Roma Victrix (19 page)

She smiled slightly. ‘Four or five. Perhaps six. Maybe even seven.

It all happened very fast and I failed to keep track.'

‘You killed more than anyone else. It's no small thanks to you that we made it. You were the spearhead today.' He paused and looked down. ‘You saved my life. Phampilos told me you stopped an axe that would have finished me off. And nearly finished yourself off doing so.'

‘True. But Phampilos grabbed me before I could slip. So there was no harm done in the end.'

‘I wanted to thank you for what you did,' Bedros lifted his eyes to meet hers. ‘If I can ever repay you, you only have to ask.'

‘As I owe Phampilos,' she returned. ‘I thank you for your words, Bedros.' Lysandra did not cheapen his thanks by brushing his gratitude aside. He did owe her his life and he was quite correct: she had been the difference in the fight and to deny it would be ludicrous.

‘Come,' he said. ‘There is wine to be drunk and songs to be sung in honour of our friends that died.'

Lysandra found that she did indeed feel like a cup of wine. She was aware that the maddening urge she often felt before drinking, though still there, was not as intense – as though the spilling of blood could sate her thirst for wine.

It was a pleasing thought.

Valerian awoke.

He opened his eyes slowly, instantly aware of the dull pain coursing through his body. He felt weak, sick and disoriented, unsure for a moment where he was. He could recall fragments of what had happened – the battle, the Dacians and what they had done to him, his desperate flight into the bowels of the forest. He could recall crashing through the trees, remembering brief snatches of the horrors he had faced.

He pushed the fragments of memory away and looked around.

He was lying on a hard bunk in a low-ceilinged room, the walls white and recently painted. As he glanced at the door, it swung open to reveal a chubby, balding man who looked to be in his early thirties.

‘Ah, you're awake, sir. Excellent,' he smiled.

‘Where am I?' Valerian was appalled at the weakness in his voice.

‘Moesia,' the man replied mildly. ‘Here, let me get you some water.' He walked to the table by Valerian's bed and poured, handing him a cup.

It tasted like heaven. ‘My thanks,' he gasped.

‘Not at all. I am Rullus,
medicus
with the First Adiutrix.'

‘First Legion,' Valerian acknowledged. Suddenly weak, he laid his head back on the pillow, barely able to hand back the empty cup. He wanted desperately to sleep but, more, he needed to ask questions. ‘What happened?' he asked.

‘You need rest,' the
medicus
admonished.

‘What happened?' Valerian said again, despising the tremor in his voice.

Rullus sighed. ‘You probably know more than me, sir. You were there – it was a disaster of note. Stragglers are crossing the bridge in handfuls – ten here, twenty there. So far, a third short of a legion has come back in. But the last of them was a while ago and I fear that will be it.' He shrugged. ‘What else can I tell you? You were there,' he said again. ‘Anyway – the general wants to see you when you're on your feet and I expect he'll debrief you. Until then, you're under my care, sir. I can't order you around, but please – just rest and gather your strength. We'll keep a close eye on you – you're the highest ranking officer to have made it so, as I say, the general is keen to talk to you.'

‘The highest ranking…'

‘Yes, sir. Now please. Close your eyes. You've been through a lot, and you're lucky to be alive. Those Dacian bastards have killed enough Romans for an eternity, sir. I won't let you be another one, but you
must
listen to me. Rest. Please.'

Valerian tried to argue, but fatigue washed over him like a tide and darkness took him.

Filthy hands dragged him from the cage, hurling him to the ground. Valerian
tried to flee, desperate terror overwhelming him, but his legs were numb from
the many hours of cramped confinement and would not obey. The Dacians
howled with laughter at his efforts. One of them – Cotiso – grabbed his hair
and forced him to look at the glowing kindling.

‘That is for you,' he said in his broken Greek. ‘We're going to roast you
alive.'

Valerian screamed in fear as they dragged him towards it, begging and
pleading for mercy. Tears rolled down his cheeks as they secured him: he could
tell they were enjoying his fear and would offer no mercy. Yet he could not
stop his pleas; he babbled and cried, his mind overwhelmed with the need to
live and escape the agonies of torture.

