Roma Victrix (24 page)

‘Good for you…' Ezra stopped and looked over Valerian's shoulder at a sudden commotion that had sprung up in the Forum.

Valerian followed his gaze to see a chubby fellow being hoisted up on a platform by several burly compatriots.

‘Citizens!' the fat man shouted. ‘I am here to announce a clash of titans… a battle worthy for the arena on high Olympus… a contest fit for the eyes of Mars himself! In seven days time, Lykaios the
retiarius
will face the fearsome Canis, champion
murmillo
with seven clean victories on his slate. Who will triumph...'

The hyperbole went on, but Valerian was not interested in gladiators and arenas. As he had said to Ezra, he needed to sort himself out. ‘I'll see you in a month, then.' He turned back to the banker.

‘As you say,' Ezra nodded, and handed him a parchment. ‘Keep it as safe as you can. I'll have copies of our transaction made, of course, but that's yours in case you need it. Have a good day.'

That was a clear dismissal: Ezra had bigger fish to deal with than an impoverished former
equites
, after all. Valerian secured his new purse inside his tunic and made off.

The crowd that had gathered around the fight promoter was beginning to disperse, but there was still a sizeable knot of people now arguing the various merits and flaws of the two gladiators.

‘Tribune!' someone called

Force of habit caused Valerian to turn. As he did so, his eyes widened in shock. ‘Settus!' he exclaimed. ‘By the gods, it's good to see you, man. I thought you had stayed in Britannia!'

With a gap-toothed grin, Settus disengaged from the gang of bruisers that he was with: Valerian realised then that he was part of the crew assigned to the corpulent fight promoter.

Settus had changed since last they had met: his hair was sparser and his arms were decorated with barbarian tattoos. ‘Fuck Britannia,' the former
optio
stated, showing that whilst his appearance might have changed, his language had not. ‘Bad weather, bad booze, poxy natives. Bastards got me in the end,' he added, pointing to his knee.

An ugly red scar ran upwards and into his tunic.

‘They didn't…'

‘Thank the gods, no!' Settus looked affronted. ‘They missed the jewels, but carved out a good chunk of my leg, the bastards. And then, you know what it's like – the army doesn't give a fuck about you when you're no longer fit for active service, so I took my pay-off. How about you, sir?' Settus's face screwed up inquisitively.

Valerian hesitated. ‘Well, you know how it is…' he offered.

‘Yep,' Settus was obviously prepared to take that. ‘I'm guessing that you're not a tribune any more, though.'

‘Well… you know how it is,' Valerian said again.

‘Dacia, was it?'

‘Yes.'

Settus nodded, his expression grim. He had been a soldier, and he knew the realities of war: the civilians knew only what they heard in the forum or the trumped-up lies written by Greek correspondents. ‘It must have been shit.' He pressed his lips into a thin line of sympathy. ‘Fucking shit,' he added for emphasis.

Valerian wanted to say that Settus had no idea; that Settus had always been on the winning side. Yes, it had been hard against the Silures in Britannia, but Rome was always going to win that fight.

Valerian was in that most rare and unwanted clique of Romans who had lost a war. ‘It
was
fucking shit. I took the fall.'

‘Sir,' Settus sighed. ‘All officers are cunts. You were less of a cunt than most, though. You could have a scrap, unlike most of the jumped up twats who run the army these days. And,' he grinned, ‘you did skewer that spiky-haired bastard who almost had me when I lost my balance and fell over.'

Just being with Settus made Valerian feel less wretched; recalling their time serving under Frontinus reminded him – just for a moment – that he was once a good soldier. ‘You fell over? The way I remember it was that he had you all day and you were lucky I was there to save your arse.'

‘I forgot to say,' Settus clapped him on the shoulder, ‘that all officers are
lying
cunts.' His face turned serious. ‘Sir, if you don't mind me saying, you look like you don't have a pot to piss in at the moment. You need some help?'

For all his good nature, Settus was a plebeian. There was once a time when Valerian would have spat on his hand for all his well-meaning intent. But that had been before – when he was
equites
.

But now? Now he was less than nothing. ‘Yes,' he said, hating the admission. ‘I'm not sure what to do from here.'

