Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

Sorina found that hard to believe. And she was tired of the game. ‘Why am I here, Amagê?’

  ‘I rescued a sword-sister from a wayward lover and a cold night in the rain. You should be thanking me.’

  ‘And I do. I am in your debt. But you are wise beyond your years. You have the magic and you are Clan Chief of your tribe and others. Those that rule do not think and act as others do, nor do they do much without reason.’ Sorina swallowed and felt her eyebrows rise slowly as the narcotics began to swim through her system.

  ‘I do have the magic,’ Amagê admitted. ‘And the brew we have drunk helps me see things. Now we will see them together. And we will stop the game and share some truths.’

  Sorina wanted to back away – to flee even. But she could not. ‘What game?’ She blinked and puffed out her cheeks. ‘By the Mother, this is strong stuff.’ She gazed at Amagê, noting her slate grey eyes, her hair, shaved at the sides, the stubble and razor cuts on her scalp coming into sharp relief. She forced herself to concentrate. ‘What truths?’

  ‘Didn’t you just say that a Clan Chief does not think as others do? You come to us with talk of Decabalus. That our swords are needed to beat the Romans . . . and yet, we don’t rush to battle. There’s no urgency in our march. Why?’

  ‘You rule here, not I,’ Sorina hedged. ‘The tribes march at a pace you set.’

  ‘And you have not come to me and asked me to hasten. Do you want the Romans to arrive and be ready for us?’

  Sorina narrowed her eyes, hoping this would somehow disguise her thoughts. But Amagê was looking straight at her, peering into her heart. It was hard to think clearly – the narcotic was fast working and strong – and worse, she was not hardened to it. She could not tell Amagê everything. Nor could she lie outright. ‘Yes,’ she said at length. ‘We do want that. We want them all in one place where we can annihilate them. To do that, we must make them feel secure. Decabalus plans to draw them inland from the River Olt; force them to stretch their supply lines.

  ‘Decabalus knows they will have a rearguard – a single legion to hold us. Not because they underestimate us but because – after Tapae – it is all they can spare. If we give them time to dig in and feel secure, the Romans will believe they have the better of us. They are in for a shock,’ she smiled. ‘We are to destroy the rearguard and march to the rear of the main Roman army – as we did before. We will trap them between our forces . . .’ Sorina clapped her hands together sharply, making Amagê jump in shock. ‘And finish them.’

  Amagê started to laugh, obviously amused and embarrassed at her reaction to Sorina’s clap – a fact for which Sorina was grateful. She could feel the heaviness in the mood of the room lift. ‘You scared me like a child,’ Amagê admitted.

  ‘It seemed like the thing to do,’ Sorina grinned, hoping she had done enough to assuage Amagê’s line of questioning.

  ‘And what now is the thing to do?’

  ‘I want to see what dreams your potion gives me.’

  When Amagê leaned forward and kissed her it was a surprise. But with the drug now coursing through her system, Sorina felt her body betray her will and respond, a warmth flooding into her belly. Her mouth parted and Amagê’s tongue caressed hers; the Clan Chief leaned in, the cloak falling away from her body, revealing her heavy breasts, nipples already taut with lust. She bore down on Sorina, kissing her with a hot, eager intent, laying her back and pressing her to the ground.

  Sorina tried to rise and roll Amagê onto her back, but she resisted, continuing to kiss Sorina’s lips and neck, her tongue gliding lower till it found her breast. Amagê’s teeth played about her nipple, nipping and teasing it with agonising slowness. Sorina gasped in pleasure, unused to and thrilled by another woman taking the lead.

  Amagê was strong and urgent in her hunger; she sucked hard on Sorina’s nipple, drawing it into her mouth – and then bit hard on the sensitive teat. It hurt, the spike of pain a sharp contrast to the pleasure. Again, Sorina tried to regain control and again, Amagê denied her. She moved down Sorina’s body, her body hot and slick with sweat and Sorina opened her legs, eager and expectant.

