Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

  Valerian did not hesitate; they had their orders and they had to follow them. ‘You know our orders, tribune,’ he said. ‘Take a century of men from the line of march and destroy the settlement. If they have livestock and grain, bring it back. Destroy everything else.’

  The tribune looked him in the eye. ‘Women? Children?’

  Valerian hesitated and cursed himself for doing so; revenge was well and good, but giving the order to massacre civilians did not still sit well with him. He told himself to think of what the Dacians had done to him – so he could stomach what was necessary. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Women and children too.’

  The tribune saluted and dragged his horse’s reins about, heading down the line, calling out for volunteers. There were of course none, so he selected a centurion at random and was insulted roundly by the officer and his men.

  Valerian raised his arm and called a halt to the march. He looked around at the endless green, the grey forbidding sky and the forests that loomed in the distance. He recalled that Virgil had said that Tartarus was a place of fire; Virgil had clearly never been to Dacia.

  Valerian warmed his hands over a brazier, cursing – like everyone else – the amount of time the marching camp was taking to construct. The severe weather was making progress slow, the rain driving and cold. Men cursed as shovels bruised hands and feet slipped in the mud. One third of the Felix stood to arms – standard procedure as the rest dug in, screamed at by hoarse throated centurions who also wanted the work done.

  In the distance, he could see a red smudge – flames from the farmstead he had ordered destroyed. A fitting announcement to Roman presence in this area, he thought. Further north, Iulianus would be marching away from the River Olt, he too bringing fire and sword to the Dacians. The Roman army had been terrorised by Decabalus and his barbarians; now, Rome would terrorise all of Dacia.

  ‘Happy fucking Saturnalia. Sir.’ Valerian looked up to see a filthy, mud-caked Settus making his way towards him. ‘Don’t ask,’ he said.

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘I fell in the fucking ditch,’ Settus muttered, thrusting his hands out to warm them over the brazier. ‘The lads got a right laugh out of it.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ Valerian could only imagine the choice use of language that mishap had caused. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘All but done,’ Settus informed him. ‘Your praetorium is up, so if you’d like to accompany me, sir, I’ll escort you.’

  ‘Very kind, centurion,’ Valerian offered.

  They made their way to the ditch and rampart – which was less than perfect, Valerian noted, but in the circumstances, it was as good as it could be.

  ‘Good to see you’re drying out, centurion!’ one of the men called out as Settus marched past. Caballo, Valerian recalled.

  ‘You’re fucking hilarious, Caballo,’ Settus shot back. ‘Remind me how funny it is on mid-watch.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to wake you, then,’ Caballo – apparently unruffled at pulling the worst guard duty – offered. First or last watches were always preferable as it only meant resting late or getting up early. Mid-watch meant interrupted sleep.

  ‘You wake me for anything less than an emergency and I’ll carve your fucking balls off and wear them round my neck as a reminder of how useless you really are.’

  Settus’s optio, the formidable Slainius had evidently decided the banter was at an end. ‘Caballo, shut your fucking mouth and get your kit together . . . that goes for all of you . . .’

  Valerian and Settus moved off, the liturgy of threats and countercursing fading into the patter of the rain.

  ‘You know Caballo used to be a slave,’ Settus said.

  ‘Yes, I recall.’

  ‘It’s a funny world where a slave is manumitted and gets to join the legions . . . but on Saturnalia still ends up doing the work.’

  ‘You could have offered to swap places.’

  Settus did not respond to that and the two made their way in silence to the praetorium at the centre of the marching camp. Two soldiers were already on guard, one informing them that the heating inside had been attended to – welcome news to Valerian.

  ‘All right then, sir,’ Settus said. ‘I’ll get back to my lads – make sure that they’re all in order.’

  Valerian wanted to invite him in for a cup of wine, but thought better of it – Settus had a reputation to maintain and being seen as the legate’s pet would not serve him well. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Thank you, centurion. See you at the morning briefing.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Settus said. ‘Oh, my report.’ He handed Valerian a mud-stained and very damp wax tablet.

