Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  Laughing, Taurus sauntered off and Illeana returned her gaze to the Spartan. She was deep in conversation with her friends and, once again, Illeana thought it would be a pity to kill her.

  But kill her she would.

  XL

  ‘How do I look, Diocles?’ Frontinus lifted his chin, assuming the air of an advocate in mid-flow.

  ‘Sir, if the creases in your toga were any sharper, I’d have cut my fingers on them.’

  ‘The fuller did a good job,’ Frontinus sniffed. ‘But a bit more patchouli oil is needed – I can detect a slight whiff of piss. It should have been left to air longer, I think.’

  ‘I’ll have the slave responsible flogged, sir,’ Diocles promised as he sprinkled a liberal amount of perfume on the heavy cotton.

  ‘Not too much,’ Frontinus complained. ‘I don’t want to smell like a whore.’

  ‘I’m not sure there’s a market for such mature whores, sir,’

  Diocles said, leaning in and sniffing him as though he were some sort of flower. ‘There – at least you don’t smell of piss now. We couldn’t have that – not with you being in the Imperial box and all.’

  Frontinus laughed. ‘Diocles, you seem absurdly pleased at this prospect, but it’s nothing special. I’ve sat in plenty of royal boxes in my time.’

  ‘True, sir, true. But mostly with the old emperor. His son is affording you some status, meaning your star continues to rise and that means we’re all better off.’

  ‘Are you looking for more money?’ Frontinus asked, irritable at the freedman’s presumption, but also a little contrite because he should have thought of offering him a raise once the governorship of Moesia had been confirmed.

  ‘The thought never occurred to me.’

  ‘Just pay yourself what is fair, all right?’ There was little point in trying to dictate terms, given that Diocles was in charge of the finances in the first place.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Frontinus!’ a voice sounded from outside the room.

  ‘Ah, Tetius Iulianus is here, forging ahead of the slaves as usual. Why can’t the man wait to be announced like everyone else, eh, Diocles?’

  ‘He’s probably keen to get on with killing Dacians and would rather not be at the Flavian watching Romans kill Greeks.’

  ‘Well, he’ll have to wait – for both,’ Frontinus rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ve seen Achillia fight, I’ve seen Aesalon Nocturna fight – and I know who’s going win. Aesalon is good but Achillia is unbeatable,’ he gestured to the door, indicating that Diocles show his visitor in.

  ‘I imagine that you’ve put your money where your mouth is, sir?’ Diocles was all disapproval.

  ‘Tetius Iulianus is putting patriotism before pragmatism, Diocles.

  He’ll be a poorer man come tomorrow… ahhh!’ He raised his voice as the young general entered, ‘Tetius Iulianus! Good to see you, lad. I trust you are looking forward to the games.’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ Iulianus said. ‘Slave, bring wine.’

  Diocles made a show of looking around for a slave before Frontinus gave him the slightest of nods, willing him with his eyes to be indulgent. The last thing he needed was a disgruntled freedman writing his own pay-rise. The Greek made off, disapproval hanging about him like a cloud.

  ‘I’ve had the reports in from Taenarum.’ Iulianus spoke of the Greek hub for mercenaries. He hurled himself onto a couch, heedless of creasing his toga, his hawk’s face pinched with frustration.

  ‘Plenty of mercenaries to be had all right, but they’re Greeks or barbarians in the main. All affordable Italians are well-past their prime. Word’s got round that we’re in trouble and the price has risen accordingly. Greeks,’ he shook his head. ‘They can’t be relied on in a fight.’

  ‘Don’t be too hasty to dismiss them,’ Frontinus soothed. ‘They do good auxiliary work and,’ he tapped his nose, ‘give a Greek a cause or a leader he believes in and he’ll fight to the death.’

  ‘Yes, but we’ve got a Roman cause and they hate us, the effete bastards. And the rest are Germans or Gauls and I’d rather put my cock on a chopping board than trust them. Given the chance, they’d join the Dacians – go back to their old ways of living in shit and humping each other or whatever barbarians do.’

  Frontinus sighed. They needed men and they did not have the luxury of choice. ‘Iulianus,’ he said, ‘there’s no way on earth of holding two fronts with the legions you have. We’ll need to buy in troops. And if that means geriatric Romans and bunch of greculi, then so be it. It’s not as though they have to win, is it?’

