‘Of course, sir.’ Valerian realised that he was disappointed: Settus had placed a seed in his mind that perhaps this was a way back into the legions, but clearly Frontinus simply saw him as a useful commodity. He had something the old general wanted – and it would be unpatriotic not to give it to him. ‘Everything that Fuscus did was by the book and correct,’ he began. ‘But as you know, sir, he was not an aggressive commander. Perhaps if we had moved faster and taken the fight to Decebalus, things would have run differently. But, as it was, the Dacians had time to prepare and position their allies. The legions could have matched the barbarians – but the rear attack did for us. There were vast numbers, sir. We were… crushed.’
‘And now,’ Frontinus said, ‘we don’t have the manpower to fight an aggressive campaign. There is nothing to stop the barbarians from repeating the same tactic, because all Decebalus has to do is refuse to give battle and let us chase him around till he has us precisely where he wants us.’ The old man rose and made his way to an ornate chest, opened it and gathered several scrolls. ‘Maps,’ he said as he dropped them on the table. ‘Now…from the beginning again, Valerian. Details, lad, details. You,’ he addressed one of the cup-bearers. ‘Fetch Diocles and have him bring wax tablets. Lots of wax tablets.’
Frontinus listened as Valerian went over the specifics of the Dacian campaign, Diocles frantically writing down every word as it was spoken. It had been fortuitous in the extreme to happen across the former tribune, but serendipity was all part of war. If there was an advantage to be gained from listening to the senior surviving officer, then Frontinus would exploit it. As the young man spoke, Frontinus interjected the odd question to assess his command competence. It was still clear to Frontinus that Valerian was both a capable and talented officer. He would have made a fine general himself one day. A pity, then, that he had taken the fall for the disaster, but he was someone who Frontinus would keep in his purse if the need arose.
The hour had grown late and Frontinus moved from the battle itself to the aftermath, but on this subject, Valerian blanched visibly.
‘The Dacians aren’t renowned for the good treatment of their prisoners, sir,’ he said, his eyes imploring Frontinus not to push him on the matter.
‘Scars heal, Valerian,’ Frontinus offered, unwilling to make the boy relive his experiences.
‘Some do, sir.’ Valerian rose to his feet. ‘I am overstaying my welcome – it is very late. I will fetch Settus.’
‘Nonsense,’ Frontinus snorted. ‘Sit down – I can’t order you to do so, but please,’ he gestured and was pleased when Valerian complied. ‘You work with Settus now?’
‘Yes, sir, at the Flavian. It’s not honourable work, but the money is good and I live comfortably enough.’
‘Ah,’ Frontinus nodded. ‘And are you married now? Any little Minervinii?’
Valerian looked down and then raised his eyes, masking again some hidden anguish. ‘No, sir, I’m not married.’ He seemed about to say more, but stopped himself.
Frontinus did not know the circumstances, so he brushed over that and they spoke of Britannia and other, safer, matters until eventually, he felt his eyelids drooping. The last thing he recalled was the rough sound of Settus’s off-tune singing and Diocles scolding him all the way to the door.
XXXVII
‘Do not worry,’ Kleandrias assured her as they arrived back at the ludus. ‘All will be well.’
Lysandra nodded wordlessly, unsure that would be the case. It was, after all, her fault that Iason and Caturix had been called into action and she reckoned that Illeana had only taken on Swanhilde in a fit of bravado to prove that she too was not a prospect to be undertaken lightly. And she was right, Lysandra mused – the Roman was deadly: more so than Sorina who had been well past her prime when they had fought.
She bade Kleandrias farewell and steeled herself as she marched towards the women’s quarters. Even if Olwydd had spoken up for her, she still had no idea what sort of reception she would receive.
As she entered, Varda was kneeling at her cross whilst Olwydd and Ankhsy played latrunculi as was their custom; they looked up as Lysandra’s own eyes were drawn to the empty bed of Swanhilde.
‘Greetings,’ she said simply.
‘Lysandra,’ Ankhsy was neutral.
‘Welcome back,’ Olwydd offered.
