Perhaps it was just a foolish fancy of a man so down on his luck that he would look anywhere for solace and companionship. On the other hand, he had never thought about any woman so much as he did Pyrrha. Worse, he worried about her constantly: he knew that she was well trained, but the very idea of women fighting was scandalous in the first place and he had seen enough of the Flavian’s fighters come back from a spectacle mutilated to know that the danger to her was very real. He wished he could go and see her, just to ensure that she was safe, but Maro would never allow him the time and if he wanted to woo her, he had to keep his work and his prospects alive. For now, he had to be content with fretting.
‘I’m glad that’s sorted,’ Settus said as he caught up to him. ‘I’m off for a drink, are you joining me?’
‘I’d love to, but I need to attend to some business first,’ Valerian replied, pushing thoughts of Pyrrha from his mind. ‘You’ll be there all day I take it?’
Settus just gave an extended and hugely exaggerated gasp like a man who had just supped on ambrosia. ‘You know me. I’ll be the last man standing.’
‘I’ll be along later if I can.’ Valerian clapped him on the shoulder and made off through the crowded streets, the way as familiar to him as the back of his hand. Like Settus, he had dressed well, but now that he came close to his destination he began to feel a little self-conscious. Despite the fact that he had recouped a small part of his fortune and was no longer teetering on the precipice of poverty, he was still little more than a plebeian who sold shit for a living. Still, better that than the grain dole.
Valerian gathered his courage as he approached the gates of his old home, steeling himself as the doorman eyed his approach.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I would like to see the dominus please.’
‘You’re not one of his clients,’ the man clearly knew his work well.
‘That’s true,’ Valerian replied. ‘But this is a matter of business regarding the slave, Tancredus.’
The doorman looked vaguely surprised. ‘I’ll ask if the dominus will see you. He’s a busy man. Who are you?’
Valerian gave his name and watched the fellow trot off and stared at the house he had grown up in, lost in thought. Things had gone so badly wrong because of the gods-cursed Dacians. Over the past months he had tried not to fall into bitterness, but seeing the old place again made him realise just how far he had fallen. It angered him that there was no way he could even the score. No matter what he did and where he went, the spectre of that awful battle and its aftermath would always be with him.
The doorman returned, key in hand. ‘He’ll see you,’ he announced, unlocking the gate. ‘But do try and keep it short – as I say, he’s a busy man.’
Valerian nodded. ‘Of course.’
The doorman led him across the small garden to the vestibulum, the entry hall, and into the house proper, Valerian noting the changes to the décor inside and the different statuary the new owners had put in place. The house smelled different, he thought.
‘In here.’ The doorman showed him into the tablinium where his father had once worked day and night. The desk was still the same one, ancient and sturdy.
The dominus looked up as Valerian entered. ‘I cannot spare you much time,’ he said. ‘I am Quinctilius Spurius Nolus. You are...?’
‘Valerian, sir.’
Nolus looked him in the eye. ‘Just Valerian?’
‘For now,’ Valerian replied, causing the other man to smile slightly.
He was handsome and young, and in another life they may have been friends.
‘What business do you have with my slave, Valerian?’
‘I owe him a debt, sir. He… helped me recently, and I have come to repay him,’ Valerian patted his satchel.
Nolus leant back in his seat. ‘I wondered why a slave as long in the tooth as Tancredus did not have enough coin with which to buy himself free – now I realise why. You don’t look like you’ve got any barbarian in you, Valerian – you’re not a relative, surely?’
‘No, sir. Tancredus…’ he trailed off, wondering how he could explain without shaming himself. But of course, his punishment was to endure shame; when they stripped him of his material wealth and title they had also stripped him of his dignity. The truth, then, would out. ‘Tancredus was once my house slave. This was… I used to live here. Before the recent war.’
Nolus was of the equestrian class, schooled in the ways of politics and law; in those twin arenas, the slightest change in expression could be read and seized upon by an opponent and turned to his advantage. Yet Valerian’s admission caused him to raise his eyebrows in surprise. ‘This was your home?’
