Roma Victrix (56 page)

‘Do you ever regret having to kill your opponent?' she asked him.

‘Sometimes,' Taurus admitted. ‘Men that you know, especially.

But that's not what you mean, is it? You mean when you see another fighter and you think them a great warrior… and that, if circumstances had been different, you might have been friends – for there walks someone who has taken the same path as you.'

Illeana nodded. ‘We are cut from the same stone, she and I.

Perhaps she will fight well enough to get the
missio
.'

Taurus snorted. ‘Two things. One, the emperor will want a blood-bath in these games – they've been advertised for months, as has your fight with the ‘Greek Champion'. Rome is like a hound at the leash waiting for this bout. So the second thing: don't go in there with any other thought in your mind than of killing her. Because if you do, Rome's going to be very unhappy and the Greeks will be celebrating. Kill her, Illeana. Or she'll kill you.'

‘
First rule,
' Illeana murmured. ‘
You get a kill on the red. Go for the
red first because if you don't, your opponent will.
'

‘That's what they say,' Taurus tipped back his wine. ‘Get some rest,' he clapped her on the shoulder. ‘Tomorrow night, we'll celebrate. Perhaps you'll invite me to your rooms and I can show you that the
graffiti
is not true.'

‘Don't even suggest it!' Illeana laughed. ‘Or Maro will be trying to breed us so that we may produce invincible gladiators.'

‘Now that's an idea I hadn't thought of. I'll go and find him.'

Laughing, Taurus sauntered off and Illeana returned her gaze to the Spartan. She was deep in conversation with her friends and, once again, Illeana thought it would be a pity to kill her.

But kill her she would.

‘How do I look, Diocles?' Frontinus lifted his chin, assuming the air of an advocate in mid-flow.

‘Sir, if the creases in your toga were any sharper, I'd have cut my fingers on them.'

‘The fuller did a good job,' Frontinus sniffed. ‘But a bit more patchouli oil is needed – I can detect a slight whiff of piss. It should have been left to air longer, I think.'

‘I'll have the slave responsible flogged, sir,' Diocles promised as he sprinkled a liberal amount of perfume on the heavy cotton.

‘Not
too
much,' Frontinus complained. ‘I don't want to smell like a whore.'

‘I'm not sure there's a market for such mature whores, sir,'

Diocles said, leaning in and sniffing him as though he were some sort of flower. ‘There – at least you don't smell of piss now. We couldn't have that – not with you being in the
Imperial box
and all.'

Frontinus laughed. ‘Diocles, you seem absurdly pleased at this prospect, but it's nothing special. I've sat in plenty of royal boxes in my time.'

‘True, sir, true. But mostly with the old emperor. His son is affording you some status, meaning your star continues to rise and that means we're all better off.'

‘Are you looking for more money?' Frontinus asked, irritable at the freedman's presumption, but also a little contrite because he should have thought of offering him a raise once the governorship of Moesia had been confirmed.

‘The thought never occurred to me.'

‘Just pay yourself what is fair, all right?' There was little point in trying to dictate terms, given that Diocles was in charge of the finances in the first place.

‘Of course, sir.'

‘Frontinus!' a voice sounded from outside the room.

‘Ah, Tetius Iulianus is here, forging ahead of the slaves as usual. Why can't the man wait to be announced like everyone else, eh, Diocles?'

‘He's probably keen to get on with killing Dacians and would rather not be at the Flavian watching Romans kill Greeks.'

‘Well, he'll have to wait – for both,' Frontinus rubbed his hands together. ‘I've seen Achillia fight, I've seen Aesalon Nocturna fight – and I know who's going win. Aesalon is good but Achillia is unbeatable,' he gestured to the door, indicating that Diocles show his visitor in.

‘I imagine that you've put your money where your mouth is, sir?' Diocles was all disapproval.

‘Tetius Iulianus is putting patriotism before pragmatism, Diocles.

He'll be a poorer man come tomorrow… ahhh!' He raised his voice as the young general entered, ‘Tetius Iulianus! Good to see you, lad. I trust you are looking forward to the games.'

‘I can hardly wait,' Iulianus said. ‘Slave, bring wine.'

