‘Yes.’ She struggled out of her cloak and coat, and sat crosslegged. ‘We need to talk, you and I.’
Teuta’s face fell. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘About last night. I was drunk . . . Amagê gave me some of her brew and it . . .’
‘Made your skin sing?’ Sorina finished for her.
‘Yes. I am sorry,’ she said again.
‘I am sorry too, Teuta. I have treated you badly.’
Teuta’s eyes welled up with tears and Sorina despised herself for despising this show of weakness. ‘You have done nothing wrong, it was I who . . .’
‘No,’ Sorina cut her short. ‘I too lay with another last night.’
‘Because you were angry with me,’ Teuta wiped her nose on her forearm. ‘I understand. Please forgive me.’
Sorina sighed. ‘There is nothing for me to forgive. I have been less and less to you these past months. We are like branches on the river, Teuta, drifting away as the current around us changes.’
‘What are you saying?’
Sorina steeled herself. ‘I think that it is time for us to part.’ She had not meant to say it so soon, but it was out before she could still her tongue.
‘No!’ Teuta went white with shock. ‘Sorina, I love you. You can’t mean this!’ She went to embrace her but Sorina moved back. It was as though she had slapped Teuta about the face.
‘I have been unfair to you,’ she said. Teuta broke down as she spoke and Sorina’s heart went out to her. But she knew she spoke the truth. ‘We are no longer slaves to Balbus. We are our own people now – and we have changed.’
‘Sorina, please,’ Teuta begged. ‘I am sorry for what I did . . . I was not in control of myself and it just happened. I was out of my mind, you have to believe me . . .’
‘I do believe you,’ Sorina’s tone was gentle. ‘I do. This has nothing to do with last night.’
‘What then? Why?’
Sorina looked at her once-lover, face ruddy and streaked with tears. She felt sorry for her; it saddened her to hit her with words hard as steel. But she did not love her. Perhaps it was the magic of Amagê. Or perhaps not. But the night with the Clan Chief had broken whatever tie she had to Teuta, despite what she had said.
Amagê had known her better than she had known herself.
‘I cannot find it in my heart to live a lie with you, Teuta. It would not be fair to you. You are a good woman – the best I have ever known . . .’
‘Then stay with me, please!’
‘I cannot. It breaks my heart to say this to you. But this is how it must be.’
‘Why . . . Why . . .’ Teuta clutched herself like a child, swaying backwards and forwards. ‘Please don’t!’
‘I must. What would you have me do, Teuta? Stay at your side as my heart grew colder and yours grew bitter. You know the truth as well as I. We have changed . . .’
‘I haven’t changed!’ Teuta shrieked. ‘I haven’t! I still love you, Sorina!’
Sorina did not answer, but her eyes filled with tears. ‘There is a place in my heart for you, Teuta . . .’ She stopped as Teuta rolled onto her side, sobbing uncontrollably. There was nothing more to say. Sorina grabbed her coat and crawled from the tent, the sound of Teuta’s cries loud in her ears.
The air outside was cold and Sorina breathed deeply as though it could cleanse her soul. She walked away from the tent so that she would no longer have to hear Teuta’s anguish.
She needed a drink and now, somewhere to lay her head. Somewhere, she chided herself. Somewhere would only mean one place.
Of course, Amagê was there when she arrived, sitting on the floor, looking at a map. She glanced up as Sorina came in, a slight smile playing about her lips. ‘I did not expect to see you so soon,’ she said.
‘I have thought about what you said. You were right.’
‘I always am,’ Amagê laughed. ‘You look like you need a drink.’
‘I do.’
Amagê indicated a jug on the floor. ‘There’s plenty,’ she said as Sorina stooped to take it.
Beer. It was warm and tasted sweet as Sorina chugged it down. ‘I have told Teuta,’ she said.
‘I will make sure she is entertained,’ Amagê brushed this aside as though it were nothing.
‘I have wounded her, Amagê. Deeply. I think that it will take more than a hard cock and a few nights of drunkenness for her to recover.’
‘That’s her look out,’ Amagê dismissed. ‘Sit by me,’ she said, patting the rug. ‘Look at this . . .’