‘It was, sir.’ Valerian swallowed. ‘I was stripped of my rank and privileges after the disaster at Tapae. As the Fates would have it, I was the highest ranking officer to survive and as such had to pay the price of failure.’
‘I am surprised that they did not ask you to fall on your sword,’
Nolus said, evidently a man who had never had to face such a decision. Virtus was still his after all.
‘It was proposed, sir,’ Valerian replied. ‘But I chose to live,’ he spread his hands. ‘I was captured after the battle and subsequently escaped. The Dacians put me through the mill and then men who were not on that bloody field made the suggestion of my suicide.
It was my feeling that they had no right to decide my fate. Dacia took enough away from me – almost everything. But not my life – and I will rebuild it.’
Nolus steepled his fingers as he regarded Valerian. ‘Bureaucrats and play-play soldiers make the decisions that we must abide by.
They’re often wrong.’
‘You’ve served as tribune, sir?’
‘In Germania, yes.’ He looked as though he was about to say more, but caught himself, once again putting up the wall that had just been ever so slightly breached. ‘Speaking of Germania, there is the matter of Tancredus.’
‘Yes, sir. I have his money here and would like to give it to him.
I had thought to approach you about buying him free myself, but it occurs to me that he is old and may not wish to leave the house he has spent so long in. Even as a slave – this is still his home.’
Nolus got to his feet, his expression grim. ‘Tancredus is very ill,’ he said. ‘The surgeon says he will not survive this day. I am sorry, Valerian.’
The words hit like a hammer-blow in the chest. Valerian cast his eyes to the floor, seeing the mosaic of Perseus turning the Kraken to stone. He had played on it as a child and recalled Tancredus scolding him to leave his father in peace. Now Tancredus would soon pass across into his barbarian underworld and another piece of Valerian’s old world would die with him. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, composing himself. ‘May I see him, sir?’
To Valerian’s surprise, Nolus put a consoling hand on his shoulder.
‘Of course. He is in his quarters. Though you know the way well enough, my staff do not know you. I shall take you there myself.
Come.’
In silence, the two made their way through the familiar yet different interior. Much had changed, the imprint of the Spurii slowly but surely blotting out that of the Minervii. Before this news, Valerian supposed the inevitable erasure of his name would have bothered him, but now all he could think of was his failure to do right by Tancredus. If the old man had not loaned him his savings, perhaps he would have bought his freedom and now be in fine fettle. Instead, he had continued to work himself to the grave whilst Valerian had put his own interests first. As such, the shame he felt on entering the small room was almost unendurable.
Tancredus lay on a pallet, his eyes half closed, his breathing slow and wheezing. The cubicle reeked of the sickly sweet smell of decay, the same smell that rotting corpses gave off on a three-day-old battlefield.
‘I’ll give you a moment,’ Nolus said and moved off.
Valerian went to the pallet and knelt by it. ‘Tancredus,’ he whispered
.
The old man’s eyes flickered and then opened fully. He smiled, stretching the skin of his already taut visage. ‘Valerian,’ he croaked.
‘It is good to see you, boy. I knew you would come. I waited for you.’
‘I’m sorry, Tancredus,’ Valerian said. ‘I should not have left you like this. I should have come sooner. It is my fault you are sick, but I will ask Nolus if I can buy you free…’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Tancredus interrupted him. He seemed about to say more, but tensed suddenly in the grip of pain. His hands clawed the sheets and all Valerian could do was grip one of them, imagining that he could draw some of the agony into his own body by touch alone. The spasm passed but, in its wake, Tancredus seemed to have become smaller and shrunken on the bed, as though each wave was draining away the last of his essence. ‘It’s not your fault,’ the old man said again. ‘Valerian, the wasting sickness… has been with me for some time. I had it even when I saw you last. Nolus is a good man: he let me stay here when others would have cast me out. He even paid… for a surgeon.’
‘I thank the gods that he has done right by you when I have not.’
The guilt was almost intolerable, even if Tancredus was just a slave.
