Roma Victrix (20 page)

That was far from the case, but by the time the sullen looking slave and Rullus had finished, Valerian felt he was at least presentable. Rullus insisted that he use a crutch to support himself and he did not complain. There seemed little point anymore as it seemed his lot to have indignity heaped upon him.

‘Sabinus here will take you,' the
medicus
advised Valerian, as he hobbled out of the room. He nodded a greeting at the legionary who kept his expression neutral. ‘Please don't rush about,' Rullus said. ‘Take things easy, and straight back here when your debriefing is complete.'

Valerian thanked him, eager now to be away from the hospital.

With Sabinus hovering at his elbow he squinted into the daylight, taking in a deep breath of cold, fresh air. There was a comfort to be had in the familiar sights and sounds of the base. Centurions screamed at their charges, armour clattered as troopers jogged here and there on a thousand different errands. Sentries stood atop the high walls looking out towards Dacia. It was a rock of safety in a sea of barbarity, but Valerian knew that this security could be all too transient.

‘It's not too far, sir,' Sabinus said, as they made their painfully slow progress through the base.

Valerian glanced at him. Stocky with jutting, unrefined features, Sabinus was a man cast from the mould that had produced so many legionaries. Most of them cared nothing beyond where their next whore, drink or fight was coming from. But Sabinus had that look behind his eyes that Valerian knew that he also carried now. ‘That Amazon. She was a gladiatrix in Asia Minor,' he said at length.

‘Sorina, sir?'

‘Yes. She was one of the finest arena fighters in the province.

But a new girl came, a Greek from Sparta – Achillia was her name.

Younger, more beautiful than Sorina, the crowd loved her: they would, being Greek themselves, I suppose. As you can imagine, enmity between Sorina – or Amazona as she was called then – and Achillia was great. The barbarian's niece or something was killed, and she blamed Achillia. The niece happened to be Achillia's lover as well and naturally she blamed Sorina… it's not very Roman, but what can you expect from slaves? Anyway, I understand that it all got out of hand and… well… I imagine that threats were made.

That must have been what she was referring to when you last…met her.'

Sabinus looked a little crestfallen. ‘That's it?'

‘Well… yes,' Valerian was a little put out at the lack of enthusiasm.

‘I thought it would be something more than an argument between slaves, that's all. That there would have been some meaning to it.'

‘Maybe she meant it as a message to Achillia.'

‘As if I'll ever get to Asia Minor to tell her,' Sabinus grunted and seemed to dismiss the matter. ‘You know the army, sir. One shitty posting after the next. I imagine we'll be sent to Judaea after this.'

Valerian appreciated that Sabinus was once again establishing professional distance. ‘Gods save us from that, Sabinus,' he said.

Their talk had taken them to the
praetorium
– the commander's lodging that was the centrepiece of the fortress. ‘I'll wait here, sir,'

Sabinus said, leaving Valerian to make his way forward alone.

She loved this place as she loved no other. It was more of a home to her than the house on the Oppian Hill or even the beautiful estate near Capua. For Aemilia Illeana, the Ludus Magnus was the place that completed her. If the Flavian Amphitheatre was the beating heart of Rome, then the
Magnus
was the main artery that fed it. It was here that the finest gladiators in all the empire trained and it was here amidst the dust, sweat, exertion and pain that she felt whole.

Illeana believed that perhaps Fortuna walked by her side and, whilst other arena fighters would make offerings to Nemesis, she honoured the goddess of chance above all others. The path of her life had led her unerringly to this place, each happenstance bringing her closer to a life that she cherished more than anyone could know.

She could, had she so wished, lived a life of luxury unimagined by any former slave. But Illeana considered that to do so would be to spit in the eye of Fortuna. It was evident that the goddess had a plan for her and wanted her to pursue this path. More, the life of a rich yet despised freedwoman held no appeal whatsoever. All the money in the world would not buy patrician acceptance. She had learned this from her husband and the truth of it was that she neither craved nor cared about their recognition.

