Roma Victrix (23 page)

‘Not at all. It was the finest time of my life. I was the best at what I did. I became rich and famous. The people loved me. I was a champion – all this I achieved by my own hand. And now I honour the goddess with the proceeds from my victories. I have built a temple in Asia Minor, a haven for women and a place where all can come to worship. But it did not come easily.' With this, Lysandra started her tale in earnest, telling Hortensia of the fight on the beach that led to her capture, her first bout against the Gaulish woman and all the others thereafter. As the echoes of her last battle with Sorina faded, the night had grown old and far too much wine had been drunk.

‘So in the end, you were freed,' Hortensia slurred. ‘You won out – what a marvellous story. Your parents must be so proud of you – first a priestess, then a champion and now matriarch of a temple!'

Lysandra started at the mention of her parents. She had not thought of them for a long time, but now their faces came to her mind in stark relief. She recalled the granite-hard visage of her father, his ice-coloured eyes glittering with pride as she marched out from the temple on the festival days. Her raven-haired mother with skin so pale it was like milk; she had such a beautiful singing voice and Lysandra could hear it in her mind, floating over the fields as the
helots
worked. ‘I have not seen them in a long time,' she said quietly. ‘I had thought that they would have been ashamed of me.

Spartans should not be slaves and, for all of my glory, I was still a slave. Yes, I won free, but I feared that I would be looked upon by the Spartans as were the Tremblers of Sphacteria. I should have died fighting off my captors on that beach. I should have come home dead on a shield. Instead, I became a slave. It is a stain I can never wash away.'

Hortensia's head had dropped. ‘Nonsense,' she mumbled. ‘If you were my daughter, I would be as proud as Cassiopeia. I wish I had a daughter…' With this, she laid her head down and began to snore gently.

Lysandra puffed out her cheeks and asked the slave to bring water. She knew that it was now too late to avoid a skull-crushing hangover the next day, but she could either try to mitigate the damage now or carry on drinking wine till she passed out. She knew from bitter experience that liquor would keep her awake till cock crow if she had not passed into a stupor, but thought that she should not allow herself to slip into old habits, as tempting as it was.

Carefully, she got to her feet and took the water pitcher from the slave. ‘I'm going to walk in the garden before I retire.' The slave did not respond but merely turned her hand to clearing away the detritus of the evening, seeming well used to cleaning up around her unconscious mistress.

It was good to be outside as the cool night wind caressed her skin. Inwardly, she berated herself for getting drunk again. She had thought that this was a thing of the past – but she consoled herself with the thought that she had not drowned completely in her cups.

No more after this, she promised herself, and took a hefty swig from the water jug. In the silence of the dark, she found her mind drifting once again back to her parents; would they be ashamed of her as she had so long believed? They thought her dead, and she had been content to keep it that way. For all the glory and wealth she had amassed, for all the honour her prowess did the
legend
of Sparta, she knew well that the Spartans themselves despised such theatrics and would look down upon her for indulging in the spectacle of the arena. Such was the Lakedaimonian conundrum.

She sighed, aware that the drink had sent her into self-pitying maudlin. Perhaps, one day, she would return home and be able to look her parents in the face and not see shame there.

But not today.

Valerian looked at the house that had once been his.

Beyond the gates, his former slaves carried the belongings of the new owners inside; it was all he could not to slam himself against the iron bars in bitter frustration. He had to see this for himself, yet the pain was almost unbearable. It seemed to take forever, but finally the last box had been moved inside and the owners took stock of their new home. A young family: he, all aristocratic pulchritude; his wife, plump and glowing with late pregnancy; about them, a young boy cavorted with a hound. The orange hue of the setting sun gave the scene an idyllic look, compounded by the aristocrat putting his arm around his wife's shoulders as they walked inside.

Valerian sighed and turned to leave; he had made a mistake by coming back to Rome. But there was a part of him that needed to see the last part of his former life pass away, to confirm that it had not all been some horrid nightmare from which he would soon awake.

