Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)
Page 19
Lysandra refrained from commenting – she, after all, had lived in a cell for a number of months – which hardship she guessed none of them had endured. Instead, she eased past Kleandrias and led the way into ‘Taenarum’s finest’ – the heroically named Helen’s Palace.
It was dark inside, incense hanging heavily in the air to cover the smell of wine. There was a drinking area with tables and a small stage for bards; set back from this were a large number of booths, which offered privacy for conversation and other matters. Whores lounged about, and looked surprised at the early arrivals. A long bar separated customer from patron; a bored-looking ancient with a bald pate and long, iron grey hair about the sides and back. ‘Greetings, friends,’ he said, creaking into life as they approached him. He squinted. ‘Is that . . . Kleandrias?’
The big man smiled. ‘Yes, Philemon, it is.’
‘By the gods!’ Philemon reached for a krater of wine and banged it on the wooden counter. ‘It’s been a while, boy. I thought I’d never see you again.’ He poured them all a cup – himself included. ‘Hades or Croesus!’ he toasted.
‘Hades or Croesus!’ Kleandrias responded and drank his wine.
Lysandra and the others did likewise, mumbling the toast as well, strangers at a familiar meeting.
‘You’ll be needing rooms, then?’ Philemon eyed Lysandra and then Illeana. ‘Zeus, Hera and Athene,’ he said. ‘This one’s a looker. Your wife?’
‘No . . .’ Kleandrias began, but that was all Philemon needed to hear.
‘I could make you a fortune, girl,’ the innkeeper informed Illeana – who Lysandra knew to be one of the richest women in Rome. Despite herself, she felt a little affronted that Philemon had given her no more than a passing glance. ‘Men would pay gold to be with you,’ the innkeeper added.
Illeana laughed, instantly disarming him. ‘They already have,’ she said.
‘Ahhh,’ Philemon nodded sagely. ‘This your servant,’ he jerked his chin at Lysandra. To either side, she saw Cappa and Murco wince.
‘Certainly not!’ she snapped. ‘We need rooms. Food. And less observation from you, old man.’
Philemon shook his head. ‘Spartan women, eh?’ he winked at Kleandrias. ‘You’re in luck,’ he added. ‘Season’s almost over as you can see, so we’re pretty empty. Rooms a-plenty. Are you sharing?’
‘No,’ Murco said.
Cappa looked surprised. ‘You’re paying for your own room?’
‘If it’s a choice between that and chewing on your farts, I’ll pay.’
‘We’re not sharing,’ Lysandra interjected. ‘Rooms for all of us.
See to it, Kleandrias. And . . .’ she rounded on Philemon. ‘Food, as I said. Wine.’ She stalked off, annoyed, looking for a booth that would accommodate them, Cappa and Murco in tow.
As was their wont, they made her sit first so they would be on the outside to protect her – and she noted Illeana’s amusement as the gladiatrix joined them with Kleandrias. ‘So,’ Lysandra said. ‘This place seems deserted. There are no men here.’
‘The men will come into town at night,’ Kleandrias said. ‘For now, they will be on the Field of Ares – drilling, idling and hoping.’
‘Hoping?’ Illeana asked.
‘Aye, hoping that they will get a contract.’
‘Even now? You said that the fighting season is well underway?’
‘Yes, but you can always rely on the Parthians – killing each other isn’t seasonal for them, so there’s always a chance a prince or lordling will want to hire on men for a spot of dynastic murder.’
‘How do we hire men?’ Lysandra asked.
‘Just go to the Field.’ Kleandrias nodded his thanks as Philemon and a slave brought their food. ‘It is like buying slaves,’ he expanded.
‘You view the merchandise, decide what you like and then you haggle. And at this time of year, we will get a good deal.’
‘It seems all too easy,’ Lysandra said.
‘That is because it is easy. The Romans need mercenaries too – specialists for jobs they do not excel at.’
‘Name one,’ Cappa snorted.
‘Cavalry,’ Kleandrias stuffed a piece of flatbread into his mouth and chewed, evidently enjoying Cappa’s expression of outrage. ‘Light infantry, archers . . .’
