Roma Victrix (14 page)

Would she stand for it now?

‘You should go and find her now,' was all Thebe said. And she was right.

Lysandra nodded and set down her cup. Without another word she left her chambers and made her way into the balmy evening air.

The
Deiopolis
was still busy with supplicants and priestesses tending their needs and this slowed her progress, frustrating her. She forced down her irritation, knowing that the conversation with Varia would be difficult enough without having do it on fraught nerves. She should, she considered, be grateful that at least she was not attempting it on a bellyful of unwatered wine.

Like the rest of the temple, there was still activity on the
palaestra 
– the training ground – but that was slowing now. She kept her head down, ignoring the women on the sands and walked quickly to Varia's rooms.

Which were empty. Lysandra bit her lip in irritation as she made her way inside; the
Deiopolis
was big and Varia could be anywhere.

Though she would probably have gone for a drink: it was, Lysandra thought angrily, what she herself would have done up till recently.

‘She's gone.'

Lysandra started at the voice behind her. She turned to see one of the gladiatrices at the doorway. ‘Gone?'

‘Yes, ma'am,' the woman inclined her head respectfully, recognising her. ‘Said she was going to the city for a few days.'

Again, as she herself had just done. She thanked and dismissed the gladiatrix, following her out onto the training ground.

Lysandra bit down a curse. It was not the first time Varia had stormed off to Halicarnassus in a sulk and she suspected it would not be the last. But she had wanted to speak to the girl and put matters between them right. As it was, that would have to wait.

She had a lot to organise before leaving for Italia, and salving Varia's wounded pride would have to wait for now.

Valerian was lost.

The forest was dark and it was difficult to tell day from night, let alone north from south, so he just stumbled on aware only that he had to escape. The barbarians had sent men looking for him but, thus far, he had managed to stay hidden and avoid their scouts. Valerian knew all too well what would happen to him if they caught him and the need to spare himself their tortures was pushing him on.

But he was so weary now. The pain from his wounds was an ever-present companion that sent bolts of agony through him with each step. He moved slowly, hunched like an old man as moving that way was less painful than standing erect.

It started to rain, the heavy droplets piercing the dense canopy of trees above him, soaking him once again. It was cold, but not chill enough to numb the pain – instead it was as if the gods wanted to add to his misery.

He stumbled and fell, gritting his teeth to avoid crying out in agony, instead uttering a mewling growl that came from the back of his throat. He tried to rise, to push on, but the ground was sloped and he slid helplessly down on his belly, each bump bringing fresh waves of nauseating pain. Finally, his descent slowed but Valerian found he lacked even the strength to rise. All he could do was crawl into a nearby copse and curl into a foetal position, clutching at his hurt.

He started to cry. He did not want to die but the awful certainty of his death loomed before him. He was wounded, lost and alone, surrounded by savages who desperately wanted to kill him. Sobs wracked his body and he cried into his arm lest the sound of it alert any Dacian scouts. He felt impossibly weary now and the fingers of sleep began to crawl through his body, offering him comfort and succour. Valerian knew that to sleep was to invite death but the will to fight had deserted him. His eyelids fluttered and he forced them open, trying to make his body obey him but he was drowning in the flood of exhaustion. The copse suddenly seemed safe, warm even, and without being aware of it, Valerian allowed himself to drift into slumber.

A moment later, his eyes flew open. At least to Valerian it had felt like a moment. But it was utterly black now and he knew that it was the dead of night. He cursed himself for a fool: sleeping like a babe he could have been caught. Rain still fell heavily, the sound loud on the leaves around him – so loud that he almost failed to hear the sound of voices close by. His ears strained, trying to mask the noise of the rain yet trying to catch the faint mumbling.

At first there was nothing, but then there was an unmistakeable coughing followed by a hawking spit to eject phlegm from a man's throat.

The rain was heavier now and it was too noisy to pick out individual words or phrases but Valerian knew that his hunters were close by. Terror flowed through him, turning his blood to ice. Any notion of
virtus
was gone and all he could do was pray and beg the gods to spare him. But it seemed that the gods wanted to make yet more sport of him.

