Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

  Illeana could not resist. ‘Tragic.’

  Sophocles smiled, but there was only meanness in it. ‘As if I’ve never heard that one before.’

  Illeana turned her mouth down and nodded – this one was dangerous. ‘And you, grandfather?’ she looked at the final man. He was bluff, grey and bearded, thickset and all brute force. ‘Are you here to add the benefit of your epic experience?’

  ‘Aye,’ he nodded, unfazed. ‘I’m Bion. Are you sure about this?’ Illeana arched an eyebrow. ‘Sure about what?’

  ‘That you want this to end in death? The older I get – and I’m fifty now – the sweeter life is.’

  ‘If that were true,’ Illeana responded, ‘why are you still a soldier? It’s dangerous work.’

  ‘It’s all I know.’

  Illeana smiled at him. ‘Come then, Bion. Let us see if today is your day?’

  ‘You want to fight the old man?’ Sophocles put in. ‘Not much of a challenge. If this farce is supposed to prove that whores can match blades with men, then you should be trying to make yourself look good, not taking the easy option.’

  Illeana looked right at him, her eyes locking with his, willing him to look away. He held her gaze and so she shrugged. ‘I’m fighting the old man first,’ she answered. ‘You’ll have your chance, Sophocles.’

  ‘That wasn’t the agreement,’ Euaristos sputtered. ‘There’s only to be one match, Illeana –’

  ‘You worry too much, ‘she cut him off. ‘Come on, Bion.’

  She turned away without waiting for a response. The gathered soldiers began to shout and cheer, pleased that the talking was over and the action was about to begin. Just as it was in the arena.

  Bion was armed with a longsword – a Roman spatha, a cavalryman’s weapon; he swung it from side to side, the blade hissing as he did so. ‘I don’t want to kill you, girl,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she told him. ‘You won’t.’

  Bion chuckled and raised his sword to indicate his readiness. Illeana stood stock still for a moment, examining him: the speed of his breathing, the clenching and unclenching of his fingers on the handle of his sword and, crucially, his stance. He favoured his front leg as would a soldier used to carrying a shield. He moved towards her and she shifted to her left, her gladius still held loose at her side.

  The soldiers began to shout abuse, wanting to see some action. And Bion obliged, lunging forward with a roar, the spatha cutting downwards; there was no need to parry – she could see from the angle of his attack that this was a maiming strike – as he had said, he didn’t want to kill her. Illeana tucked and rolled away, knowing that he would follow his initial cut with a swinging cross cut – it was the only move he could make.

  ‘You are fast,’ he said to her as she sprang to her feet.

  ‘You have no idea. Ready?’

  His eyes widened as she said it – warning him caught him off guard as she knew it would. Illeana stepped in to close with him, intercepting his thrust by angling her blade slightly to her right. The watching soldiers heard the sharp retort of iron on iron and roared their encouragement, but Illeana was not done. Their blades still joined she rotated her wrist sharply, trying to loosen the old man’s grip on his sword. He fought it as she knew he must. Her blade was the shorter; she withdrew it fast and brought it over the top of his hand, rapping the flat of the gladius down hard on his knuckles. He shouted in shock and the pain forced him to let go of the weapon – and, in less than a heartbeat, the tip of Illeana’s sword was at his throat.

  The cheering was cut short as the stunned crowd took in what had happened.

  Illeana felt the familiar surge of ecstasy that only victory could provide. As she had always said, the rush was better than narcotics, better than wine; perhaps even better than sex. ‘Yield?’ she asked. Bion’s nod was nervous and slight – he didn’t want to move his head too much lest the sharp tip open his skin.

  Illeana withdrew her blade and Bion stooped to pick up his sword. She watched him, hoping he would not try to take her out with a surprise attack and he must have noted her expression. ‘I’m not that stupid,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘Gladiatrix?’

  Illeana inclined her head. ‘Gladiatrix Prima.’

  ‘She’s a canny one, ‘Bion jerked his head at the distant Lysandra. ‘Not one of us will be able to match you.’

  ‘She has a hard sell. Will you follow her?’