‘Master!'

A taut whisper stopped Valerian in his tracks and he whirled around, recognising the voice at once. ‘Tancredus,' he said to the ancient German house-slave. ‘It is good to see you.'

Tancredus smiled back tightly. ‘And you, master. And you. This…' he gestured to the house, ‘is a tragedy. A tragedy.'

Valerian forced a cheerful note into his voice. ‘All will be well.

I have just seen the new owners. They look to be decent sorts.

You'll be all right.'

‘That's not what I meant, sir, and you know it. I can't believe what they've done to you. It ain't right.'

His answering smile was bitter. ‘The price of failure, my friend.

Rome doesn't take to defeat too well and someone has to carry the latrine bucket.'

‘Wotan's balls!' the old man exclaimed. ‘You're only a tribune, not the general.'

Valerian walked back to the locked gate. ‘That's why I'm still alive. The empire has inherited everything I own, has taken everything else as punishment. I think that Governor Vettonianus thinks me less of a man for not falling on my sword in shame. But,' he tried to introduce some humour to his voice, ‘as you say – I am only a tribune.'

Tancredus pressed his lips together in an expression that was somewhere between a smile and grimace of pity. ‘Sir, I've looked after you since your parents passed on,' the old man said, his pale blue eyes moist and red-rimmed. ‘This is shameful what they've done, shameful. But…' again he looked both ways. ‘Wait here.'

Before Valerian could say anything else, Tancredus scuttled off.

He was gone for some time and Valerian began to wonder if the old boy had got himself into trouble with his new owners. It might be best if he just slipped away before Tancredus returned. What the slave had said was true, he
had
taken care of him since the death of his parents. Roman law might say that on the passing of his father he became the
pater familias
but the truth was, whatever the law said, at thirteen years old, Valerian was ill-prepared to run a well-to-do household and its clients. Tancredus had schooled and cared for him. It would not do for him to be punished because Valerian wasseeking self-indulgent melancholy at his old home. He took one last look at the house and was about to turn to leave when Tancredus returned.

‘Here,' the old man thrust a weighty-looking sack through the gate, clinking with the unmistakeable sound of coin on coin. ‘It's not much, sir, but…'

‘I can't take this,' Valerian was both touched and appalled at the old man's offer. ‘These are your savings! To buy yourself free!' Guilt welled up within him. The German had been a good servant; he deserved to be manumitted years ago. But Valerian had always been ‘too busy' to arrange it. And now it was too late. ‘I can't take it,' he said again, trying to push the money back through the bars.

Tancredus stepped away, his chin thrust out. ‘You'll take it or someone else will! Because I'm not going back with it in my hand.

I don't need the money anymore, boy,' he added, his voice gentler.

‘You take it.'

Valerian looked down, need, pride and honour warring within him. His own purse was virtually empty – the last few
denarii
of his army pay would not last him long. But how could he take his former slave's life-savings? It was a deed so mean and base that no man with an iota of
virtus
could contemplate taking it. Even as he thought it, Valerian saw his own hand reaching out for the sack.

He had left any right to
virtus
, to his manhood, back in that forest in Dacia. He met the old German's gaze. ‘Thank you,' he said simply. ‘I will pay you back ten-fold,' he promised.

Tancredus smiled. ‘I know you will, master. I will see you again.'

‘Yes. And soon. When I am back on my feet I will…'

The slave held up his hand, cutting Valerian off before he could continue. ‘Until then.' Without another word, he turned about and made his way back inside. Valerian watched him go, throat thick with emotion. Shame bore heavily down upon him, mingled with gratitude to Tancredus. The old man had given up any chance of freedom so that Valerian might have a second chance. He would, he promised himself, be good to his word, and repay his former servant.

He turned away then, slinging the sack over his shoulder. It was heavy – heavy enough to buy a man's life or indeed a new life for a man.

Valerian offered a prayer of thanks to his ancestors and to Fortuna but knew well not to tempt the fickle goddess. Despite the overwhelming need for a bath, a change of clothes and a good meal, he ignored the urge and strode purposefully in the direction of the forum.

