Illeana wrinkled her nose. ‘And the stench of death?’
‘That too. How is your back?’
‘Painful.’
‘You will live.’
Illeana laughed, the musical sound seeming out of place in the gloom. ‘I have been reading your books again,’ she offered. ‘On tactics.’
‘And they make sense now?’
‘Not really. Well, perhaps a little.’
It was Lysandra’s turn to smile. ‘I rather think that your presence will inspire people, Illeana. You have that . . . way about you.’
Illeana was about to answer, but then stopped and held up her hand. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Can you hear that?’
Lysandra could not. ‘Silence on the deck!’ she called and what little chat there was below died out at once. She cocked her head in the direction Illeana indicated. She picked up nothing at first, but then she heard it. Voices. The sound of men at work. As they drew closer, it became clearer – the language was Latin. As she realised it, the outline of Durostorum came into view and with it, the sight of many soldiers, all at work building a wall that extended from the periphery of the town till it was lost from sight in the fog.
As they saw the town, so they themselves were spotted by the Roman pickets, stood at arms to protect their compatriots. The alarm was raised at the sight of the ships – procedure, Lysandra guessed.
‘I’ll bring us closer,’ Bedros said. ‘Don’t want to get us shot at.’
‘Identify yourselves!’ a Roman shouted from the north bank, his voice thin and reedy.
‘Reinforcements for the IV Felix,’ Bedros called back. ‘Mercenary auxiliaries.’
‘About fucking time!’
Illeana winked at Lysandra. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Here we go.’
Valerian was in his new praetorium, what had once been the biggest house in Durostorum and was now an empty shell thanks to the destructiveness of his men. He did not dwell on who had once lived here and what had become of them. It was two-storeyed and spacious – more space than he needed, but it was warm and better than a tent. It would have to go sooner or later, he knew. He had ordered the demolition of the houses in the town to strengthen the wall – and if the men were sleeping in tents, so would he.
Eventually.
He had despatched a turmae of his precious cavalry to Iulianus with a report of the battle and there was a small part of him that hoped that the word back would be that they had already crushed Decabalus and were on their way to re-enforce him.
That, however, was fantasy and the rest of the horsemen had been flung out in a reconnaissance mission to locate the Dacian allies and report back. Hopefully, they would be far away. The wall was taking too long to construct – the foul conditions and poor ground were proving a nightmare. And the wall had to be ready in time; if not, he and his men would face a torrid time.
There was pounding at his door, interrupting his train of thought. ‘Come,’ he said.
Settus barged in, grinning all over his face. ‘You’re going to want to see this,’ he said.
‘Can it wait?’ The look Settus gave him told him it could not. ‘All right, then,’ he said and got to his feet. ‘Throw me a cloak, will you?’
Settus looked around and saw an array of red capes hanging from hooks on the wall. ‘The one with ermine trimming, sir,’ he asked, all innocence and mockery at the same time.
‘Just throw me the cloak.’
Settus did so and they left the warmth of the praetorium. The mist was thick as the centurion led him to the wall. Here it was strong at least and Valerian was pleased to see his redoubt was in full progress. The main wall would stretch between the rivers, but the defences around the town itself would also be augmented – just in case the legion was forced to retreat into Durostorum.
Valerian admitted to himself that this was more for morale than anything else – if it came to making a stand in the town proper, it would be all over bar the shouting. Silently, he reinforced his vow to fall on his sword rather than be taken again by the barbarians. He pushed the thought from his mind and followed Settus up the steps that led to the ramparts.
‘What do you reckon?’ Settus asked, pointing toward the river.
It was dark with merchant ships and soldiers were disembarking – thousands of soldiers. ‘The auxiliaries,’ he identified.
‘Yeah, yeah. But look closer.’
Valerian squinted into the mist, but could not see what Settus was getting at. He lost patience. ‘What?’
‘Half of them are split-arses.’