  With Teuta it was different – she was soft, gentle and giving. But even in giving, Amagê took. Her lips and tongue explored Sorina’s lust soaked sex with madding intensity, drinking her in, enjoying her excitement even as Sorina cried and begged for more. Amagê put her hands at the back of Sorina’s knees and lifted her up, pushing her tongue into her anus. The drugs in her system coupled with this unknown and forbidden pleasure pushed Sorina close to the edge and Amagê must have felt her victory close at hand.

  Her palms slid down the back of Sorina’s legs to her waist and then she pushed her onto her knees; Sorina did not have time to draw breath as Amagê once again licked her, this time her fingers pushing in and out of her, exploring the most intimate parts of her – something she had not allowed Teuta to ever do.

  Amagê’s fingers pressed and teased her nub and Sorina heard herself moan, a low animal sound from the depths of her being and, like fire, the final ecstasy ripped through her with a shuddering, fierce intensity that she had never known. Her fists clenched the carpets beneath her, every tendon in her body taut with lust.

  With the fire still burning in her, Amagê gave her no respite. Her strong fingers gripped Sorina’s hair and pulled her towards her, forcing her head down to between her legs. Amagê was soaked with lust and Sorina was eager to taste her, desperate to satisfy her needs.

  And soon it was Amagê who cried out and begged for more.

  Ceramos, Asia Minor

  Despite all the training, the endless hours of weapons drill and callisthenics, nothing quite prepared the body for simply walking mile after mile weighed down by armour and kit.

  As the Heronai trudged across the sparse Carian landscape, Thebe recalled her first view of the place through the bars of the cage that had carried her to Balbus’s ludus. The brief recollection took her mind off the pain in her feet, the weight of the helmet on her head and the annoying pain under her arm as every so often her mail shirt pinched her skin.

  She should have listened to Titus; for once, the world-weary voice of experience was right and a horse would have been the better option. But the truth of it was that none of the women had horses aside from the pack animals that drew the supplies and thus, neither she – nor any of the commanders – would have them either. The good for morale and we must endure what they endure sounded fine back at the Deiopolis, but now, nearing the end of the first day of the march, she was sorely regretting her decision.

  On her right, at the front of the marching train, Titus forged on, pretending he wasn’t suffering. On her left, at least bereft of armour and weapons, Telemachus huffed and puffed, deigning not to curse, but instead keeping up a steady liturgy of complaining that at once amused and annoyed.

  ‘I’m thinking I need to check on the supplies,’ he said, waiting for Thebe to give him permission to take a break.

  ‘If you think it’s necessary,’ she replied. ‘Might take a while to get back up here, though.’ It was petty and pointless, but Titus got a laugh out of it and Telemachus did his best not to look like he was sulking.

  ‘We’ll need to call a halt soon enough,’ Titus offered the drowning man a spar. ‘It’s getting late in the day.’

  ‘This is nowhere near twenty miles,’ Thebe said.

  ‘Nearer twelve or thirteen,’ Titus agreed. ‘But that’s the way of it. These girls aren’t legionaries and they’re not used to this. Call an early halt and we’ll go for an extra mile or three tomorrow. Besides,’ he glanced at her, his grin laden with mischievous spite, ‘they still have to make the ditch and rampart.’

  That particular exercise had not endeared anyone to Titus. It took far longer to build the famed ‘marching camp’ in the field as they discovered and the ditch and ramparts had been completed by torchlight. Thebe felt for the women tasked with the backbreaking work of digging and piling the soil and felt that it was – while they were in
Caria at least – pointless. She said as much the following morning.

  ‘It’s not pointless,’ Titus informed her, his manner curt and professional when she challenged him on it. ‘They’ll thank me for it if we have to do it for real in hostile territory. Besides,’ he added. ‘It helps with cohesion – though they carp and complain, it builds morale. Nobody likes building a marching camp but, by the gods, it unites everyone in hatred of the bastards that made them do it. At least at first. After a time, it’s just another part of the day.’

  They were on a rise, watching as the Heronai got themselves together for the march; like everything else, it was taking much longer than anyone – Titus included, – had anticipated. ‘How are your feet?’ she asked Telemachus.

  ‘Amazingly, the swelling went down as soon as I took my boots off,’ he admitted.

  ‘That’ll change on the march,’ Titus advised him. ‘But at least the blisters will numb up when you keep walking on them.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ the priest muttered.