‘Not your fault,’ the German’s voice became even lower. ‘The gods marked your path as they marked mine… the wheel turns, Valerian. Remember that. The wheel always turns. You came… to pay your debt, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Valerian replied. ‘I gave you my word.’
‘A man… should repay his debts,’ Tancredus murmured. ‘Both kinds.’
‘Both kinds?’
‘Debt… and feud, Valerian. You borrow from a man, you pay him back. A man does wrong by you, you pay him back.’
The words struck Valerian as hard as an iron rod. In the quiet of the cubicle, he thought once again of Dacia, of the battle and its aftermath. It was a scar on his soul, one that he would carry forever. Tancredus was right, and if it was in his power Valerian would pay the barbarians back for what they had done to him. But what the Dacians had begun, the Romans had finished – virtus, honour, title, money, career – all these things had been taken from him. So there could be no vengeance.
Tancredus’s grip on his hand tightened. ‘Under the bed… a sword.’
Valerian reached down and his fingers found the cold metal of a naked blade. He lifted it from the floor, its tip scraping slightly on the marble. It was a spatha – a Roman cavalry sword, which he placed into the old man’s free hand.
‘I wasn’t always a slave.’ Tancredus’s voice was barely audible now. ‘I was once a warrior. Valerian, I release you of your debt to me. But honour me in death – send me to my gods in the old ways.’
Tears stung the Roman’s eyes, but he held his dignity. ‘I will,’ he promised. Silence fell across the room like a pall, broken only by the sound of Tancredus’s ragged breathing. Valerian kept hold of the old man’s hand until the sound stopped and the fingers entwined with his own relaxed. He had no idea how long he had knelt there, but it was over now. Gently, he disengaged his grip and rose to his feet, looking down at the corpse, realising that this moment did indeed signify the passing of the last part of his old life. He stopped and kissed Tancredus’s forehead and left the room, making his way back to the tablinium.
Nolus was still working, but put aside his stylus as Valerian was admitted. ‘Is he...?’ the equites asked him.
‘Yes sir,’ Valerian responded. ‘He asked a favour of me. He wished to be buried in the Germanic fashion. I said I would honour this request and I hope you will forgive my presumption in doing so.’
Nolus waved that away. ‘I know from my time in Germania that they bury their dead in sacred groves. Even here, I imagine that they have their places outside the city walls. I own other barbarians and I will find out where and how we can fulfil your promise.’
Valerian was at once taken aback and profoundly grateful. ‘My thanks, sir. If there is any way I can repay you, you only need ask.’
He knew it was a meaningless offer to a man of Nolus’s status, but it would be rude in the extreme not to respond to the favour in kind.
The equites, however, fixed him with a stern eye. ‘You are clearly a man who meets his obligations. If such a time comes, I will call on you.’
‘A man should repay his debts,’ Valerian used the words of Tancredus: it seemed fitting somehow. ‘I can cover the expenses for the funeral,’ he went on. ‘And I would like to see him into his underworld.’
‘The Germans won’t allow that,’ Nolus rose to his feet. ‘Their rites are secret – and you are not one of them. It is stupid, as you were probably closer to him than anyone I will be able to find for the task, but they are a primitive people. Do not fear, Valerian. I too am a man of my word – this will be done.’
‘Of that I have no doubt.’
‘And he was my slave. The cost of his funeral is mine to bear.’
The equites offered him his arm which Valerian took and, for a brief moment, they eyed each other as equals – former soldiers who had shared a rank and served their emperor. Then Nolus broke the grip and the moment was gone. ‘I’ll send word to you when it is done.’
‘I work at the Flavian – your man need only ask for me and the news will reach me there. Thank you for your help, sir.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ Nolus moved back to his desk, indicating that the meeting was over. ‘ Vale.’
‘ Vale, Quinctilius Spurius Nolus.’ Valerian nodded his thanks and made his way back through the house. As the iron door clanged shut behind him, he turned and gave the place one last look before making his way back towards the Subura.
