Roma Victrix (37 page)

‘It's not your fault,' Tancredus interrupted him. He seemed about to say more, but tensed suddenly in the grip of pain. His hands clawed the sheets and all Valerian could do was grip one of them, imagining that he could draw some of the agony into his own body by touch alone. The spasm passed but, in its wake, Tancredus seemed to have become smaller and shrunken on the bed, as though each wave was draining away the last of his essence. ‘It's not your fault,' the old man said again. ‘Valerian, the wasting sickness… has been with me for some time. I had it even when I saw you last. Nolus is a good man: he let me stay here when others would have cast me out. He even paid… for a surgeon.'

‘I thank the gods that he has done right by you when I have not.'

The guilt was almost intolerable, even if Tancredus was just a slave.

‘Not your fault,' the German's voice became even lower. ‘The gods marked your path as they marked mine… the wheel turns, Valerian. Remember that. The wheel always turns. You came… to pay your debt, didn't you?'

‘Yes.' Valerian replied. ‘I gave you my word.'

‘A man… should repay his debts,' Tancredus murmured. ‘Both kinds.'

‘Both kinds?'

‘Debt… and feud, Valerian. You borrow from a man, you pay him back. A man does wrong by you, you pay him back.'

The words struck Valerian as hard as an iron rod. In the quiet of the cubicle, he thought once again of Dacia, of the battle and its aftermath. It was a scar on his soul, one that he would carry forever. Tancredus was right, and if it was in his power Valerian would pay the barbarians back for what they had done to him. But what the Dacians had begun, the Romans had finished –
virtus
, honour, title, money, career – all these things had been taken from him. So there could be no vengeance.

Tancredus's grip on his hand tightened. ‘Under the bed… a sword.'

Valerian reached down and his fingers found the cold metal of a naked blade. He lifted it from the floor, its tip scraping slightly on the marble. It was a
spatha
– a Roman cavalry sword, which he placed into the old man's free hand.

‘I wasn't always a slave.' Tancredus's voice was barely audible now. ‘I was once a warrior. Valerian, I release you of your debt to me. But honour me in death – send me to my gods in the old ways.'

Tears stung the Roman's eyes, but he held his dignity. ‘I will,' he promised. Silence fell across the room like a pall, broken only by the sound of Tancredus's ragged breathing. Valerian kept hold of the old man's hand until the sound stopped and the fingers entwined with his own relaxed. He had no idea how long he had knelt there, but it was over now. Gently, he disengaged his grip and rose to his feet, looking down at the corpse, realising that this moment did indeed signify the passing of the last part of his old life. He stopped and kissed Tancredus's forehead and left the room, making his way back to the
tablinium.

Nolus was still working, but put aside his stylus as Valerian was admitted. ‘Is he...?' the
equites
asked him.

‘Yes sir,' Valerian responded. ‘He asked a favour of me. He wished to be buried in the Germanic fashion. I said I would honour this request and I hope you will forgive my presumption in doing so.'

Nolus waved that away. ‘I know from my time in Germania that they bury their dead in sacred groves. Even here, I imagine that they have their places outside the city walls. I own other barbarians and I will find out where and how we can fulfil your promise.'

Valerian was at once taken aback and profoundly grateful. ‘My thanks, sir. If there is any way I can repay you, you only need ask.'

He knew it was a meaningless offer to a man of Nolus's status, but it would be rude in the extreme not to respond to the favour in kind.

The
equites
, however, fixed him with a stern eye. ‘You are clearly a man who meets his obligations. If such a time comes, I will call on you.'

‘A man should repay his debts,' Valerian used the words of Tancredus: it seemed fitting somehow. ‘I can cover the expenses for the funeral,' he went on. ‘And I would like to see him into his underworld.'

‘The Germans won't allow that,' Nolus rose to his feet. ‘Their rites are secret – and you are not one of them. It is stupid, as you were probably closer to him than anyone I will be able to find for the task, but they are a primitive people. Do not fear, Valerian. I too am a man of my word – this will be done.'

‘Of that I have no doubt.'

‘And he was my slave. The cost of his funeral is mine to bear.'

