Roma Victrix (10 page)

Valerian was about to roar in triumph when the man behind him crashed into his back sending him sprawling. Cursing the man furiously, the Tribune scrambled to his feet, but the oaths died on his tongue as he saw the cause of his fall. Thousands of Dacians – horse and foot – had smashed into the back of their lines, a tide of barbarian fury that crashed down upon them without mercy.

‘Rear ranks eight and seven, turn… about face!' Valerian could not even hear himself shouting the order so loud was the tumult about him. But in moments what had once been a cohesive unit began to break down. Pressed on both sides, panicked by the attack to their rear, the Roman formations began to fall apart. The key to their invincibility was their unity, their organisation. Take that away, and the Romans were at a disadvantage facing the huge tribal warriors.

Panic spread like wildfire through the Roman ranks as order broke down. Individual duels raged all over the field as men sought only to save their own lives, all thoughts of winning now fled.

Valerian was an officer and
equites
: it was his duty to stay until the bitter end. He was also a realist. Like the rest, he decided to make a run for it. He would head for the marching camp, the last redoubt. Even as the realisation occurred to him, his guts lurched in shock as he saw the tell-tale smudge of black smoke rising from beyond the forest. The second Dacian army had dealt with their comrades in the marching camp already, ensuring that there would be no place to succour the legions now. Confusion reigned, but an army as vast as the one that Rome had fielded to punish Diurpaneus could not be so easily dispatched. There were simply too many men to kill quickly and, though order had broken down, the men would not just give up their lives. Furious and savage, the battle roiled again – men with no hope would not sell their lives cheaply.

For hours the fight raged on but, like a vice, the Dacians closed in around them, cutting off all avenues of escape. They laughed as they killed, savouring the pain they were inflicting. Valerian saw the Eagle of the Fifth Aludae fall and knew that, with it, Fuscus and Marcus would be either dead or dying. He saw Decimus dragged away by a group of the amazons that had so unnerved him before the battle. His screams of defiance were cut short all too soon as they overwhelmed him.

Valerian fought on, but the knot of Roman soldiers became ever tighter as the unending mass of tribal warriors swarmed around them. He lashed out at a Dacian, smashing the blade of his sword asunder on the man's helmet. It was easy to find a replacement –

around him, the blood-wet grass was strewn with weapons and corpses. A warrior came at him and Valerian dodged the swinging arc of the
falx
and rammed his blade into the man's guts. His entrails, hot and stinking, burst out as the Roman dragged the sword free.

Another warrior leapt to the attack, and Valerian cried out as his 
falx
bit through his shoulder armour, smashing the bone beneath.

The Dacian laughed in triumph and stepped in to finish him off, but through the sickening pain the will to live was strong and Valerian swung his booted foot at the man's groin. It was the last thing the Dacian expected and with a retching choke he collapsed, cradling his testicles. Valerian drew his dagger with his left hand and fell upon the injured tribesman, plunging the blade into his face over and over again, shearing away flesh to reveal the bone beneath. He kept on stabbing until exhaustion and pain overwhelmed him. His throat burned and he threw up convulsively.

When his stomach was vacated he looked about, fearing fresh attack. But the battle was over. All that remained were desperate, last-ditch scraps as men fought not to survive, but avoid capture.

All knew the agonies that awaited them at the hands of the Dacians.

The sky was growing dark and it was almost quiet now save for the laughs of the enemy and the desperate cries of those who were dying. Valerian looked about for a sword. Taking his own life was the only thing to do. It would save his honour, and it would spare him a lengthy, agonising death.

He reached out, his blood-begrimed fingers closing on the hilt of a dead soldier's
gladius.
Like him, the blade was coated in filth and viscera: it did not look so fine a Roman thing now – much like himself. He examined the weapon, steeling himself, working up the courage to place it against his throat and lunge forward. It was the Roman way, it was the thing to do.

‘Gaius Minervinus Valerian!'

