Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  Lysandra sighed, the practicality of it warring with her recluc-tance to return. But she was Spartan. Pragmatism had to win out.

  ‘It does make sense,’ she agreed. ‘I will stay.’

  The black beard split into a white grin. ‘Good. Good! You will heal fast and then we will set about our work. I will make sure you win in Rome, Lysandra. I swear by Athene I will!’

  She smiled at him, reaching out and placing her hand on his.

  ‘You have been a good friend to me, Kleandrias, my brother Spartan.’

  He did not reply for some time, looking down at their hands before pulling away and clearing his throat. ‘You will not be saying that when training begins. I will make you hate me. Hate every waking breath, make the only thing you want in your life the comfort of a hard bed and the embrace of Morpheus.’

  ‘That is the Spartan way.’

  XXXVI

  Illeana had left Paestum as soon as she had paid the lanista for his trouble. Accompanied by Valerian, she had left the rest of the troupe behind to be transported in carts by reliable guards.

  She had to get back to the Flavian, desperate to start her training.

  Valerian was silent for most of the trip, trying to deal with the death of Pyrrha. Illeana too found her thoughts too often drifting to the little fire-brand, but in the main it was the girl’s mentor, Achillia, who occupied her thoughts. She was ashamed of how she had acted, but the Greek had seen to the heart of the matter. Illeana was afraid: yes, there had been hard fights in the past, but no one to truly test her. But Achillia was different, and Illeana knew that she was coming to Rome with one purpose only – to kill her.

  Even as she thought it, a thrill of fear coursed through her, but there was something else there as well – almost a lusting to face this greatest of challenges. Now that she had seen the Greek fight, she had to face her to prove that she was better. As she approached the great arena in the heart of the captial, she realised that nothing else mattered to her anymore: not the money she had earned; not the death of Pyrrha, her friend; not the adulation of the Roman mob. All that counted was to beat Achillia of Sparta: that would be her legacy and then perhaps they would erect statues of Aesalon Nocturna in Rome as she had heard the Spartans had built one to Achillia in their primitive little backwater.

  They left the crowded streets behind and entered the cool calm of the Flavian. Odd that this place alternated between frenzy and serenity; on the day of the fight, it was vibrant, full of life and death. Now, empty and majestic, it exuded a quiet power that bathed and nourished her. This was her home.

  ‘I’m going to find Settus.’ Valerian snapped her from her reverie.

  ‘See what’s been going on.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Valerian,’ she put her hand on his arm. ‘I am sorry for what happened.’ He smiled tightly and was about to speak when they were interrupted by a shout.

  ‘Hey, you fucker! About fucking time you showed up!’ They both turned to see Settus strolling towards them, grinning all over his face.

  ‘I’ve been working my fucking balls off whilst you’ve been on holiday.

  Come on, you bastard,’ he added. ‘I’ve bought some good wine and found these couple of whores in the Subura that will suck you dry.

  Sorry –’ he nodded to Illeana. ‘But you know how it is.’

  ‘Of course, Settus,’ Illeana smiled indulgently. ‘I have to see Maro,’ she said, referring to the Flavian’s lanista. ‘You enjoy yourselves.’ Settus flung an arm around Valerian’s shoulders and led him away, launching into a story about the two whores. Illeana was not convinced that there would be any whoring going on, but Settus would be someone with whom Valerian could share his grief.

  She made her way across the arena and through the tunnel that led to the Ludus Magnus . The calm was shattered as she emerged, and the sound of wood on wood and the exhortations of the trainers seemed to welcome Illeana home. Waving a greeting to Laenus, she marched purposefully to Maro’s rooms. The lanista was a big man, his once taut physique now covered by a layer of fat but he still looked formidable. As ever, he was surrounded by parchments and wax-tablets and looked both annoyed and pleased to see her at the same time. He eschewed a greeting. ‘You’re back late. And you’ve been fighting. Don’t bother to deny it,’ he stabbed a finger at her.

  ‘I hear everything that goes on, Illeana. You and I have a contract, and that contract is that you fight for me – and the emperor, of course.’

