Roma Victrix (12 page)

‘Marcus,' he whispered.

Cotiso shoved him forward, causing him to stumble and fall. The other Dacians chuckled, eyeing him as he collected himself. ‘Stay…sit,' Cotiso ordered, before ambling over to join his companions.

‘Thank the gods,' Marcus said as Valerian sat next to him. ‘I thought everyone was dead.'

‘Everyone is,' Valerian recalled the horrors of the camp once more. ‘And if they're not, I hope that they are soon.'

‘They got you out, though,' Marcus jerked his chin at their deliverers. ‘Probably chancers, looking to ransom us on the side.'

Valerian nodded: that made sense. Still, they did not have the look of men who were particularly in a hurry to escape with valuable hostages. Cotiso was knocking back the beer and his companions – five altogether – were well on their way to drunkenness.

They seemed to feel his eyes on them because their conversation stopped suddenly and they stared at their Roman guests. One slurred something to Cotiso, who beckoned the officers over.

‘You come now,' he said. ‘Have drink. Eat.'

Despite their injuries, the prospect of food and drink made both Marcus and Valerian move fast. Cotiso handed them a sack of beer each and they drunk deeply, chugging back the barbarian liquor as though it were fine wine.

‘Good?' one of the Dacians asked.

‘Good,' Marcus smiled, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

‘Good. You pay now.'

Valerian slowly lowered the sack, his brow knitting in confusion even as Marcus was spreading his hands to show they had nothing but the tunics on their back.

‘We don't have anything to pay with,' Marcus said. This was evidently more Greek than the man could understand, but Cotiso broke in.

‘Oh, you pay,' he said softly. In the firelight, his eyes appeared glazed and fevered with excitement. His fist lashed out and exploded into Marcus's face, dropping the boy like a stone.

Before Valerian could react, the Dacians were swarming all over him, bearing him to the ground. His stunned mind could not comprehend what was happening; if they had wanted to kill them why bring them here? Why not in the camp? But then, as he felt his tunic lifted, he realised the awful truth. They had been brought here to satisfy the lusts of the barbarians. Fear once again rose in his gourd and he struggled to escape.

‘It better when fight, Roman,' Cotiso's voice sounded from behind him. ‘I like more when you fight.'

‘I'll fight you, you fucking bastard!' Valerian shouted, furious that his fear made his voice shriek. The sound of it made the Dacians laugh more.

‘No!' He felt Cotiso's palm on the base of his spine. The Dacian coughed up spit, and Valerian tensed as he felt the man's rough fingers massage wetly against his anus. ‘I fuck you…' His voice was low and thick with lust as Valerian tried to pull away.

Valerian yelped in pain at the first burning invasion of his flesh as Cotiso speared him. It seemed to go on forever, stretching him so wide that he thought he would tear apart. He gritted his teeth, vowing that no more sounds of pain would escape him. It was a vow he could not keep – Cotiso was riding him as though he was an Egyptian eunuch and Valerian heard himself grunting in pain at each thrust. The Dacian let his weight fall heavily now, forcing him prone, face down in the dirt.

The sickening shame of it was unbearable. With each stroke, Cotiso was doing more than simply abusing him. Valerian could feel his very soul recoiling, his manhood being stripped from him as effectively as though they had gelded him. He felt his own genitals shrivel and shrink as the barbarian ploughed into him. Cotiso's thrusts increased in pace, his breath hissed in Valerian's ear and then he began to groan as he ejaculated.

‘You good fuck, Roman,' Cotiso chuckled as he rolled off. Valerian shuddered as the Dacian's issue dribbled down onto his testicles. ‘It go easier now,' Cotiso informed him genially. ‘Nice wet. You like it, maybe?' He gestured to Marcus. ‘
He
like it.' The boy's moans of pleasure were muffled as one of the Dacians fed his cock into his mouth, whilst another was reaming him. The sight of it lit a spark of rage in Valerian. It was one thing to be subjected to this ordeal, but to submit – to enjoy it – was an anathema to all that was Roman.

He hated Marcus more in that moment for his betrayal than even the Dacians who were perpetrating the crime.