He was so startled that the sword spun from his grip. He looked up to see a rider staring down at him. One of the Dacian amazons: she was alone, and Valerian's gaze fell on the sword he had just dropped. The horsewoman's derisive snort echoed from within her helmet. ‘You should not try for it,' she indicated the weapon with a jerk of her chin. ‘I will call out and my comrades will come.

They'll skin you alive just to hear you squeal.'

Valerian swallowed, trying not to look afraid. Then he realised that she had called him by name. ‘How do you know me?'

Slowly, she reached up and removed her helmet. She was not young – well over thirty five, nearer forty he reckoned. Her hair was long and dark, and Valerian could see the streaks of grey even in the fading light. She waited in silence as he examined her, evidently expecting him to recognise her. ‘I'm sorry,' he said at length, his eyes flicking back to the sword. If she was going to be affronted, he decided that he would kill himself before she and her nearby harpies got her claws into him.

‘I'm not surprised,' she hissed, her accented Latin full of contempt.

‘I have seen you many times, lapdog. You sat at the side of your master Frontinus as I killed for your entertainment. Too high and mighty to know those who died for your
games.
'

Yes
. He could see it now in the way that she carried herself in the shape of her body. ‘
Amazona,'
he whispered. ‘
Gladiatrix Prima
.'

Her lip curled in something between a smile and a sneer. ‘Very good.' She nodded slowly, as if considering something. ‘Very good.

Hai!' she called out to her warriors. Valerian was confused for a moment, but the sickening realisation that she meant to have her fun tormenting him after all rushed up to him. He leapt for the sword, but with the merest touch of her knee, Amazona's horse stepped forward and knocked him from his feet. He scrambled up, but more horsewomen had come to surround him, their spears levelled at his chest.

Amazona's eyes were as cold as her voice. ‘You had your sport with me. Now we will have our sport with you,' she said.

Lysandra had wanted to send a letter to the
Deiopolis
advising them of her intentions, but Telemachus would have none of it. He insisted that she return to her temple and tell those closest to her in person. At first, the thought of facing them all again was too much to bear but, as the days passed, Lysandra found that she could think of meeting them without cringing in shame.

Telemachus had housed her in her old room. It seemed to her that she was coming full circle as, many years ago, she had lain on the same bed in dire need of help. It was the Athenian who had succoured her then as now, never asking anything in return. She was grateful, but it was not the Spartan way to gush grateful plat-itudes: indeed, her acknowledgement might shame the man. He knew she was indebted without her having to say so.

A few days with a clear head did wonders for her
psyche
. She admitted privately that the days were easy enough, but her nights were restless and sleep did not come easily even though exhaustion weighed heavily upon her. It was in the silence of her room in the darkest hours that the shame returned, though its fury ebbed each successive night so that it only came now in waves and not the crashing flood it once had been.

She had thought to test herself by drinking only watered wine, but decided against it. Lysandra knew that she was possessed of Heraclean resolve and had little doubt that she would manage not to indulge to excess, but it was a foolish mortal that tempted the Moirae. So water sufficed as her refreshment as they ate.

‘You are looking much recovered', Telemachus observed, a week into her stay. ‘Your bruises are all but healed and…' he trailed off.

‘And?'

‘And you look almost like your old self,' he finished hastily.

Lysandra's smile was bitter. ‘If you mean I look less like a haggard, battered whore, then you are correct. But I fear there is a long way to go before I am my old self again.'

‘Well, there's plenty of time.'

They lapsed into silence for a while. Lysandra found her gaze wandering around the room and she decided to mention the shrine's state of repair. She knew Telemachus well enough to be forthright, and besides which he would expect nothing less. ‘This place also is not what it once was.' She saw Telemachus's cheeks colour even under his beard.

‘I'm just going through a bit of a lean patch,' he shrugged. ‘The offerings are down at the moment, but I am sure things will pick up.'

Lysandra frowned. ‘That is strange,' she observed. ‘My
Deiopolis
is vastly profitable. Though we are quite far from the city, many of the Hellenes travel to worship there. I imagine part of it is because of my fame, and you have to admit that the
Deiopolis
has much more to offer than any of the inner-city places of worship, including this one. People tend to make a holiday of their trip there and duly their expenditure goes up.' She was pleased to be able to inform the Athenian of the economics. Evidently, he had much to learn.

