Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

  ‘Ah yes, but the goddess is with us.’ Illeana nudged her, which should have been irritating but somehow was not. She linked arms with Lysandra and led her to a small hillock in the sand. They sat down, bodies close together to ward off the chill, looking out to the oncoming ships. ‘You know I don’t have much truck with religion, Lysandra,’ Illeana said after a moment. ‘But last night . . . it almost made a believer out of me.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘The ground shook when you needed it to. I’ve read your Greek philosophy and I know that logic dictates that it was just a coincidence. But truly, Lysandra, when you spoke I was caught up in it. I said to you before that I know why people follow you – but to hold a crowd like that . . . it was truly amazing. It was as though the goddess was with you, as you say she is.’

  Lysandra looked at her and smiled, genuinely touched by the words. ‘Thank you, Illeana.’ They were silent for a moment and Lysandra found herself becoming lost in the Roman’s emerald gaze. And, for once, there was no chiding joke, no words from Illeana – she simply reached up and touched Lysandra’s face before turning her eyes away and looking out to sea as the ships drew closer to the shore.

  67 A.D.

  Sparta

  ‘You are late,’ Lysandra told Thebe as the Corinthian ran towards her. Thebe ignored that and threw her arms around her neck, holding her close. Lysandra thought that she should say something; it seemed that everyone was getting overly familiar these days. But then, along with Telemachus, Thebe was her oldest and dearest friend. She saw the priest coming down the beach, Titus at his side as Thebe broke away.

  ‘It was a hard march,’ she said.

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘It shouldn’t have been, but it was. We toughened up on the way to Ceramos. The girls are fit and ready, Lysandra.’

  ‘It is good to see you, Thebe,’ Lysandra’s gaze swept down the beach, looking at the Deiopolis going about their work of unloading necessary supplies. ‘They move well,’ she nodded appreciatively. ‘Cohesive . . . a team.’

  She could see Thebe glowing under this assessment as Titus and Telemachus drew near. ‘They should be,’ Titus rumbled. ‘We’ve drilled them well enough.’

  ‘Should we make camp along the beach?’ Thebe asked.

  Lysandra thought about that for a moment. ‘No. We can billet the women at the mercenary encampment. But we must make it very clear, Thebe . . . no fraternisation with the men.’

  ‘We threatened them with exclusion should that happen with Bedros’s men,’ Thebe said. ‘No pay, no plot of land – we made it clear that spreading your legs for one night of pleasure just wasn’t worth it.’

  ‘Excellent work, Thebe. Although we might need sterner measures than that once we are in the field.’

  ‘Do we have to discuss it here?’ Telemachus looked around dismally. ‘It’s freezing cold and I need a cup of wine.’

  ‘I told you!’ She turned and saw Bedros stamping up the beach. He gestured expansively to his fleet. ‘What do you think, Lysandra? Didn’t I tell you I could do it?’

  ‘You did indeed, my friend. I am most pleased.’

  Bedros rubbed his hands together and eyed Illeana. ‘Are you pleased too, eh, pretty one?’

  ‘How could one not be, Bedros? You are a man who delivers, I can tell.’

  ‘Always.’ He winked at her. ‘The priest is right though. You people get along, we’ll finish the work here.’

  ‘I’ll brief the lochagoi,’ Thebe said. ‘Triple the guards. No frath- ernisation – nobody in nor out.’

  ‘Very well,’ Lysandra nodded. ‘See to it. The encampment is that way,’ she pointed.

  It was a reunion of sorts and Lysandra found herself enjoying the sight of her friends together once again. They represented two parts of her life, she realised. Telemachus, Thebe and Titus from her days under as a gladiatrix, Cappa, Murco, Euaristos and Kleandrias from her time as Matriarch of the Deiopolis. Her happiness was tinged with sadness as she thought of Varia and then of Eirianwen; how different her life would have been had they lived.

  Illeana sat off to one side, sipping wine as she watched the companions reacquaint themselves and, once again, Lysandra was struck by the similarity between herself and the Roman. Lysandra should have been the centre of attention here, but she was not. She was content to stand aside and let the others indulge in back-slap-and-catch-up. She realised that in her younger days she would have been irritated by this. But so much had changed.