They raised the x-shaped cross and positioned him over the red hot brush-wood. He heard himself roar as the heat touched the inside of his thighs.

Thrashing and straining on the bonds, Valerian could only scream as the stink
of his own burning flesh assailed his nostrils.

‘Tribune.'

The Dacians laughed at his agony. The searing heat charred his flesh,
roasing away his legs, his groin, his very manhood. Valerian screamed his
throat raw, hearing and hating the way the pitch in his voice changed.

‘Tribune!'

They mocked him, shouting out his rank in Latin as he begged almighty
Jupiter to end his life, to spare him the suffering. Then he was aware only
of his agonised cries: the gods had not heard his call…

‘Tribune!'

Valerian's eyes flew open and he shrank away, groaning as the pain from his wounds flashed through him. In the darkness, he could see the helmeted, armoured shape of a legionary crouching by his bedside.

‘You were dreaming, sir,' the soldier said.

Valerian flushed with shame. He must have been crying out like a babe in the throes of a nightmare. The soldier lit the oil lamp by the bedside, banishing the darkness. Valerian was surprised to note that there was no trace of scorn or mockery on his face. Most rankers would have delighted in this pathetic behaviour from a superior of the equestrian rank.

‘I still dream,' the soldier's voice was quiet. ‘I experienced one of the first raids the Dacians made into Moesia. They tortured everyone, sir. Impaled them. But
she
let me live.'

Valerian was taken aback by the man's candidness. ‘What is your name?' he asked.

‘Marcus Sabinus, sir. I've been assigned to guard you. I heard you crying out and I knew what hell you were in. Been there myself, as I said.'

‘Thank you, Marcus Sabinus.' Valerian meant it. ‘You had it rough? Did they...?'

‘Oh no, sir,' Sabinus shook his head. ‘Didn't lay a finger on me. I was covered in my own shit when they found me. I was hiding under the dead. It was like a vision from Tartarus,' he said, his dark eyes flattening as he recalled the horrors he had seen. ‘I know different now, of course, but it was a shock to see that they was all women. Like them Amazons, you know. But they spared me, so I could let the army know that they meant business. I'll never forget it. Their chief – tall woman – she was knocking on a bit, but still looked iron-hard. She told me that I'd be the only one of us to be left alive, and only so that I could tell everybody back in Rome what I'd seen and take a message. I had to tell them of the fate that awaited every one of my kinsmen who crossed into her homeland. Then she said something that made little sense to me, but she made me repeat it over and over so that I'd remember:

‘
Tell them that Sorina of Dacia has made good her promise once made to
a Spartan. Tell the Romans that I have returned to take back what is
mine.
'

‘Sorina of Dacia?'

‘That's what she said, sir.'

‘I've met her.'

‘Ah.' There was an uncomfortable silence as both men realised that, though they had shared an experience that crossed over their social boundary, the army would not tolerate such familiarity in the ranks. ‘Well – you need your sleep, sir.'

‘Yes,' Valerian nodded. ‘Thank you, Marcus Sabinus.'

He saluted and went to the door. Without turning he spoke again. ‘I couldn't understand what she meant about promising a Spartan. Do you know what it means, sir?'

Valerian sighed. ‘Yes, I think maybe I do, Sabinus.' More than that he was not prepared to offer. The legionary waited a moment longer and then, realising that no more was forthcoming, he shut the door quietly behind him.

Valerian lay back on the bunk, staring up at the ceiling. In the wake of the nightmare, he was disgusted to find that he was afraid to extinguish the lamp. Closing his eyes, he realised what he had lost in the battle and its aftermath.
Virtus
was a concept that only a Roman could understand as it was a trait abundant only in their race. It was more than simple manliness and honour; it was the very essence of a Roman's being. Valerian had always thought of it as an abstract concept when he had possessed it. But now, in the wake of his dreams he knew that he had left much of himself in the stinking forests of that cursed land. He squeezed his eyes tighter closed, but his tears were hot on his face.

