Roma Victrix (11 page)

He shook his head, but she saw the relief in his eyes at her forgiveness. It pleased her that she could demonstrate the superiority of Spartan manners by showing her magnanimity in such a way.

Telemachus sat heavily on the bench and she joined him. ‘Well, I am glad that is over,' he said. ‘We have never had cross words before.'

‘Why were we having cross words?' Lysandra asked. ‘As I said, we were having a conversation and something upset you. I would like to know what it was,' she paused, an idea occurring to her. ‘I can recommend some very good artisans if the state of the temple is the issue?' Athenians valued finery, so perhaps that was it. Still, having a Spartan point out inferior décor must be like eating nails, so she tried to soften the blow. ‘It will not do to have the place looking shabby…' she trailed off, the expression on his face telling her that she was not helping. ‘All right, then. Why were we having cross words?'

Telemachus hesitated for a moment. ‘I am all but ruined,' he said quietly. ‘The temple is falling into disrepair because I don't have the money to fix it. I could sell my slave, but he's not worth much and, even so, that would only be a temporary solution. The truth is that this temple is somewhat surplus to requirements in this quarter of the city.'

‘Do not be absurd,' Lysandra was derisive. Self-recrimination was something that she had dealt with all too recently and she recognised it now in the Athenian. ‘The Hellenes here would not abandon the goddess.'

‘They have not,' Telemachus admitted. ‘They now go to the
Deiopolis
.'

The shock of his admission caused a lurch in her stomach that was almost like a physical blow. This then was why the shrine was in such a state of disrepair: her fault that her friend was struggling when she lived in the lap of such luxury that she had allowed herself to fall into the ways of drink and debauchery. And in her hour of need, with no thought of himself, once again Telemachus helped her. She felt sick with guilt that she had also come to
him
asking for money. Admittedly, her plight was temporary but, still, it shamed her that she had presumed upon him. ‘Why did you not tell me?' she asked. ‘I am rich – more than rich. At the stroke of a stylus I could have refinanced you!'

‘It is a hard thing to ask, Lysandra. I am not a beggar to ask for handouts.'

‘A handout is what one gives a beggar. A hand up is what one gives to a friend.'

Despite all of it, Telemachus chuckled. ‘It is always black and white to you, isn't it?'

‘Perhaps,' Lysandra shrugged. ‘I can make you rich,' she snapped her fingers, ‘like that. But I sense that this would not sit well with you. You speak of my arrogance,' she added gently, ‘but you have your pride too. I cannot see you living on a … pension… from me.' He looked at her, and she saw that his eyes were moist with tears. Lysandra rose to her feet, avoiding his gaze so her observa-tion would not shame him. ‘I am leaving Asia Minor for Italia as it is. Someone will have to help manage the
Deiopolis
in my absence.

That role would fall to Titus, but he will need help.'

‘I'm not sure he will agree that he needs the help of a virtual stranger.'

‘Titus excels at obeying orders and he owes me. They
all
owe me.

In any event, the
Deiopolis
is mine to do with as I will.' As she spoke, Lysandra began to pace, arms folded across her chest, index finger tapping her chin. ‘We will refurbish this place. Summon another priest from Athens to take over, as you are bound for greater service to the Goddess. You will assist in the management of the
Deiopolis
in my absence. That you have managed to keep this venture going with such little income is proof that you have some business acumen after all. And, most importantly – I trust you. The
Deiopolis
is worth
millions
– money enough to tempt anyone except the fastest friends.

There are others that would probably try to take advantage of my absence and Titus is only one man, he may miss something. I know with you both working together, you will be able to keep what we have built safe. Will you help me once again, my old friend?' Lysandra knew that Telemachus had his pride but he was a caregiver, someone who was happiest whilst helping others. She considered that wrapping her more than generous offer up as a request for aid would spare any humiliation on the Athenian's part.

‘Lysandra,' Telemachus's voice was thick. ‘I don't know what to say.'

‘Just say yes,' she suggested.

Telemachus smiled through his tears. ‘Of course the answer is yes. I am in your debt, my sister.'

Despite herself, Lysandra felt a warm glow at the epithet. She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good.' They sat in silence for some time as she allowed Telemachus to collect himself after his emotional outburst.

