Roma Victrix (16 page)

O
nly the hard. Only the strong
.

Lysandra continued to repeat that as her mantra, but nothing could stave off the awful sickness she felt as soon as the
Galene
began to roll. It began with a sudden attack of sweating, the signal to the inevitable trauma to follow. Lysandra learned to recognise the signs well and as soon as the heat began on her brow, she would bolt for the side and commence vomiting into the sea.

When she had begun to believe that all food and sustenance had fled from her body, she began to throw up green bile that burned her throat and made her teeth feel gritty. The only relief to be had was by wedging herself against the timber and curling into a ball – much to the amusement of the
Galene
's crew.

These bouts of sickness were a source of acute embarrassment to Lysandra: it was hardly befitting to see a former champion and a Spartan to boot curled up like a child, vomiting all over the place.

Inwardly she felt as though Poseidon had singled her out for this treatment and she struggled not to curse the sea-god and thus bring down his wrath on the vessel. In her darkest heart, she knew that was his game – as soon as she vocalised her antagonism towards him, it would be his excuse to smash the
Galene
to driftwood.

Whilst she remained silent, she frustrated him. On the other hand, if she was honest with herself, the vomiting and lack of appetite was a useful way of shifting some of the excess weight she had built up.

The sickness did not come upon her every day and when the sea was utterly calm she found herself almost enjoying the journey.

Bedros had given her the freedom of the ship, for which she was extremely grateful. She was unused to having so many men in close proximity but Bedros allayed her unspoken fears as she stood with him at the rudder.

‘These are good men,' he jerked his chin at the crew. ‘Wives and families, most of them. I don't have the mean and the desperate on my ship.'

‘That is comforting,' Lysandra admitted. ‘I would hate to have to injure one of them should their interest in me became more than friendly.'

Bedros winked. ‘I'm sure that no one fancies annoying the
Gladiatrix Prima
.'

Lysandra grunted and turned her face to the sea. The sun glittered on the waves that splashed about the stern and broke with a foamy whiteness. Unlike the docks there was no stink on the open sea, just a salty tang that she was coming to quite enjoy. In the vast-ness of what the men called ‘the Great Green' there was a strange tranquillity to be had, a feeling that one's own goals and desires were somehow less important than they were on dry land. ‘How long till we beach?' she asked Bedros.

He looked upwards. ‘A few hours yet.'

The
Galene,
Bedros had explained to her, would reach Brundisium in around two weeks, with allowances for good or poor wind and stopoffs. They could not travel at night so, each afternoon as the sun began its descent, the
Galene
would beach on one of the numerous islands scattered across the Hellespont and Aegean.

After a few evenings of keeping to herself, Lysandra had begun to feel more comfortable with the crew. She began to wander amongst the men as they made camp for the night, offering a greeting here and there. They were a friendly enough bunch, if a little coarse.

Lysandra had the feeling that their stories and songs would have been far more ribald had she not been present; as it was, most of them teetered on the border of bad taste but as they sat in the light of the campfires, she found herself coming to like these simple, honest men of the sea. She had also noted how many had scars on their forearms indicating that they could hold their own in a fight.

There was Phampilos, dubbed ‘grandfather' by the rest of the crew due to the recent arrival of his daughter's son. As the eldest on board, Phampilos commanded the respect of all the men, though they masked this by constantly mocking his grey beard and creaking joints. Hermolaos, a thin, unassuming man with wispy hair and hawk nose, was the musician of the crew and it was his deft fingers on the lyre that entertained them all as they camped for the night.

He always had a word, a nod or a wave for Lysandra which quickly endeared him to her. Milo, nicknamed ‘the Ram,' doubled as the cook and, to Lysandra's surprise, his fare was most enjoyable. She hardly dared ask why he had been landed with the epithet ‘Ram' until Hermolaos assured her that it was because of the thick mane of curls of which Milo was very proud.

