Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  Illeana bit down the maddening urge to pry once more into Pyrrha’s past. ‘You won’t die,’ she said. ‘You’re far too good for most provincial tiros.’

  ‘Provincial?’

  ‘Yes. You’re not just going to walk straight into the Flavian, Pyrrha. Romans won’t put up with poor shows, even from women – unless it’s a comedy bout, of course. So we always send our fighters to the smaller arenas outside the captial first.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realise that.’

  Illeana could tell she was disappointed, and again this was a good thing. Pyrrha seemed to possess the right amount of confidence tempered with caution but was evidently keen to prove herself on the grandest of stages. In some ways, she reminded Illeana of herself.

  Illeana fought because she enjoyed it and because it bought her a social standing that was separate and apart from that of polite Roman society; Pyrrha, she suspected, had different motivations. ‘Just a few fights,’ she said. ‘It’s good preparation – gets you used to the crowds and everything else.’

  ‘When can I go?’

  Illeana got to her feet. ‘I’ll need to speak to Laenus, as I said.

  But he will not refuse. Come,’ she finished. ‘Let’s get the girls to strigil this oil off us and then take a dip in the cold pool.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Pyrrha responded as she too got up.

  ‘You’ll feel better for it afterwards and you know it.’

  ‘I’d feel better if it were Valerian with the strigil.’

  Illeana turned and placed her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders, looking straight into her eyes. ‘Pyrrha – listen to me.

  You can’t bed him – you’d face the lash or worse. Or Maro could just terminate your contract and throw you out – and then you’d never know if all this training was worth it. When you’ve won a few bouts and you’re worth something to him, the lanista will be more lenient and allow you to bed who you like – as long as you’re careful. Even so,’ she let her hands fall away, ‘ I don’t think it’s a good idea to have relations with people you work closely with. If it ends badly…’ she trailed off, recognising the look of stubborn denial in Pyrrha’s eyes – the girl believed that she had fallen in love at first sight. That would wear off in time, Illeana knew, but it would be pointless now to try and argue the case. ‘In any event, you’ll be leaving here soon. So try to forget about him for now.

  He’ll still be here when you get back, won’t he?’

  Pyrrha looked down at her feet, then met Illeana’s gaze. ‘Yes,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘He will be. I can wait till then.’

  Illeana regarded her for a few moments and then clapped her on the upper arm. ‘Good girl,’ she said. As they both turned and made for the tepidarium once more, Illeana felt that she had done enough to dissuade Pyrrha from doing anything hasty for now. Despite her new-found crush on Valerian, the girl was too driven to let even that stand in the way. She was refreshingly guileless, which Illeana found endearing. And she had the makings of a great fighter. All that remained was to test her in the arena.

  XX

  Lysandra awoke with a thick head and dry mouth. As she let the daylight filter slowly in through gummy eyelids, she lay still for a moment, waiting for the crushing reality of her hangover to wash over her. But the once-familiar feeling did not come. She sat up gingerly, running a hand through her hair, relieved that she had been able to curtail, if not completely control, her drinking the previous evening. Everyone had drunk overmuch but she had not made a fool of herself, nor was there any evidence of the almost-suicide-inducing guilt that often followed a heavy session.

  Lysandra could not help but think that she had dodged the ballista bolt on this one.

  Slaves brought her a light breakfast and led her to the villa’s modest bath house: like the rest of Grumio’s home it was impec-cably decorated, the friezes and murals depicting dancing nymphs and the goddess Fortuna Balnearis. Through the steam, they looked almost alive, giving the place a serene and relaxing atmosphere. It was easy to overindulge in such surroundings and Lysandra took full advantage, sweating out the booze from the previous night’s excesses and allowing herself more time than was strictly necessary.

  Her mind drifted back to Memmia Hortensia’s comment about her parents. Thinking of them again produced a stab of guilt, so Lysandra pushed their faces from her mind to concentrate instead on the journey before her. Paestum was two – perhaps two and a half days away on horseback. A pleasant ride in this weather, she thought.

  Once there, though, the real work would start.