  Back then, she had not known defeat. Back then, she had not been marked as xenos by the Spartan High Priestess. Back then, she did not have the lives of thousands balanced on her shoulders. She tipped back her small cup of wine and pushed the thought aside, rereading once again the orders from Frontinus that Titus had delivered to her unopened.

  ‘We should talk now . . .’ she said, her voice cutting through the buzz of conversation, ‘of how we will proceed.’ She gestured to the table in the centre of the barrack-room, indicating that they should sit.

  ‘I took the liberty,’ Euaristos announced. With a flourish he produced a map from within his tunic. He rolled it across the table and Cappa and Murco weighted it with wine cups.

  ‘Our mission is to support the Roman Army in their defence of this town,’ Lysandra told them. ‘Here.’

  ‘Durostorum?’ Kleandrias raised his eyebrows. ‘Never heard of it.’ ‘Nor I,’ Lysandra admitted. ‘But that is by the by. Rome has no reason to believe the Dacians will change tactics in this campaign. Why would they? They have the advantage of being on home ground, they have local support and – Frontinus believes – Decabalus’s crushing victory will have consolidated his power and, in all likelihood, brought fresh swords to his banner.’

  ‘From where?’ Euaristos asked.

  ‘From the Northern Tribes,’ Lysandra replied. ‘Sarmatians. Getics. And whatever other barbarian scum live up there.’

  ‘They might be scum, but there’s enough of them, I’ve heard tell,’ Euaristos said.

  ‘Precisely. Clearly, they are inferior to us in every way. But a pack of mangy dogs can bring down a lion if there are enough of them. And like wild dogs the barbarian is cunning, ruthless and savage.’ Thebe caught her eye and Lysandra looked away quickly. Of them all, the Corinthian knew how she had felt about Eirianwen – a Silurian from the misty island of Britannia. ‘They are lesser creatures,’ she pushed on, ‘and all that stands between them and Hellas are the Legions of Tettius Iulianus . . . and us.’

  ‘We have brought over half a legion,’ Thebe said.

  ‘And we have a little more than that here,’ Euaristos affirmed. ‘So, one slightly overstrength legion of old mercenaries and holy women. Not the greatest of hosts.’

  Lysandra pressed her lips into a thin line, her ire rising at Euaristos’s irritatingly correct observation. ‘We will be acting as auxiliaries to the IV Felix Legion at Durostorum. The spearhead of the Roman attack will be led by Iulianus, as I have said. He will advance inland from the River Olt,’ she pointed at the line on the map. ‘His task is to bring Decabalus to battle and annihilate him. As such his orders – and ours – are to execute the summa exstinctio.’

  Titus raised his eyebrows and looked at Cappa and Murco. ‘That’s virtually unheard of in modern times,’ he said.

  ‘And the Empire has not faced such a threat in modern times,’ Lysandra snapped. ‘The barbarian is a blight on humanity, Titus. You know this as well as I. As distasteful as it might be, a putrefying sickness needs to be cut out and burned away. So it is with the Dacians. Summa exstinctio is the order.’ She remained silent for a moment, allowing that to sink in. ‘As I was saying. Iulianus will draw out and destroy Decabalus. The Dacian king will be expecting his allies to catch the Romans in a pincer movement – trapping them between two forces and annihilating them. Our job – along with the Felix – is to prevent that. So we will hold Durostorum and keep the trap from being sprung.

  ‘Now, we have invested heavily in light infantry
and artillery. We Spartans are supposed to disdain such ‘spindles’ as weapons of women. Well, I bring women soldiers with women’s weapons. I want to kill as many barbarians as I can without getting anyone in my command hurt. So range is critical. Of course, I have infantry. Frontinus said he thought the sight of women warriors ranged against the legionaries unmanned them. It is an unnatural thing for a civilised man, I am sure. So we will match the Dacian Amazons with – ’

  ‘Our Heronai,’ Thebe interrupted. ‘Frontinus named our soldiers so, and it is fitting, I think.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Euaristos put in. ‘But whether the Romans were . . . unmanned or not, we may struggle to convince the common soldiery here that your priestesses are worthy. I can’t put it delicately, Lysandra. Most soldiers think women are good for only one thing – and it isn’t fighting.’