Sorina did as she was bade, her mind still on Teuta. ‘What?’ she asked, peering at the map. The lines were blurred and she found she could only focus if she leant her head back.
‘This is a Greek map,’ Amagê explained. ‘It is old now, but things don’t change much, do they?’
Sorina grinned ruefully. ‘No. I suppose not.’
‘Here is where we are now – or hereabouts anyway,’ Amagê tapped the map. ‘There is the bridge across the River from Moesia into Dacia.’
‘This was where the Romans crossed before. They will do so again – they are nothing if not consistent.’
‘The main force, yes,’ Amagê agreed. ‘But our task is to defeat their rearguard, is it not? So, if I were a Roman general, where would I set my line of defence?’
Sorina studied the map for a time, trying to concentrate on the question whilst thinking of Teuta and the hurt she had caused her. But she had to bring the task at hand to mind: there was a battle to be fought. Lives depended on the decisions she and Amagê would make. ‘Here,’ she pointed at a mark on the map with Greek letters by it. ‘Is this a river?’ she traced a line on the map.
Amagê nodded. ‘The Olt.’
Sorina grunted. ‘The Romans will want to resupply and it is perfect for them. This is where they will head.’ She tapped a town on the map. ‘I am sure of it.’
‘And I.’ Amagê took the beer jug and tipped it back.
‘What is this place called?’
‘Durostorum.’
Teuta could not tell how many hours had passed, only that day had become night. Never before had she felt such pain; it was as though her soul had been ripped from her body leaving only emptiness where once her heart had been. She cried till no more tears would come, her throat raw, her cheeks chapped and stained.
She eyed her sword for a time, thinking to end her life to stop the pain. Taking the hilt, she pressed the tip of the blade to her chest, steeling herself.
Survive. She remembered Catuvolcos, the kindly trainer at Balbus’s ludus. He had ingrained in all the women there never to give in, that pain could always be overcome. She cast the sword aside; it hit the floor of the tent with a thump and lay there, an accuser of her cowardice.
Bringing the Gaul’s broad face to mind seemed to numb the anguish she felt. She recalled her first days in the ludus; the Parthian, Stick, crude, vulgar and the one that humiliated the new girls. Teaching them that they were no longer as they once were. Nastasen, huge and ferocious, black as the night sky like a demon summoned by Zalmoxis, Titus the Roman, hard but fair and Catuvolcos, good and kind. Those, were happy days, despite their slavery. Eirianwen had often opined that they had more freedom than most women in the empire would ever know.
Balbus had freed them all in the end and, she heard, gave the ludus to the arrogant Spartan, Lysandra. Lysandra whom Sorina had hated and Eirianwen had loved. Sorina blamed Lysandra for the Briton’s death – but the truth was that it was Sorina’s blade that had taken her life.
Survive.
That was what Sorina always did, and she must too.
Teuta roused herself. It could not end this way between them. She had acted foolishly and taken a man to her bed. Sorina had responded from spite – lovers did these things and she would make it right between them. Not that it would be easy, she told herself; when Sorina had set her mind to something, she was hard to turn. But they had a shared history, ties that bound them. They had faced death in the arena, they had loved, the
y had taken the heads of Roman soldiers and danced to the music of their screams.
She crawled from the tent and breathed deep of the night air. It was tinged with the smoke from many cooking fires and the smell of roasting meat. Some voices were lifted in song and it somehow angered Teuta that others knew happiness while she had suffered such a blow.
She would make it right.
She wandered the camp for some hours, not knowing where to find Sorina, asking many but receiving no answers that would help, causing her to venture further abroad.
It was a strange place, she thought, in some ways like the ludus, with all different peoples making up the whole; yet as it was back in Asia Minor, those of kin stuck together, Getae with Getae, Sarmatian with Sarmatian and Scythian with Scythian.
Teuta made her way to a fire, where men and women were taking their meal. They were armed with curved swords and their small bows were within arm’s reach.
‘Greetings,’ she offered in Getic, hoping they would understand.
They looked at her for a time, then one spoke, his voice guttural, a Scythian inflection to his accent. ‘You lost?’
