Roma Victrix by Russell Whitfield Read Free Book Online

moment.
    Lysandra screamed in terror, panic drowning her like a rising flood. Her wail was cut short as the man’s fist slammed into her cheekbone, breaking the skin. She struggled desperately, kicking and scratching, filled with only the desperate need to escape.
    â€˜She’s like a wildcat,’ her attacker gasped as he fought to still her.
    â€˜What’s the matter with you?’ she heard the other say. ‘Just get her fucking purse!’
    â€˜Hold still, damn you!’ The bald one’s hands clamped onto her throat, squeezing with sickening force. Blood pounded in her ears and Lysandra’s struggles became more desperate as her body screamed for air; she felt her tongue begin to distend as her attacker increased the pressure on her neck relentlessly. Her vision tunnelled and now the pain receded to a dull ache in the distance. She realised that she was dying. Not on the sands of the arena in glory, nor in old age having lived a life in service to the gods. Lysandra of Sparta would die alone, half-drunk in a filthy Carian alleyway.
    Brightness suddenly flared in her tunnelled vision and there she saw Eirianwen, swathed in light and colours. Lysandra called to her, reaching out as Eirianwen had once done in her own death throes.
    The beautiful tribeswoman did not move, but smiled sadly. Lysandra saw that her cheeks were damp with tears.
    There was no fear anymore, no pain. Just a sudden, infinite darkness.

IV
    â€˜I hate this country.’ Gaius Minervinus Valerian wiped his nose on his sleeve, resisting the urge to shiver as the bitter wind gusted about him. It was raining still. It rained constantly in this gods-forsaken place, and it was not even proper rain. It was a chilling, endless misty drizzle that seemed to be able to permeate through iron, leather, cloth, flesh and finally to the bone. Even his horse seemed offended that they were here.
    â€˜It is the ends of empire, Tribune.’
    Valerian stiffened as he recognised the pristine tone of his commander in chief, Cornelius Fuscus. The general nudged his horse to fall in line with his own despondent nag and chuckled, as if unaffected by the chill. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ Valerian said. ‘I was thinking aloud.’
    Fuscus leaned in closer for a moment. ‘Doesn’t do to moan in front of the lads, Valerian: carping is for rankers, not gentlemen.’
    â€˜Sir.’ Valerian responded.
    â€˜But,’ Fuscus squinted into the gloom, ‘if it’s any consolation to you, I feel the same way. Dacia is worse than Britannia, and that’s saying something. Gods awful climate there too.’
    â€˜I know, sir. I fought there alongside Sextus Julius Frontinus, my former sponsor.’
    â€˜Frontinus, yes. A fine soldier,’ Fuscus commented. ‘You’ve trod similar ground to this then. Look there... ’ The general pointed to the mist-shrouded mountains looming above the seemingly endless forest that flanked them. ‘I read that they had trouble in that sort of terrain in Siluria.’
    â€˜That’s so, general,’ Valerian nodded. ‘The natives were expert mountain fighters. But in the end, Frontinus – and Rome – triumphed. The result will be the same here too.’ Fuscus glanced at him, holding his gaze for a moment as though trying to ascertain if his statement was heartfelt or mere sycophancy.
    If he was honest with himself, Valerian knew it was a mixture of the two. But then, what did commanders expect? Total honesty was liable to get you into trouble. No wonder that military service was an essential stop on the road to political office. In his second stint in the military he was learning, once again, that one had to be adroit in communication with both superiors and subordinates and strive to remain popular with both.
    â€˜How far have we marched today?’
    Valerian knew that Fuscus was testing him. ‘Eighteen… twenty miles,’ he replied