It was a fair walk in the heat of mid-afternoon. The streets swarmed with people, pushing, shoving and selling. Valerian noted the distasteful glances he received from some of his fellow citizens.

His red tunic, scars and unkempt appearance marked him as a newly discharged soldier. They glared at him. Some muttered insults and accusations, whilst others merely looked shocked and disbelieving.

No one wanted to be reminded of the shame of defeat, and Valerian was walking testament to a Roman failure.

Valerian ignored them as much as he could, embracing instead the chance to once again drink in the sights of the most beautiful city in the world. The Flavian amphitheatre now dominated the heart of Rome – it seemed as though the colossal building was visible from everywhere – as one approached from the Esquiline, it rose majestically from the earth; walking through the streets it was a constant presence that loomed over the bustling populace. It seemed that every glance down a side alley would reveal parts of its gigantic walls. A potent example of Rome's might, it cast a shadow over the entire capital and only served to add to the feeling of wretchedness that hung around Valerian like a cold mantle. He tried to ignore it as much as he could, keeping his eyes to the ground until he finally reached the forum.

As usual, all manner of business was being conducted, from the purchasing of sacrificial doves to offer in one of the many temples to the business of empire being transascted behind the great brazen doors of the Senate building.

Valerian wove his way through the crowds until he found the section set up for the
argentarii
, the bankers who could safely look after the sum of money he carried. The area was dominated by Greek, Egyptian and Judaean freedmen working for their Roman masters.

Easterners were famously parsimonious and their love for money meant that they could always be trusted to seek the most profitable transactions, which for Valerian meant a hard day's negotiation. He was almost destitute and, though once he would not have given a fig for the best interest percentage, he could no longer afford such laxity.

Fortunately for Valerian, his misfortune and bedraggled appearance could not rob him of his education: as such, he was able to barter and argue with the bankers about the finer points of profit – and was gratified by their surprise.

Eventually, he placed his custom with a Judaean called Ezra. ‘You could ruin my employer,' Ezra said, as he again weighed Valerian's meagre fortune.

‘I'm ruined myself,' Valerian admitted. ‘I had to drive a hard bargain, but I think a fair one.'

‘The Lord will forgive you even if I don't,' the banker muttered.

‘Legionary's wage for the month,' he said, counting out twenty-five
denarii
and sliding them across the table to Valerian. ‘You've got a good year's pay left here but that's all. It'll slip through your fingers like sand if you keep coming back to me and asking for more, though. We'll return a good profit on your investment, but it will take time. I'll see you right each month, hopefully out of your interest and we can increase the value of your initial investment.'

‘Thanks. Have you got a purse?'

‘You want my scrotum, perhaps,' Ezra clasped his hands together and lifted his gaze skywards. ‘I give you the best deal and you have the cheek to ask me for a purse to put your gilt in?'

The Judaean's pantomiming was endearing, and Valerian was unable to stop himself from grinning. ‘Yes.'

Ezra shook his head. ‘Now I know why you bastards own the world. Where one man would be satisfied with the best deal, the Roman squeezes the last drop of blood from the honest man. Here,' he tipped out a small pile of money from one of the bags on the table. ‘Take this.'

‘Thank you, Ezra. It was a pleasure doing business with you.'

‘A bit of advice, soldier,' the banker offered. ‘Don't spend it all at once on boozing, whoring and gambling. God hates a sinner.'

‘What about the gods of wine, love and chance?'

‘There's only one God.'

Valerian opened his mouth to jest some more, but then held his tongue. As a Roman, he had a healthy respect for another man's religion, even of it was one as strange as the Judaeans'. ‘Yes, well, each to their own,' he placated. ‘But don't worry. I plan on getting myself some digs and sorting myself out. I've had a rough time of late, but we Roman bastards don't own the world because we cry into our wine cups when things go tits up either.' This effort at nationalistic bravado sounded forced even to his own ears.