Bedros, despite his jovial demeanour, was a canny and cautious man. Each night he would post a cordon of guards around their loose camp and there were always three men on board the ship. The islands were always inhabited, some more sparsely than others, and the people – and Lysandra thought some of the mangy, goat-skin clad inbreeds barely qualified as part of the species – were always curious.

She thought the pilot wise in his vigilance; even though the natives came to trade, she would not have been surprised if they had attacked the crew and plundered their bodies given the chance.

As it was, in exchange for olive oil and bronze, they gave wine, food and their daughters' virtue. Listening to the grunting and moaning that went on throughout the night, Lysandra realised that life as a sailor might carry risks but the rewards could be great. It seemed like a good life for a man, especially those of middle years like most of the crew.

‘In a storm, I'd rather have a veteran beside me any day,' Phampilos said to her when she brought it up one evening.

‘Some of us are more veteran than others, Grandfather!' Milo offered as he sauntered past.

Phampilos made an obscene gesture at him, and turned his attention back to Lysandra. In the firelight, his grizzled face made him look like a nautical Chiron, each deep line of countenance marking his years of experience. ‘It's true, though. A man who's lived a bit is a steadier man. Youths rush everything, be it sailing, fighting or fucking.' He put an apologetic hand to his lips. ‘I can say “fucking” in front of you, can't I?'

‘I have heard the expression,' Lysandra brushed over it. ‘What you say has some merit,' she said after a moment. ‘In the ancient phalanx, the men of twenty-five to thirty-five were in the front ranks, behind them the un-blooded youths, and then the greybeards stood at the rear – to ensure no man fled his place.'

The sailor chuckled. ‘At sea, there is nowhere to run, Lysandra.'

Lysandra did not respond. Phampilos's words had brought to mind the storm that had brought her to Balbus's
ludus
and the memories of it were always grim.

After a week of travelling, Lysandra found that the sickness that had so plagued her had receded. Phampilos told her that she had

“found her sea-legs”, but the usually chatty old man appeared grim as he took the rudder from Bedros. The pilot too had a severe cast to his face.

‘We're in Greek waters now,' he told her when she asked after his mood.

‘The gods be praised,' Lysandra said. Her heart swelled with emotion that surprised her. It had been many years since she had been to her homeland and the closeness of Hellas made her yearn to see Sparta once again. On this voyage that was not to be, but at that moment she promised herself that she would return to her motherland someday.

Bedros only grunted at her comment and turned his eyes to the sea.

As they journeyed on, the rest of the men were also tense and watchful. Lysandra's questions were ignored enough times for her to cease asking. She thought it somewhat rude of them to skirt around her inquiries in such an obviously transparent manner, but then what could one expect from Asiatics?

But it was clear that the men's mood had changed. At night, the usual relaxed banter, drinking and fornicating were now absent.

Bedros posted more guards than usual and broached only brief contact with the islanders they came across. There was no bartering now, only requests for ‘news' from the crew, which forced Lysandra to ask once again what information they were seeking.

Bedros sighed. ‘It pays to stay alert,' he hedged.

‘You are not telling me all that you know, Bedros.' Lysandra was annoyed and she noted the imperious tone in her statement. ‘If there is some kind of danger threatening us, I should like to know about it.'

‘I'm just a cautious man,' he replied. ‘And I don't want you worrying over nothing.'

Lysandra opened her mouth to press him further but the set in the pilot's jaw told her that he would not be moved on the subject.

Grinding her teeth in irritation at the stubbornness of men, she strode off to the
Galene.

Hermolaos was one of the sailors guarding the ship. His lyre, always nearby when they were ashore, was not in evidence. He nodded at her as she approached. ‘Greetings, Lysandra.'

‘Greetings, Hermolaos. Tell me – are there any spare swords aboard?'

‘Plenty. Are you planning on fighting me?' he grinned.

‘To what end? I need to practice some techniques, not put an old man out of his misery.' Despite her annoyance with Bedros, she made her attempt at Athenian comedy to put Hermolaos at ease.

It was not his fault that his pilot was being mulish.

‘That's a bit harsh. I'm only forty.'

‘A titan's age. A sword?'

