Roma Victrix (52 page)

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.'

‘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.

‘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 subtle 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.