Her home, she surmised. She remembered fragments of their conversation the previous evening: Lysandra deigned not to visit her parents as the Matriarch had gone further than simply casting her out of their sisterhood. She had cast Lysandra out of Spartan society and whilst Lysandra herself seemed to think that the Matriarch had no right to do this, she feared that it would shame her family and no amount of cajoling would move her.
Illeana’s horse grunted beneath her, tossing its head and nearly throwing her from the saddle. The other mounts too were suddenly skittish, all rolled eyes and gritted teeth.
The ground beneath them began to tremble – it was slight, but still frightening and disorienting. Illeana gripped her horse’s reigns, afraid and unsure.
‘We should dismount,’ Kleandrias advised, swinging his leg over his horse’s head and dropping to the ground. ‘Poseidon is angry,’ he added as they followed suit. ‘The Earthshaker is abroad in Sparta.’
‘An earthquake?’ Murco asked, fearful.
‘Aye,’ Kleandrias said. ‘We have them often – small tremors only, Murco.’
‘Sometimes not,’ Lysandra put in. ‘In times past, Poseidon has struck hard.’
‘But we should be away anyway,’ Cappa urged, not willing to show that he too was as spooked as the horses – and Murco, of course.
They walked away from the city of Lysandra’s birth. No one said it, but Illeana could not help but think that first Lysandra’s expulsion from her temple and now an earth tremor were bad omens for their forthcoming expedition. She frowned and pushed the thoughts aside – it was best to leave the religion and augury to Lysandra who believed in such things.
The Deiopolis, Asia Minor
Telemachus was tired. But that was nothing new these days.
Preparations for Lysandra’s campaign continued to gather pace; it was as though they had pushed a massive boulder from a cliff top, momentum built on momentum. It was all he could do to keep up with everything and, as such, he rose early and slept late.
The Deiopolis was a hive of activity, alive with the sound of construction, saw on wood, the hiss of the forge and the music of the blacksmith’s hammer. It was no secret that Lysandra was beloved of Athene – but Telemachus could not help but think that the lame god, Hephaestus, would be looking down from Olympus and smiling on them.
As Titus had pointed out months before, the Deiopolis had everything that was required for a military campaign in terms of skills. The cottage industries that had once turned a profit for the running of the place were now applied to the logistics of war.
He strolled past a team of women straining to package up yet another ballista – an artillery piece that could fire iron tipped bolts as thick as a man’s thumb over huge distances. He had seen them tested on the plains outside the temple and the sight had sent shivers down his spine as he imagined the reality of hundreds of bolts streaking towards their enemies. The effect would be devastating.
Not that that was something Telemachus wanted to dwell upon. Unlike Titus or even Thebe, he had never held a sword, never thrust iron into another’s body and felt their lifeblood gush out over him. He looked over again at the women – girls really – hoisting their prefabricated kit onto a waiting cart and realised that soon they could lie dead or dying in some cold field in Dacia.
He turned his head away – it was easier to think of the numbers, to bury his head in the logistics of it and not dwell on what he was a part of. Besides, the alternative was worse: if the Romans and Lysandra failed, the horrors that would be unleashed on the civilised world would be the stuff of nightmares – Tartarus made real on earth. The barbarians would show no mercy and revel in destruction for destruction’s sake. Everything that the Hellenes and Romans had built over hundreds of years would be torn down, to be replaced by a bloody anarchy where the only law was that of the sword.
The women were looking at him, bemused, and Telemachus realised he was staring. ‘Good work,’ he said, offering a smile and a wave. They responded in kind, their expressions still somewhat mystified. He made off quickly, ears reddening in embarrassment and made his way to the walls, climbing the steps that led to the ramparts.