  Inside it was indeed warm – and Valerian was not above enjoying the privileges of command. He eyed his bunk, which looked inviting. However, the desk that had been placed in the centre of the room had neatly stacked reports that needed to be read and a centurions’ meeting that needed preparing.

  Valerian sat at his desk, poured a cup of wine and began his duties, knowing full well it would be less than entertaining work. But it needed to be done.

  He opened the first report, seeing it was from the Third Century: an account of the day’s march, soldiers injured or sick and the sortie to destroy the farmstead. A list of supplies seized and enemy killed with the epitaph that ‘as per orders, no prisoners were taken’.

  That was it then, he thought. First blood to Rome. And he did not doubt that there was plenty more to come.

  Taenarum, Laconia

  The night was chilly and there was rain in the air.

  Despite herself, Lysandra was nervous. She should not be, of course; she was well schooled in oratory and had many times used words to encourage the women under care at the ludus. These men – these mercenaries – should be no different. They, like most others, were her intellectual inferiors.

  Euaristos walked with her to the edge of the encampment. ‘There is a podium set up,’ he told her.

  ‘You should not have gone to such effort,’ she replied, glancing at the darkened barrack buildings; it was eerie in the silence, a ghost town.

  ‘It’s always there,’ he grinned. ‘You’re not the first person to address the men – nor the last, I hope.’ When she glanced at him, he expanded. ‘War is our industry, Lysandra.’

  She could hear them long before she caught sight of the throng. Talking, shouting, laughter – someone was playing the pipes while others sang a dirty song about a Priest of Hephaestus and his iron part. ‘It seems as though they are in good spirits,’ she observed.

  ‘It’s Saturnalia,’ Euaristos said. ‘I’ve had whores brought in from miles around, although I’ve rationed the booze till after your address. I want them in good spirits, not utterly plastered and fist happy.’

  They rounded a corner and Lysandra caught her first sight of the men she hoped to command; dark silhouettes, moving in the gloom. She swallowed and offered a silent prayer to Athene.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Euaristos seemed to pick up on her unseemly nervousness. ‘You’ll be fine. You’re Lysandra of Sparta. Everyone’s heard of you.’

  She smiled tightly. ‘You’re a good man, Euaristos.’

  ‘Gods save me from that,’ the Athenian laughed. ‘I’m a rogue, and an aging one at that. But I thank you, Lysandra. Now . . .’ he paused as they came into view of the crowd, ‘ . . . Athene is with you.’

  She was struck by his words, a sure sign that the goddess had heard her prayer. There was no time to respond; Euaristos quickened his pace and moved away from her to vanish into the throng.

  Steeling herself, Lysandra climbed the short flight of steps that led her to the stout wooden podium; it was stout and had several lamps at its edge to illuminate her. She looked over the gathered soldiers; there were thousands of them, dimly lit by torches staked into the ground. It was too dark to make out individual features, but she recognised the shape of Illeana standing right at the front, flanked by Cappa and Murco. By their side was Kleandrias, shifting from foot to foot. Recallin
g Illeana’s words to treat him kindly, she offered him a smile, which she hoped did not look more like a grimace. She saw him incline his head, but his expression was lost to her in the semi-darkness.

  Lysandra stood and waited, the wind whipping through her hair. At length, the hubbub of chatter and laughter slowly died out as did the music and she felt the eyes of an army on her. Lysandra puffed out her cheeks, steeling herself before she began.

  ‘Get on with it, love!’ someone shouted. Instantly, there was more ruckus, some laughing and others telling those making noise to be quiet – all of which added to the clamour. This was not going to be easy – goddess or not.

  ‘I am Lysandra!’ she shouted, her voice cutting through the commotion like a spear shaft. She was surprised herself at the clarity of her voice and how it seemed to carry. ‘My friend, Euaristos, tells me that some of you know of me. That some have seen me fight in the arena both in Asia Minor and Rome itself. But I come to you not as a gladiatrix, but as a priestess. My words are Olympus-born, friends – or may Zeus Saviour strike me down if I speak false.’

  She waited – as she sensed were the soldiers before her. No lighting bolt was forthcoming, so she pushed on.