‘They’re all auxiliary jobs,’ Murco said. ‘It’s not really proper soldiering is it?’
‘If you say so.’ Lysandra decided to end the bickering before it started. ‘Finish up. We will go to the Field of Ares and be about our business, then.’
‘As you say,’ Kleandrias acquiesced.
Sarmatia
They moved. Slowly, inexorably, a vast sea of humanity creeping over the endless sea of grass that was the plains. The sun was not too hot – bright enough to warm the skin and make the day pleasant. Behind them were the old, the too young, the hunters and gatherers, all those who were needed for this fight, yet would not be part of it.
Sorina felt more at peace than she had done in many years. This was the life she had left behind so long ago, the life that the Romans stole from her. Even after she had returned home after her years as their slave, things had changed in Dacia. Decabalus had united many of the tribes under his banner, villages were becoming towns, towns had grown into cities and only those on the fringes of his rule still lived the old ways. Even his soldiers now drilled and practised the Roman way of war.
It was, Sorina knew, the only way to beat them. But here, as she rode free, she wondered if in destroying Rome they would recast themselves in its image? She looked to her left and Amagê caught her eye; the Clan Chief smiled and winked at her as though she somehow had instigated all this and Sorina was a piece in her game of latrunculi and not the other way around.
Sorina forced herself to smile back, but her deceit – no, her betrayal – eroded her heart. Her conscience told her that to cull the tribes that had proven resistant to Decabalus’s rule was wrong. These people – Sarmatians, Getae, Scythians and the few Northern Dacians – were all that were left of her way of life. Yet, Rome could not be defeated without them and nor could they win without the guiding hand of Decabalus. The tribes had tried before – many times – and failed.
Only Decabalus had met them in open battle – five legions – and destroyed them. Sorina recalled the day in stark relief, its images bright in her memory. For all their vaunted discipline and training, their superior arms and armour, the Romans were bested, defeated by their own arrogance and their own weakness. She had seen them – men who were killers and rapists – stall when faced suddenly by a woman with a sword. She had cut them down herself, payment for their vacillation. She had seen too, that they could not compre hend how they – the barbarians – had adapted and did not fight in the way they were expected to. They did not simply rush onto their spears and die, as Lysandra had once goaded her.
Lysandra.
Sorina wondered what had become of the Spartan. Dead, she hoped or living in squalid misery, suffering as she had made Sorina suffer. No punishment was too harsh for the arrogant sow. But in her heart, Sorina knew that her wishes were simply those – wishes. Lysandra was a civilised woman – she had impressed this enough times at Balbus’s ludus. She knew their ways, how to make her lowly status work for her. Lysandra of Sparta was doubly a whore – a whore in the arena and a whore for the civilised ways. The truth of it was that Lysandra probably lived in the lap of luxury and laughed herself to sleep each night at the fate of Sorina.
Sorina prayed to the Great Mother that some day there might be a reckoning. She swept her gaze over the great host of plains-people. Countless thousands here; more with Decabalus. They would crush the Romans and the gates of Lysandra’s beloved Greece would be flung open. They would descend on her homeland and ravage it, burn the temples of her Goddess Athene and make her people suffer. Men would die. Women would be raped and children would be made slaves – a consummate revenge on both Sparta and Rome’s empire. But it would not stop there, she knew.
Their world, she realised, was coming to an end. The empire would fall, as all empires must. She wondered if Rome would be the last empire the world would ever know. That would be the greatest gift she and these people could give to the Great Mother: to eradicate the stain of ‘civilisation’ from the earth and return it to its free and natural state.
Or would Decabalus think to make himself emperor? Would he replace Domitian as king of the world and turn Dacia into Rome? No, she told herself at once. That would not happen. She would not allow it to happen. She served Decabalus because he was the bringer of doom to the Romans. He had the vision and the power to make her dream real. But she would kill him if he took on the Roman purple.
‘Thinking black thoughts?’
Amagê’s voice snapped Sorina from her reverie.