‘What happened?' Settus asked.

‘Settus, you lazy bastard! Let's get going,' the fat promoter interrupted, evidently deciding that the army reunion was over.

Settus was a small man, but Valerian had witnessed him terrorising raw recruits and ten-year veterans alike. He rounded on the promoter, his dark eyes glinting dangerously. ‘I'm busy,' he hissed.

‘The men can walk you back to the arena, Roscius.'

‘Laenus will hear of this!' Roscius snapped. ‘You're not getting paid to socialise.'

‘My orders were to escort you to the forum. You're at the fucking forum. Taking you back is a courtesy and the lads here will see that you're kept safe. I'm going for a drink with my mate – we were in the army together.'

‘Touching,' Roscius sneered.

‘Are you taking the piss?' Settus took a step forward and Valerian had to suppress a laugh as the bigger man backed away. ‘All right then.' Settus was suddenly all smiles. ‘Have a good afternoon, Roscius.

Look after him, lads,' he added, as the gang of enforcers began shoving a path clear for their charge.

‘Just like old times,' Valerian commented.

‘I hate that fat cunt,' Settus spat. ‘Should have just dragged him into an alleyway and kicked his fucking head in.' He pantomimed kicking a man when he was down. ‘You know, till I was red in the face and couldn't breathe.' The last bit was added with a little too much relish. ‘Right then – a few cups of wine then, sir?'

‘Of course – and Settus… it's just Valerian now.'

‘Sorry, sir. Force of habit.'

The two made their way out of the Forum and headed towards the Subura where Settus promised there was a tavern that sold ‘the best
and
cheapest wine to be had this side of Latium', though Valerian was inclined to take the claim with a degree of scepticism.

‘This place has really gone downhill,' Settus observed. The Subura had housed the lowest echelon of Roman society, those who relied on the grain dole and crime to make ends meet, but the former
optio
was adamant that it had taken a turn for the even worse. ‘I blame the foreigners,' he extrapolated. ‘Rome should be for Romans. But nowadays it's full of fucking barbarians and easterners, all coming here looking to ponce off the empire. We're taking in too many slaves as well– we should just kill them and leave them to rot in their own stinking countries. Ah,' he stopped abruptly, ‘here we are. First jug on me.'

Dingy was too grand a word to describe Settus's preferred watering hole. Valerian could not recall ever having been in such a place, but yet he was reminded of the parties that he had attended when he had been
equites
. All the necessary accoutrements for entertainment were present – namely food, alcohol, women and even a half-sozzled ‘bard' who was telling a dirty story about Venus and the gnarly satyr. Only the quality of the amusements and surroundings differed and the people here would ultimately end up doing the same as their aristocratic counterparts – drinking, humping, puking and passing out.

He sat in a booth and was found by Settus bearing a jug as though he was Bacchus himself. ‘Here we are then.' He poured for them both and Valerian was surprised to find that, despite his reserva-tions, the booze was not equivalent to drinking horse piss. ‘What do you reckon?' Settus asked.

‘For once, your taste isn't in the latrine. It's not bad at all.'

‘Told you,' Settus took a draught, winced and exhaled. ‘It's the good stuff.' He helped himself to another.

‘So, Settus,' Valerian said, indicating the intricate blue spirals that decorated the older man's arms. ‘Tell me – how did you come by the tattoos?'

‘I'm fucking smothered in them,' came the rueful response. ‘I've got the bastard things all over my chest and back as well. I got hooked up with this native bird – you know how it is – and I thought that taking on some of the local customs would please her.

It did, I suppose – I ended up marrying her.'

‘But you're not married any more, I take it.'

‘Nah,' Settus took a hit of wine. ‘She died. The weather in Britannia is enough to kill anyone, even the natives. I fucked off as soon as her pyre had gone out.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Settus.'

Settus grunted and they sat in silence for a while which he would endure for only so long. ‘Last time I saw you, you were in your pomp,' he said. ‘What happened?'