  ‘Yes, lanista,’ she agreed, knowing that that was as far as it would go. ‘Pyrrha didn’t make it,’ she decided to get the bad news out of the way.

  Maro’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? I’m surprised – she had real talent.’

  That, then, served as Pyrrha’s obituary as far as Maro was concerned.

  ‘Yes, but there’s more to it. Her past was not as she would have had us believe. Her trainer was a woman – Achillia of Sparta…’

  ‘… the champion from Asia Minor. News travels fast, Illeana.

  Sounds to me like you have your work cut out. You can beat her, of course.’

  ‘I think so,’ Illeana injected confidence into her voice and it fell flat.

  ‘You think,’ Maro leaned back in his chair. ‘That’s not like you, Illeana – you always know you can beat everyone.’

  Illeana pouted. ‘That’s true, but I’ve never seen anyone like this before. She’s fast. Deadly – Maro, she took out two men like that,’ she snapped her fingers. ‘The woman is a born warrior.’

  ‘No one is a born warrior!’ Maro snapped. ‘Every warrior is a trained warrior. And every gladiator – or gladiatrix – is trained in the same way. There are only so many cuts, feints, parries and thrusts to learn and you’ve only got two arms and two legs. The difference is how you apply what you’ve learned. I don’t have to tell you that.’

  She bit her lip. Maro was long in the tooth and had seen more fighters go through the arena than anyone, herself included. He had been here before she rose to fame and would remain here long after she was too old to fight. And she knew that if she tried to lie to him, he would see straight through her. ‘I want to fight her, but I am a little afraid too, Maro,’ she admitted, sitting down on the bench in front of him. ‘I’ve won every bout, destroyed everyone that I’ve faced. But this woman… she’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.

  I’ve never seen –’

  Maro held up a hand cutting her off. ‘It is good that you are afraid. Fear is like pain, Illeana, it lets you know that you’re alive.

  I shouldn’t have to tell you this but I will anyway. If your fear runs away with you, then, yes, it’s an enemy and will destroy you. But if you allow yourself to use the fear and let it work for you, then you are sharper… faster… better. More focused. You know this – but keep telling yourself, just the same. You will beat her, Illeana – you fight in front of your home crowd and Caesar himself. All the advantages are with you. Imagine how she will feel when she comes through the Gate of Life to the sound of fifty thousand Romans baying for her blood – that’ll drain the confidence right out of her, you can be sure.’

  ‘She claims that she fights for her goddess, Minerva.’

  Maro chuckled. ‘Then she puts too much stock in religion. I’ve seen fighters praying to the gods and seen the same fighters dragged out on Charon’s cart. The gods will aid those that are prepared to aid themselves, Illeana. And in all my years as a gladiator, and now lanista, I can tell you – before the gods – that I’ve never, ever seen one of them fly down from Olympus to get involved on the sands.’

  He fixed her with a calm gaze, looking into her eyes. ‘When the Gate of Life closes, it’s just you and her, Illeana. And you are the finest fighter of your age – there is no one to match you. Still, you should be well prepared. I’ll assign Laenus solely to you,’ he winked at her. ‘Personal trainer. That’ll mean you’ll also have your pick of the gladiators to spar with. All of the gladiators,’ he added pointedly. ‘Including Taurus.’


  Illeana’s eyebrow rose in surprise. Taurus was renowned as one of Rome’s finest gladiators – if not the finest; but he was also ludicrously vain and choosy about how he trained and with whom, a fact she pointed out to Maro.

  He waved this away. ‘Taurus will do as I tell him,’ he assured her. ‘Besides, I think he secretly wants me to ask him to work with you.’

  Illeana smiled like a daughter at her indulgent father. ‘Why is that, Maro?’

  ‘Take a look in the mirror, girl. Now – get some rest.’

  Despite everything that had happened, Valerian felt some of the weight lift from his soul as he and Settus weaved their way through the crowded streets of the city. He was home.

  ‘…and then they’ll even gobble you after Greek-style,’ Settus was enthusing about his new-found whores. ‘I think I’m in love. Trouble is, I can’t decide which one I’m in love with…’

  ‘You, there! Masters!’

