Roma Victrix (29 page)

She had heard the suggestions many times before in Halicarnassus: it was the opening verse of the gladiatrix's song.

The Italian victor, realising he was no longer the centre of attention, rounded on her, his bruised eyes widening in surprise. ‘Are you my winnings?' he leered in his provincial accent. ‘You're a skinny streak,' he appraised her, ‘but I'll not complain when you're greasing my pole!' At this the crowd gave a loud cheer.

Lysandra studied him: by the look in his eyes, he was fired by overmuch booze – more than enough to make him belligerent and feel as though he was indestructible. She raised her own voice above the jeers. ‘I
will
grease your pole if you can beat me in a fair fight!'

The Italian roared with laughter thinking this a joke, but when Lysandra did not move, his thick eyebrows knitted in a frown and he advanced on her.

Lysandra dropped back into a fighting stance as the shouts of the crowd washed over her, and she realised in that moment that she had almost come home. As he advanced upon her, her eyes went flat and something inside her stirred. With a growl, the Italian attacked and the gladiatrix Achillia stepped in to meet him.

‘All right, shut up the lot of you!'

Valerian grinned as Settus took up his position at the head of the men. The two had been working on improving the rotas and shift patterns of the slaves and workers.

Well,
Valerian
had been working on improvements and the former
optio
was learning to repeat the instructions given him.

Benches scraped on the stone floor and conversation died down as Settus began to dole out the tasks for the forthcoming day. Despite Setttus's damning indictment against the staff and slaves, Valerian had found most of them to be adequate for the menial labour at the Flavian: there were some fitness issues, he thought, for the ones who would be assigned to crowd control and he resolved to put them through their paces soon. That, he mused, probably wouldn't go down too well.

‘Now then…' Settus was saying. ‘The animal cells below the arena are a fucking disgrace. They need to be mucked out more regularly than they are at the moment.' Voices started to rise in protest, but Settus raised a warning hand. ‘Don't give me any excuses about work-load on show days, or my favourite – the-animals-will-die-soon-so-there's-no-point and all of that old bollocks. The whole
hypogeum
stinks of shit and piss. Shit means insects and insects mean diseases. You cunts won't be too happy when you've got some gods-cursed illness because you were too fucking dainty to shovel shit.'

‘That said,' Settus glanced at Valerian a little self-consciously,

‘I've come up with an idea.'

‘This should be good,' one of the ex-gladiators commented to the amusement of all in the room.

‘Shut your face. Now, where was I? Oh yeah. Shovelling shit is an unpleasant but necessary task. Let's face it, even the slaves hate doing it and you can only beat them so often – and even then, they're not likely to work harder. So, I've negotiated a deal on your behalf – this is Rome, after all, and even shit is for sale.' This got a laugh and Settus looked a little surer of himself because of it. ‘Fertilizer is big business: there's plenty of gardens on the seven hills. Gardens need fertilizer and we've got more fertilizer than we know what to do with. So, whatever team is shovelling shit – and that includes both freedmen
and
slaves – will get a percentage of the transaction, minus my cut for thinking of the idea in the first place. Obviously, the main bulk of the profit goes back to the Flavian – but we all stand to make a few
sesterces
out of this. What do you reckon?'

The men nodded and made sounds of concurrence which pleased Valerian. Selling excrement was not how he had imagined that he would begin to make ends meet but necessity was the mother of invention. The meeting began to break up as the workers got ready to go about their tasks for the day. Valerian had found another excuse to make sure he was able to watch the fighters at their training – one in particular. The thought buoyed him and he made to shuffle out with Settus and the rest of the crews.

He was stopped as Laenus approached them.

‘Just you two,' he indicated Settus and Valerian. ‘Back inside, boys,' he said. ‘The rest of you, get on with your work.'

Valerian gave Settus a ‘what's going on?' look but the former
optio
could only shrug so he decided to just come out with it. ‘Laenus,' he smiled. ‘What can we do for you?'

Laenus sat on a bench. ‘It's what you've been doing for yourselves that I've come to talk to you about. This place is running smoother than ever before. Now, either Settus here has been suddenly touched by Minerva and given the gift of command, or you,' he stabbed a finger at Valerian, ‘have been running things from behind the scenes. Which is it?'