She cared only that she was the best at what she did. It was, she often thought, ironic that the same people who had once poured scorn and derision on her husband for marrying her now screamed and chanted her fighting name – Aesalon Nocturna – to the rafters of the Flavian.

At twenty-five, she was in her prime, the finest gladiatrix ever to fight on the sands of the arena. But she knew that she would not remain so unless she worked harder.

Pushing thoughts of her past from her mind, Illeana began her morning's work. First, loose stretching to loosen the muscles. Then she would run, down the long tunnel that connected the
Magnus
to the amphitheatre proper and it was here that the real work began.

The arena was a third of a mile around and each day she completed fifteen laps, punctuated with lung bursting sprints up the rows of stone benches to the top of the stadium and then down again. She had seen many gladiators go down because fatigue set in during the long bouts or when a bad injury had been sustained. She vowed that she would never fall prey to this, that if the time came for her to face defeat it was not because she was unprepared but because she had met a better fighter.

The truth was, she did not think that likely – but she knew also that, now she had reached the top, there was but one way for her to go and she would not allow complacency to be her undoing.

Her laps completed, she returned to the
ludus
to work on strength building exercises. Lifting iron bars was common practice amongst the male gladiators: it was a sure way of putting on muscle and increasing power. But for the gladiatrix, strength had to be tempered with speed and agility – and certain physical standards had to be maintained. She was not a barbarian and no one wanted to see a Roman woman carrying unsightly muscular bulk. Illeana was not so naive as to think that it was for her fighting prowess alone that she was admired.

Aesalon Nocturna was regarded as one of the most beautiful women in Rome and indeed the entire empire, if some of her more besotted admirers were to be believed. She was not sure that was the case, but she knew that her face was as much of an asset as her fighting skill, more so because her features were so exotic to the Roman eye. Her lips were full, almost overly so and her green eyes gave her the sultry look of the Syrian or the Egyptian; she wore her dark brown hair long and paid a fortune for it to be kept in good condition, investing in all sorts of potions and unguents. Hers was not the look of the coldly beautiful Roman patrician: her husband had told her this. Hers, he had said, was a look that inspired both men and women to lust. And he had been right. Deadly and erotically beautiful, this combination had won her admirers that ranged from the lowest slave in the Subura to the emperor himself.

As she began her set with the iron weight, she saw one of the trainers strolling over to her. She ignored him until her repetitions were complete.

‘Greetings, Illeana.'

‘Laenus,' she acknowledged with a slight smile. She liked the powerfully built former
murmillo
; he was not quick with the vine staff and had an inherent skill at knowing just how far to push the new
tiros
without breaking them. She recalled that she had thought herself physically fit when she had first come to the Imperial School.

Laenus had shown her the error of that assumption and Illeana believed that the foundation he had given her was responsible in no small way for her success.

‘I need a favour.' He came straight out with it.

‘How much?' she asked, wiping the sweat from her brow with a dirty cloth. Laenus might apply centurion-like discipline to his charges but the same could not be said for his habits outside the
ludus
, which ran to gambling too much at the Circus.

He spread his hands, looking hurt. ‘No, I'm not after money.'

‘Not this time, anyway.'

He ignored that. ‘We have some new female recruits, slaves and an
auctorata
,' he used the professional term for a contract fighter.

‘There's one that I'd like you to look over for me.'Illeana frowned.

‘Why me?' she asked. ‘There must be… what… thirteen or fourteen gladiatrices here in the Magnus and more at the Dacius?' She referred to another school nearby. ‘Can't you use someone else?'

‘There's something about this one,' he explained. ‘She's young but she's had training: you can see it a mile off and I don't want to risk one of my experienced girls getting knocked on her arse by a fucking
tiro
. Bad for discipline if one of these new girls gets above herself.'