Varda crossed her chest and rose from her praying position, turning to face Lysandra. ‘We are glad that you survived, Lysandra – but we know there was something between you and the girl you fought.
She was kin to you?’
Lysandra wanted to tell them to mind their own business and, at the back of her mind, she realised that she would have done in her greener days. But they deserved better than that – even if they did not know that it was largely her fault that Swanhilde had died at Aesalon Nocturna’s hands, a fact she decided to keep to herself.
It was bad enough that she had finished off Iason and Caturix, the latter of whom she knew Ankhsy was keen on.
‘She was kin in a manner of speaking,’ Lysandra answered, making her way to her bunk. ‘I met her when she was very young – brought her up as my own. Or perhaps I was more like an older sister as Kleandrias is an older brother to me. In any event, I loved her very much. But I realise now that I was overprotective. She left me – now I see – to come to Italia and do what I would not allow her to…’ Lysandra trailed off. There was no point in explaining further and the truth of it was that she did not have the stomach to relive it. ‘I am sorry that Swanhilde was killed,’ she changed the subject.
‘And I thank you for speaking up for me, Olwydd.’
The Briton shrugged. ‘Anyone can see that Aesalon Nocturna is almost unbeatable. Almost. You, out of all of us left, might be able to exact vengeance so that Swanhilde’s shade will be content. It doesn’t mean that I’m your friend, though,’ she added, almost as though everyone expected she should.
‘Of course,’ Lysandra turned her eyes to Ankhsy. ‘I had no choice,’ she said. ‘But I am sorry for Iason and Caturix.’
Ankhsy’s response was a sad smile. ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘We’re not allowed to fall in love, Lysandra. I liked them both – and I know you were friends of sorts with Iason.’
‘It is past,’ Varda broke in. ‘We are gladiatrices. We live by the sword and die by it too. That’s all there is to it – don’t forget, you’re all here by choice. Death is part of the job, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t see you staying your hand too often – you’re merciless.’
Olwydd commented. ‘Isn’t that against your religion?’
‘I simply render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s.’
‘Has anybody even the faintest idea of what she’s on about?’
Olwydd asked.
‘ Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, the Lord Yeshua taught us, and to God that which is God’s,’ Varda explained. ‘Unlike some of you, I’m a slave. I didn’t choose to be here. Varda follows God’s law and the Messiah’s teachings. It’s Celerana the gladiatrix who trains in the ludus and steps into the arena.’
Here was something with which Lysandra could identify and she nodded.
‘Back in Alexandria I knew some of your religion who’d accuse you of being a hypocrite,’ Anksy said, trying not to sound too accusatory, ‘ who’d claim they’d sacrifice themselves before killing another.’
‘Easy enough for them to say!’ Varda snapped. ‘I’m here and they’re not. And I bet they’re damned Greeks! – Sorry, Lysandra.’
Lysandra decided not to make an issue of that.
‘They’re not true believers at all…’ Varda continued her harangue.
‘Eaters of unclean meat and ignorant of God’s laws. Their men aren’t even circumcised! Many of them even claim that Yeshua was either God’s own son or God himself come down to earth – what kind of blasphemy is that? Shema Yisrael – Hear, O Israel! The Lord our God is One…’ Varda intoned as Olwydd, catching Lysandra’s eye, made a su
btle twirling gesture at her temple with her finger.
‘As for the blood I’ve spilled and the vain pride in my victories… Yes…’ Varda’s head dropped and she closed her eyes. ‘Yes, some day I will answer for it.
‘But not now and not to you lot!’ The brief appearance of guilt and shame fled and Varda’s eyes shone with fervour and defiance. ‘Some day I’ll have Abraham, Moses and Elijah the Prophet as my heavenly judges… and the Baptiser… and Shimon the Fisherman. And I’ll put my soul into the hands of the Almighty God and the merciful Yeshua, the Anointed One… and Miriam, his pure and sacred mother…’
‘Sounds like quite an audience,’ Lysandra observed.