Diocles made a show of looking around for a slave before Frontinus gave him the slightest of nods, willing him with his eyes to be indulgent. The last thing he needed was a disgruntled freedman writing his own pay-rise. The Greek made off, disapproval hanging about him like a cloud.

‘I've had the reports in from Taenarum.' Iulianus spoke of the Greek hub for mercenaries. He hurled himself onto a couch, heedless of creasing his toga, his hawk's face pinched with frustration.

‘Plenty of mercenaries to be had all right, but they're Greeks or barbarians in the main. All affordable Italians are well-past their prime. Word's got round that we're in trouble and the price has risen accordingly. Greeks,' he shook his head. ‘They can't be relied on in a fight.'

‘Don't be too hasty to dismiss them,' Frontinus soothed. ‘They do good auxiliary work and,' he tapped his nose, ‘give a Greek a cause or a leader he believes in and he'll fight to the death.'

‘Yes, but we've got a Roman cause and they hate us, the effete bastards. And the rest are Germans or Gauls and I'd rather put my cock on a chopping board than trust
them
. Given the chance, they'd join the Dacians – go back to their old ways of living in shit and humping each other or whatever barbarians do.'

Frontinus sighed. They needed men and they did not have the luxury of choice. ‘Iulianus,' he said, ‘there's no way on earth of holding two fronts with the legions you have. We'll need to buy in troops. And if that means geriatric Romans and bunch of
greculi
, then so be it. It's not as though they have to
win
, is it?'

‘That's true,' Iulianus grunted as one of Frontinus's slaves arrived with some wine – Diocles, he thought, was probably sulking.

‘Quite right,' Frontinus soothed. ‘All they need to do is hold off the Dacian flanking attack long enough for you to put this Decebalus to the sword. If they're all massacred, so be it. The defensive position we've picked out is strong enough – we just need the men to hold it.'

‘What about a legate? I'd prefer someone Roman, but that's not going to happen. It's hardly a glorious command, is it? But I'm also unwilling to put my trust in a mercenary commander – they can be bought, you know.'

Frontinus grinned. ‘I have a solution. This mission won't take a tactician of Alexandrian proportions – it's just holding a line, after all. The ideal situation would be to have a Roman, as you say.

Someone we can laud if all goes well, someone we can blame if it all goes sour.'

‘Roman legates aren't mercenaries,' Iulianus snapped.

‘No, but we can
create
a legate. I have just the man in mind. He was disgraced in the previous campaign but was the highest ranking officer to survive. We can put him in command to give this mission some sort of legitimacy if he does well… and we can also claim that he's a simple mercenary – and a failure to boot – if it goes wrong. Left the army after the Battle of Tapae, signed on as a mercenary thereafter, was useless and led his men to defeat…
et cetera, et
cetera…
'

‘And who is this imbecile?'

‘He's not an imbecile, Iulianus.' Frontinus's ire was raised by this assumption despite the fact that his introduction had been less than flattering. ‘He was a good officer once and he is down on his luck.

But it's true that he's also rather expendable. His name is Valerian.

Gaius Minervinus Valerian.'

Lysandra stood in the semidarkness of her cell, eyes closed as Telemachus whispered prayers to Athene. As the Athenian priest spoke, so Kleandrias muttered exhortations as he applied the oil to her body. Their voices mingled in a hypnotic buzz that she let seep into the deepest part of her mind, the part from which she would draw strength if the fight became desperate.

‘Leonidas is watching from Elysium…'

‘I celebrate the powers of Pallas Athena, the protectoress of the city…'

‘The Three Hundred are with you…'

‘Dread, as Ares, She busies herself with the works of war…'

‘You will not disgrace your goddess, Lysandra…'

‘With the sack of cities, with the battle-cry and with the combatants…'

‘You will not disgrace your Sisterhood…'

‘It is She also who saves the warriors that go to war and come back alive…'

‘You will not disgrace your Spartan blood.'

‘Hail, Athene, give us good fortune. Give us victory.'

Lysandra opened her eyes. ‘Hail, Athene,' she whispered. Then to Kleandrias she said ‘
We bow to no one
,' as Leonidas had uttered to the Persian, Xerxes. ‘I am ready.'