  ‘Athene is with her.’

  ‘Of course. Send Krateros over, would you.’

  Bion nodded and moved off to the jeers of his comrades; Illeana reckoned that his thoughts were rueful, probably imagining that he would never live down his defeat at the hands of a woman. She would, however, prove to his detractors that victory over a woman would be something they would not take for granted again.

  She saw Krateros approaching; by his confident swagger it was obvious that he thought his skills would be enough to put her in place, despite the ease at which she had bested Bion. He was grinning, gesturing to the soldiers, encouraging them to cheer him on. That he thought this was a huge joke was written all over his face.

  ‘I’m doing this for a bet,’ he told her as he drew near.

  As with Bion, she studied him and found that he – unlike the old man – was relaxed and confident. Perhaps overly so. ‘You’re going to lose.’

  Krateros shrugged. ‘Maybe. But by the gods, woman, it’ll be worth it. It’ll be like crossing swords with a goddess! I’ve bedded plenty of women in my time but I’ve never seen your like. Not even close.’

  ‘You’re not going to bed me, Krateros.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want me to lose my bet, would you?’

  Illeana laughed with genuine warmth. ‘You’re an arrogant bastard.’ ‘But an endearing one, don’t you think?’

  ‘Have you been taking lessons in flattery from Euaristos?’

  ‘He learns from me.’

  Illeana was about to reply when somebody in the ranks shouted at them to get on with it. The cry was soon taken up and there was a cacophony of spear butts being banged on shield backs. She raised her sword and Krateros’s own gladius came up in response.

  Illeana leapt to the attack, deciding this time to take the initiative and shatter the man’s bravado before he got his tail up any more. She went in low, weight on her front leg to strike up hard through his stomach, but Krateros was swifter than she had given him credit for, swaying back and avoiding the thrust. Illeana had to roll forward – and this time there was no flashy entertainment to it. She was over-extended and had to get out of the way of his blade, which cut the air where her back had been. Rusty, she chided herself.

  She rolled to her feet at speed and attacked again, a high cut to the head; Krateros parried and her sword was forced up by the impact. He did not execute a counter cross-cut as she had expected but rotated his wrist and struck at her face with the pommel of the gladius. Her left hand lashed out, smacking into his wrist and deflecting the blow. She refused to execute another downwards strike lest she become entangled with him – his greater strength could overwhelm her. Instead, she stepped out to her left and kicked him in the thigh.

  Krateros cursed and stumbled; Illeana knew she had hit the nerve and his leg would be numb for a moment. She attacked again, hard and fast, a series of chopping and stabbing blows that forced him back, giving him no chance to regain the initiative.

  But Krateros was good. He kept moving back, eventually putting enough distance between them to disengage. Illeana sucked in air and, as she did so, it was Krateros’s turn to wade in – and his comrades roared him on. It wasn’t very sporting, but she was Roman, he was Greek and they wanted their man to win for them and, she surmised, for men in general after Bion had been dispatched with comparative ease.

  Illeana was breathing hard now, sweat beading on her forehead and running down her back – she had kept herself fit these past months but the training was nothing like that which she put herself through when preparing for a bout in th
e arena. Krateros could sense her weakening and he came at her hard, forcing her onto the defensive.

  He stepped in with a thrust and she was only able to partially deflect the blow; his blade thudded into her collarbone and she felt the white hot lance of pain as her skin split and the blood began to flow. He was still close and Illeana reacted instinctively, a low cross cut that scored a deep wound across her opponent’s belly.

  Krateros gasped in shock and pain; he wavered for a moment and Illeana knew that this was her chance. Pushing the pain aside she attacked – a lunge, then a feint – a downward strike. As his sword rose to parry, she rotated her wrist, turning the hacking blow to another cross cut, this time to his upper arm. Her blade crunched into his flesh – blood erupted from the wound and Krateros went down, rolling on the ground in pain, clutching his shoulder, his sword forgotten by his side.

  Illeana stood over him, holding in her elation. ‘Yield?’ Krateros just gasped and she took it for a ‘yes’. She beckoned to the healers and they came at a run, pulling a handcart behind them.