  Lysandra smiled slightly. ‘Then we shall have to show them otherwise.’

  The Hellene mercenaries had gathered on the plains near the encampment at Lysandra’s request. They were in good spirits, laughing and joking and shouting ribald comments at the assembled Heronai – the Women of the Temple. Lysandra felt a surge of pride at the sight of the three hundred hypaspist infantry in their full panoply of kit. She was grateful too: whilst she had forged this sisterhood, it was Thebe and Titus who had honed them.

  The two forces were arrayed opposite each other, the Heronai with their backs to the mercenary camp, having marched up from the beach – in excellent order. The hypaspistai were the biggest and strongest of her troops: they had to be; their heavy round shields and long, single-handed thrusting spears were encumbering and strength sapping.

  ‘They will not fail you, Lysandra,’ Thebe said as Lysandra pulled herself onto her horse, Hades. He had made the journey in the care of Telemachus and, despite her dislike of horses in general she was pleased to see him.

  ‘I am sure they will not, Thebe. They look fit and strong. But it is my hope that Illeana can deal with the situation herself.’ She glanced at the Roman who gave her a stunning smile in response.

  ‘I can help,’ Thebe offered.

  ‘As could I,’ Lysandra agreed.‘But you are too valuable to me to be hurt in a useless –’

  ‘Pissing contest,’ Illeana put in, hauling herself into her own saddle. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll put on a good show.’ She winked at Thebe. ‘It’s what I do.’

  Lysandra tapped Hades’s flanks. When he didn’t move she did it again, rocking forward in the saddle to get him moving. Naturally, Illeana’s mount was grace itself and she seemed to flow along whilst Lysandra managed an ungainly bounce towards the mercenaries.

  They looked good, Lysandra noted. Tough men, armed in Roman auxiliary fashion – long spear, oval shield and the gladius at their hips. Like her own troops, there was a hotchpotch of armour and helmets on display, which was only natural given the individual resources of each man.

  A lone figure strode from the ranks – Euaristos. Grinning, he approached them as Lysandra hauled on the reins bringing Hades to a halt. ‘So,’ he said, nodding a greeting to Illeana. ‘How do you want to play this?’

  ‘Let me speak first,’ she replied. ‘And we will see.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ he said, gesturing expansively to the men before moving back to his troops.

  ‘Hades,’ Lysandra whispered. ‘Play along.’ Of course, the idiot creature did not understand, but it made her feel better. She nudged him forward and, for once, he obeyed, walking in a stately fashion adjacent to the front ranks. ‘Men of Hellas!’ she shouted, hoping her voice would carry. ‘My ships – and your pay – have arrived!’ This was greeted with a lusty cheer. ‘When last we spoke, I told you of our mission – given to me by Athene herself. I told you that my priestesses would fight at your side.’ She gestured at the hypaspistai. ‘Here are some of their number. Just women, like myself – and my Champion . . . Illeana of Rome!

  ‘I know that words are just that – words. It occurs to me that to fight at their side, you may need proof that my women – my Heronai – are not tremblers. That they – like you – are warriors. If any of you doubt this, now is the time to lay those fears to rest. My challenge, then. Pick a swordsman – your very best – Illeana will better him. Pick your squadron – my hypaspistai yonder will match them. Our squadrons will fight with staves, of course. I don’t want to lose my best soldiers in an internecine brawl!’ Some of them laughed, for which she was grateful. ‘But anyone who crosses a blade with my Champion must be prepared to die – as is she.’ She saw that sent a ripple through them. ‘Why the hesitant looks?’ she shouted. ‘Why the indecision? This is precisely what undid the Romans in Dacia! Illeana is a woman – you hesitate to draw a blade against her? This will get you killed over there, my friends. This is what the barbarians are counting on!

  ‘Who is your best warrior? Who will match Illeana?’ Hades continued to pace up and down. Lysandra tried to meet the gaze of the men in the front ranks, but none would look into her eye. ‘I will give you some time to chose!’