  ‘That’s true,’ Iulianus grunted as one of Frontinus’s slaves arrived with some wine – Diocles, he thought, was probably sulking.

  ‘Quite right,’ Frontinus soothed. ‘All they need to do is hold off the Dacian flanking attack long enough for you to put this Decebalus to the sword. If they’re all massacred, so be it. The defensive position we’ve picked out is strong enough – we just need the men to hold it.’

  ‘What about a legate? I’d prefer someone Roman, but that’s not going to happen. It’s hardly a glorious command, is it? But I’m also unwilling to put my trust in a mercenary commander – they can be bought, you know.’

  Frontinus grinned. ‘I have a solution. This mission won’t take a tactician of Alexandrian proportions – it’s just holding a line, after all. The ideal situation would be to have a Roman, as you say.

  Someone we can laud if all goes well, someone we can blame if it all goes sour.’

  ‘Roman legates aren’t mercenaries,’ Iulianus snapped.

  ‘No, but we can create a legate. I have just the man in mind. He was disgraced in the previous campaign but was the highest ranking officer to survive. We can put him in command to give this mission some sort of legitimacy if he does well… and we can also claim that he’s a simple mercenary – and a failure to boot – if it goes wrong. Left the army after the Battle of Tapae, signed on as a mercenary thereafter, was useless and led his men to defeat… et cetera, et cetera…’

  ‘And who is this imbecile?’

  ‘He’s not an imbecile, Iulianus.’ Frontinus’s ire was raised by this assumption despite the fact that his introduction had been less than flattering. ‘He was a good officer once and he is down on his luck.

  But it’s true that he’s also rather expendable. His name is Valerian.

  Gaius Minervinus Valerian.’

  XLI

  Lysandra stood in the semidarkness of her cell, eyes closed as Telemachus whispered prayers to Athene. As the Athenian priest spoke, so Kleandrias muttered exhortations as he applied the oil to her body. Their voices mingled in a hypnotic buzz that she let seep into the deepest part of her mind, the part from which she would draw strength if the fight became desperate.

  ‘Leonidas is watching from Elysium…’

  ‘I celebrate the powers of Pallas Athena, the protectoress of the city…’

  ‘The Three Hundred are with you…’

  ‘Dread, as Ares, She busies herself with the works of war…’

  ‘You will not disgrace your goddess, Lysandra…’

  ‘With the sack of cities, with the battle-cry and with the combatants…’

  ‘You will not disgrace your Sisterhood…’

  ‘It is She also who saves the warriors that go to war and come back alive…’

  ‘You will not disgrace your Spartan blood.’

  ‘Hail, Athene, give us good fortune. Give us victory.’

  Lysandra opened her eyes. ‘Hail, Athene,’ she whispered. Then to Kleandrias she said ‘ We bow to no one,’ as Leonidas had uttered to the Persian, Xerxes. ‘I am ready.’

  The chanting of the crowd could be heard through the thick stone walls of Illeana’s cell. She allowed the muffled roar to wash over her, warming her like the sun on a chill day. Laenus kneaded oil into the muscles of her shoulders, his strong hands pressing hard.

  ‘They’re cheering for you, Illeana,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Fo
r Rome.’

  She did not respond as he moved in front of her to work on her legs, letting him focus on his task as she focused on hers. She had trained hard and well. She was Gladiatrix Prima and this, she knew, would be the biggest test she had ever faced. Victory would be hers, but she could not afford to take the Spartan lightly. Achillia was taller and, in all likelihood, stronger than she. They were both fast, but Illeana reckoned it was she that now had the edge in quickness.

  And the crowd was on her side: she could not imagine what it did to a fighter to have fifty thousand people screaming for your death the moment you stepped foot onto the sands.

  Laenus continued to speak, telling her that she was the best, that she would win and that the emperor would honour her. She let his voice fade away, retreating into herself, going over her training, thinking of the long hours running up and down the steps of the arena, allowing the knowledge of her strength and fitness soak down to her limbs. Her body would not fail her; her will to win would not fail her.