‘I'm a religious man,' Settus offered.

‘And I'm a Vestal.'

‘What's this about, Laenus?' Valerian interjected. He had a feeling that he and Settus were about to lose their percentages to the trainer and the galling thing was they could do nothing about it. ‘Things are running smoothly, you've said so yourself. If this is about offering the men a little incentive to work harder, I thought you and your superiors would have been more than happy about that. This operation was a fucking disgrace – sorry, Settus – before I arrived.'

‘Fuck's sake,' Settus complained. ‘You've only been here five minutes and you're already acting like you're the legate of the tenth.

We were doing all right before you arrived and don't forget who got you the job in the first place.'

‘I've not forgotten,' Valerian tried to sound placating but the whole situation was so upsetting. Here he had done his best to better not only his own circumstances but everyone else's and now Laenus was going to flitch him out of his cut. ‘I've just made some improvements to your strategy,' he said to Settus. ‘And let's face it; you've benefitted financially – same money, much less work…'

‘Hey, hey…' Laenus broke in. ‘You two sound like you're married…'

Settus rounded on the trainer. ‘Are you calling me a fucking tunic-lifter, Laenus? I'll have you, you bastard!'

Valerian could see that Laenus was a hard man, well used to holding his own in a brawl; he was bigger and stronger than Settus, but when the former
optio
was riled, he was more frightening than most men.

‘No, no! Fucking hell, Settus!' the trainer exclaimed. ‘Don't be so touchy – you don't have to turn everything into a row.'

Valerian saw that Settus was about to pounce and, once started, there was only one way this would end. ‘Settus!' he shouted, injecting the almost forgotten authority of a military tribune into his voice.

‘Stand to!'

Settus trembled with suppressed violence but years of ingrained discipline halted him. With a deep breath he stood back, the tension almost visibly draining out of him.

Laenus puffed out his cheeks. ‘Jupiter, Settus,' he shook his head.

‘Give me a chance to finish here.'

‘Go on then,' Settus muttered, sitting back down.

‘Maro's noticed the improvements around here.' He referred to the
lanista
of the Flavian. ‘He's also noticed that the improvements started soon after New Boy here joined us,' he gestured to Valerian.

Valerian could guess what was coming and it made him feel thoroughly wretched. He could not stand by and allow himself to super-sede his friend – the man to whom he owed much of his new start.

‘Laenus,' he interjected. ‘Settus and I are a team – we've been working
together
.'

‘Yeah, well, of course.' It was plain that Laenus found that hard to believe but plainer still that he was not going to provoke Settus again. ‘The thing is, with things working so well, Maro wants New Boy here promoted.'

‘The men won't like that,' Valerian said. ‘You keep calling me

“New Boy”, I've not been here long enough to have
earned
a promotion in their eyes.'

‘The men know the score,' Laenus waved the protest away. ‘Besides, even if they did give a shit who's giving them orders – which they don't – Maro's made his decision and that's the end of it.'

‘Are you giving me the sack?' Settus's voice was strangled with grief and fury at the same time.

‘No, he's not,' Valerian answered before Laenus could speak.

‘We're working on this together, Settus, just like before.' He raised an eyebrow at the trainer. ‘Isn't that right?'

‘Yeah, just like before,' the trainer agreed with some reluctance.

‘Good,' Settus was relieved. ‘You had me going there for a minute, you bastard. Yeah,' he nodded. ‘It'll be just like it was in the army, eh Valerian? You thinking up the plans and me making sure it all runs smoothly.'

‘Exactly,' Valerian had not thought of using the military parallel to blind Settus to his demotion.

‘Good, it's all sorted then,' Laenus's smile was forced and utterly unconvincing. ‘Good work, lads.' He got up and made his way to the door.

‘Laenus!' Settus called. ‘Sorry about losing my rag just then.'

‘Forget it – I'd get the hump too if I thought someone was calling me a fruit.'

‘I thought you
were
a fruit.'

‘Don't push your luck, Settus,' the trainer responded, and strolled into the sunlight.

As soon as he had gone, Settus turned to Valerian. ‘Fucking result,' he enthused. ‘This'll be great!'