‘You’re not serious.’ But Valerian could hear his own men shouting at the troops as they marched by – and he’d never before heard one soldier ask another to suck his cock for him. ‘This doesn’t make any sense,’ he said.
‘We should get ’em inside, though.’
Valerian nodded. ‘I agree. But keep them behind the wall and out of the town. I want distance between our lads and their . . . troops. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And have their commander sent to me. At once.’
Valerian admitted to himself that he was doing his utmost to appear the archetypal Roman legate, keeping his expression stern, his back straight in the seat, arms on the report scattered oak table, fingers clasped. He eyed the expensive looking Dacian wine jug on the table that had somehow survived the looting, but decided against it.
He had been kept waiting for some time, no doubt Settus had had trouble finding out who was in charge – disembarking was a chaotic business at any time – in this weather, it would be doubly so. At length, however, someone rapped on his door. He re-stiffened his spine. ‘Come!’
A man entered – he did not recognise him, but the woman at his side was all too familiar. Tall, pale-skinned and blue eyed, she was dressed in mail with a red tunic and cloak, her black hair plastered to her head by the rain. ‘Lysandra . . .’ he said slowly.
‘And my colleague, Euaristos,’ she introduced the effete looking fellow at her side. ‘We are your re-enforcements, Valerian.’
Valerian was not quite sure what to say.
‘You do not seem overwhelmed,’ Lysandra observed. ‘May we sit?’ she indicated the chairs in front of his desk.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he stuttered, trying to get his thoughts in order. Some wine?’ he gestured to the jug.
‘No, thank you,’ Lysandra replied – to the seeming chagrin of her ‘colleague’. ‘What is the current situation here?’ she asked.
‘Just hold on a moment,’ Valerian decided that if they were not going to drink, he certainly needed one. ‘Are you sure?’ he eyed Euaristos and, without waiting for a reply, poured for them both, the gesture taken up enthusiastically by the man. ‘How are you here, Lysandra? Why? I was expecting re-enforcements, yes, but my men tell me your force is comprising women as well as men. This is highly irregular.’
‘By the looks of your men – the ones I saw – they are hardly elite legionary stock. Old men. Boys. Slaves too, I would guess. Hardly Caesar’s glorious Tenth Legion, Valerian. But, to answer your question. I am here on the orders of Sextus Julius Frontinus . . .’
‘That explains a lot,’ Valerian muttered with feeling.
Clearly irked at being interrupted, Lysandra continued. ‘You reported that your men baulked at fighting the Dacian women at Tapae. My troops have no such compunction. My soldiers are here specifically to combat that threat – and I would guess that it is Frontinus’s hope that Dacian men will feel the same way as yours did – giving us a small advantage, I hope.’
‘And you?’ He looked at Euaristos.
‘She hired me,’ Euaristos said airily. ‘I bring half a legion of quality veteran auxiliaries. We’re armed, equipped and paid up for the winter.’
‘Veteran?’
‘We’ve seen our share, sir. More than our share, in fact. We’re veteran veterans, if you will.’
Valerian let that go. ‘And you?’ he asked Lysandra.
‘Half
a legion. I have infantry to combat the Dacian women as I say, but my main strength is artillery and light troops. I have fought against men in the arena, Valerian. I won, of course, but not all women are Lysandra. Only the exceptional can really stand against a man in battle. Naturally, all my soldiers are exceptional – but only the best of the best will fight in the line.’
‘You bring artillery?’ Despite himself, Valerian’s military interest was piqued. ‘Do continue.’
Lysandra gave a slight smile – it reminded him of Pyrrha’s halfgrin and, he realised, she must have picked up this expression from Lysandra during her youth. ‘Frontinus appraised me of the situation – and the tactics here are obvious. I hope you have learned something since we first met, Valerian?’
Valerian coloured, remembering their first encounter. He had been drunk and they had argued about the merits of Greek and Roman infantry. ‘I hope so,’ he waved it away. ‘I am a legate now.’