  ‘I was born of Sparta, chosen to be a Handmaiden of Athene from my earliest youth. From there, in an act of the gods, I was made slave to the Romans and forced to fight in their spectacles. At that time, I knew not why. I thought that the goddess had abandoned me to my fate and cursed me. In time I realised this was not her intent.

  ‘My years in the arena honed me. I was schooled in the arts of war, yes . . . but only when sword meets sword and the bloody terror of the fight is on you do you truly know your mettle. I have my wounds – all of them in front.

  ‘As the gladiatrix Achillia, I fought many times, friends, and always walked away. Until the last time.’ Her eyes fell on Illeana and she wished she could see the Roman’s expression. ‘In Rome, I faced their greatest gladiatrix – we fought. I lost. She – Aemilia Illeana, called Aesalon Nocturna by the Romans – defeated me. And I fell hard, friends. Darkness took me.’

  She paused, gathering herself – there was silence save for the crackling of the torches and hiss of the wind.

  ‘I walked the banks of the River Styx, lost until Athene found me. The goddess herself came to me and gave me this prophesy: You can return to the world from whence you came or you can take your place in Elysium.

  ‘She told me that if I returned, I would know hardship, pain and loss but that I would raise my shield in defence of my homeland and that my name, Achillia, would live for millennia thereafter.’

  The image was still so strong in Lysandra’s mind that, for a moment, she was overcome by the memory.

  ‘Ever have I served Athene!’ she shouted. ‘Ever have I done her bidding. For now, I know I cannot augur all of her words, but I can tell you this much . . . All lives are full of hardship, pain and loss. That the name of Achillia will live on . . .? The Romans have made an image of me in stone – and stone long outlives flesh, my friends. As for men as gods – you all want to be gods!’

  This drew some laughter from the men, breaking the tension in the air for a time.

  ‘And you shall lift your shield in defence of your homeland,’ she said again, letting the words hang. ‘I did not know what this meant until recently. Many among you will have heard last year, the Romans fought in Dacia and were defeated.

  ‘I will tell you the truth of the matter, friends. Rome suffered more than a defeat. She lost five legions to the Dacians. Five! Thirty thousand corpses left on the field, arms taken, supplies looted, Eagles lost.

  ‘Even Rome, with all her great power, is reeling from the loss. And she has sent what men she has north to face the foe once again. If they lose this fight, friends, where do you think the barbarians will go? With no army to keep Moesia safe, the door to Hellas will be open!

  ‘The goddess has spoken to me with winged words! She bade me come to you, men of Hellas, to entreat you to join me in this fight. I have warriors – they, like me, all once fought in the arena. But they . . . like me . . . are just women. And we have not the strength to win this fight alone.

  ‘Hellas needs you. This goes beyond concern of our city states and ancient rivalries. Those days are gone. Now, it is time for all Hellenes who can fight to stand against the Dacians.

  ‘Athene herself has entrusted me with this Mission. Will you honour the goddess, Men of Hellas? Will you fight for her! Will you lift your shields in defence of your homeland! The goddess calls upon you – I beseech you, do not let her cries fall on deaf ears . . .’

  The men before her roared their approval, drowning her out in a cacophony of acclaim that was akin to the cheers of an arena crowd. Lysandra closed her eyes and let it wash over, drinking it in as she had done that first time in Halicarnassus so long ago.

  Eventually, they stilled and allowed her to continue.

  ‘The goddess smiles on you,’ she said. ‘But I know that that is not food and drink, house and home! Any man that serves me will earn one third more than standard pay for his rank and specialisation. Any man that serves me and falls can be sure his will will be honoured and his kin taken care of by me – and by the Romans. I have the word of Sextus Julius Frontinus himself on this. You will be honoured, friends. By me. By the Romans. And by the goddess herself!’

  They cheered her then, and Lysandra knew that Athene was by her side. Her doubts were banished for now: this was the moment for which she had been reborn.

  As the cheering died down, a voice rang out: ‘This is blasphemy! Blasphemy and bullshit rolled into a pretty package!’