  A powerful voice interrupted Settus in mid-story. They both turned, soldiers still, dropping back slightly into a neutral but ready stance as a big slave strode towards them. Clad only in a loin-cloth, he was wet with sweat and a glance over his shoulder told Valerian that he was a litter-bearer. An ornate lectica sat on the street behind him, guarded warily by his fellows.

  ‘What can we do for you?’ Valerian asked carefully.

  ‘My master wishes to speak with you,’ he indicated the litter.

  ‘We’re just on our way to the wine-shop, mate,’ Settus put in, holding Valerian by the arm and trying to lead him away. ‘I don’t hold with the nobility just stopping us for no reason,’ he said to Valerian. ‘There’ll be trouble in it for us, let’s just fuck off, eh?’

  ‘It’s fine, Settus,’ Valerian soothed. ‘Who is your master?’ he addressed the slave.

  ‘Sextus Julius Frontinus,’ the big man supplied.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Settus breathed. ‘The old man’s back in Rome!’

  Valerian smiled and began to walk towards the lectica, but the slave held up an arm. ‘Not here in the street,’ he seemed affronted.

  ‘Follow us to the master’s residence.’

  ‘What, we don’t get a lift?’ Settus grinned and did not look in the least bit phased by the withering glare the slave gave him.

  ‘The master requested only this one, not you.’

  ‘We’re a package deal. Besides, this could be a scam. You and your mates there might have just painted up that old cart. You could lead my naïve young friend here down a dark alley and whack him on the head. I’ll be coming with you – make sure that nothing untoward happens.’

  For a moment, the slave looked like he was going to argue, but he was only a slave after all. His expression spoke volumes: let the master deal with it. He made his way back to the litter and, on a count, lifted it and began a brisk walk, Valerian and Settus in tow.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Settus’s eyes gleamed. ‘You think that this might be a way back into the legions for us?’

  Valerian glanced at him. ‘I doubt it,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘You were invalided out of service, I was disgraced – there’s no way back for us. Maybe he just wants to see how we’re doing. I mean, we chewed on the same mud in Britannia and he and I were close once.’ Once, but no longer, Valerian thought to himself. He did not resent Frontinus. The old man probably thought him long gone from Rome and he could have approached his former sponsor at any time and asked for succour. But, in doing so, he could have compromised him. As he had said to Settus, he was in disgrace and it would do Frontinus no good to aid a disgraced man.

  The house of Frontinus was huge, far grander than even the old home of the Minervinii, a reflection on the old man’s status and his own father’s. Valerian and Settus were told to wait outside and were left cooling their heels whilst the lectica was taken into the house.

  Settus kept Valerian’s mind occupied with all sorts of theories as to why Frontinus wanted to see them, ranging from secret missions to a sudden inheritance of which they had both been hitherto unaware. The fact that Settus and he were not related did not seem to occur to the former optio and it seemed churlish to Valerian to point this out: his friend was clearly enjoying the speculation.

  Eventually, a house-slave led them into the cool magnificence of Frontinus’s abode. It was hard for even Valerian not to gawp at the opulence, but he knew well that the old man liked to surround himself with fine things whilst all the time protesting that he hated it. As they entered the tablinium, Valerian smiled at the familiar figure of Frontinus’s long-suffering freedman, Diocles, who stood by the couch of the General himself. Without thinking, he and Settus stopped short and snapped to attention, saluting him as they had done in the old days.

  ‘Valerian,’ Frontinus seemed genuinely pleased to see him. ‘And…’ he frowned for a moment, ‘Optio Settus, if I’m not mistaken. By the gods, man! Where did you get all those tattoos? You look like a fucking Briton!’ As he cursed, Diocles rolled his eyes and, despite his melancholy, Valerian found his lips twisting in a half-smile.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Settus responded in the military monotone. ‘Smothered in ‘em, sir. Got in with one of the local girls over there – you know how it is, sir. She died, though.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that Settus.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir, I’m over it. I’ve found these two excellent whores in the Subura, which, if you’re interested, I could take you to. They’ll make any man forget his problems.’

  It was Valerian’s turn to roll his eyes, but Frontinus smoothed over it by offering them both a place on his guest couches. He turned to Valerian as they reclined. ‘It is good to see you, my boy.