  This was the defining moment of her life. Eternal glory was hers for the taking. The thought of it made her shudder and her eyes flicked open. ‘Shut up, Laenus,’ she said and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Lysandra had never forgotten her first time. There had been many fights since then, but that first walk to the arena in Halicarnassus was burned indelibly on her mind like a slave’s brand. She felt the same now as she did then, a mixture of fear and the desire to face her opponent.

  She had spoken much of Varia’s nature, that Varia was not a killer.

  She and Aesalon Nocturna most surely were. There was a part of the Roman that needed this: the blood, the screams of the crowd, the ecstasy of victory. And there was a part of Lysandra that needed it too. She fought for Athene’s honour but it was also true that she was only complete when she held a sword in her hand. Years of indolence and drunkenness had been burned away when she had leapt from Bedros’s ship and cut down the pirate captain; she made him a sacrifice and through his death she had taken her first step on the road back to who she truly was.

  Gladiatrix.

  It was as dark as the womb in the tunnel, the walls about her seemed alive with sound, the roar of the crowd permeating the rock, seeping into her flesh and bones. The hatred they felt for the

  ‘Greek Champion’ was palpable and she found that it nourished her.

  She would silence them and hold her bloody sword aloft and scream Athene’s name so loud that it would be heard on High Olympus.

  She reached the Gate of Life and peered out into the torch-lit arena beyond. On the sands, the Roman lanista, Maro, was going through his pre-fight speech, but even with the horn he was using to amplify his voice, he was all but drowned out by the dissonance of the mob. She thought she heard him say ‘Achillia’ and then he gestured to her Gate. With infinite slowness, it clanked open. Lysandra took a deep breath and stayed behind as Achillia stepped out onto the sands of the arena.

  It was impossible not to be taken aback at the sheer scale of the Flavian Amphitheatre. Empty, it was impressive enough but now, stuffed full of people screaming their hatred for her, it was as if the arena had become some faceless god roaring with fifty thousand different voices.

  She remembered her vision then, at the foot of Athene’s statue back at the Deiopolis. This is what she had seen and the knowledge of it armoured her. If there was a part of her that doubted the goddess walked with her, reliving her vision was ample proof that her debt had been paid in full and Athene would guide her hand.

  Alone, she walked forward into the half-light of the arena, her pale skin made bronze by the flickering torchlight, ignoring the crude comments and insults the sight of her near-naked body brought from the mob. She was used to it, and if they thought to cow her with harsh words, these Romans were sadly mistaken. And, every so often, she could hear a shout for her cut through the din – there were pockets of Hellenes in the audience and they chanted ‘Sparta, Sparta, Sparta!’ but were continually drowned out by the supporters of Aesalon Nocturna .

  Though Maro had announced her, Aesalon Nocturna had still not arrived in the arena. Lysandra knew that it was a ploy, a mind-game that the beautiful Roman was employing to unnerve her.

  Lysandra thought it weak on her part and that fear was still with the Gladiatrix Prima of Rome. As the thought occurred to her, the Gate of Life opened and the clamour in the arena became an almost overpowering cacophony.

  Lysandra could not help but be taken aback by the spectacular beauty of the Roman Champion. It was unearthly, everything about her was perfection; her body naked save for the subligaricum.

  Oiled and smooth like a poet’s fantasy, she was the embodiment of the Roman Aphrodite – Venus. Raising her swords to the heavens, she acknowledged the adulation of her people, head tilted back and eyes closed as she drank it in.

  Slowly, she lowered her weapons and as she did so, the crowd became silent and still. Aesalon walked towards Lysandra, a half-smile playing on her over-plump lips and Lysandra stepped forward to meet her. They stopped some six feet from each other and turned to face the emperor’s box. It was hard to make out all of the figures therein, but Lysandra recognised Domitian and was pleased to see her old sponsor, Sextus Julius Frontinus, next to him.

  Both women raised their right sword and, as she had been instructed, Lysandra spoke at the same time as Aesalon: ‘ Ave, Caesar! ’

  Domitian gestured his approval and she turned to face the Midnight Falcon. Lysandra breathed out sharply through her nose, stretched her neck from side to side and spun her swords twice, the sound hissing in the near silence of the arena. Then she settled back – very slowly – into her fighting stance: left sword slightly extended, right sword held back and high.

