,’ added with more assuredness. ‘I’ve seen plenty of catamites and their lovers. He doesn’t look like the sort who likes it that way.’
‘Of course,’ Illeana nodded. ‘You spent time in Greece. It’s a wonder that there are any Greeks left – a nation of sodomites, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘You knew plenty then?’ Illeana probed.
‘Some. Training was good today,’ she changed the subject with an unashamed lack of elegance.
Illeana’s laugh echoed softly through the tunnel as they walked.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘You did very well. Running the stairs is the worst thing. I love it and hate it at the same time.’
‘Discipline and fitness are your first weapons,’ Pyrrha replied. ‘How many times have you seen fighters falter when tiredness sets in? Next time when I think you are pushing me too hard, I will think about a sword in my guts. If I am fitter, more prepared, I will survive. We have all seen our friends die in the arena, choking on their own blood.
That could be me. I can never have too much stamina. To go the extra lap is everything in life, not only in the arena.’
Illeana regarded her for a moment. ‘You didn’t just make that up, did you?’
Pyrrha glanced at her and laughed. ‘No. No, I didn’t. It sounds good though, doesn’t it?’
They exited the tunnel and made their way across the palaestra to the bath house. It was one of the larger buildings in the Magnus, even having separate entrances for men and women. It was not grandiose – a simple wooden construct which was, like anything else in the ludus, designed more for function than form. Both women stripped out of their dirty tunics and handed them to the attendant slave before entering the frigidarium, sharing a glance before braving the cold water.
Pyrrha hissed as she stepped in, easing herself into the cold water, whilst Illeana threw herself forward, immersing herself as quickly as she could. The water was invigorating and she felt it wash away the filth and sweat of the day’s training. She broke the surface in a shower of droplets, gasping for breath. Pyrrha was hesitating, knee deep, teeth chattering. ‘You’ll never learn,’ Illeana laughed. ‘Just get on with it.’
Pyrrha cursed, held her nose and rushed into the deeper end, dropping under the water with all the elegance of a wounded duck.
Moments later, she emerged coughing and spluttering, her curly hair plastered to her face. ‘Gods!’ she exclaimed.
Illeana laughed. ‘Thus is the mighty gladiatrix, Pyrrha!’
Pyrrha ducked her head again, this time slicking her hair back away from her forehead. ‘I’m going into the tepidarium, ’ she announced and clambered her ungainly way out of the water. Shaking her head, Illeana followed on.
The tepidarium was always pleasant after the jarring chill of the cold room. Female bath slaves lurked in the ante-room and, after a nod from Illeana, came into the warmth and attended the gladiatrices. Maro, the lanista of the Magnus was very particular about the sexual relations between the men and women he owned as well as those contracted to him, and made sure – as much as he could – that no illicit liaisons occurred.
The bath slaves oiled both women and led them to the massage benches to begin work on tired muscles. Illeana closed her eyes as her girl kneaded her flesh, slowing her breathing and allowing her mind to drift.
‘I used to do this, you know,’ Pyrrha commented after a while.
‘Hmmm?’ Illeana turned her head towards the younger woman.
‘Massage. To help a fighter’s muscles recover.’
‘Part of your mysterious past, Pyrrha. You are quite the conundrum, aren’t you?’
‘I told you all there is to know,’ the girl responded. ‘Why do you think there’s more to it than that?’
Illeana turned her head away. ‘It’s your business, Pyrrha,’ she said. ‘It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that you are supremely well trained.’
Pyrrha remained silent and Illeana knew better than to push the issue. She lost herself in the pleasure of the massage, letting her mind wander. It was almost time, she thought, to test Pyrrha in the arena. Work on her strength and stamina would continue, but Illeana believed that too much training would stagnate a fighter – there was only so much you could do in the ludus. Only on the sands of the arena would the gladiatrix find out if she truly had the skills and the instinct to survive. Many failed, of course, but that was the way of things.
She waved the bath slave away and sat up, making her way to the calidarium – the hot room – pausing to place wooden slippers on her feet so as not to burn them. The calidarium was very dark, lit only by a few sputtering oil lamps and the glowing brazier in the centre of the room. Illeana poured water on the coals from a jug, making them hiss and belch
steam. Then she placed a towel on one of the benches and sat leaning her back against the warm, wooden wall.
Some moments later, Pyrrha came in, her slight form made ghost-like in the humid air. ‘That’s more like it,’ she commented, joining Illeana on the bench. ‘The girls did a great job on my legs.
The stairs are the killer.’ Illeana said this last at the same time, making both of them laugh. ‘Nice of that guard to clean up after me,’
Pyrrha went on. ‘I almost died of embarrassment, though.’
‘Why?’ Illeana glanced at her, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘He’s only a guard.’
‘Yes, but a very handsome one, don’t you think?’
‘As I said, if you like that sort. He’s not bad, I suppose. But he’s no Adonis, that’s for sure.’
Pyrrha hesitated. ‘I’d like to see him again.’
‘I wouldn’t take things any further, Pyrrha,’ Illeana warned.
‘You’re too new here – Maro wouldn’t stand for it if you were caught screwing the hired help. Screwing anyone for that matter – you’ve not even had your first fight.’
‘Oh!’ Illeana could tell that Pyrrha was crestfallen. ‘You’re right of course. It’s just that I feel… you know…’
‘Well, sort yourself out then,’ Illeana admonished.
‘That’s all I seem to do nowadays.’
‘Then you need something to take your mind off your itch.’
Illeana had thought to hold off on sharing this with the girl, but her enthusiasm for Valerian could land her in trouble. ‘I think that you should be concentrating on your first bout.’
‘What first bout?’
‘I think you’re ready for the arena, Pyrrha. I’ll tell Laenus. But the question is – do you think you’re ready?’
Pyrrha did not reply at once, and this pleased Illeana. It proved that she was a thinker, weighing up her skills against the prospect of suffering a bloody, painful and very public death.
‘I have trained for a long time,’ she said after a while. ‘Even before I came here, as you know. Illeana – I am ready. This is what my life has been about for so long I can hardly remember anything else. If I die in the arena, then so be it, but I must prove to myself that I have it in me to be a fighter. If I don’t do this thing, my life will have been about nothing.’
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