‘Of course.' He got up and stretched. ‘Keep watch for me, I'll get you one just now.' With that, he sauntered off to the cargo boxes and was swallowed up by the darkness. A short time later, he returned carrying a
gladius
and handed it to her. ‘Here you go.'

Her fist closed around the hilt and she almost shuddered with pleasure. The light from the fires on the beach caught on the blade as she held it before her face and she closed her eyes. It has been a long time since she had held a weapon and felt anything like the
Gladiatrix Prima
. It was a fleeting moment and then it was gone.

The back of her head began to tingle maddeningly in the same way it would when the need for drink came upon her. There was a need in her, she realised. A need to live on the edge that no amount of wine could wash away. In that moment she knew that she had made the right decision to face this Aesalon Nocturna; by risking her life in the arena once again, she was indeed saving herself.

She thanked Hermolaos and turned to leave.

‘Where are you off to?' he asked.

‘I am going to practice,' she replied, finding that she relished the idea.

The next few days followed a similar pattern. The men hardly relaxed, staying alert both day and night. After her evening meal, Lysandra would move away from the main group to practice sword techniques and perhaps spar with Hermolaos, the comparatively youthful Milo, and a few of the other men.

Despite her lack of physical fitness, she was gratified to learn that her skill with the blade had not been too diminished by her absence from the arena. Although she had trained at the
Deiopolis
less and less frequently as the years had passed, she had still kept her hand in and this was serving her well now. Of course, the crew of the
Galene
were rank amateurs in comparison to her, but for their part they seemed to enjoy the opportunity to spar with a celebrity such as herself. It was, she surmised, something they could boast to their grandchildren about.

Lysandra had grown bored with asking the men about their edgy behaviour: plainly, they were trying to hide something and it occurred to her that despite the legitimate front, Bedros might be indulging himself in some illegal activity. Though she had seen no real evidence of it, smuggling seemed to be the most logical assumption. It was petty crime as far as she was concerned but the Romans took a dim view of anything that would deprive them of revenue and, if caught, Bedros and his crew would face severe punishment. That would be a shame, as she had grown fond of them. But, ultimately, the law was the law. Without it, they would be little more than savage barbarians. Bedros and his men knew the consequences of their actions.

She hinted at the possibility of being aboard a smugglers' vessel as she stood at the rudder with Bedros one morning, but the pilot merely laughed her off. ‘Would you like to have a go at steering,' he asked.

Lysandra knew well that he was trying to deflect her line of questioning but the opportunity to take control of the ship was too exciting to pass up.

‘It'll be a shock,' Bedros warned. ‘She's heavy and it's harder than you'd think, so brace yourself.'

Lysandra nodded and did as he said. He stepped away from the rudder and at once, Lysandra felt the
Galene
try to pull away from her. ‘It is like a horse,' she shouted. ‘Like a new horse that does not know you!' Her heart pounded with exhilaration as the ship rode over the waves, first sinking and then rising. Lysandra felt nothing of the sickness that had so plagued her before, just a sense of power and excitement she had known only in the arena.

Bedros laughed, seeming to enjoy her enthusiasm. Indeed, having a new hand at the stern seemed to lift the mood of the men for once. They ceased in their work, some of them calling encouragement to the new pilot, others pretending that the ship was rolling as though in a storm and imploring Bedros to save them.

Bedros was correct in his assessment, however. It was hard to control the ship, wearing on the endurance. After some time, Lysandra's calves, shoulders and forearms began to burn with fatigue.

She glanced at the pilot with a new-found respect – his strength must have been prodigious to steer the vessel for such extended periods. ‘You were right,' she said, but then trailed off as she saw the expression on his face.

‘Give me the rudder, Lysandra,' he barked. His tone left no room for argument and, at his signal, she stepped away.

‘What is it?' she asked.

He jerked his chin out to sea.

There, on the horizon, she could see a tiny black shape. Like a bee to summer wine, the shape was drawn towards them. ‘Another trader?' she asked, knowing that the question was pointless.