‘You read me easily, Amagê. When we first met, I thought you had the magic.’
‘I do,’ Amagê laughed. How else do you think I manage to keep these people from each other’s throats?’
‘Can you read minds?’ Sorina kept her voice neutral, but her heart hammered in her chest. If what she said was true, Amagê would know that her mission was half-truth-half-lie. And the tribes-people of the north were not famed for ending the lives of traitors quickly.
‘In a way,’ Amagê admitted. Sorina tried to look away, but something compelled her to meet the eye of the younger woman. ‘More like I can see what is in someone’s heart written on their face.’ She held Sorina’s gaze for a long time and the Dacian could find no words worth saying. Amagê reached out and put her hand on Sorina’s shoulder. ‘The cares of the world seem to rest here, Sorina. There are some things that you cannot control and for which you are not responsible. People make decisions for all kinds of reasons – sometimes they are obvious, other times they are not so. It is the way of things.’
‘As you say,’ Sorina agreed. She looked away to see Teuta watching them. Her lover’s face was taut with jealousy. And a resigned bitterness.
Amagê noticed it too and her hand slipped away from her shoulder.
‘You see,’ she said to Sorina, her eyes flicking to Teuta. ‘The magic isn’t so hard, is it? Can you read her thoughts now?’
‘She’s young, like you. I think she is tiring of me.’
‘She is young, yes. But not like me. There’s no one like me.’
The Clan Chief steered her horse away without further comment, leaving Sorina behind her. Sorina turned her eyes to Teuta and shrugged; doubtless there would be words tonight.
Taenarum, Laconia
Kleandrias led the way and, Lysandra thought, he was rather enjoying his role as expert on all things Taenarum. He was, in some ways, very similar to Titus with his love of storytelling with an inference on his own military prowess; even now, as they travelled towards the mercenary encampment, he was regaling all of them with another tale of his adventures.
As he talked, she wrapped her war-cloak closer about herself and her mind drifted back to the temple again. Her recent experience there dominated her thoughts, blackening her mood and giving her a craving for drink, which she had long believed to be under control. She pushed it aside: it was under control. She need only be aware of it.
She did not need the Priestesses of the Temple, but she could not deny that they would have been a worthy addition to her forces. But the Matriarch’s betrayal had stung her. Even if the old woman was at the end of her sanity, Lysandra was surprised that Athene had not provided her the wisdom and foresight to welcome her back. Perhaps some people were beyond even the help of the gods.
They left the town and rode for some time along a well-maintained road; to either side of them the land was bare but not barren. Winter was approaching fast, but Taenarum seemed to be none the worse for it.
‘This is a rich town,’ Kleandrias told her when she brought it up.
‘I’ve never met a bunch of soldiers that kept their surroundings in such good nick,’ Cappa said. ‘Usually, it’s a free-for-all.’
‘Usually,’ Kleandrias agreed. ‘But this is not an army on the march or on campaign. Indeed, it is not an army at all, but more a collection of specialist companies – and they rely on the port and supplies it brings. Tearing up the countryside would bring down the wrath of not only the Romans but also their fellow swords-for-hire.’
‘Don’t shit on your own doorstep?’ Murco offered.
‘A singularly disgusting if accurate appraisal,’ Lysandra muttered, causing Murco to flush with embarrassment.
Further comment was cut short as the ground beneath them trembled. The horses bucked and skittered, eyes rolling as Lysandra and the others wrestled for control of their mounts. For a moment it was still – and then again came another tremor – this time, greatly diminished.
‘This Earthshaker of yours seems active,’ Illeana said. ‘Sea gods should stick to the sea.’
‘And mortals should not speak ill of the gods,’ Lysandra snapped.
Illeana irritated her further by mouthing her words back at her and pulling a sour expression.
‘Let us move on,’ Kleandrias interjected.
The encampment was huge.