It was as though Marcus Fuscus felt the hatred of his fellow Roman upon him. He paused in his slobbering on the filthy length of Dacian meat, his eyes meeting Valerian's. ‘Get ready,' he said in Latin.

Valerian blinked in surprise at the words but then the grunting and gasping was cut short by a piercing scream. The Dacian at Marcus's mouth lurched away, blood streaming from his genitals, the tattered, empty scrotum hanging loose. The young Roman spat out a reddish globule as he rolled away from the tribesman whose thrusts had suddenly ceased. ‘RUN!' he screamed. He grabbed the stricken man's falx and then sprinted for the tree line Valerian made to follow, but the Dacians had recovered from their initial surprise and were on their feet; those not tying their leggings were drawing weapons. As Cotiso went for the knife at his hip, Valerian dived on him, both men scrambling for the weapon.

Valerian's hands closed on the wooden hilt and he dragged the blade free, then stabbed down hard onto Cotiso's face. The big man screeched as the iron punctured his eyeball: the orb became a pinkish-white foam when Valerian dragged the weapon free. There was no time to strike again, another tribesman moved in. The Roman rolled off his victim and tried to scramble to his feet, but his tortured legs betrayed him. He saw the broadsword arc towards him and then the pain registered as it bit deep into his side. It might have been a killing blow, but the shame and rage gave Valerian strength. He lurched forward and whipped Cotiso's blade upwards, under the stunned tribesman's ribs. Valerian glanced round to see Marcus still up, fighting against two tribesmen. A third, evidently confident his friends could deal with the Roman youth, turned his attentions to Valerian and charged at him. The man's gait was wavering and unsteady and the Roman knew that if the Dacians had not been soaked in ale both he and Marcus would be dead by now. Trying to ignore the agony in his side, he stopped and picked up the sword that had so recently opened him up. The onrushing barbarian seemed to have not expected his foe to offer any resistance at all. He pulled up, surprised, doubly so when Valerian leaped to the attack.

He cut straight down towards the tribesman's head, but as the man lifted his blade to counter, Valerian changed the angle of his attack, dropping low: his weapon sliced into the Dacian's thigh, nearly severing the leg. Screaming, the man dropped to the ground clutching his useless limb. Valerian ignored him and stumbled towards the two that were fighting Marcus.

He was not too late; the boy was giving a good account of himself, keeping his assailants at bay. But, like Valerian, he too was bleeding – even in the firelight it was easy to see that his wounds were numerous and deep. One of the Dacians peeled away as he saw Valerian approach.

His eyes glittered booze-fuelled hate at the Roman, knuckles white on his sword hilt, his breath coming in short gasps. With a roar he attacked and it was all Valerian could do to parry the blow. The falx was long, heavy and unfamiliar but it was all he had. Like a barbarian, he hacked back at his opponent. Somewhere at the back of his mind Valerian could not help but think of the fickle cruelty of the gods.

Did they enjoy irony in pitting a wounded man against a drunk? Was this the height of Olympian wit? He could feel the strange mix of numbness and sharp pain between his neck and chest and realised that he had been hit again. He could not remember when the blow had been struck, but the blood was flowing freely and he knew his collar-bone was broken. He would be finished soon.

The realisation gave him strength, and he roared back at his enemy, cutting downwards viciously. The Dacian raised his sword to parry but Valerian's weight and fury were behind it. With a metallic pang, the barbarian's blade snapped and the downward sloping tip of Valerian's falx sank into his shoulder like a butcher's hook. Hot blood sprayed both men as the Roman tore the blade free, ripping a chunk of flesh with it. The man fell to his knees, clutching the wound. He had little time to suffer as again the point of the falx came down again, this time biting into his skull. The Dacian pitched forward, dead before his face touched the earth. Wearily, Valerian turned back towards Marcus and his foe.

Both men were down, exhausted from their wounds and unable to continue. Valerian mustered the last of his strength and rushed at the downed barbarian. The falx fell like an axe blade, hacking into the man's flesh. Sudden realisation flooded through the Roman that, despite the odds, he had survived. A mad exultation burned away his weariness and flooded strength into his arms. He roared in triumph and fury as, again and again, the blade fell, carving into the Dacian's flesh causing black blood to fly. Like a savage he laid waste to the man's body till all that remained was a stinking chunk of quivering meat.