Valerian sighed, wondering how much he should reveal. Settus was the hardest man he knew, a Roman's Roman. Probably, like most, he would have expected Valerian to take his own life – if not for the defeat in battle then certainly for the perdurable shame of his treatment by the Dacian barbarians. He told the
optio
most of what happened, though he could not bring himself to say more than that he had received ‘a rough time' at the enemy's hands. He hoped that Settus would realise there was more to it, but think him more of a man for sparing the details.

‘And, as it turned out,' Valerian finished the bulk of the tale, ‘I was so delirious, I ended up hiding from our own men.' He was slurring a little and he eyed the second jug, realising that it was almost empty. ‘Anyway, they patched me up and sent me to see the legate, who, in his wisdom, decided that the entire fuck-up had to be blamed on someone. As the highest ranking officer to survive, that someone was me.'

Settus shook his head. ‘Funisulanus Vettonianus was it? He's a cunt.'

‘Can't argue with that.' Valerian caught the eye of a slave and gestured for another jug. ‘Despite Vettonianus's suggestion, I opted not to fall on my sword. But still, my property and everything else is forfeit.'

‘How come you were with the
argentarius
then?' Settus might be a pleb but he was anything but thick.

There was no point in lying anymore. The wine had made him mellow and anxious to unburden himself of the truth. ‘My former slave gave me his freedom pot,' he said.

‘Fuck's sakes!' Settus looked impressed. ‘Good slaves like that are hard to come by.' If he thought less of Valerian for the admission, he did not show it. ‘So, what now for you?'

Valerian shrugged. ‘Get some work, I suppose. Maybe as a pedagogue… I'm sure that I can find something. I've got enough money to tide me over for now. But it won't last forever – and I have to get the money back to my old slave. So I can't just sit on my arse poncing off the state.'

‘A man should pay his debts,' Settus tipped back the wine cup and dived straight in the new jug. ‘I could help you out, you know.'

Valerian was touched by the offer, but he held up his hands.

‘Thanks – but I can't borrow from you to pay back Tancredus. I'd just be moving the debt.'

‘That's not what I meant, you twat,' Settus looked incredulous at Valerian's lack of perception. ‘As if I had that sort of money, anyway. No, I meant I can sort you out a job at the arena. Security, like me.'

Valerian hesitated. Like himself, Settus had drunk more than his fair share of wine and this could be the booze talking. Also, he doubted very much if he would fit in with the former
optio
's rough crew. ‘I couldn't ask you to put yourself out like that.'

‘Bollocks,' Settus waved a dismissive hand. ‘It's the least I can do. You saved my life once and, like I said, a man should pay his debts. It won't even the score, but it'll go some way, eh, sir?'

‘Valerian.'

‘What? Oh yeah. Force of habit. But what do you reckon?'

Valerian smiled blearily, full of booze-filled appreciation. Despite his misgivings about the work, Settus was putting himself out to offer him a hand. It would be churlish to rebuff him. ‘I'd be grateful for any help, that's the truth,' he said.

‘Fucking brilliant!' Settus gave him his chipped-teeth smile. ‘It'll be great working with you – you're army, after all. There are a few of us, but most of the cunts that work at the Flavian are ex-gladiators or would-be hard men. You know the type, they sit around getting pissed up and going on about all the rows they've had. The cunts,' he added for good measure.

‘When should I start?' Valerian wanted to get the practicalities out of the way as now the wine was starting to go down like nectar.

‘Not tomorrow, that's for sure,' Settus noted sagely, probably aware of the skull-crushing hangovers they would both be enduring the following day. ‘I'll square it at the arena and get a message to you. Where are you staying?'

Valerian spread his hands. ‘I've not covered that yet.'

‘Fuck's sakes! All right, you can kip down in my room at the
insula
,' he referred to one of the countless high-rise apartments that housed the poor and lower-middle classes of Rome. ‘Just make sure that you stick a cork up your jacksie before you pass out: the place is small enough and I don't want to be breathing in your arse-gas all night.'

Valerian was genuinely touched. ‘Thanks, Settus, but I couldn't impose on you like that. I'll find a hostel.'

‘Bollocks,' Settus dismissed. ‘A hostel in the city will cost a fortune. Besides, it's not forever.' This, Valerian decided, was added as both promise and warning. ‘Once I sort you out at the arena, you'll be fine. You can even stay there till you get on your feet.'