The
equites
offered him his arm which Valerian took and, for a brief moment, they eyed each other as equals – former soldiers who had shared a rank and served their emperor. Then Nolus broke the grip and the moment was gone. ‘I'll send word to you when it is done.'

‘I work at the Flavian – your man need only ask for me and the news will reach me there. Thank you for your help, sir.'

‘Think nothing of it,' Nolus moved back to his desk, indicating that the meeting was over. ‘
Vale
.'

‘
Vale
, Quinctilius Spurius Nolus.' Valerian nodded his thanks and made his way back through the house. As the iron door clanged shut behind him, he turned and gave the place one last look before making his way back towards the Subura.

It had taken some force of will not to bound over to her coun-tryman at once. But Lysandra realised that not only would it be unseemly, it would also not be the Spartan way to show such lack of decorum in front of their inferiors. By demonstrating his musculature to the watching gladiators, this Kleandrias was simply showing them that Sparta produced the most perfect physical specimens in the world. Even in his middle years she could see that the man was a veritable titan, broad shouldered, defined and bearing many scars in front. His long, braided hair and tended beard was yet more evidence that he was a true Spartan of the old school.

‘Lysandra…' Iason interrupted her study of Kleandrias.

‘The women's quarters,' she dragged her eyes away from the big warrior. ‘Thank you, Iason.'

‘Don't take any nonsense from them,' the African cautioned.

‘You know what it's like – you're new and there will probably be a good deal of territory-marking going on.'

‘Do not worry,' Lysandra clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I am able to look after myself.'

‘I know that too well. You picked a good day to join us, Lysandra.

Tomorrow is our rest day, so we will drink and feast tonight. I hope we can speak some more.'

He ambled away and Lysandra indulged in another quick glance at Kleandrias before squaring her shoulders and making her way into the long, squat building that housed Paestum's gladiatrices. As the door opened, the room's occupants all stopped in their conversations and tasks to stare at her. She stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the surroundings. The room was large with three well-spaced bunks on each side and a large table set in the centre. At the far end, a strange cross-shaped device was nailed to the wall, beneath which was a small box that had a cup and some bread placed on it. Two women were sat at the table playing a game of
Latrunculi
whilst the other two lounged on their bunks.

‘Greetings, friends,' Lysandra said as she stepped in.

One of the
Latrunculi
players, a dusky-skinned easterner, offered her a smile. ‘Greetings,' she replied; her accent was similar to Stick's who had trained her in Balbus's
ludus
, but not the same. Her opponent, however, just glowered. This one was pale-skinned and bore the blue tattoos that marked her as a barbarian. ‘I'm Ankhesenpaaten-ta-sherit,' the easterner introduced herself. ‘Ankhsy for short. Or Isis – that's my fighting name.'

Lysandra gave her name. ‘Hister has signed me on here for a few fights,' she said after introducing herself. ‘I can take one of these?' she indicated one of the unused bunks.

‘Of course,' Ankhsy replied. ‘Get that look off your face,' she chided the barbarian with her. ‘Lysandra, this is Olwydd. Olwydd the Sour today by the looks of things.' Lysandra met the barbarian's gaze evenly then moved to her bunk. ‘Your neighbour on the next bunk there is Swanhilde,' Ankhsy indicated the slim, long-legged woman who responded with a small wave. ‘And opposite is Varda.'

Like Ankhsy, Varda had an eastern look to her, sharp nosed and dark-eyed. She watched Lysandra all the way to her bunk, her expression guarded.

It was excruciatingly awkward. At Balbus's
ludus
, she had been one of many
tiros
and there had been other Hellene women there with whom she could mix and converse. But this was a close-knit group and she was the interloper; the fact that there were two spare bunks was not lost on her. At one time they would have belonged to friends of these women and, despite Ankhsy's apparently affable demeanour, Lysandra knew well that she was hardly welcome here.

As if to confirm her thoughts, Olwydd spoke up. ‘Hister must be lowering his standards.'

Lysandra glared. She knew that the barbarian was trying to get a rise out of her and it would only create an intolerable atmosphere if she took the girl to task at this early stage. She tried to contain her temper and shrugged. ‘Perhaps he is.' But she could not leave it at that and let this woman have the advantage. ‘We will find out soon enough, I suspect.'