  A chorus of disapproval threatened to drown him out, but Lysandra raised her arms. ‘Peace, friends, peace. All must have their say.’

  A big man shouldered his way to the front – he looked like Heracles, all that was missing was the lion’s pelt and the club.

  ‘What is your name?’ Lysandra asked, her voice icy in the darkness.

  ‘I am Glaukos of Delphi,’ he replied, his baritone filling the air. ‘I’ve heard some speeches in my time, woman, but that is the most fanciful of them all! You’re lucky this lot are mostly pissed up or cunt-struck with their whores. I’ve never heard such shit in all my life!’

  Lysandra frowned, wondering how best to deal with her detractor. Challenge him? Ridicule him? Or listen to him.

  ‘The goddess chose you.’ Glaukos mocked. ‘That’s a laugh. I’ve prayed many a time on the field of battle, woman, but the gods have done nothing but watch my friends die and none of the poor bastards ever come back from Hades after talking to a goddess. And women? You have women warriors? Even if that’s true – which I doubt – how would they do in a real fight against real men? War is no place for a woman. Her place is at home, tending the family and being a good wife.’

  He turned to the crowd. ‘You lot are crazy to listen to this religious lunatic. Come on lads – its Saturnalia for fuck’s sake. Let’s get pissed, fuck some whores and wait till the spring – its four moons away and we’ll be back in Persia earning some coin. Leave this Lysandra to her Athene and – ’

  The ground began to tremble – it was marked, a leap in the earth that knocked men sideways. Shouts of panic erupted from the grounds as it shook, rising in its fury. Behind her, Lysandra heard the crash of falling pottery and then the groan of wood as some of the barracks huts collapsed. She gripped the podium, hoping it too would not fall. Then the tremor quickly subsided and Lysandra looked to see Glaukos picking himself up off the ground.

  ‘I rather think,’ she shouted, ‘that the gods have spoken!’

  There was silence – fearful silence now. Inside, Lysandra thanked the Olympians – all of them – even Poseidon – for the gift of Glaukos and the tremors in the earth. ‘I am Lysandra of Sparta and I do not lie. Those that will march with me march with the goddess at their side and the Olympians at their backs. Those that don’t . . .’ she gestured to where Glaukos stood . . . ‘it is on their c
onscience. But for now, our friend Glaukos is right. It is Saturnalia. Celebrate this night with your wine and your whores. And on the morrow, we shall meet again.’

  88 A.D.

  Dacia

  Amagê’s rest day seemed to be spent by most of the encampment sleeping off their hangovers.

  Sorina wandered here and there, unwilling to return to her own tent and equally unwilling to visit Amagê because she knew well how it would end. The Clan Chief’s words played in her head over and over again. And though she tried, Sorina could not find fault with them. Teuta was not formed from the same clay as she and Amagê and only circumstance had thrown them together in the ludus.

  Sorina told herself that parting with Teuta would be fairer to the younger woman, but she knew that she lied even to herself. Loyal Teuta, who followed her everywhere and asked for nothing in return. Teuta who had given her strength when she needed it, an ear to which she poured out her heartache. Teuta who had borne her madness over Lysandra and Eirianwen with no complaint. Others would have walked away, but not her.

  But what else to do? Sorina was too long in the tooth to think that she loved Amagê – she hardly knew her. But there was something intoxicating about the Sarmatian Clan Chief. She had the magic as had Eirianwen, but Sorina had never wanted Eirianwen that way, seeing her more as daughter than lover. But Amagê excited her in a way that Eirianwen ever had and Teuta no longer could.

  She paused in her walk and laughed at herself, garnering a few looks from a small group of Getae who looked the worse for drink. She was acting like a lovestruck girl. Sorina of Dacia, the Right Hand of Decabalus mooning over a younger woman. And the truth of it was that Amagê would cast her aside as soon as she saw fit. She was Clan Chief and she’d want her bloodline to continue.

  Be that as it may, Sorina knew she had to make a decision. She turned and made her way back through the encampment to her tent.

  ‘You’ve been gone all day,’ Teuta said as she crawled in through the flap.