Illeana chuckled. ‘So you want the
Gladiatrix Prima
of all Rome to put on a show for your new beginners, is that it?'

‘You wouldn't be
Gladiatrix Prima
if not for me,' Laenus was wearing the grin of a man who knew he was going to get his own way.

‘And I won't be much longer if I keep going on fool's errands for you and not training properly! I'm supposed to be fighting a

‘champion' soon. Or haven't you heard?'

‘The emperor's command performance?' Laenus scratched his ear. ‘Everyone in the business has heard about it except your would-be opponent it seems. Not a word from her, or Maro would have told me,' he referred to the Magnus's
lanista.
‘You know what these fucking provincials are like,' he went on. ‘It's all very well when they're fighting half-starved tribals from the back of beyond. But put them up against a Roman and they find out it's a different story altogether. Probably this…
champion
doesn't want any part of it and is in the process of cutting off her thumb so she can't fight.'

‘Are you appealing to my ego, Laenus?'

‘Naturally. But you really are the best.'

‘Come, then,' she indicated that he lead on.

Despite its location in the heart of the Capital where space was at a premium, the Magnus was still an impressively sized construc-tion and it took some time for gladiatrix and trainer to weave their way across the
palaestra
, avoiding gladiators and trainers as they worked. As always a crowd of citizens had gathered to watch the day's training and Illeana stopped and waved to a few devotees who called out to her before trotting after Laenus to where the new recruits waited.

There were nine of them and it was easy to separate the slaves from the
auctoratae
; the six slaves were scrawny, filth-mired and sullen, the would-be contractors young, foolish or desperate. Except the one that Laenus has brought her to see. She stood apart from the rest and Illeana could tell at once what the trainer had been refering to. This one had a look about her, exuding a confidence and surety that belied her youth. Illeana could always read an opponent's eyes, and this one was well aware she had the beating of all the women around her. There was an arrogance there – perhaps a debilitating one if she was going to make a success of herself in the arena. Yet it was strange – despite the confidence she exuded, it was almost as though this was a cloak she was unused to wearing.

Illeana glanced at Laenus and nodded. He had made a wise decision bringing her into this. If this girl – she could not be more than twenty – was allowed to win too easily, overconfidence might consume her and that would not be the ideal start to her life in a
ludus
.

‘Get your clothes off,' Laenus barked at the group. ‘I need to see what you look like underneath. We only have the most beautiful women fighting here in Rome, so I'm not yet convinced that you lot are of acceptable quality.'

There was little reluctance from the slaves who did as they were told at once, as did, Illeana noted, Laenus's girl. The other two hung back seemingly shocked by the order.

‘You two are probably freedwomen,' she spoke out, causing all eyes to fall upon her. ‘You are unused to obeying orders as these slaves here. This the first and only time you will be told this. Despite your status as
auctoratae
, you are still bound to obey every order you are given, be it by the
lanista,
one of his trainers or the senior fighters here. If you are accepted into this
ludus
, you will take an oath that binds you to that on pain of death. If you cannot accept that, you should go now.'

The two women looked at each other and then by unspoken agreement, stripped off their clothes so they stood naked with the others. They looked acutely embarrassed which, Illeana knew, would soon wear off. Female arena fighters were expected to show their bodies to the largely male crowd. It was one of the things that made the gladiatrix events so popular.

Laenus went over to them, running his hands over flanks, legs and breasts, checking teeth and pulling down the skin under the women's eyes, much as one would when examining a horse. ‘Illeana,' he said. ‘You look over that one on the end, will you?'

The girl stood proudly, her eyes locked straight ahead. She was a pretty thing, with dainty freckled features framed by a mass of dark curly hair. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black. She was not as tall as Illeana herself, the top of her head reaching to Illeana's nose, but her physique was good. It had been worked on – more than worked on, she realised as she squatted down, squeezing the tight muscles in the girl's calves and thighs. ‘What's your name?' she asked.

‘Pyrrha,' she answered at once.