Below on the plains, Thebe was working with her troops, their booted feet kicking up dust in great plumes. Even from here, he could hear shrieks of laughter and curses in equal measure as they marched up and down to the shrill sound of pipes. There were over two thousand of them out there; as he had predicted, the lure of money, land and citizenship was enticement enough for these women. What else, he wondered, had life offered them. Life in the Deiopolis was good – those that chose to leave and not found happiness beyond the walls must have welcomed the chance to serve again – despite the risks. Besides – most, if not all of them, had seen battle before, even if it had only been the spectacle laid on for Domitian’s birthday. Thebe and Titus had argued about that but Telemachus had agreed with the former gladiatrix – it was all real enough when the dying started.
Thebe rode up and down the line of the ‘legion’, a close eye on the dust-coated women who cursed the heat and her relentless drill and equal measures. But drill, she knew, would save lives. She was not Lysandra – she could not inspire them, tell them tales of the goddess to make them believe they were invincible. But she knew how to train women for battle.
Thebe glanced up at the ramparts of the Deiopolis and spied Telemachus. She lifted her hand in greeting and the priest responded in kind; Thebe liked the Athenian – he had been a rock for Lysandra in a way she could not be, their shared devotion to the goddess giving them a common ground.
A crash and shrill cursing dragged her attention back to the drill. Helena, a lochagos – a line commander – was berating one of her troop who had fallen over her own feet and thereby thrown the whole section into disarray. In battle, it would be different: the formation would just keep moving forward and the girl would either have to get up or be trampled on; that was the harsh reality of battle.
Lysandra’s instructions had been typically detailed. She wanted her veterans to fight as they had been trained for years, armed with short sword and secutrix shield – smaller than the legionary’s scutum, which was designed for a man’s strength. Otherwise, her infantry was similar enough to legionaries in kit and formation, but they would be supported by elite hypaspistai – heavier armoured troops modelled after Lysandra’s beloved Spartan phalanx. Backing up the heavy infantry were large numbers of lightly armed troops – archers and slingers mostly, trained by the taciturn and demanding Priestesses of Artemis – who, it seemed to Thebe, hated everybody.
Arms and armour had been procured from the Romans – and it was hit and miss surplus that was of inferior quality and had to be repaired before it was fit for battle. It was fortunate, she thought, that they had the resources at the Deiopolis to deal with this issue or the girls would be sent to fight without the right kit – tempting disaster.
What had surprised both Thebe and Titus was the massive amount of artillery Lysandra had ordered constructed. Onagers, the huge, heavy catapults; the bolt-throwing ballistas; their lighter, more mobile cousins, the scorpions, together with the archers and slingers gave Lysandra an impressive missile force.
Her eyes flicked across the field to where Titus was directing yet another barrage from the artillery. The women under his charge were becoming extremely proficient – she remembered from her days as a gladiatrix that ‘the centurion’ had no end to his patience for drill. She had learned this from him – the key to survival was endless repetition.
Thebe turned her attention back to the marching gladiatrices, holding a whistle to her lips. Three short blasts – the order to charge – was taken up by the pipers and the line lurched forward, the shouts of the lochagoi mingling with the laboured breathing of the troops. She gave them a hard run before ordering the light infantry to rush in and cover their flanks.
This was an innovation of Lysandra’s. Conventional wisdom dictated that though heavy infantry were effective
when grinding forward, they could become easy prey if their formation was broken up by enemy troops. But few soldiers had fought in the arena. The women of the Deiopolis had drilled as a team – but each of them was lethal at close quarters when fighting as an individual. All had the small shield of Thraex slung about their shoulders and were armed with the gladius. It would be a nasty surprise for the Dacians if they thought the fight was over if they got in amongst them.
The light troops sprinted into position and assumed good order in reasonable time. Thebe smiled. They would all be ready to fight in Ares’s arena soon.
Taenarum, Laconia
Lysandra leant on the bow of the Galene and stared out at the coast of Laconia. She had tried to put the disappointment of the temple behind her, but the incident stayed with her, troubling her waking hours and haunting her sleep.