Valerian began to hate the hospital bed. The days dragged by with depressing slowness and he found himself almost becoming desperate for the company of Rullus. Indeed, when the
medicus
was delayed or missed a scheduled visit, Valerian's nerves began to fray. Though he hated himself for this behaviour he could not prevent it. This place had robbed him of any strength of will that he once possessed.

As long as the days were, the nights were much worse. He was afraid to sleep because of the dreams. Morpheus came every night to terrify him with visions of torture or humiliate him with visions of his rape and debasement. The visions were more real than any dream he had experienced, staying with him long after he had snapped to wakefulness. Often he was awoken by Sabinus. The legionary never again mentioned his own experiences at the hands of the Dacians but, as far as Valerian could tell, the stories of his night terrors were not spread around the camp.

In the end, he was forced to confide in Rullus and ask for a sleeping draught.

‘You should have mentioned this earlier,' the
medicus
chastised him. ‘I'm under pressure to get you out of here and if you're not sleeping, then you won't heal.'

‘Why are you under pressure?'

‘I told you before that the general is anxious to meet with you.'

Valerian could tell that he was forcing a hard edge from his voice – evidently it was more than gentle pressure being applied. ‘But you're still too weak to be allowed out on your own recognisance.'

‘I feel much better,' Valerian lied. The truth of it was that the sword wounds ached abominably and every movement sent waves of agony flooding through him. He was heavily reliant on the opiates that Rullus gave him, even if the effects were neither sufficiently potent nor protracted.

Rullus sighed. ‘With respect, sir, you look like hammered shit.

I'll have a sleeping draught prepared for you tonight and we'll see how we go in a few days.'

Valerian nodded his thanks. ‘Any more survivors coming in from the battle?'

‘A few here and there,' Rullus answered. ‘It's only a trickle now, though.'

‘Officers?'

‘No, sir, I'm afraid not. I guess that's why the general is keen to see you. As I say – a few more days rest and we'll see if we can get you over to him. All right?'

‘I've had enough of it in here, Rullus.' Valerian could hear the whining tone: it should belong to another man, he thought, but this was the man he had become.

Rullus tried and failed to keep the shock at the admission from his face. ‘Look,' he said after a moment. ‘I know it can't be easy after what you've been through, but you're going to have to bear it for a few more days. Try and keep your chin up, eh?'

‘I've no one to talk to. Nothing to read… I feel like I'm in prison, not on a sickbed. I hate to say this to you, Rullus, but you cannot understand…'

The
medicus
smiled tightly. ‘I'll get you some reading matter, sir.

Fair enough?'

Valerian was absurdly grateful for this gesture. ‘Yes, thank you, Rullus. I'm in your debt.'

‘Just doing my job.' He retreated to the door, unwilling to speak further and was gone before Valerian could trouble him further.

He was, however, true to his word. He brought Valerian a number of books to pass the time during the day, and the sleeping draught the
medicus
prescribed sent him into such a deep sleep that only the most potent of nightmares could pierce it. Even then, when Valerian awoke, he felt fuzzy and though he knew he had been terrified in his sleep, thankfully he could not grasp the memories. As an
equites
he had been taught that it was cowardice in the extreme not to face his fears, but the truth of it was he was glad not to have to relive the hellish aftermath of the battle. The fighting itself had been bad, but as a soldier he had become as accustomed to it as a man could be. But the tortures he had seen and what Cotiso had done to him were things he could not overcome.

The nights of barely-broken sleep revived him and after a few days Rullus eyed him critically. ‘I think that you might be ready to see the general,' he said one morning. ‘But that is up to you. Are you still in a lot of pain?'

‘Yes,' Valerian admitted. ‘But I know the urgency of the general's summons. I must obey orders. I am still a soldier.' He felt like a liar as he said it.

‘Well, you don't look much like one,' Rullus smiled and the words were said with no malice. ‘You need a proper wash and a shave. I will have a slave see to this, but I'll oversee it myself. I don't want pulled stitches, bandages falling off and all the rest of it. Don't worry, sir. We'll have you looking like a young Caesar soon enough.'