‘No. Yes. I am seeking Sorina, the Right Hand of Decabalus. I cannot find her,’ she gestured expansively to the camp. ‘There are many thousands here, it’s like seeking a single leaf in a forest.’
The Scythian grunted and barked out some words to his people. One of them who was drunk, answered. ‘Ruga here says he saw the Dacian Queen a while back. Heading for the tents of the Sarmatians. Mind you, Ruga’s been drinking all day.’
‘You and Ruga have my thanks.’
Ruga said something else and the Scythians laughed, but the leader whacked him about the head. ‘He’s drunk,’ he said again. ‘Good luck, woman.’
It was a dismissal, and Teuta guessed that Ruga’s comment was how she could repay him; such was the way of men.
Teuta made her way towards where she knew the Sarmatians had pitched their tents. Though the hour was late, they were still abroad and she was forced to thread her way through crowds of people, picking her way past campfires until she reached the centre where Amagê’s tent set out, grand and huge, befitting her status.
The Clan Chief was there and, by her side, Sorina. With them, a group of chieftains from the Tribes. They would be discussing tactics, Teuta guessed. She would wait till they were done and then approach – it was not her place to interrupt such a meeting.
As she watched, she saw Amagê’s arm curl around Sorina’s waist. It was not a gesture of a friend. It was intimate. Then she saw it. The way that they stood, the glances they shared . . . this was why she had been cast aside. Not because they had drifted apart but because Sorina preferred another over her.
Teuta reeled away, almost sick with the realisation. Blind with despair she stumbled away, through the crowds, uncaring of their shouts of anger as she shoved them aside.
She made her way back to her tent and looked, once again at the sword where she had left it, lying on the floor.
Survive.
She sat down and picked up the beer sack, taking a long draught, gulping down the sweet liquid as though somehow it would wash the sight of Sorina and Amagê together. It would eventually, she knew.
Alone with the drink, she fantasied about killing them both. Then, that Sorina would come back to her. Then that she would ride from the camp and live her days alone like a hermit.
None of it was true. This was life – pain was part of life. But her heart began to harden then and she swore to Zalmoxis that one day she would hurt Sorina as she herself had been hurt.
She would survive. She would go on. She would find another.
But she would not forget. She would never forget.
Taenarum, Laconia
Despite the ground tremors, the mercenaries were determined to enjoy Saturnalia and so the revelries had continued long into the night. There were no slaves in the encampment, so it seemed to Lysandra that the men just took turns pretending to be chattel until liberties were figuratively taken and, predictably, drunken fighting broke out.
Lysandra and Illeana endured the evening within the relative safety of the barracks hut whilst Cappa, Murco and even Kleandrias drank themselves into insensibility elsewhere in the encampment – probably under the auspices of Euaristos. They returned in the small hours, legless and loud, thinking their antics and pantomime shushing were hilarious. As it was, Lysandra showed no mercy the next morning, demanding they get up and attend her. She baulked, however, when even the iron-constitutioned Kleandrias threw up all over the floor.
‘That is revolting.’ She could hardly upbraid him for the cause of the vomiting; she had been a victim of Dionysus more than once. ‘Clean it up.’
‘Why are you so keen to be up and about?’ Illeana sat up in her bunk and stretched.
‘Because she hates us,’ Murco said.
Lysandra looked at him, then at the sheepish Kleandrias trying to clean his own mess and finally at Cappa, who still snored. She shook her head. ‘I am going for a run,’ she said. She glanced at Illeana.
‘Why not?’ she said.
‘I suppose you want to sleep?’ Lysandra said to Murco, who fell back instantly on his bunk.
‘I will accompany you.’ Kleandrias looked pasty faced but resolute.
Lysandra bit down a caustic response and forced herself to smile. ‘Peace, Kleandrias. We have all been where you are now. Rest. I will have need of you soon, my friend.’
‘Take a weapon,’ he advised her.
Outside, it looked as though the encampment had been the site of a major siege. Men lay everywhere, sleeping off the night’s indulgences. Some could even have been corpses. There had been violence in the night due to drink – making Lysandra vow to herself that she would ration wine on the campaign. She could not afford to allow such lapses of discipline.