  Illeana watched as the Spartan addressed the men. Lysandra was a fascinating woman. Illeana knew herself well enough to know that that was what attracted her to the former priestess – and it was more than just a desire to take the Spartan to her bed. As she had said – they were similar creatures in many ways. But Lysandra, with her utter belief in herself and her goddess, could do things like this where Illeana could not. What was more, these hard-bitten, cynical and aged men were taking her at face value – at least for now. They believed that she had been spared by their gods. Like them, she was Greek; their own Olympian champion. She was somewhat jealous.

  Yet, for all that, Illeana could not deny that this had been a great adventure so far. But now, as she knew it must, it would turn dangerous. Lysandra rode her ungainly way towards her and dismounted with little elegance. Still, she looked like a general of old with her armour and red cloak whipping around her.

  ‘Are you ready for this, Illeana?’ she asked, her ice-coloured eyes glittering.

  Illeana gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Whoever they chose, do not end him too quickly. I need these men to be in awe of you.’

  That made her laugh. Lysandra was so staid she left herself open for wit almost all the time. ‘Oh, Lysandra!’ she said. ‘They already are.’

  The Spartan’s brow crinkled, clearly unsure if Illeana was teasing her. It took a moment and she realised that she was. ‘I am sure,’ Lysandra said. ‘Beat him. But be careful.’

  ‘You worry too much.’ Illeana swung her leg over her horse’s head and dropped to the ground. Lysandra opened her mouth to speak, doubtless about to launch into a list of reasons as to why she had to worry, but Illeana moved away quickly.

  There was much discussion among the assembled men, argument and counter argument no doubt, but Illeana shut it all out and concentrated on warming up her body. It had been a while, she thought as she swung arms about, loosening her shoulders. The wound where Lysandra had ended her arena career protested as she did so and with the pain came a tiny spark of doubt – that worry that today might be the day.

  Good.

  Fear was part of the game. Fear kept you sharp, as long as it was controlled.

  Illeana squatted down on her haunches, stood, and squatted down again, the movement making the blood flow into her thighs and calves, stretching them, enlivening the muscles and tendons. At first it was easy – it always was – but she continued, counting from one to ten, ten to twenty and so on till she had completed a set of one hundred. Her breath coming fast now, she dropped into the press up position, her body perfectly straight, taking her weight on the balls of her feet and her shoulders. Again, the count – slow and precise to eke out the exercise, making it harder.

  Sweating now, she rose, stretching her neck from side to side, shrugging her shoulders to keep the blood flowing. She looked over to the mercenaries to see Euaristos standing with several men; it seemed that they could not pick a champion.<
br />
  No matter. The truth of it was that these were just soldiers, used to press of battle, the quick stab and hack to end the enemy as fast as possible. She was the Gladiatrix Prima.

  She strode towards her would be opponents, loosening her baldric as she did so. Her eyes flicked towards the ranks of men as they watched her approach and she smiled at one of them – and all of them at the same time. Some of the men nudged one another, each sure that the gesture had been for him alone. All part of the theatre, she had done this so many times in the arena. She lifted her baldric and, keeping a grip on the handle of her sword, flicked it away to reveal the sharp metal of her blade. The men greeted the move with ironic cheers and applause.

  She reached the handsome Athenian, Euaristos, and his chosen men – three of them along with two white-clad healers. ‘Euaristos,’ she said. ‘These are your champions?’ She looked at them as though they were children, come to an instructor for the first lesson in combat. ‘Do you need more time?’ Her opponents laughed at this and she rewarded them with an indulgent glance.

  ‘You’re perfectly gorgeous,’ one said. ‘I don’t know if I want to fight you —’

  ‘Or fuck me, yes I know, ‘Illeana interrupted. ‘As if I’ve never heard that one before. What’s your name, soldier?’

  He grinned at her, showing a gap between his front teeth. He had dark, wavy hair and a grey-flecked, badly shaven chin with a dimple. Not a looker, but his right arm had both fresh and faded scars – of course, he was a fighter, he would not have put himself forward otherwise. ‘Krateros,’ he answered.

  ‘And you?’ her eyes moved to the next man. Blond, green eyed, wiry and probably reliant on his speed, unlike Krateros who looked more of an all-rounder. ‘Sophocles.’