XXVII
It had taken some force of will not to bound over to her coun-tryman at once. But Lysandra realised that not only would it be unseemly, it would also not be the Spartan way to show such lack of decorum in front of their inferiors. By demonstrating his musculature to the watching gladiators, this Kleandrias was simply showing them that Sparta produced the most perfect physical specimens in the world. Even in his middle years she could see that the man was a veritable titan, broad shouldered, defined and bearing many scars in front. His long, braided hair and tended beard was yet more evidence that he was a true Spartan of the old school.
‘Lysandra…’ Iason interrupted her study of Kleandrias.
‘The women’s quarters,’ she dragged her eyes away from the big warrior. ‘Thank you, Iason.’
‘Don’t take any nonsense from them,’ the African cautioned.
‘You know what it’s like – you’re new and there will probably be a good deal of territory-marking going on.’
‘Do not worry,’ Lysandra clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I am able to look after myself.’
‘I know that too well. You picked a good day to join us, Lysandra.
Tomorrow is our rest day, so we will drink and feast tonight. I hope we can speak some more.’
He ambled away and Lysandra indulged in another quick glance at Kleandrias before squaring her shoulders and making her way into the long, squat building that housed Paestum’s gladiatrices. As the door opened, the room’s occupants all stopped in their conversations and tasks to stare at her. She stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the surroundings. The room was large with three well-spaced bunks on each side and a large table set in the centre. At the far end, a strange cross-shaped device was nailed to the wall, beneath which was a small box that had a cup and some bread placed on it. Two women were sat at the table playing a game of Latrunculi whilst the other two lounged on their bunks.
‘Greetings, friends,’ Lysandra said as she stepped in.
One of the Latrunculi players, a dusky-skinned easterner, offered her a smile. ‘Greetings,’ she replied; her accent was similar to Stick’s who had trained her in Balbus’s ludus, but not the same. Her opponent, however, just glowered. This one was pale-skinned and bore the blue tattoos that marked her as a barbarian. ‘I’m Ankhesenpaaten-ta-sher
it,’ the easterner introduced herself. ‘Ankhsy for short. Or Isis – that’s my fighting name.’
Lysandra gave her name. ‘Hister has signed me on here for a few fights,’ she said after introducing herself. ‘I can take one of these?’ she indicated one of the unused bunks.
‘Of course,’ Ankhsy replied. ‘Get that look off your face,’ she chided the barbarian with her. ‘Lysandra, this is Olwydd. Olwydd the Sour today by the looks of things.’ Lysandra met the barbarian’s gaze evenly then moved to her bunk. ‘Your neighbour on the next bunk there is Swanhilde,’ Ankhsy indicated the slim, long-legged woman who responded with a small wave. ‘And opposite is Varda.’
Like Ankhsy, Varda had an eastern look to her, sharp nosed and dark-eyed. She watched Lysandra all the way to her bunk, her expression guarded.
It was excruciatingly awkward. At Balbus’s ludus, she had been one of many tiros and there had been other Hellene women there with whom she could mix and converse. But this was a close-knit group and she was the interloper; the fact that there were two spare bunks was not lost on her. At one time they would have belonged to friends of these women and, despite Ankhsy’s apparently affable demeanour, Lysandra knew well that she was hardly welcome here.
As if to confirm her thoughts, Olwydd spoke up. ‘Hister must be lowering his standards.’
Lysandra glared. She knew that the barbarian was trying to get a rise out of her and it would only create an intolerable atmosphere if she took the girl to task at this early stage. She tried to contain her temper and shrugged. ‘Perhaps he is.’ But she could not leave it at that and let this woman have the advantage. ‘We will find out soon enough, I suspect.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Olwydd got up and moved towards the bunk. Lysandra noted that none of the others made to intervene; and nor should they, she decided. A newcomer should expect to have her mettle tested.
‘I would have thought that was patently obvious,’ Lysandra decided to take the intellectual high-ground, adopting some oratory-style Latin. ‘Shall I use smaller words?’ Next to her, Swanhilde snorted in amusement.
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