‘You do not hit very hard,' she informed him again by way of changing the subject. The truth was, he could use some instruction. ‘You should put your hips into the blow – it generates more power.'

Telemachus did not respond, but after a few moments his shoulders began shake. Lysandra was confounded: was he weeping again?

Then, he exploded into gales of laughter. ‘Lysandra,' he said. ‘You are priceless.'

‘What is funny about that?' she asked, but Telemachus just doubled up. She sighed, thinking that she would never understand the inferior Hellenes. As the thought occurred, she realised that she
was
beginning to feel like her old self again.

Crouched in the tiny wooden cage, Valerian shook with raw terror as the Dacian women took their monstrous revenge on the captured soldiers. Packs of them swarmed like harpies over their trussed, helpless prisoners and visited unspeakable horrors upon them. Lit bronze by the fires as they worked, they howled with glee and emitted a high-pitched, trilling cry that grated raw on the nerves. Eyes were put out, extremities sawed away, hearts carved from the chests of still-living men. These hideous trophies were held aloft to the cry of ‘Zalmoxis! Zalmoxis!' steaming tributes to the foul barbarian god of the Dacians.

Valerian moaned as he saw Cornelius Fuscus dragged forward. He had thought the old man dead, fallen with the Eagle, but the cruel fates had spared him for this awful doom. As the naked and beaten Roman commander was brought forth, the screaming and chanting reached fever-pitch. The women dragged him to the ground and fell upon him. Valerian closed his eyes: there was not enough room in the cage for Valerian to lift up his hands to cover his ears and shut out the sound. Amidst the female cries, he heard a man screaming.

It went on and on till Valerian's eyes flew open in self-preservation.

They had nailed him to an x-shaped cross in parody of the very Roman punishment of crucifixion. The cross was sunk into the earth and beneath Fuscus's spread legs, they had piled slow-burning kindle. It glowed hungrily in the cold night air and Fuscus roared in excruciating pain as the inside of his thighs, his testicles and penis began to roast. Driven mad, the stricken general thrashed and strained in his confinement as the howling taunts of the women mingled with his desperate cries. He shrieked for what seemed like an eternity before the agony eventually became too much for his mind to bear and his head fell forward onto his chest.

Valerian began to beg the gods that he would be spared this torture. He vowed to do anything they asked of him. He begged for a sign, some message from above that would tell him what to do. He began to sob and he was ashamed of his cowardice, but he knew also that he would capitulate to any demands from god or Dacian in order to be spared.

The women were hurling buckets of water into Fuscus's face, trying to revive him for more sport. After a few moments, it became apparent that the old man was not merely unconscious – his heart must have given out. Annoyed, a few of them prodded the corpse once or twice, before wandering off, leaving it to sizzle and spit over the kindle.

Scattered cries pierced the night air – some of the Dacians remained at their entertainments, but after Fuscus's premature demise, most of them seemed to have grown weary of the torturing for now and took instead to drinking, fighting amongst themselves and copu-lating in full view of their fellows. These images buffeted Valerian's already fraught mind and he began to wonder if he had gone insane, if he was already dead and his shade was in Tartarus, if he could not somehow kill himself before they got to him. Valerian was in no doubt that, once the Dacians had finished carousing, the tortures would begin again.

His small cage allowed him only to squat. At first, the pain at being forced into this position was excruciating but after a time his limbs became numb and he no longer had any sensation in his lower body. Now he could only tremble in fear, waiting for a grisly, ignoble end. His father would be ashamed if he saw his only son now, cowering in terror, whimpering like a Parthian slave. Valerian tried to muster his courage but images of the horrors he had witnessed buffeted his mind, robbing him of his
virtus
.

Virtus!

Even as the notion occurred to him, he realised how absurd it was.
Virtus
was a concept that those safe in Rome could talk about.

It was something that you could assume in victory – how easy it had been to despise the vanquished, heaping scorn and derision upon them. It was something one discussed with one's friends watching the races or the gladiatorial spectacles, complimenting a fighter on his possession of
almost
Roman
virtus
, whilst leaving unsaid that a mere foreigner could never possess the true spirit of a Roman.