Shadowy figures walked into the clearing. The sputtering light of wooden brands they carried, along with the obscuring rain, made them appear unearthly. Some of them began to fashion a crude bivouac and few wandered around the clearing, giving it a perfunc-tory examination. Valerian's heart almost burst with terror as one began to walk straight towards his hiding place. He began to shake and had to curl even tighter into a ball to stop the fearful shuddering. He could see the man's legs close enough to touch them.

Steam began to rise and then Valerian smelt the unmistakable stench of beer-laced piss as the man relieved himself into the bushes.

It took a long time, but the hunter merely whistled tunelessly until his business was spent, then he turned swiftly and strode back to the bivouac where his mates had managed to get a small fire going.

Valerian envied them. They had the comfort of company, the heat of a warming blaze and the knowledge that they were safe.

His hatred for them burned strong – a few days ago, he had been sipping wine in the tent of Cornelius Fuscus discussing female gladiators with Marcus. Now he was alone and slowly bleeding to death in a freezing, sodden copse whilst his enemies warmed their hands on a fire not thirty yards away.

His vision began to swim as he stared at the silhouettes of the men and nausea swept through him.
Don't be sick
, he told himself.

Don't be sick.
With infinite care, he curled back up into a ball, his cheek resting on the muddy earth and once again he was dragged into unconsciousness.

It was daylight when he awoke. The hunters had gone, the bivouac and blackened earth evidence of their passing. Valerian became aware of a maddening itching in his side. He glanced down at his wound; his tunic was stuck to it, going someway to clotting the blood. For a moment he thought it was healing, but then, where the sword cut had parted the rough cloth, he saw a fat, white maggot squirming in the wound. He cried out in shock, the sound too loud in the stillness of the forest. In a panic, he tried to pull the creature away, but the action sent waves of agony through him. Unable to bear touching the wound, he was left with knowledge that parasites were now gorging themselves on his flesh, burrowing into his body.

He lurched to his feet, rage and disgust flooding through him, giving him strength. Like a madman, he stumbled into the dense trees, neither knowing nor caring which direction he was heading.

He ran on till exhaustion overwhelmed him causing him to fall to his knees gasping for breath. He knelt for some time, trying to ignore the maddening, crawling sensation as the maggots gorged.

Valerian hauled himself to his feet and continued on.

As the day moved on, Valerian had to hide several times from hunting parties. It seemed that everywhere he turned he could hear the whispered voices, the tramp of feet on wet ground, the gentle ring of armour and kit; these once-familiar, even comforting sounds had become the stuff of nightmare. Some part of him realised that he too must look like something from a bad dream: his face was stiff with dirt and stubble; his arms, legs and tunic were covered in mud, gore and unspeakable filth from the woodlands.

The days and nights seemed to merge into one unending odyssey of terror; the hunters were closer now, all around him. In the blackness near dawn, he had crouched in the bowl of a tree as some had marched past, their bare legs and booted feet close enough to touch.

After they had gone, he thought that he should have reached out and grabbed a handful of flesh, just to hear them shriek in terror.

Carefully, he crawled from the bowl. Centipedes and other creatures had settled on him, but he no longer cared.

‘Hey!'

The sound of the voice startled him and he dropped into a crouch, eyes darting wildly this way and that. For a moment, sheer terror froze him, and then instinct took over. Valerian bolted for the trees, scampering over fallen logs, diving through the foliage.

He no longer felt the pain from his wounds or the gnawing hunger in his belly. The need to escape consumed him. He knew what they would do to him if they caught him.

He found a ditch and hurled himself into it, rolling about in the mud, trying to make himself harder to see. More men trampled past, asking each other in whispered tones had they seen him. Fear clamped Valerian's throat and he wanted to cry out in terror but he knew that to do so was to invite torture and death. Nevertheless, he could not stop a small whimper from escaping him.

As he did so, a group of men stopped.