The chanting of the crowd could be heard through the thick stone walls of Illeana's cell. She allowed the muffled roar to wash over her, warming her like the sun on a chill day. Laenus kneaded oil into the muscles of her shoulders, his strong hands pressing hard.

‘They're cheering for you, Illeana,' he murmured in her ear. ‘For Rome.'

She did not respond as he moved in front of her to work on her legs, letting him focus on his task as she focused on hers. She had trained hard and well. She was
Gladiatrix Prima
and this, she knew, would be the biggest test she had ever faced. Victory would be hers, but she could not afford to take the Spartan lightly. Achillia was taller and, in all likelihood, stronger than she. They were both fast, but Illeana reckoned it was
she
that now had the edge in quickness.

And the crowd was on her side: she could not imagine what it did to a fighter to have fifty thousand people screaming for your death the moment you stepped foot onto the sands.

Laenus continued to speak, telling her that she was the best, that she would win and that the emperor would honour her. She let his voice fade away, retreating into herself, going over her training, thinking of the long hours running up and down the steps of the arena, allowing the knowledge of her strength and fitness soak down to her limbs. Her body would not fail her; her will to win would not fail her.

This was the defining moment of her life. Eternal glory was hers for the taking. The thought of it made her shudder and her eyes flicked open. ‘Shut up, Laenus,' she said and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let's do this.'

Lysandra had never forgotten her first time. There had been many fights since then, but that first walk to the arena in Halicarnassus was burned indelibly on her mind like a slave's brand. She felt the same now as she did then, a mixture of fear and the desire to face her opponent.

She had spoken much of Varia's nature, that Varia was
not
a killer.

She and Aesalon Nocturna most surely were. There was a part of the Roman that needed this: the blood, the screams of the crowd, the ecstasy of victory. And there was a part of Lysandra that needed it too. She fought for Athene's honour but it was also true that she was only complete when she held a sword in her hand. Years of indolence and drunkenness had been burned away when she had leapt from Bedros's ship and cut down the pirate captain; she made him a sacrifice and through his death she had taken her first step on the road back to who she truly was.

Gladiatrix
.

It was as dark as the womb in the tunnel, the walls about her seemed alive with sound, the roar of the crowd permeating the rock, seeping into her flesh and bones. The hatred they felt for the

‘Greek Champion' was palpable and she found that it nourished her.

She would silence them and hold her bloody sword aloft and scream Athene's name so loud that it would be heard on High Olympus.

She reached the Gate of Life and peered out into the torch-lit arena beyond. On the sands, the Roman
lanista
, Maro, was going through his pre-fight speech, but even with the horn he was using to amplify his voice, he was all but drowned out by the dissonance of the mob. She thought she heard him say ‘Achillia' and then he gestured to her Gate. With infinite slowness, it clanked open. Lysandra took a deep breath and stayed behind as Achillia stepped out onto the sands of the arena.

It was impossible not to be taken aback at the sheer scale of the Flavian Amphitheatre. Empty, it was impressive enough but now, stuffed full of people screaming their hatred for her, it was as if the arena had become some faceless god roaring with fifty thousand different voices.

She remembered her vision then, at the foot of Athene's statue back at the
Deiopolis
. This is what she had seen and the knowledge of it armoured her. If there was a part of her that doubted the goddess walked with her, reliving her vision was ample proof that her debt had been paid in full and Athene would guide her hand.

Alone, she walked forward into the half-light of the arena, her pale skin made bronze by the flickering torchlight, ignoring the crude comments and insults the sight of her near-naked body brought from the mob. She was used to it, and if they thought to cow her with harsh words, these Romans were sadly mistaken. And, every so often, she could hear a shout for her cut through the din – there were pockets of Hellenes in the audience and they chanted ‘Sparta, Sparta, Sparta!' but were continually drowned out by the supporters of Aesalon Nocturna
.

Though Maro had announced her, Aesalon Nocturna had still not arrived in the arena. Lysandra knew that it was a ploy, a mind-game that the beautiful Roman was employing to unnerve her.