Even in a defeat – an honourable defeat – it could be assumed, accepting that a better general had triumphed on the day.

But not here.

A huge shape loomed up out of the darkness, blotting out the lights of the glowing fires. A Dacian warrior crouched down and peered into the cage.

‘Please,' Valerian heard himself blubbering and hated himself for it. ‘Please…'

The Dacian put a finger to his lips. ‘No speak, Roman,' he said in appalling Greek. He pulled a knife from his belt and Valerian shrank back in the cage as much as he could. The Dacian shook his head. ‘No hurt you, no hurt you. Is all right, everything.' His thick beard split into a broken-toothed smile. Valerian watched as the burly warrior began sawing at the ropes that bound the cage shut.

As he gasped with effort, Valerian smelt the rancid stench of ale on his breath. He was making hard work of the job and it seemed to take forever. Somewhere in his heart, hope began to burn and it was all he could do not to urge the man to hurry up.

After what seemed like an eternity, the Dacian grunted in satisfaction as the bindings finally parted. He looked from one side to the other, and then opened the door to the cage. Valerian could only manage to fall forwards, his legs refusing to obey him. With a muffled groan, he lay prostrate on the ground.

‘Come,' the Dacian pulled at his tunic. ‘Come, we go.'

Valerian moaned as circulation began to return in his legs and with it agonising cramp that he had been numbed to for so long.

Gingerly, he tried to stretch out, but his tortured muscles would not let him. Biting the inside of his lip so that he would not cry out, he began to crawl. Above him, the Dacian muttered a curse in frustration and heaved him from the floor.

‘I'm sorry,' Valerian whispered through his pain. ‘I can't walk yet.' He threw his arm over the shoulder of the huge warrior and the two made their laborious way through the camp. Though the hour must have been late, there were still revels going on though, to Valerian's relief, the Dacians he could hear singing and shouting sounded more drunk than his erstwhile deliverer.

No one challenged them as they made their way through the darkness, though each time a shape drew near, Valerian's heart hammered so hard that he feared the enemy would hear them. But they were ignored by all.

After a time of moving through the darkness, the pain in Valerian's legs lessened marginally and he was at least able to assist his giant rescuer and hobble along as gamely as he could. ‘Why did you help me?' he whispered in Greek.

The Dacian chuckled. ‘Maybe it your lucky day.'

Valerian could not argue with that. ‘But we – Romans and Dacians – are enemies…'

‘Battle over,' the Dacian interrupted. ‘All this waste of good men.'

Valerian almost began sobbing with relief. He had no idea why the gods had chosen to spare him, but he made a silent vow to honour them all when he got home. He would become a man of peace and leave the days of blood and death behind him. ‘I am Valerian,' he offered.

‘Cotiso.'

‘Thank you, Cotiso.'

‘Thank later. Now, quiet, we almost out.'

Valerian glanced about. It was true: there were few campfires and he saw that they were approaching a picket. Unperturbed, Cotiso half-dragged, half-carried him towards the sentry. The man turned and said something in the guttural Getic tongue that the Dacians used. Cotiso responded and shrugged free of Valerian's grip. There was another exchange and the unmistakeable clink of coins changing hands. Within a few moments, Dacian and Roman were making their way towards the black mass of trees that formed the vast forest the legions had marched into hours and an eternity ago.

Cotiso led him through the trees for some time, his barbarian eyes seeming to work like a cat's in the darkness. Exhausted emotionally and physically, Valerian found he could not keep his bearings and soon was utterly lost. The trees loomed over him as though they were demons of their god Zalmoxis, dark and threatening in the blackness. He cursed his fraught imagination, consoling himself with the knowledge that Cotiso was a local and would get them out of the gods-forsaken forest soon enough.

Cotiso stopped short and sniffed the air like a dog. Satisfied, he beckoned Valerian on and soon the Roman could see the cheerful glow of a fire illuminating a clearing. Several Dacians surrounded the fire, drinking and laughing in low tones: Valerian also recognised the red tunic of a Roman soldier sat just away from the glow of the fire. As he drew closer, he realised that the shape of the man was familiar.