  ‘This is taking too long,’ Titus observed as a pack mule bolted; chaos ensued on the plain below as the animal careened through the mass of women and material, knocking both aside with impunity.

  Thebe recognised Helena’s voice from her vantage point, the file commander screeching at her charges to catch the mule – much to the hilarity of those that were watching on and, no doubt, offering less than helpful commentary. ‘What can we do to speed things up?’ Thebe asked Titus.

  ‘Not a lot,’ the centurion admitted. ‘The lochagoi will have to handle their own women,’ he went on. ‘The time for putting an arm around the shoulder or putting a boot up an arse is something you have to learn. There’s a lot more to this than just being able to fight.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Thebe said. ‘But that’s the most important part of it.’

  ‘Give them time,’ Telemachus put in. He was walking around in circles attempting to numb his feet. ‘We have a few days yet before we reach the coast.’

  The trio watched for some time as the Heronai got themselves in order; Titus was right, Thebe thought. There was a lot more to it, but when the women eventually got themselves into the line of march, the main body of the army was an impressive sight. Their iron helms and armour glinted and the dust rose as their booted feet pounded the earth – the sound of the march added its own musical cadence to the scene. Behind the soldiery, the dust-covered artillery and baggage train forged their own less glorious path towards the coast.

  ‘We should go,’ she said, eliciting a muted groan from the priest.

  Titus laughed. ‘It will only be a few more days.’ He rose and clapped the Athenian on the shoulder.

  Telemachus looked singularly unimpressed.

  The second and third days of the march were a slog; Thebe herself was footsore and suffering, but she dared not complain. At the front of the army, she marched beside Titus and she knew he was waiting for her to admit to her discomfort, but the part of her that was the fighter – the gladiatrix – refused to submit. Telemachus, however, had developed a ‘sprain’ and had to travel with the baggage train to rest.

  Titus pushed them hard. ‘You and all this lot are years younger than me,’ he said as they pounded over the arid scrubland. ‘This should be easy for you. I remember when I was a young man in the legions, we once had to embark on a forced march . . .’

  ‘You think we will be there today?’ Thebe cut him off. She had heard the ‘forced march’ story before.

  Titus looked a little hurt. ‘Yes. By mid-afternoon, if we keep up this pace. That’s where we went wrong on this forced march . . .’

  ‘Good. The women need a little rest,’ Thebe said.

  ‘There will still be a marching camp,’ Titus stuck his jaw out, sulking.

  ‘Of course,’ Thebe agreed. She put her head down and kept going, forcing her protesting muscles to keep at a steady, mileeating stride. Behind her, she could hear the women swearing and complaining – a thousand small things. Blisters, weapons unbalanced, needing to piss but not wanting to fall out of the marching line, stomach cramps at their bleeding time – all, she reckoned, to help them keep their minds off the march. Complaining was cathartic.

  They pushed on, Thebe noting that the ground began to rise as the sun began to turn orange in hue. They were getting close and the thought of it gave her a renewed vigour.

  ‘I can smell the sea!’ someone in the ranks shouted. ‘We’re close, girls!’

  Thebe glanced at Titus who looked well pleased. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Morale is good,’ he replied sagely. ‘You’ve picked up speed. As have they.’

  The rise grew steeper, punishing Thebe’s calves as she pushed onwards. Finally, she reached the top and raised her hand to halt the line, but the words died in her throat. Below her to the east was the tiny village of Ceramos; to the north and filing to the west, the beach was black with beached ships.

  ‘Halt!’ Titus bellowed, making her jump. ‘The Heronai will split by thirds. Construct the camp!’ His command was greeted by a chorus of swearing and complaining, cut short by sharp words and some kicks from the lochagoi. He turned to Thebe. ‘Those aren’t military transports.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Thebe said. He must be correct – she knew well that the Romans loved uniformity and there was a huge variety of crafts hauled on the beach – none of which looked particularly military even to her unschooled eye. ‘We should go and see what’s what.’

  Titus grunted in the affirmative. ‘You and you!’ he pointed at two women from the ranks. ‘Fall out and come with us. The rest of you . . . get on with it!’