She and Illeana picked their way through the buildings; some of the men were aboard, either having just woken or, more likely, still going from the night before. It was unseemly, but that was the way of soldiers, Lysandra realised. She was glad she had heeded Kleandrias’s advice and taken her sword – as had Illeana. She did not fear attack, but she reckoned that the weapons would discourage any overamorous intentions.
Once free of the encampment, she and Illeana broke into an easy run, Lysandra setting the pace, the Roman content to run at her side. The day was cold and fresh and a light rain had begun to fall serving to both cool and invigorate.
‘That was some speech last night,’ Illeana commented as they ran.
‘The goddess was with me,’ Lysandra replied. ‘She guided me – ’
‘Don’t say with winged words. It’s too early for quoting Homer.’
‘It is never too early for Homer.’
They ran on in silence. Lysandra wanted to ask Illeana how she felt the speech had been received, but she felt that to do so would appear weak. She looked across at the Gladiatrix Prima and realised for the first time that the desire to test herself against her was waning. Nor did she think Illeana was being duplicitous by accompanying her. Her friendship seemed genuine, as was her contrition at playing mind games before their fight in Rome. The truth of it was that she was quite correct in her observation that they were similar creatures and Lysandra was finding herself growing increasingly fond of the woman who defeated her.
However, she vowed to herself that she could not let the loss go unavenged. That was not the Spartan way.
Whatever that was these days.
Lysandra could smell the sea in the air and pushed harder towards it till she could hear the surf. ‘Not much further!’ she shouted to Illeana who was now bathed in sweat, her hair plastered flat on her forehead.
They ran neck and neck, up a slight rise; as they crested it, the beach came into view. They exchanged a glance and ran harder towards the surf, both laughing as their sandaled feet dug into the sand. Illeana was not about to stop, so neither could Lysandra.
The Roman splashed into t
he sea, churning up water before she plunged headlong into an oncoming wave. Lysandra took a lungful of air and hurled herself into the cold water and surfaced a few moments later, coughing and spluttering, her hair hanging about her face. She swept it back in time to see Illeana come up for air.
‘Jupiter!’ she shouted. ‘Colder than I thought!’
‘It will be colder when we get out,’ Lysandra told her, already regretting her impulsiveness. She sloughed towards the shore, Illeana in tow.
‘But it was fun while it lasted,’ Illeana commented, wringing out her hair as they walked back to the beach. ‘It really was a good speech,’ she added.
Lysandra glanced at her. ‘Are you being sarcastic, Illeana?’
‘No. Even I was caught up in it. I think you made them believe that by following you they would be part of something bigger. But . . .’
‘But what?’ Lysandra asked as they trudged away from the surf, the sand sticking to their feet and sandals.
‘But do you really think women can stand in battle against men, Lysandra? Normal women, I mean? Not like us.’
‘Any woman that fights for me will have fought before as a gladiatrix,’ Lysandra said. ‘If not in the arena, then at the Spectacle for Domitian’s birthday. They will stand, Illeana.’
The Roman turned her eyes to the sea. Through the mist on the horizon, the tip of a mast came into view, then the sail under it. ‘You’ll have to prove it, you know.’
Lysandra looked out to sea as well, seeing more and more sails appear in the distance, floating in from the sea mist as though they were vessels of Charon himself and the sea were the River Styx. ‘Then prove it we shall,’ she murmured.
‘That’s a lot of ships,’ Illeana noted as more and more vessels blackened the horizon.
‘We have a lot of people to carry.’
Illeana looked at her, genuine respect in her emerald coloured eyes. ‘These are your ships?’
‘I am hiring them, yes. I have kept this facet of my mission secret, Illeana.’
‘Why? It’s truly impressive!’
‘The Dacians have spies in Rome – so Sextus Julius Frontinus told me. All of this – everything I have done – is to keep our enemies from knowing that Rome has a little more muscle than this Dacian rebel-king is expecting. That said, I doubt very much if even he would be expecting a legion comprising women and geriatric Hellene mercenaries.’ She sounded rueful, even to herself.
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