  It’s been too long.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Valerian replied, now wondering himself what this was all about. ‘It is good to see you too, though I am surprised to find you back in Rome. Your stint in Asia Minor is over?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Frontinus was about to say something else, but then turned. ‘Leave us, Diocles – but get some cup-bearers in here! And some flute-girls, eh Settus!’ he winked.

  ‘Sounds brilliant, sir,’ Valerian saw Settus’s dark eyes light up at the prospect of fine drink and women that were unlikely to come with an itching reminder of their affections – though they would probably not be able to boast the same if Settus had his way with them.

  ‘You ought to watch your intake,’ Diocles tutted. ‘I will send them, but remember, sir, four-parts water to one-part wine…’

  ‘ Leave us, Diocles!’ Frontinus barked in his campus voice which did not faze the Greek in the slightest. From experience, Valerian knew that the freedman would have harangued his master more thoroughly if not for the presence of Settus. Appearances had to be maintained.

  ‘Fucking servants,’ Frontinus said as Diocles exited. ‘Sometimes I think that Greek thinks he’s in charge.’

  ‘All Greeks are like that, sir,’ Settus observed. ‘Can’t get over the fact that they used to run the world and made an arse of it so now we rule it, sir. And we always will, sir.’

  ‘Spoken like a true Roman, Settus,’ Frontinus said, and the former-optio almost glowed at the praise.

  The wine – and flute-girls – arrived but Frontinus continued to chat to Settus, virtually excluding Valerian from the conversation.

  He marvelled at the way the old General was able to use camp argot on one day, yet on another advise the emperor himself. It made both those who served him and those he served love him. Everyone knew that Rome’s political arena was far deadlier than its gladiatorial counterpart and Frontinus had survived it – more, he had flour-ished in it.

  ‘This is really good stuff, sir,’ Settus commented after a few cups of wine had gone down. ‘And the birds are really fucking tasty –

  if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.’

  ‘I take it as a compliment, lad,’ Frontinus smirked, taking a sup of wine himself – which, Valerian noted, he had watered to Diocles’s specifications.


  Valerian assumed that this was just what it appeared to be: Frontinus had spotted two old comrades-in-arms and had decided on the spur of the moment to laud them with a good time and then send them on their way. It was, he thought, as good a way as any to help him push aside thoughts of Pyrrha – Varia, he corrected himself. He beckoned one of the cup-bearers forward. As he did so, Frontinus caught his eye and gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head.

  Valerian allowed the cup-bearer to pour, but placed the wine aside. Settus, however, was showing no such reserve and seemed intent on drinking Frontinus out of house and home. Soon, he had got around to regaling the general with his opinions of how the army should be run. Frontinus listened along politely to his critique.

  ‘And anyway,’ Settus was going on, ‘the army’s gone soft as it is, not like when we were under the eagles. You heard about Dacia, didn’t you, sir? Five fucking legions! Valerian here was in that battle, weren’t you, mate? Eh? Dacian fuckers.’

  ‘ Optio,’ Frontinus interjected, quelling a drunken rant. ‘I didn’t bring the flute-girls here just to dance. Take your pick and we’ll join you presently.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Settus eyed the beautiful slaves. ‘You and you,’

  he pointed at two of them. ‘And you,’ he added, selecting another.

  ‘I’m all man, y’see.’

  ‘Clearly,’ Frontinus grinned. ‘Take a krater with you, Settus.’

  Grinning like someone who had just discovered a map to the Elysian Fields, Settus made off, wine in hand, beauties in tow. No sooner had the door to the tablinium shut behind them did Frontinus turn to Valerian. ‘What happened, son?’ he asked. ‘The battle, the Dacians… tell me everything.’

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but why? My report was logged…’

  Frontinus waved that away. ‘I’ve read it, Valerian, but I want to know what it was really like – the ground, the enemy… everything. The emperor has ordered a punitive mission – I am to govern the province, Tetius Iulianus is to command the legions – what legions we can spare, that is. Five legions should have been enough to crush this Decebalus, yet he managed to mastermind the greatest defeat Rome has ever suffered! I need all the information I can get.’