  They made their way down the slope, grateful bodyguard in tow. As they drew closer, they could see the first campfires being lit and the sounds of raucous laughter floating to them, cutting through the gentle hiss of the waves.

  There were no guards posted anywhere, just groups of men drinking, dicing and playing music. There were women too – from Ceramos, Thebe surmised, some bringing the sailors food and drink, others offering more earthy services.

  ‘The villagers must be making a fortune off this lot,’ Titus observed.

  ‘Hey, hey!’

  Thebe started as one of the sailors spied them and got to his feet; as he did so, she noticed her bodyguards’ hands straying to their sword hilts. ‘You Thebe?’ the man asked. He had a lyre in his hand and, despite his hawk nose, had a friendly and open face; Thebe guessed he was in his forties.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Hermaloas,’ the sailor informed her. ‘Bedros asked me to keep an eye out for you lot. You weren’t hard to spot,’ he added, gesturing to the two Heronai who relaxed visibly.

  ‘Bedros, of course,’ Thebe said, recalling the apish sea captain who had once served Lysandra.

  ‘Come with me,’ Hermaloas bade them.

  They walked with him, through the throng of men, both Thebe and her Heronai doing their best to ignore the offers that were thrown their way and the urges to be shown what a ‘real sword’ could do. ‘Get used to it,’ Titus advised her. ‘I’m well used to the sight of women at arms,’ he went on. ‘But outside of the arena, nobody’s seen anything like it. You’re still novelties.’

  Thebe glanced at him. ‘Novelties that are putting their lives on the line to protect them,’ she snapped. Titus opened his mouth to respond but clearly thought better of it.

  ‘Hey, hey!’ Hermaloas shouted at a group of men. ‘Bedros!’

  ‘Hermaloas!’ Bedros jumped to his feet and rushed over. ‘Titus!’ he took the centurion’s arm in his own before turning to Thebe kissing both her cheeks. He reeked of wine and she realised he was more than a little drunk. ‘What do you think?’ he gestured expansively at the beached ships.

  Thebe was momentarily at a loss. ‘Impressive,’ she said after a moment. ‘There are many and they look . . . really big.’

  ‘Too many!’ Bedros tapped his nose. ‘All these men can be trusted. Well, most of them any
way. We’ll get you and your girls to Taenarum, don’t worry. And I’ve warned the men that there’s to be no funny business going on with you lot. I’ll cut the balls off of any man that defies me.’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary,’ Thebe glanced at her bodyguards whom she now realised were rather enjoying the dubious attention they were getting. She leaned closer to Titus. ‘Get back to the camp. Post a double guard tonight, Titus. Anyone caught . . . you know . . .’ Titus refused to help her as she floundered. ‘I won’t tolerate fraternisation,’ she said. ‘Anyone caught is out – no pay, no land, no nothing. I mean it.’

  Titus regarded her for a moment, something like genuine respect in his eyes. He saluted and made off. The simple gesture made Thebe’s heart swell.

  ‘You want a drink?’ Bedros almost shouted. ‘Come! You too, girls!’ He grinned at the bodyguards.

  Thebe forced herself to smile. Bedros was Lysandra’s man. Her choice. It would be a snub not to entertain him.

  Dacia

  Sorina regained consciousness, her head and stomach reeling from the previous night’s indulgences – despite Amagê’s assurances to the contrary, the Clan Chief was still fast asleep, oblivious to the noise of the encampment outside.

  She rose and stumbled, still feeling the effects of the drugs. Gathering herself, she dressed with haste, thinking back to the night before. The indulgences had been good – desperately needed in fact – but in the cold light of day, she wondered why Amagê would pick her of all women to share her tent.

  ‘I like you, Sorina,’ Amagê mumbled, making Sorina jump.

  ‘I’m not sure I like you anymore,’ Sorina forced a smile. ‘I feel terrible.’

  Amagê propped herself up on her elbow. ‘That’s not what you said last night.’

  ‘That was last night.’

  Amagê smirked. ‘I enjoyed it. Enjoyed you. It has been a long time since I’ve met anyone like you.’

  ‘There are plenty like me,’ Sorina was brusque.