It sat in a valley through which ran a fast flowing river – ideally placed for sanitation and fresh water. It was set out like a Roman marching camp, yet had no ditch and rampart. Blocks of semi-permanentquarters were arrayed in the correct order and from her vantage point Lysandra could see men making their way about the camp. Beyond was a wide, open field – here, she assumed, the men practised their drill, though none were abroad at this time.
‘Impressive,’ Illeana said. ‘I like the way it’s all in blocks.’
‘It’s standard,’ Cappa informed her. ‘All camps look the same.’
They steered their mounts down into the valley. There were no guards, but they were met as they approached by a stocky Hellene who wore a satchel around his shoulder.
‘All right, lads,’ he addressed Kleandrias, Cappa and Murco, not deigning even to give Lysandra and Illeana more than an appreciative glance. ‘You here for work or to hire?’ Lysandra recognised the Corinthian accent at once, bringing Thebe to her mind.
‘To hire,’ Kleandrias said.
‘You’ve left it late in the day.’
‘We are aware of that,’ Lysandra broke in. ‘Where can we stable our horses?’ The Corinthian looked at her as though it was her horse that had spoken. ‘Speak, man!’ she barked, irritated at his hesitation. She expected it of course, but it still exasperated beyond reason that outside of Sparta, men could accept women as equals.
‘Wind in your mouth, bitch,’ the Corinthian said. ‘You ought to give her a beating, lads. The fit one knows her place at least.’ He gave Illeana a black-toothed grin.
‘The horses?’ Kleandrias asked.
‘Leave ’em with me,’ the Corinthian said, reaching into his satchel. ‘You don’t think I’m hanging around here for the good of my health, do you? Here,’ he handed Kleandrias a token from the bag. ‘Collect them from me, back here . . . I’ll bill you – it’s five sesterces a day, mind. Each.’
‘Twenty-five?’ Kleandrias raised an eyebrow. ‘I am not sure that is right, friend.’
‘I’m not your friend, I’m the stable master,’ the Corinthian thrust his chest out. ‘Come back in the summer if you want cheaper rates. How do you think I pay for fresh hay and feed, eh? You
think the farmers around here give a shit? Give us lot lower rates because there’s no custom at this time of year? No, they bloody don’t . . .’
‘All right,’ Kleandrias cut him off. ‘Twenty-five.’
‘You want to keep those women close,’ the Corinthian advised. ‘The men are well behaved for the most part, but there’s always someone who can cause you trouble.’
Lysandra lifted her war-cloak to show him her sword. ‘We can take care of ourselves.’
The Corinthian’s eyes widened. ‘Sword dancers, eh? I saw that in Persia. Are you doing a show later?’
‘If you’re lucky,’ Illeana purred, at once mesmerising the irritating lout. There was a part of Lysandra that was becoming a little jealous of the Roman woman’s apparent power over all and sundry. Probably, she reasoned, because Illeana had a similar effect on her.
‘He could be right, though,’ Cappa said to Lysandra as they moved into the encampment proper. ‘Maybe we ought to rethink this – let me, Murco and Kleandrias handle the signing on bit. You two are already attracting attention,’ he indicated a group of men who watched them go by, their expressions amused.
‘We shall have to get used to it, Cappa,’ Lysandra said. ‘All of us. The men we take on will be facing women in battle. They will be fighting alongside women in battle.’
‘It sounds pretty liberal to me,’ Murco observed.
‘That’s because it is,’ Illeana said. ‘Besides – I’ll lay you any money that there’s not one man here who could match me – or Lysandra – with a sword.’
‘Well, there is that,’ Murco conceded.
‘So how does this work?’ Lysandra wanted to know. ‘Do we just put up a sign saying “swords wanted” and wait?’
‘No, no,’ Kleandrias replied, the irony clearly lost on him. ‘There is an office at the centre of the camp – the praetorium of this encampment. We go there, speak to the officer-on-duty, tell him the details of the job . . . then we wait.’
They continued on, Kleandrias leading, Cappa and Murco flanking herself and Illeana – and they were attracting attention from the men billeted in the encampment – most stared and some shouted out predictably crude comments, but there was no untoward behaviour and their journey to the praetorium was otherwise uneventful.