  One of them went right to her – probably at Euaristos’s orders, but she waved him away. The wound on her collarbone was painful but not too deep. Illeana rotated her shoulder. She bit her lip as the cut pulled but she knew that she could fight on.

  The healers hauled up the cursing Krateros and he yelped as they hefted him into the cart. Then they bore him away.

  The men were silent – disbelieving and shocked at the turn of events. It must have looked to them that Krateros was winning and now he – like Bion – was sent back to them in defeat.

  But defeated or not, Krateros had put up a hard fight and Illeana was tired from it. She wiped sweat from her eyes with the arm of her tunic and looked over at Sophocles who was making his way towards her. She wanted to finish him quickly, but she knew that she could not rush the fight. Trying to end a contest too quickly nearly always worked against the one who was trying to force the ending. Part of Illeana was cursing her overconfidence. Three bouts, back to back – she would never have countenanced it when she was in her prime. It was vainglorious and dangerous – especially fighting opponents who were naturally bigger and stronger.

  She laughed then. She was Illeana, the Aesalon Nocturna and Gladiatrix Prima. She had defeated everyone who had challenged her. And this would be no different.

  Sophocles scowled as he drew near. ‘You won’t be laughing at me soon, bitch,’ he said to her.

  ‘You’re very hostile,’ Illeana observed.

  ‘I usually am when I’m about to kill someone. That cut will slow you,’ he pointed at her wound with his gladius. ‘You beat the old man and Krateros, but you won’t beat me.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Illeana forced mildness into her tone; something about the man irritated her. She raised her sword, still slick with the blood of Krateros. ‘Let’s see if your bite is as bad as your bark.’

  Sophocles dropped into a fighting crouch, his eyes narrowed. He was studying her, she realised, as she was studying him. He unafraid and confident, circling her as she matched him, step for step. There was cheering from the men, but it was muted and unenthusiastic; either the soldiers were not confident or Sophocles was far from popular. Illeana was inclined to think it was the latter.

  With awful suddenness, Sophocles leapt into the attack, a thrust which she was forced to parry followed up with a swinging left hook. Illeana ducked under it and speared her own blade toward his guts; Sophocles was too quick. He stepped back and lashed out with a kick that caught her on the brow.

  Illeana’s vison flashed white and she fell onto her back, stunned by the force of the blow. Sophocles was at her in less than a heartbeat and it was all she could do to roll aside as his blade scored the earth where she had been a moment before. Illeana rolled to her knee and parried as Sophocles swung his blade at her – more to ward off her counterstroke, she knew. She went with the attack, her blade absorbing the force and she surged to her feet, slamming into him.

  He was side on and she had the centre line – he might be stronger but his balance was off and he fell back. She did not pursue, using the time he took to get up to try and clear her head, sucking in lungfuls of air.

  ‘You Romans are all the same,’ Sophocles taunted. ‘Your arrogance will be your downfall.’

  Illeana didn’t respond – she was grateful for the respite. Sophocles came on again, a circling cut to her head. She swayed back and executed her own slashing attack, her blade scoring the soldier’s cheek. It was a deep cut and he cursed in pain as blood sluiced down his face. He was not undone and came back at her, a volley of attacks that forced her back.

  The continued assault was taking its toll on her injured collarbone and she could feel the wound weeping freely now. Sophocles saw that she was tiring – she read it in his eyes. They lit up as she knew her own must when she was close to victory.

  Despite Lysandra’s admonishments, the contests with both Bion and Krateros had been sporting, but Sophocles was trying to kill her. Sweat ran into Illeana’s eyes and her heart was beating fast as the soldier waded in with thrusts and cuts that she was hard pressed to defend. The harsh ringing of iron on iron was loud in her ears, cutting through the distant shouts of the watching men.

  Sophocles’s blade lanced towards her chest; Illeana twisted slightly and allowed the edge of her gladius to guide his attack away. It had been close. Again he came in, this time a low, up-swinging cut that she had never seen before; Illeana blocked low and did not see the punch that smashed into her temple.