‘What do you mean by that?' Olwydd got up and moved towards the bunk. Lysandra noted that none of the others made to intervene; and nor should they, she decided. A newcomer should expect to have her mettle tested.

‘I would have thought that was patently obvious,' Lysandra decided to take the intellectual high-ground, adopting some oratory-style Latin. ‘Shall I use smaller words?' Next to her, Swanhilde snorted in amusement.

‘You can talk,' Olwydd came closer. ‘But I'll bet you can't fight.'

Lysandra sighed and got to her feet. She eyed the barbarian who, despite her darker hair, reminded her of Eirianwen. She had had the same build, big-breasted yet compact, lithe and muscular: but this one was possessed of a belligerence that the beautiful Silurian had shown only in battle. ‘I have no desire to fight you unless I am so ordered,' Lysandra said, as Olwydd stopped a few feet in front of her. Lysandra was more than a head taller than the other woman and she hoped that this advantage would curtail any violence – at least for now.

‘I'm not going to give you a choice.'

‘All right, all right,' Varda swung her legs from her bunk and stood. ‘That's enough, Olwydd. No one's fighting in here.' She threw Lysandra a black look. ‘There is a feast tonight, in case you had forgotten. We will all be punished if there's trouble, and I for one would like to make merry.'

‘As if you make merry,' Olwydd turned away from Lysandra and made her way back to the table. ‘Isn't that against your ten commands?'

‘Commandments,' Varda corrected. ‘And no, it isn't.'

Lysandra relaxed and sat back on her bunk, legs stretched out.

She glanced at Swanhilde who wrinkled her nose and shook her head in Olwydd's direction when the truculent barbarian's eyes were on Varda. ‘So,' Swanhilde said in thickly accented Latin. ‘You are slave or
auctorata?'

‘
Auctorata
. I will be here for a short time only.'

Swanhilde grunted as though to indicate that was of no consequence to her. ‘You're a
thraex
,' she identified.

‘How can you tell?' Lysandra thought there was little point in adding that she could fight with two swords as well.

‘Too skinny to fight with heavy kit. Not like me. I'm a
provocatrix
,' she added with no little pride. ‘They call me Medusa in the arena because the sight of me petrifies my enemies with fear.'

‘It's because you're so ugly,' Olwydd called from the table, but both Lysandra and Swanhilde ignored her.

‘You Germans are good for the heavy gear,' Lysandra acknowledged, enjoying the look of surprise on Swanhilde's sharp features.

‘I recognised your accent,' she explained. ‘Are you from the Chattian tribe?'

‘Do I look crazy to you?' Swanhilde laughed. ‘That lot are all mad. No, no. I'm Cherusci.'

Lysandra nodded. She knew that, despite appearances, the barbarian tribes were all different and these differences were counted important – at least to the barbarians themselves, though to the civilised people of the world there was little point in making distinctions.

‘How do you know of the Chatti? Is it because of Auriane?'

‘No, though I have heard of her,' Lysandra replied. ‘I used to know a Chattian woman – Hildreth was her name. She was a gladiatrix.'

She met the German's eyes as she spoke, willing her not to press further on the subject. The memory of her sword slicing into Hildreth's guts was still sharp despite the passing of time. They had been friends of sorts and she had not meant to kill her. Death was the constant companion in the arena and anyone who stepped onto the sands knew that one day they may be called upon to fight someone they held dear. But it was not something that was spoken about.

‘Ah,' Swanhilde nodded, understanding the meaning in Lysandra's gaze. She sat up and stretched. ‘There's drinking to be done.'

‘I do not drink when I am in training,' Lysandra stated.

‘Suit yourself,' Swanhilde shrugged. ‘But it'll be a mite boring in here on your own.'

‘She should stay in here on her own,' Olwydd put in. ‘It's not like she's earned the right to drink with us.'

‘Hush, Olwydd,' Ankhsy chided her. ‘You are welcome to make merry with us, Lysandra,' she added.

Lysandra knew from experience that not all barbarians were little more than animals with the power of speech. This Olwydd was doing her utmost to prove her wrong; she was everything that civilised people expected from her ilk. ‘Thank you.' She nodded to Ankhsy. ‘That would be most pleasant.'