Fortuna's Champion

Fortuna [was] the Roman goddess of fortune,
and one of the most fervently worshipped
deities of the Roman pantheon.
The favour of Fortuna mattered tremendously
to politicians and generals.

Colleen McCullough, "The First Man In Rome"

Athena shook her head, in that irritatingly patronising way of hers. "I thought you'd grown past all that, Ares." The looped braids that decorated her golden helmet bounced with every move of her head and the shine on her armour put Hera's best cutlery to shame.

Ares grimaced. "Are you here to lecture me on my personal growth?"

The two of them were seated at a corner of the long table in the main dining hall on Olympus. After the gossip and clamour of the 'quiet family dinner', the empty room reminded Ares of a marble-and-gold crypt of ridiculous proportions. He much preferred it this way.

Athena drummed her fingers on the tabletop and tried again. "Livia is good, even very good. But she's not great. You know that. I know that. So who do you think you're kidding?"

"See, that's the best part. She doesn't need to be great."

Athena looked at him in disbelief. "You'd pledge your support to a run-of-the-mill mortal?"

Ares' eyes widened in mock horror. "What, and intrude on your territory? I don't think so. I've seen your new champion," he went on conversationally, "Ilainus of Mycenae. Interesting proportions – she certainly needs all the support she can get."

Athena pressed her lips together. "Much as I love your talent for innuendo, Brother, it's your other talents I'm concerned about. Starting senseless wars, for example."

Ares drew his dagger and ran a fingertip along the blade. "You're missing the point, Sis. This war wouldn't be just another bloodbath."

"More like a whole bathing pool." Athena shook her head. "Besides, whatever happened to your other 'champion'? Varia, the Amazon queen-in-waiting? You keep telling me you don't play favourites, Ares."

"I don't. Varia's not great either."

Ares rather enjoyed watching his sister's sceptical expression dissolve into incomprehension. He returned the dagger to his belt and stretched in his seat.

"There hasn't been a really good battle for years. Livia can give me that – and so can Varia. Rome goes up against the Amazons, or the Amazons rise up against Rome" – he shrugged. "Either way, I win. And who knows, once the dust settles, maybe I'll end up with a great champion after all."

"Ares." His sister's voice became softer, the mocking self-importance in her pale blue eyes replaced by something like sympathy. "Don't try to look for another Xena. It won't work."

Ares flinched. Hearing that name, its particular combination of sounds, ripped into the empty spot inside him and poked around, searching for something he'd never had. It was none of Athena's business, anyway.

"Xena's dead," he said almost easily. "I'm moving with the times. Livia wants to fight for Rome, Varia wants to fight against it – can't say I see the appeal, but hey, a fight's a fight."

"Xena hated Rome."

"Xena is dead," Ares repeated.

Athena smiled slightly, without humour. "You want to pretend you don't give a damn – go right ahead. I'll even pretend to believe you." She rose to her feet, the gold baubles on her helmet clinking together. "But you know as well as I do that when the dust settles, the only thing left behind will be dust. No great champions."

"I guess they just don't make 'em like they used to." Ares stood up as well. "Is there a point here somewhere?"

"Yes – which is more than can be said for this war."

"Think of it as recreational warfare."

"I'd rather not."

Ares shrugged. "In that case, you're going to have to find another way to occupy your time. I've got business in Rome." He had started to disappear when he heard Athena call out.

"Wait! What kind of business?"

Ares grinned, and fell back into the waiting aether – "A triumph."

* * *

The square in front of the imperial palace was alive with people – thousands upon thousands of faces, a humming, merry crowd. People jostled on either side of the rope barriers, new arrivals trying to press into an already full square from the surrounding streets, eager for a glimpse of the action. Guards prodded and pushed them back, but without hostility; they, too, were in a remarkably good mood today. Rome loved a celebration – and what better celebration could there be than the triumph of a Roman general?

At last, the noise abated, and the guards managed to force the crowd back from the barriers, carving an undulating alley in the centre of the square. Those fortunate enough to have found themselves with an unobstructed view had to fight off the less lucky spectators.

"Get your fat carcass back!" panted a sandy-haired man, trying to hold on to his toga with his left hand, while thrusting his free right elbow into the heaving mass of humanity that threatened to knock him into the point of a guard's spear.

"Nice... nice way to ... greet a fellow old legionary, Gaius Pompeius!" wheezed another man behind him.

The sandy-haired man turned his head, recognising the voice. "Jupiter! I don't believe it!" He reached back and pulled his friend from the crowd, struggling to keep his balance against the rope barrier. "Marcus Sergius!" He gripped the man's forearm in a soldier's greeting, "You dried-up old fart! Where've you been all these years?"

Marcus Sergius' dark craggy face came alight with a grin, made lopsided by a scar running along one cheek to his earlobe. "Now that's more like it! Out and about, provinces mostly," he said, still wheezing. "Business." He followed his friend's example and clung to the rope barrier, bracing himself against the onslaught of spectators behind them. "It is good to see you again, Gaius. How long has it been? Seven years? Eight?"

"Twelve summers since our last campaign."