‘Yes,' Valerian agreed. ‘It will be. We'll have to make sure we don't tread on our own dicks, though.'

Settus waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don't worry about all that,' he said. ‘I'll batter anyone who gets out of line – not that they will.'

He paused. ‘Thanks for speaking up though – I really thought Laenus was going to tell me to fuck off.'

Valerian grinned. ‘I'll tell you to fuck off if you let us down on this one, Settus.'

The former
optio
laughed. ‘Then I'll beat you so badly that all you'll have left below the neck will be memories.'

There really was no answer to that.

Valerian felt like a new man as he strode out onto the
palaestra
.

Around him, the gladiators worked at their callisthenics or sparred with wooden swords, the clack of wood on wood seeming to beat a staccato rhythm to the training. It was much like an army camp, he mused. Strange that that could be a comfort after what he had experienced in Dacia.

Thinking of that gods-cursed place chilled him as the memories floated to the surface of his thoughts like bloated corpses.

‘Why so glum?' A female voice snapped him from his melancholy.

‘Oh!' he exclaimed. ‘Pyrrha.' His heart quickened as he looked at the young gladiatrix. She had been working out, her dark, curly hair plastered to her forehead, her skin glowing with the sweat of exertion. Valerian was both pleased and embarrassed by the sudden stirring in his loins, something he had not felt – whilst sober at least – since Dacia. But Pyrrha had awakened desire in him again. They had been surreptitiously meeting each other when they could, exchanging kisses but nothing more. Still, he found that she dominated his thoughts whilst waking and asleep – it was she who made this place and his new life more than bearable – it was becoming pleasurable.

‘Yes,' she smiled. ‘Pyrrha. What's amiss, Valerian?'

She seemed to be full of fake bravado: he had seen a thousand times before when a legionary was trying to act large in front of a superior. Pyrrha had the same aura and despite her apparent geniality, he knew it was forced. ‘Nothing's amiss,' he said, a tad more shortly than he had intended. ‘I was just lost in thought.' He turned to leave: that his past trauma had been so clearly written on his face was embarrassing and even if he had left his
virtus
in Dacia, he did not want her to think him less of a man.

‘What were you thinking about?' she said to his back, halting him.

‘The war.' He did not turn. There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence and again he made to move.

‘It must have been terrible to make you to look so sad. I had heard that you've been promoted – that's good news, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘It is good news and yes, the war was terrible.' He turned around. ‘Is there something you need, Pyrrha? I am… here to serve the fighters as well.' His shame was causing him to be short with her and he made to apologise but Pyrrha spoke before he could.

‘No,' she replied, her expression hardening. ‘I was just asking after you because you looked sad. Don't worry, I won't bother again. You have more important things to do than waste your time talking to me, obviously.'

‘No, no, I'm sorry, Pyrrha,' Valerian was grateful that she had not stormed off. ‘I've behaved appallingly. It's just that sometimes I remember too much of what happened and it… it is most unpleasant.' That was putting it mildly, he thought to himself.

‘It's all right…' she replied, the beginnings of a smile forming on her lips.

‘Pyrrha!'

They both looked about to see Illeana, the Aesalon Nocturna, approaching. Despite his strong attraction to Pyrrha, Valerian felt his throat catch as she walked towards them. Illeana was beyond perfection: to look upon her, he thought, must be the same as looking upon the goddess Venus herself. Some women were beautiful, physical works of art so untouchable that they could not fire a man; others were sensual, their bodies offering the promise of endless pleasures in the night. Illeana, he decided, was singularly unique, in that she was possessed of both qualities. She was just the right height for a woman – slightly taller than average, but not too tall to be unusual, the form of her body peerless. Her swaying walk spoke at once of confidence and seduction. But it was her face that held him and, he knew,
all
men: glittering green eyes that needed no ochre to enhance them; those thin, almost angular eyebrows; the faultless nose; the over-plump lips that on anyone else would have been out of place but, on Illeana, made her all the more desir-able. No matter how many times he laid eyes on her, he could not get used to her. Her presence seemed to fill him and deny anyone else his attention – and Valerian knew well that he was not alone.