‘Did you hear that?' one said.

‘Hear what?'

‘Sounded like someone crying.'

‘You're imagining things. Let's keep moving.'

‘No…wait!'

One of the hunters began to shove through the undergrowth, moving straight towards him.
No, no, no, please, no
. Valerian began to tremble and felt his bladder go. They had him. He screamed in terror and rose from his hiding place.

The hunter screamed as well, falling back in shock as Valerian loomed over him. Valerian's legs tensed and he made to run, but more men crashed through the bushes piling into him and bearing him to the ground.

‘He's talking Latin,' one was shouting as Valerian screamed at them. ‘He's one of ours… he's Roman!'

Like the first spike of dawn, realisation pieced the fog in Valerian's mind. He began to laugh; it was a chuckle at first but soon it had turned into a gale of manic hysteria.

For now he realised that these past days he had been hiding from his own men.

Several days passed and Varia had still not returned. Despite the rush of preparations for her departure, Lysandra was beginning to worry. Typically, Thebe attempted to assuage her fears.

‘It's not the first time she's disappeared, nor will it be the last,' the Corinthian advised her as they packed a chest with Lysandra's belongings. ‘She's taken money and will probably blow it all on drink and clothes in Halicarnassus. That or she's going to try living on her own for a while in the city. Either way, she'll be back soon enough. Varia has no concept of money.'

‘Nevertheless, I want people out looking for her, Thebe. The city is dangerous.'

‘We'll find her and keep an eye on her.' Thebe's gaze challenged Lysandra. Keeping an eye on her did not mean that she would have the girl brought back to the
Deiopolis
, which is how Lysandra would have preferred matters. ‘It makes sense to give her some space,'

Thebe added weight to her statement. ‘And you shouldn't be worrying about Varia now. You keep your mind on your training.'

‘True enough,' Lysandra said. She did not want to get into an argument with Thebe; besides which, it occurred to her that perhaps she was being a little over-protective of Varia.‘Is everything in order for your journey?' Thebe asked.

It was an obvious enough steer away from the Varia conversation and Lysandra took it with the best grace she could muster. ‘Yes.

Telemachus has handled matters with extreme efficiency.'

Thebe nodded appreciatively. ‘He's a good man to have around.

I like him and he's even managed to get Titus onside. I thought that there'd be a cockfight at first.'

Lysandra stuffed another pair of sandals into the chest. ‘They're both good men, Thebe. Titus is not a decision maker – but he is good at carrying out orders. Telemachus, on the other hand, is well used to making harsh choices to maintain a profit. He kept that shrine of his running long after it should have closed down. I think that the two of them will do well.'

‘I'm sure things will be even more profitable than they were,'

Thebe replied and then coloured as Lysandra glared at her.

‘You believe they will do a better job than me?'

‘You know the Athenians, Lysandra,' Thebe was appealing to what everyone supposed were her natural prejudices. ‘They can talk and they can make money.'

Lysandra sniffed in response and went back to her packing. Thebe was probably right, but it hurt that she would come out with it so readily. ‘I have not done so badly, have I?' she asked.

Thebe looked around from where she was rummaging in a cupboard. She seemed to be weighing up what she was about to say. ‘No,' she replied at length. ‘But you're too honest for business, Lysandra. You work hard changing business decisions which must be changed back to how they were before.'

Lysandra felt a prickle of anger colour her ears. ‘Are you suggesting that my staff have been
insubordinate
to my orders?' There was nothing worse than disobedience.

‘Frankly, yes. They were obeying my instructions. And Titus's,' she added.

‘I suppose you have an explanation,' Lysandra was tempted to slam her chest shut, but mastered her fit of pique – it would be unfitting to bluster.

Thebe sighed. ‘Lysandra, you have no head for business. Making deals is not something you have been trained to do – I believe that in Sparta, commerce is still considered somewhat distasteful. So we let our brokers do what they do best, make the deals and keep the
Deiopolis
running. None of it could have happened without you, of course.'