"That long?" Marcus shook his head. "Damned if I know where the time went." The two men craned their necks to look back along the long gap in the crowd. "I see you've got more grey in your hair than old Octavius himself," Marcus grinned.

Gaius shrugged dismissively. "Augustus, he calls himself these days, and if a bit o'grey hair's all right for the Emperor of all Rome, what's an old soldier to complain?

Marcus began to reply, but the shrill sound of trumpets drowned him out. This was followed by a growing rumble in the crowd and, finally, an explosion of cheers as a detachment of mounted guards appeared, the red plumes of their helmets swaying in time with their horses' steps. But it was not them the crowd was cheering.

At the head of the lavish procession rode a young woman on a glorious white stallion. A general's thin red sash was knotted above her waist, her cuirass blazing in the sunlight with cold fire. Long strands of brown hair flashed gold as they caught the reflected glint. The haughty tilt of her chin and the challenge in her eyes emphasised her youth, but dared anyone to judge her by it.

"There she is!" cried Marcus, and indeed, at the sight of the young woman, the crowd went wild. Screams and cries of adulation thundered through the air, incomprehensible at first, then resolving into "Livia! Champion of Rome!!" and "Fortuna's blessing!"

"Some blessing," Marcus lamented fondly, a proud smile on his scarred face as Livia and her guard rode sedately towards the Imperial palace. "Little horror of a brat if you ask me – and I ought to know!"

"Ah, stop your posturing." Gaius' own eyes were taking in the procession just as eagerly. "You haven't seen the girl since she was sixteen!"

"True, and I hear her parents' house has been blissfully quiet ever since. Blessing, indeed! Fair like a Fury, drove us all to distraction with her temper."

"Hush your scarred mouth, you old heretic," laughed Gaius, "you'll piss off Fortuna – and even a stupid hulk like you may yet have use for the Goddess of Luck!"

Marcus laughed uproariously. "If anyone can deal with my Livia, it must be Fortuna herself! No wonder the girl toppled off that cliff unscarred – even Pluto didn't want her in the Underworld!"

Gaius shook his head in grudging admiration. "Nine years on the battlefield, Marcus my friend, and not a mark on her, they say. Well you may sneer, but the girl is charmed, and that's a fact."

"Oh, no argument from me," Marcus raised his voice to carry over another cheer that had erupted around them – the procession was now level with where the two men were standing. "Fell smack onto an old battlefield – if that's not a sign, I don't know what is."

Livia acknowledged the crowd with a curt nod, but her eyes did not leave the palace balcony just ahead. Straight-backed and solemn in her general's armour, majestic in the saddle of her mount, there was something about her that left no doubt in the mind of anyone watching – they were looking at the Champion of Rome, symbol of Fortuna's love for her people, the goddess's love for Rome. New waves of cheers swelled in the distance as the procession continued past, parading the spoils of the campaign: gold, Gaelic slaves, more gold. The chained prisoners were muscular, tall, fair – sullen and heavy-browed men and women who looked exactly the way a barbarian was supposed to look to the fascinated eyes of a Roman: Livia picked her trophies with care. The crowd loved it. Livia raised a hand to another thunderous cheer.

"Livia of Rome," Marcus Sergius said with a reverence that denied his earlier flippancy. "A true Livia, for all that she is not truly of Livian blood. She'll be Empress yet, mind my word, Gaius."

Gaius watched Livia's red-cloaked back for a moment, remembering the foundling baby he and Marcus had presented to their commander, Octavius, all those years ago. Even then, the girl had had a determined look about her. Empress?

"I don't doubt it," he said.

A hush fell over the crowd – up ahead, the purple curtains that concealed the palace balcony were opened.

"All hail Augustus Caesar, the divine Emperor!" screamed the guards, as a togate man wearing a laurel crown stepped up to the parapet. Below, Livia bowed her head a fraction, but continued looking at the Emperor. The throng in the square erupted once again in a deafening cheer – this time, for the Emperor.

Augustus held up his hands and the crowd subsided into silence.

"Once again, Fortuna has smiled upon her favourite!" His voice carried over the square, taken up into the distance by heralds, faithfully repeating the Emperor's every word. "She has smiled upon Rome! Rome is great, citizens – Rome is glorious! And her glory has been magnified a thousandfold by the woman before you – the chosen of Fortuna herself! Hail Livia – Fortuna's Champion and the protector of Rome! Livia!"

The crowd picked up the name and screamed it, while Livia remained where she was, not moving a muscle; only her face glowed with a satisfaction so private and fierce that even high on his balcony, Augustus felt its force with a shock of fearful pride. He looked down at her: so beautiful, so terrible, her barbarian eyes shining as though she truly was a goddess. She was his own tamed panther that was neither of those things – never tamed, and never, ever, his own. But that could be changed.

Augustus smiled down at his champion, trying to ignore the flutter in his heart at the predatory curl of her lips – those lips! – and made up his mind. Fortuna sent Livia to him, after all. It was high time to accept her gift.

He made a small gesture with one hand, all the while waving to the crowd with the other, his benevolent smile never faltering. "When the ceremony is finished, bring the general to my palace," he said without glancing in the direction of the servant who had appeared at his command. "I will be dining with the Champion of Rome tonight."

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