  Having stayed overlong in the calidarium, dipping into the cold pool was a welcome and invigorating shock and, as she stepped out, she felt alive and ready for her journey. Once dressed and armed, she went in search of Memmia Hortensia.

  Grumio’s wife was in her garden, sitting under a sunshade. Two well-muscled slaves fanned her with palms, giving her the look of some despotic yet frumpish eastern queen. As Lysandra came closer, she could see writ across the matron’s features that her hangover was unmerciful. Yet, for all that, she smiled at her. ‘I can’t drink like I used to,’ she said ruefully.

  ‘We overdid it,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘But I had a most pleasant evening, Memmia Hortensia. Again, I thank you and your husband for your hospitality. But I must now depart. I have a long journey ahead of me.’

  ‘Of course,’ Memmia Hortensia smiled and then winced at the effort. ‘Grumio has left instructions that cater for all eventualities.

  Come,’ she rose to her feet. ‘All has been made ready.’

  Intrigued, Lysandra followed the little woman through the gardens and towards the villa. Passing the house itself, her nose told her that they were on their way to the stables. Good of Grumio to save her the embarrassment of asking for a horse. A groom awaited them, his head bowed, and again Lysandra was impressed at the relative opulence in which the country gentry lived.

  ‘You have your choice of mount, of course,’ Memmia Hortensia said. ‘I don’t know anything about the beasts,’ she added, wrinkling her nose in distaste. ‘Perhaps you would prefer travelling by litter, Lysandra? It must be more comfortable than riding.’

  ‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘No. A horse will be fine. You,’ she addressed the groom. ‘I need an even-tempered mount. Speed is not at issue – I just want a horse that won’t throw me the first time it’s startled.’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ the groom responded. ‘I have just the one.’ He beckoned her to follow him to one of the stalls. ‘Old Ferox here is as steady as they come, aren’t you, boy?’ He rubbed the horse’s grey muzzle affectionately and the beast whickered in response. ‘He’s gentle, too,’ the groom added.

  ‘Excellent,’ Lysandra was pleased. ‘Make him ready.’ She turned to Memmia Hortensia, about to bid her a final farewell when she saw two men approaching from the corner of her eye. They were probably the roughest looking individuals she had seen anywhere outside the arena. They had to be former gladiators or soldiers; their gaits and bearing spoke of watchfulness and a taut readiness to fight, as did the weapons they wore with an easy familiarity.

  ‘This is Cappa and Murco,’ Memmia Hortensia introduced them.

  ‘Grumio was instructed to hire them. They’ll watch over you on your journey – the roads can be dangerous after all.’

  Murco was the taller of the two by a thumb, a hard-faced man of middling years, his black hair peppered with white. Cappa was no spry youth either, his broken-nosed visage reminding Lysandra of the boxers she had seen performing. Bald on top, he trimmed his remaining hair so short it was but stubble. Both men nodded at her in greeting and then made off to select their own mounts.

  ‘Bodyguards?’ Lysandra arched an eyebrow at Memmia Hortensia.

  ‘Your people thought it best,’ the little matron replied. ‘And they’re right you know. Besides – they know the way better than you.’

  ‘True enough,’ Lysandra could not argue with that. Looking at a map was one thing but
there was no substitute for knowledge of the local terrain. They stood in silence for a moment and then Memmia Hortensia stepped forward and embraced her. It was unexpected and Lysandra was surprised to find her heart warmed by the gesture.

  ‘Take care, my dear,’ Memmia Hortensia urged. ‘I will be watching when you fight next, I promise.’

  ‘I would like that,’ Lysandra said. ‘Again, thank you for everything.’ As she spoke, the groom was leading Ferox towards her, supplies for the journey swaying on his flanks. Lysandra smiled tightly at Memmia Hortensia and accepted the groom’s assistance to mount the horse, stepping smoothly onto his cupped hands and swinging into the saddle. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘ Vale, Memmia Hortensia.’

  ‘ Vale, Lysandra of Sparta.’

  Flanked by Cappa and Murco, she nudged Ferox forwards and the three began the ride to Paestrum.