  Aesalon did not raise her weapons, simply turning side on to Lysandra as Maro placed his vine staff horizontally into the space between them. His shout of ‘Pugnate!’ echoed in the silence and he drew the staff back in haste.

  There was no hesitation – Lysandra leapt forward like a ballista bolt, swords raised at a strange angle. She saw Aesalon move to counter, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. Lysandra did not strike with her weapon, but used her fist, smashing it into the side of Aesalon’s face. The weight of the blow was doubled by the iron gladius and the beautiful Roman reeled away, blood pouring from the cut that had opened on her cheek. Lysandra seized the initiative and, as the Roman tried to regain her balance, she skipped in, her foot lashing out, catching Aesalon hard in the ribs, knocking her over.

  Lysandra rushed in to finish the fight there and then, but Aesalon rolled aside as Lysandra’s blade scored the sand. She whirled to face the Roman who was up and closing in. Aesalon’s left blade cut towards Lysandra’s ribs and she intercepted, absorbing the force of the blow and she counter-attacked, stabbing out with her own left which was in its turn deflected.

  They broke apart, circling warily. Around them, the arena seemed to be an almost living thing, seething with noise and excitement and screaming for Hellene blood. But it was the Roman who bled.

  Aesalon circle-stepped on the attack, a sword scything in with vicious intent; it was too fast for Lysandra to evade the blow and she was forced to parry both this strike and its follow-up. The two women came together for a moment and Lysandra made to shove the Roman back. But Aesalon simply gave with the pressure and took Lysandra’s balance. She fell forward and rolled onto her back as Aesalon charged in, this time she sought to end the issue.

  As Lysandra twisted to one side, she snaked out her legs to entangle Aesalon’s feet, sending her also into the dirt. Both women scrambled up, Lysandra an instant quicker, and now she was on the attack.

  She was the stronger and she exploited this now, the endless hours of cutting down trees in Paestum paying dividends. Her arms coursed with strength as she rained blow after blow on Aesalon, forcing her to give ground, backing her up towards the wall of the arena. Aesalon tried to change her angles, but the ploy was obvious and
Lysandra worked harder now, determined to back her up and finish her off on the wall.

  She saw a gap in Aesalon’s defences and seized upon it, thrusting her blade out to take the Roman in the throat, but as she moved she was horrified to see that Aesalon was waiting for this. She twisted away and Lysandra was forced to pull her blow lest she break her sword – and her wrist – on the wall. Aesalon’s speed was her ally and she moved around, shoving Lysandra hard, smacking her into the wall and, in that moment, panic welled up inside her. She did the only thing she could.

  As she hit the wall, she pushed herself straight back out again, catapulting herself into the closing Aesalon. The familiar liquid fire of blood and an open wound lanced through her as she felt the Roman’s blade score up her shoulder. They crashed to the sand in a tangle of limbs, Lysandra laying atop the smaller Aesalon: she felt her arm coming across to snake around her throat but the oil on their bodies helped her and she slithered down, away from the killing grasp.

  Lysandra scrambled up, trying to ignore the pain from the wound in her back. It was deep – she could feel it hampering her move-ments already. Aesalon knew it too; she could see it in her eyes, and this time it was the Roman’s turn to take the initiative. Her attack came so fast that Lysandra barely had time to raise her weapons to defend herself. Aesalon’s swords became as Zeus’s lightning, flashing out in life-taking bursts that she was hard pressed to deflect.

  In the half-light, Aesalon looked like a goddess, alive with fury. She cut down with her right, but as Lysandra raised her sword to defend, Aesalon spun her weapon in her grip, slicing it across Lysandra’s torso, just beneath her breasts.

  She hissed in pain as the blood burst out, sluicing down her body in hot rivulets. Aesalon did not stop to admire her handiwork but kept her momentum going, clearly hoping to overwhelm her.

  Lysandra back stepped frantically, suddenly aware of the rising tide of fear and panic within her: this was the first time she had felt such fear in a bout because she knew now that this woman had the beating of her. She was too quick, too canny, and this was no Sorina whose age would eventually catch up with her. This was the Gladiatrix Prima in her prime.