‘I'm sure it must be wonderful not having to worry about money.'

‘Yes, it is,' agreed Lysandra. ‘Of course, Spartans do not placemuch value on material things but I will admit that not having those concerns is certainly an advantage.'

Telemachus set his cup down rather too hard on the table and rose to his feet. ‘Excuse me, Lysandra,' his voice was taut with petulance. ‘I will return presently.' Without another word, he stalked off, leaving the room and
almost
slamming the door behind him; she noted that he stopped at the last instant and shut it gently. His inexplicable tantrum had her at a loss and, she conceded to herself, it had hurt her feelings. It was most inconsiderate of him to act in such a way when she was trying to heal herself both mentally and physically. Lysandra eyed the wine krater for a moment, and the all-too-familiar fire ignited in her mind. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and willed the urge to drink it away.

Perhaps she should go to him. Athenians were well known to be sensitive souls – it came from too much philosophising and debate or, more accurately, navel-gazing as she saw it. Yet despite his unreasonable behaviour, Telemachus was her friend and she decided that she should be the bigger person and see what was wrong with him.

She found him outside in the temple's modest courtyard. He was sitting on a stone bench, bent low, his forearms resting on knees.

‘What is the matter with you?' she asked. ‘We were having a perfectly civil conversation and you storm out in the middle of it.'

‘By the Goddess!' he shouted, rising to his feet with startling speed. Despite herself, Lysandra took a step back. ‘Lysandra, I love you like my own sister but the world does not only revolve around you!' She opened her mouth to respond but he pressed on before she could speak. ‘I have my own problems, and now you and yours to add to them. We are supposed to be friends, yet all you do is take. When you were younger, I could understand it. But time it seems has not changed you. Your arrogance I can understand and forgive, but your selfishness is something else again!'

Lysandra felt the binds that held her temper in check snap. ‘I am selfish?' she screeched. ‘
I
? Lysandra, who builds a temple to honour all the gods, Lysandra, who raised the self-esteem of all Hellenes in this province by spilling her blood on the sands, Lysandra, who brought great riches to this temple.
Your temple.
Your friendship to me – so-called – was bought by Lucius Balbus and you call
me
selfish. How dare you!
How dare you
!'

‘Riches!' Telemachus took a step towards her, eyes blazing in fury. ‘Aye, your fleeting fame and time here turned a profit. And now look at the place. Look at it!' He threw his arms wide to encompass his shabby domain. ‘It's in ruins!'

‘I told you before and back then it was in jest, but it was also true. You Athenians are effete snobs, and there is nothing but rhetoric in your so-called lessons from the goddess,' she hissed. ‘It is no wonder your coffers are bare, as they were before my ill-fortune came to your rescue all those years ago. The fact is, Telemachus, that you are not a very good priest.'

The retort of the slap was whip-loud in the small courtyard. She saw the blow coming. She even could have blocked it. But her brain would simply not allow her to believe it was happening. Only when the stinging pain registered did she realise that it was real.

Telemachus's face crumpled from furious to aghast, his eyes registering the shock of his action. ‘Lysandra,' he began, ‘I…' but she raised a hand, silencing him.

Her temper was doused in an instant by the look of horror in the priest's eyes. If she could not believe he had slapped her, it was evident that neither could he. Now that the heat of anger was gone, Lysandra realised that his plight must be grim indeed. She took a deep breath. ‘I apologise,' she said. Again he made to speak, and again she over-rode him. ‘You are an excellent priest: I was angry and I used my words like weapons to hurt you. There was no truth in that, Telemachus, and I am sorry.'

‘I struck you.' The statement was part incredulity, part self-loathing. ‘Please forgive me, Lysandra.'

‘It did not hurt,' she dismissed it with a wave of her hand. She understood why he had reacted so, but she had spent most of her life learning to endure: a few years of soft living were not going to change that. ‘You must not let such a thing bother you, Telemachus,' she tried to make him feel better. ‘Really, you do not hit very well at all.'