  As they rode, Lysandra could not help but admire the beautiful countryside. It reminded her of her home. Lakedaimonia was unlike other places in rocky, dry Hellas – nourished by the Eurotas, it was a place of lush greenery and rich soil. So it was in Italia.

  ‘The ground cries out for the vine,’ Murco commented when she mentioned this. ‘We have such rich soil. It’s why Italian wine is the best in the world,’ he added.

  ‘You’ve drunk enough of it in your time to be an expert,’ Cappa put in and was rewarded by a glower from his companion.

  The three chatted as they rode and Lysandra found the two men to be amusing companions, their friendly banter belying their hardened appearances. But for all that, Lysandra could see behind the smiles and jokes that these men were dangerous. Their eyes constantly flicked about, assessing the terrain around them as they rode, alert and watchful for trouble. Not that there was any indication there would be – the traffic on the road was of the slave or yokel variety interspersed with the odd merchant or two on their way from the markets.

  This, Lysandra realised, was the evidence of the Pax Romana.

  Years of internal peace and stability allowed the masses to prosper.

  Until now, she had never experienced this directly: her whole life had been dominated by the twin institutions of combat and religion and as such she rarely mingled with lesser, everyday folk. She found herself wondering how she would cope with a ‘normal life.’

  As she watched the peasants and slaves make way to and from their chores, she reckoned that it must be a sort of living Tartarus, even for those that were free. Toiling away at the soil to make ends meet did not seem a particularly entertaining way to spend one’s days, and even those non-menial workers like Grumio were locked into a life of endless repetition.

  ‘It’s going to be a nice night,’ Cappa observed. ‘But I reckon we should spend it at a caupona. I don’t fancy roughing it on the road but,’ he eyed Lysandra hopefully, ‘you’re in charge.’

  ‘A night at a hostelry would be preferable and it would be churlish not to give Murco here the opportunity to sample the local wine,’

  she replied. ‘Given his expertise on the subject, I would hate to deprive him.’

  ‘You’re too generous, lady,’ Murco managed to look pleased and affronted at the same time.

  They made good progress and, as the sun began to sink, they followed the crudely written yet easy to follow sign to an inn that was set back from the main highway. The ambitiously named ‘Elysian’ was a large, squat, whitewashed affair with generous stabling facilities for the horses. Still, there were only a few stalls left and the noise coming from the inn proper was evidence that the place was packed to the rafters.

  ‘I’ll see to the horses,’ Cappa said, climbing from the saddle.

  ‘Gods, that’s better,’ he added, rubbing his backside. ‘Murco, check inside. You should stay right here, lady,’ he looked pointedly at Lysandra. She opened her mouth argue, but Murco’s eyes were telling her to let him do the job he had been hired to do, so she simply nodded and made a show of looking around the courtyard.

  Cappa kept a wary eye on her as he paid the stable hand and, as he returned to her side, so Murco emerged from the ‘Elysian’, shaking his head. ‘I don’t reckon we should stay here,’ he spread his hands apologetically. ‘Place is full of soldiers – mercenaries or auxiliaries by the looks of ‘em. It’s all good fun now, but once the booze really starts flowing, it’ll kick off. It always does. We should move on.’

  ‘It’s getting late,’ she observed. ‘Travel by night or stay here…

  I think being inside is the less dangerous. Cappa?’

  ‘Murco’s right,’ he said at once, which irritated her: she had expected solidarity between them but when it arrived it was still annoying.

  ‘I have been in these situations before.’ Lysandra had made her mind up. ‘I am not suggesting that we draw attention to ourselves.

  We go simply go in, keep our heads down, eat some hot food and get some rest.’

  ‘Lady,’ Cappa sighed. ‘You’re in charge, but my advice is that we just move on…’

  ‘And my decision is that we stay,’ Lysandra snapped. In all truth-fulness, he was probably right, but she resented her authority being challenged. These men were working for her and they would obey her orders. As far as Lysandra was concerned it was as simple as that. ‘Clear?’

  ‘Clear.’ Cappa’s response was that of a man used to taking orders he fundamentally disagreed with.