The fury faded and it was only then that Valerian remembered Marcus. He sank to his knees next to the still form of the general's son, hoping to see the rise and fall of his chest, but there was nothing. The youth had bled out, his sightless eyes staring up at Valerian as though asking for vindication. He glanced at the man who had been emasculated. His screams had died down to high-pitched mewling now and he lay on his back, clutching the ruin of his groin. It was a terrible wound for a man to bear, but he felt no pity. Valerian knew that were it not for Marcus debasing himself, he would now be dead, the abused and murdered plaything of barbarian sodomites.

Absurdly, Valerian felt himself on the verge of hysterical laughter.

Would be dead? He was dead already. It was only a matter of time before his wounds killed him. Better to lay here and mix his blood with Marcus's, Roman blood brothers in death.

In the distance, he could hear the bark of hounds and the raised voices of Dacian men. Evidently, the screams and shouts from the brawl had alerted the main camp. Fear cut through his lethargy. If they caught him again, they might heal him so that his suffering at their hands could be prolonged. Visions of the elder Fuscus filled his mind's eye, and he lurched to his feet. He would not be captured again, he vowed.

The sword was too heavy to carry, so he returned to Cotiso and retrieved the knife. Again, his attention was drawn to Marcus's first victim, wondering whether or not he should end his suffering. The image of the women roasting Fuscus to death reared up in his mind and he decided that he would leave him to suffer. It was no less than he deserved.

The shouts were drawing nearer now, so with a curse he stumbled into the darkness of the forest, the knife clutched in near-numb fingers. He would end it with the blade on his own terms if they found him.

The journey back to the
Deiopolis
had been uneventful but diverting. Telemachus was a fine travelling companion; witty, engaging and possessed of an intellect that almost matched her own. She had learned, however, not to point out his flaws directly as the Athenian was somewhat thin-skinned and it would be churlish to call attention to his faults too often.

They debated the lies of Thucydides, the great works of Homer and discussed, at some length, the absurd Athenian notion of democ-racy. Why the Atticans clung to the belief that the
demos
was bred or qualified to make decisions of national import was beyond Lysandra.

Diarchy – a wholly Spartan concept – was the only way a subject-body should be ruled: two kings, after all, were better than one. But not all peoples were as advanced as her own, as the Romans had discovered when they tried to copy this model with their consul-led government. Naturally, this had failed – consuls were elected and then only for a single year. But even the Romans had come to realise that at least a single hereditary ruler was necessary. Of course, this led to the power-madness and corruption so endemic of Romans, a situation avoided by the Spartan diarchy. But still, in the final analysis, powerful states could not be run by committee.

Whilst the discussions were entertaining, Lysandra found herself lapsing into silence as they drew nearer to the
Deiopolis
, contemplating the gravity of what she must do. Seeing the walls again for the first time since her ignominious display sent a shock through her for which she was not prepared. Despite all she had done for the women, she still feared they would despise her for her weakness and then deride her more when they learned she was leaving.

Even though her intention was to fight in Rome, she knew they would think she was fleeing in shame. She had always been Achillia –
Gladiatrix Prima
, the model of Spartan perfection: now, she had revealed a part of herself that was all too flawed.

‘What are you thinking?' Telemachus broke the long silence between them.

Lysandra grimaced. ‘That this will not be easy. Despite my intention to fight in Rome, I know that there are those within the walls that will judge me harshly – they will say that I am fleeing in shame.'

‘Who cares?' Telemachus shrugged. ‘You know you're not, and when you return, wrapped in glory, they'll eat their words. If,' he added, ‘any are thinking at all. As far as they're concerned, you went over the top with the wine jug and made a fool of yourself.

It's not as though you're the first or will be the last to do that, Lysandra.'

Lysandra did not respond. It was easy enough for Telemachus to say –
he
was not the one who had acted so appallingly. But, she realised, there was little enough that she could do about what the women thought. In the back of her mind, that treacherous part of her whispered that she was indeed running away, rather than facing the situation that she had created.