Varda remained silent, lost in her own thoughts as, for the first time, it occurred to Lysandra that the Judaeo-Christian beliefs were not so unique and fathomless after all, nor half so threatening. And here was evidence, if ever it was needed, of the absurdity of a belief in a single god. A heavenly pantheon of gods and demigods each with their own special powers, affinities and responsibilities was logical, right and proper and it had to evolve sooner or later. And though she had little clear idea who Elijah or this Shimon the Fisherman was or had any notion of whatever qualities this mother goddess possessed, they sounded like a fairly dull band when stacked against the golden splendour of Apollo, the power of Zeus or the wisdom and beauty of her own beloved Athene. Varda was, in all likelihood, making up the part about Hellenes converting to her religion. The truth of it was, Hellenes were just not stupid enough to join such a preposterous cult. Not even the Athenians.
‘But let me be clear about one thing,’ Varda announced. ‘I mean to survive and I won’t despise the talents God has given me. But I’m not like you, Olwydd – or you, Lysandra. On the day I earn my… on the day God sets me free, I’m gone from this damned charnel house… I’ll shake every speck of bloody dust from my feet and I’ll never set foot in an arena again. Ever.’
There was a long pause before Olwydd clearly decided it was time to change the subject. ‘Do you think you can beat Aesalon, Lysandra?’
Lysandra laid back on her bunk. ‘I do not know, Olwydd,’ which was the truth of it. ‘She is better than anyone I have ever seen and she is extremely fast – faster than me, I think. But she fears me, this much I know.’ She went on to explain Aesalon’s visit to her cell after the bout.
‘That’s good,’ Ankhsy commented. ‘But she’ll get over that. She’s not Gladiatrix Prima for no reason.’
Lysandra smiled tightly. ‘Neither am I.’
* * *
The sun was hot on Lysandra’s back as she stood on the palaestra, having reached its zenith some hours before. Kleandrias had insisted that training start later in the day, which was not what she was used to.
‘It is late,’ she said, as he strolled up to her. ‘We have wasted much of the day already. I am supposed to be training for the Gladiatrix Prima, Kleandrias, not catching up on my sleep.’
The Spartan swished his vine staff. ‘It’s still early enough to give you stripes for your insolence!’ he snapped.
‘All the same, sir,’ Lysandra remembered her manners: this was not her friend Kleandrias now; this was her trainer and superior and she must act accordingly. ‘I would know why.’
‘Your bout with Aesalon Nocturna is being billed as a main event. You will fight by torchlight – in the evening. Better that you get used to fighting in the dark now. Or do you disagree?’
‘No, sir.’
‘In any case, you need to work on your fitness first. Now, Lysandra, you are fast – very fast. But Aesalon is faster. You are taller than her and, I suspect, stronger. You are also a highly skilled pankratatist – and I think that Aesalon is not accomplished in unarmed combat. These will be our advantages: your strength and your endurance. But we will surprise her as well, Lysandra – from now on, we will work on your speed. We will make you faster than you have ever been.’
Lysandra nodded, thinking again of the sickening speed that Aesalon displayed in her fight with Swanhilde.
As though he read her thoughts, Kleandrias spoke again. ‘Lysandra, your biggest advantage is your Spartan blood – she is a Roman, and thus inferior. But first, we must get that blood pumping. You will run,’ he gestured to the gates of the ludus. Lysandra smiled as she saw the familiar figures of Cappa and Murco walking towards her.
‘And they will help.’
‘Hello, lass,’ Cappa grinned, holding up the chariot harness.
‘Remember this?’
* * *
Lysandra’s lungs felt like empty wine sacks as she ran with the chariot.
Kleandrias had added his not inconsiderable weight to the carriage and he, like Cappa and Murco, was making sport of her efforts, pretending once again that they were on a sightseeing trip. As she did with the crowd, so she pushed their noise out of her mind and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
Sweat drenched her tunic: it may have been well past noon, but the Italian sun still beat down with Tartaurian intensity, sapping her strength. ‘We are slowing down!’ Kleandrias shouted. ‘Faster, Lysandra, faster!’ Gritting her teeth, she put her head down and ran on. They had passed five milestones, then six. At the seventh, she was no longer able to count – she was aware only of the heat and the exhaustion.