She still seethed with the injustice of it. How dare the Matriarch cast her out! And mark her a xenos – a foreigner – to boot. The old woman’s word may carry weight in Sparta, but she could not take that away from Lysandra. She recalled her darkest days in Balbus’s ludus when she felt unworthy of her sisterhood and her polis. It was not, she realised, for the Matriarch to take that away from her – only Lysandra could decide if Lysandra was worthy of calling herself Spartan. In the ease with which she had defeated Deianara, Athene had shown them that Lysandra had the right of it.
And, she thought bitterly, to make her fight her childhood friend was vindictive cruelty on the part of the Matriarch. It could have been any of them – even Halkyone, but no – Deianara had been chosen to spite her.
Bedros approached her – a little fearfully, she noted. She forced herself to smile, banishing her grim expression for a moment. ‘Are we close?’ she asked.
‘Aye, I came to tell you that,’ he said. ‘I think we’ll beach tonight and get to Taenarum tomorrow. Early.’
‘Good. Saturnalia fast approaches and I must have everything in order. Speaking of which . . . have you furthered my additional request?’
Bedros tapped his nose. ‘Your instructions were to keep it as quiet as possible. Which is not easy when you’re talking to sailors. But never fear – I have arranged everything – as discreetly as I could.’
This was a matter she had written to him about in the utmost secrecy. She had not even confided in Kleandrias so desperate was she to keep this part of her mission concealed. ‘I hope so, Bedros,’ she said. ‘Everything depends on this.’
The usually bluff sailor sobered. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken only to men that I trust. You will have what you need.’
‘What do you need?’ Illeana – obviously bored – had drifted in and caught part of their conversation.
‘Just things for our mission,’ Lysandra tried to sound blasé.
Illeana’s arched eyebrow told her how effective her attempt had been. ‘What things?’
‘Just things.’
Bedros just shook his head and made off, leaving them to it.
‘I thought you said that it was important for me to know about tactics.’ Illeana actually pouted her over-plump lips, her forehead creasing in a petulant frown.
‘It is,’ Lysandra soothed. ‘This is strategy. Totally different. You do not need to worry about the details,’ she went on. ‘There is enough for you to learn as it is.’
‘Yes, about that . . .’ Illeana said. ‘I’ve read your notes. I’m sure that everything you say in them is right. But I will be honest with you, Lysandra – I don’t really understand any of it.’
Lysandra frowned. ‘How could you not? It is perfectly clear.’
Illeana chuckled. ‘To you, maybe. Some people are leaders – you are. I have to say I don’t know why, but people follow you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lysandra was almost affronted.
Illeana stepped closer and Lysandra felt the magic of Aphrodite about her, distracting her, filling her senses. ‘You’re rude. Arrogant. Terse. And intolerant. Yet those men,’ she flicked her eyes to Cappa, Murco and Kleandrias who were arguing about something or another, ‘would die for you.’
‘It is because I live the Spartan way,’ Lysandra huffed.
‘Maybe,’ Illeana said. ‘But it seems to me that not even the Spartans live the Spartan way anymore.’
Lysandra opened her mouth, but the words died on her lips. Illeana was right in some respects. Sparta itself was no longer the warrior state with its agoge and invincible warriors. Despite the fact that it had never been conquered by the Romans, it was – to all intents and purposes – a small Roman town with Roman laws. ‘They do in the Temple of Athene,’ she said after a time.
‘And yet they say you are no longer one of them, no longer a Spartan?’
‘That is the right of the Matriarch,’ Lysandra gritted. ‘I feel it is unjust, of course. And I will say to you now, Illeana, that she cannot take away my birthright. She can cast me out of the temple, but being Spartan . . . no, that is mine. Not hers. I serve Athene – the goddess herself.’
She felt the goddess on her, cutting through Aphrodite’s veil. ‘The Matriarch is wrong. I am right. I cursed her – and she will die knowing that Lysandra of Sparta went to war and did not shame herself, that she fought in the defence of Hellas. I offered her a chance for glory and greatness and she spat in my face!’ Lysandra waved a dismissive hand. ‘Then so be it – Sparta will be on the battlefield. In me and Kleandrias. I will win because my way is the true Spartan way, the way that trusts in the gods.