  The world tilted as she crashed to the ground; she forced herself to roll as she hit, but she could hear him rushing in to finish her. Illeana turned as Sophocles reached her, his blade cutting down towards her skull. She hurled herself at him, crying out in pain as his gladius cut her back open. She took him around the waist and rammed her sword deep into his guts and up into his heart. His blood jetted out, splashing her face and neck as she fell with him in a heap.

  Leaving her weapon embedded in his chest, Illeana rolled away onto her hands and knees. She puked, the pain of her wounds and exhaustion overcoming her. Illeana wretched bitter bile, cursing herself, dimly aware of the pounding of horses’ hooves approaching and passing her by. She looked up through matted strands of hair to see Lysandra trying to make her horse stop.

  The Spartan leapt out of the saddle and ran to her. ‘Illeana!’

  Illeana was touched; there was genuine concern in Lysandra’s strange blue eyes. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘That was stupid of me.’

  Lysandra was peering at her, examining her to make sure she wasn’t going to keel over – Illeana knew this because she had done it herself many times to other fighters. ‘Yes, it was,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘But glorious. They cheered you after the kill.’

  Illeana shrugged and winced at the pain it caused her. ‘I missed that. I was...’

  ‘I know. ‘Lysandra’s smile was tight. ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘I’ve had worse, you know.’

  ‘Come,’ the Spartan said. ‘Let me get you to a healer.’

  Taenarum, Laconia

  Lysandra looked across the field to where the mercenaries were dressing their lines. She had read the theorems of battle many times and, though she had fought in one herself, she had never faced real soldiers before. There was something in the way they moved that put fear into her. These were professionals, veterans well used to the press of battle. And though the contest to come would be bloodless, Lysandra was afraid that her hypaspistai would not be able to cope with the greater strength and cunning of the Hellene warriors.

  That greater strength could have cost Illeana her life. It had been a gamble – but a necessary one. That did not assuage the guilt that she felt, however. She should have been the one to face the mercenaries; it had been her idea and she should have borne the danger. Even if Thebe had been right, that Lysandra was the stragegos and she could not risk herself, it still did not sit well with her.

  Lysandr
a turned her attention to her own troops. They were stationed in grim, silent lines twenty-five across and twenty deep. Their large round shields were resting against their knees, each one decorated with a heta for ‘Heronai’ and their eight-foot staves planted in the earth, the blunted wooden tips pointing to the sky. The women’s helmets were uniform in the Corinthian style, the famous plumed helmet of the hoplite soldier of old, but their armour was a hotchpotch of mail and modified Roman segmentata.

  Lysandra nudged Hades forward and he plodded to the right of the line where the first lochagos stood. ‘Laurenia, isn’t it?’ Lysandra asked her. The woman was tall, dark haired and formidable looking, her helmet resting at the top of her head, ready to pull down.

  ‘Yes, strategos,’ Laurenia replied.

  ‘What do you think?’ Lysandra jerked her chin at the men they were about to fight.

  ‘I’ve fought in eleven arena bouts, strategos. I’ve asked the missio once and got it because I fought my guts out. Over there,’ she raised her voice, ‘are men who reckon they’re hard. Easy to be hard when you’re in a line like this one. Not many of them have fought like we’ve fought. One to one. On the sands. I’m not scared of them, strategos!’ At her words, some of the women cheered and thumped the palms of their hands on their bowl-shaped aspis shields.

  ‘They are going to come at us hard,’ Lysandra said to her. ‘Illeana has already humiliated their best – they are going to want to take it out on us and prove that they are still men.’

  Laurenia laughed. ‘Let them.’

  ‘Pipers are to the rear?’ Lysandra asked.

  ‘Aye, strategos. You make us dance to your tune and we’ll smash the smug grins from these bastards’ faces and leave them puking on the field.’ Laurenia looked up at Lysandra and met her eyes. ‘Trust us. As we trust you.’

  Lysandra tapped Hades’s flanks with her heels and he plodded down the flank of her soldiers. To their credit, none looked at her, all had their eyes front, each of them probably wondering what combat would bring.