And that she was in pain.
For a moment she was unsure what had happened, but as water splashed on her back, she realised that she must have collapsed.
‘Up!’ Kleandrias was on his hands and knees, screaming into her ear. ‘Get up! You are not finished yet!’
‘She’s exhausted,’ Murco put in from behind her.
‘I will tell her when to quit!’ Kleandrias sounded furious. ‘If you have no stomach for this, Roman, then leave. Now!’
Lysandra got onto all fours and vomited on to the road. She wiped the puke from her chin and spat. ‘No, Murco, he is right,’ she croaked.
‘Get her out of that harness,’ Kleandrias ordered the two bodyguards.
‘You’re doing well,’ Cappa whispered as he untied the clasps, giving her a quick wink.
‘Here,’ Murco gave her flask. ‘Have some water – not too much at once though.’
Lysandra took it gratefully from him, first rinsing the vomit from her mouth and then taking a draught. It was warm but it tasted divine.
Kleandrias smacked the flask from her hands. ‘That is enough water and rest. Run to that tree line,’ he pointed west. ‘Beyond is a lake. You will swim.’
‘Swim?’
He slapped her hard around the face. ‘No talking – run. Do as you are told!’
Lysandra puffed out her cheeks and took off as fast as she could.
Her legs were unsteady and numb with fatigue, but she would not allow herself to stumble. Entering the tree line was blessed relief from the burning sun and beyond she could hear the lake water lapping the shore. She slowed and sat down, untying her sandals as fast as she could before rising again and casting her off tunic.
She hated the water.
Setting her jaw, she rushed forward and ran into the lake, screeching at the sudden chill: it never seemed to matter how hot the sun was – water was always freezing cold. But it did much to send a jolt of strength through her and she splashed into the depths.
She knew her swimming style was ungainly – the dog’s paddle – but it was effective enough.
‘Swim to the other side!’ she heard Kleandrias shout. ‘And then back here again!’
After the torrid run, swimming was much harder work and, as the initial invigoration wore off, Lysandra’s arms and legs began to grow heavy as though she had stones tied around her wrists and ankles, but she pushed on. After all, she had no choice – keep going or die; that was the lesson Kleandrias was trying to ingrain in her, one that every arena fighter must learn. She knew it well enough, but in training she had never been tested in this way.
The opposite bank seemed to draw no closer and Lysandra felt the last of her stre
ngth beginning to ebb and the sound of her gasps were loud in her ears. She craned her neck, desperate to keep her head above water, remembering the storm that had made her a gladiatrix, the endless fury of the sea and the desperate pleas of the soldiers who were dragged to Poseidon’s dark realm. She was reliving it and panicking now, her strokes becoming frantic as the last of her strength faded away.
Her toes touched mud.
Lysandra flung herself forward and her feet found purchase on the ground beneath. Coughing and spluttering, she staggered out of the lake and fell forward onto her hands and knees, gasping for air, her heart smashing against her breastbone. She stayed there for long moments, ignoring the distant exhortations of Kleandrias on the other bank as she tried to recover.
The trainer would be furious and she would probably be beaten for not trying but, as she turned and faced the water once again, she realised that to plunge straight back in was to invite death.
Across on the other bank, she could see Kleandrias, shaking his fists and beckoning her over. With a sigh, she struggled to her feet and made her way back into the water. He had been right – she was beginning to hate him already.
Several weeks of conditioning passed. Interspersed with the gruelling biathlon of the chariot run and swimming, Kleandrias introduced new exercises that involved sprinting, jogging and sprinting again for long distances. And he would only allow light sparring to supplement this.
At their meal one evening, Kleandrias deigned to explain. ‘All fights ebb and flow,’ he said to her, ‘just like war, in fact. There is a lot of manoeuvring and feinting before a commitment to attack.
But when the attack comes, it is frantic and hard-pressed – so your body is learning to be under high stress for extended periods of time. Fitness is one thing,’ he went on, ‘but there are different types of fitness.’
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