‘You say that I’m vain . . . arrogant, was it? You are not the first to say so, Illeana, nor will you be the last. But my conviction comes from my trust in Athene and I will walk her path – no matter how steep. I will win without the Spartans and prove to the Matriarch that I did it with lesser peoples.’
Illeana smiled at her then. ‘So now I know why they follow you.’ She leant forward and her lips brushed Lysandra’s in a kiss that was not altogether sisterly but nor was it one of passion. She turned and walked away as Lysandra gaped after her. The Roman looked back over her shoulder and smiled. ‘I’m teasing you, Lysandra,’ she said.
Lysandra blushed and turned her eyes to the sea, finding that after the exchange, her mood was lighter and her thoughts calm. Illeana had that effect on her, she realised. Perhaps it was the spell of Aphrodite, she thought, protecting her favourite. Lysandra reminded herself that she and Illeana had a bargain concerning a rematch – and she could not forget that. But with Illeana’s kiss still tingling on her lips, the prospect of facing her with a sword in her hand was somehow less appealing.
The noon sky was grim, Helios well withdrawn behind a veil of grey clouds as the Galene docked at Taenarum’s harbour, named for the hero Achilles, which Lysandra counted a good omen, given her arena name. The Galene one of only a few vessels on the waterfront and the wharf hosted none of the chaos Lysandra had seen at Brundisium.
‘Fighting season is well under way,’ Kleandrias commented, indicating the other vessels. The best men will be hired already. But there are always mercenaries looking for work.’
‘I am sure we can make good with what we will find here,’ she replied. ‘I will be counting on you, Kleandrias. You know this place.’
The warrior gazed at her, his eyes softening. ‘It gladdens my heart to be of service.’
Lysandra smiled, pleased that he clearly understood the importance of the task and the pivotal role she would play. Of course, Kleandrias knew that the Matriarch had named her as xenos and, as a Spartan, he had the right to look down on her now. But it was a testament to the man that he saw through the old woman’s falsehoods. ‘We should find lodgings, then,’ she said. ‘It is early still and we can make a start.’
‘That would be best, yes,’ Kleandrias agreed. ‘The nights here tend to be bawdy and not a place for ladies of quality.’
‘You mean that whores will be abroad.’
Kleandrias coloured. ‘Well . . . yes.’
‘Some would say that a gladiatrix is th
e lowest whore of all,’ Lysandra shrugged. It was true – she had heard so many obscene suggestions thrown at her from the stands that she rather felt she was an expert on the subject of all things carnal. Even if it had been a while.
‘Then I would strike that person down for his insult,’ Kleandrias was vehement. ‘No man – no one – will insult you while I live.’
‘Then it would be best if you did not attend my next match, Kleandrias. Or else you might have to kill the entire Flavian Amphitheatre.’
He knew she was teasing him. ‘Spartans do not ask how many,’ he quoted King Agis, ‘but where they are.’
This made Lysandra laugh – she was now the one being chided as this was precisely the kind of answer she often gave.
‘You should laugh more often.’ Kleandrias looked as though he was going to add something else but stilled his tongue. ‘We should be about it, then,’ he finished.
Lysandra nodded. There was work to be done.
Taenarum was unlike anything Lysandra had seen before. It was a small town with squat buildings, narrow streets and stench that outranked even Rome’s epic foulness. Bedros and his crew had departed already – headed straight for a dive they knew well, leaving Lysandra and her companions to find lodgings in what Kleandrias optimistically referred to as ‘the better side of town’.
Despite the fact that the streets were all but deserted, he, Cappa and Murco formed a protective cordon around her and Illeana and Lysandra could tell by the look on the beautiful Roman’s face that she was less than impressed by their machismo – especially as they were all armed. This garnered some looks from what few passers-by there were – a woman with a sword was something rare.
Kleandrias stopped outside an inn. ‘This is the most expensive place in Taenarum.’
‘This?’ Illeana affronted. ‘This is a hovel.’
‘This ain’t Rome,’ Murco said.
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 18