  She glared at him, daring him to glance at Murco in disapproval, but he did not so she gestured to the door of the inn. ‘Let us go, then.’

  As soon as they entered the dingy, crowded confines of the inn, she realised that Murco had been right. The place was stuffed full of drunk and half-drunk soldiers, shouting, laughing and arguing.

  The stench of sweat, wine and oil hung heavy in the air, almost managing to smother the aroma of roasting meat from the kitchens.

  Serving girls wove their way through the dangerous avenues between the tables, trying to serve drink and food whilst evading the wandering hands of the men. It was typical drunken behaviour, and Lysandra had seen it everywhere from the gladiatorial games to a senatorial banquet.

  ‘Nice place,’ Cappa muttered, and gave Lysandra an I-told-you-so look that she ignored.

  ‘We should get some food.’ Lysandra raised her voice to be heard over the omniscient rumble of male conversation.

  ‘You’re sure you want to stay here?’ Murco tried again. ‘It might get rowdy.’

  ‘I am sure it might,’ Lysandra responded. ‘But even if it does…

  with my very own Castor and Polydeuces to protect me, what does that matter?’

  ‘Who’s Polydeuces?’ Murco was puzzled.

  ‘Pollux.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The three made their way to the large bar, Lysandra flanked protectively by both men. ‘We need a room,’ Cappa said to the fat, hot and overworked-looking man behind the counter. There was, Lysandra realised, no point in her asking – she had learned the place of women in backward Italia.

  ‘Keep it moving there,’ the fat man bellowed at a slow-moving serving girl as she emerged from the kitchen. ‘I’ll have the skin off your back, girl. Now,’ he turned to Lysandra. ‘You three need a room.’ He leered at Lysandra. ‘To share?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Cappa’s voice was cold. ‘Is there a problem with that?’

  ‘Only if you keep my patron’s up all night when you’re fucking the shit out of your whore,’ the innkeeper responded, plainly not in the least cowed by the bodyguard. Lysandra surmised that he had seen his fair share of hard men already that day.

  ‘She’s not our whore. She’s… my brother’s daughter,’ Cappa improvised, but the innkeeper’s expression told all of them that he no longer cared. ‘One room, one night, with food and drink – plus stabling for three mounts.’ The bodyguard opened his purse.

  At the sight of the gilt-stuffed pigskin, the innkeeper grunted.

  ‘I’m Dulcis, by the way. And it’ll be two sesterces each,’ he said.

  �
�So twelve in all – the horses don’t stay free.’ As Cappa began to count out the money, the innkeeper went to his strongbox and returned with a key. ‘You’re room sixteen,’ he said. ‘I’ll take those weapons now.’

  ‘I don’t think so!’ Murco was incredulous.

  Dulcis sighed. ‘Look around you. The place is full of soldiers and the locals will be turning up soon. I can almost guarantee you that there’s going to be a punch up. I could do without it getting bloodier than it has to. So everyone’s parting with their blades, all right?’

  ‘No, it’s not all right. We’re looking after this girl, see.’

  ‘My way or the highway.’ Dulcis folded his arms, pointedly ignoring the coins on the counter.

  Lysandra sighed and lifted off her baldric. ‘There,’ she said, annoyed by the man’s attitude. He was, after all, only an innkeeper.

  Perhaps he was bolstered by the custom he was getting and thus was taking a chance to get his petty revenge against a group of faceless patrons. It was typical behaviour of a common person, she decided. Any chance they had to exercise authority over their betters would always be taken.

  ‘I don’t know…’ Cappa began to reach out for the money.

  ‘Just give him your swords,’ Lysandra said tersely. ‘All will be well.’

  Cappa and Murco glanced at each other and then, with a great show of reluctance, handed over their blades.

  ‘ You’re protecting her?’ Dulcis laced his tone with sarcasm. ‘Not often you see a woman tell her uncle what to do.’

  ‘It is not often you see a woman with a sword either, Dulcis.’

  Lysandra had had enough of playing the quiet, dutiful niece. ‘We’ll eat as soon as you can manage it. Meat – plenty of it. Barley if you have it. Wine and water. And some bread. See to it.’