‘Indeed. Your mission is to sever the line between Decabalus and his allies. Durostorum is the perfect locale for this, situated as it is between two rivers. Frankly, I am amazed that this vaunted Dacian king has not seen this himself. But that is now his problem. Our problem is that we are few and they are many. Even with the wall, we would be hard pressed to hold. My thought was to use artillery and missile troops to bombard the Dacians as they come to us. And keep that bombardment going through each engagement – adjusting the elevation of course. Also, these barbarians are not professionals like your men and Euaristos’s. Their morale could be questionable – they will be expecting one legion. We now have two – moreover, two equipped specially to combat them.’
‘Yes – well, as I am sure you are aware, planning for battles and fighting them are often at opposite ends of the page. And I note you do not count your women as professionals.’
Lysandra arched a dark eyebrow. ‘Of course. I thought that it would offend your ego.’ Euaristos sniggered at that. ‘My women are killers, Valerian. All of them. Can the same be said of your soldiers? Boys. Ex-slaves and so forth?’
The jibe hit home and Valerian felt his temper spark. ‘My men will do their duty.’
‘As will we,’ Lysandra shot back. ‘I do not expect you to believe me, Valerian, but this fight is ordained by Athene – Minerva – herself. All who stand with me believe this to be true. The gods are on our side.’
That, Valerian thought, was all he needed, an army of religious lunatics. He glanced at Euaristos who nodded slightly. Lysandra had made a believer out of him too. ‘In my experience,’ he said, ‘the gods don’t really help on the battlefield.’
‘You are not a priest,’ Lysandra shrugged. ‘You have your beliefs. I have the truth.’
Valerian knew that there was no point in arguing with the god- addled. They couldn’t be reasoned with, even when facts stared them in the face. He decided to move the conversation on. ‘Your presence here is unusual,’ he said, ‘but far from unwelcome. However, the presence of so many women could be a . . . distraction . . . to my men.’
‘I have thought of that too,’ Lysandra said. ‘Your . . . dim view of the gods might be true of the educated equites, Valerian, but most common men place great faith in them. I recall that Caligula’s legions refused to march on Britannia because of the demons that lurked across the water. Have them swear oaths – terrible oaths – that fraternisation is forbidden. I shall do the same, as will Euaristos.’
Valerian got a laugh out of that. Lysandra might claim some technical knowledge but she clearly did not know soldiers. ‘I rather think it won’t be enough.’
The Spartan fixed him with her strange, ice-coloured eyes. ‘It will be if the person caught is not punished but his – or her – tent- mates are crucified. Make it known that the fault of the one causes the punishment of the many. Besides,’ she added. ‘Soon, they will have more to think about than fornicating. The question is: how soon?’
Valerian sat back in his seat, trying to maintain his grip on the conversation. It was typical of Frontinus to gamble like this. But Valerian remembered the comments of his men before Tapae. How poorly they had fought against the Dacian ‘amazons’. It was ingrained in men that women were weaker; they were wives, whores, homemakers and domestic slaves. Not warriors. So the wily Governor had concocted this scheme – and of course, placed the egomaniacal Lysandra at the forefront of his plan. Her Herculean arrogance coupled with her skill at arms, her military acumen, her utter faith that her mission was Olympian in its calling and her sex made her the perfect candidate for the job. He had to salute the old man.
‘How soon indeed,’ Valerian said after a moment. ‘I do not know the answer to that. I have scouts in the field, looking for the enemy. The more immediate problem is the wall – it is taking longer to construct that we anticipated.’
‘Lucky for you we arrived when we did,’ Euaristos said. ‘We have shovels and skill. And I know Lysandra’s women – they are called the Heronai – the Women of the Temple . . .’
‘I am fluent in your language,’ Valerian interrupted. Something about the Greek irritated him. Valerian judged him to be a peacock and a ladies’ man – and probably an adventurer to boot.
The interruption did not faze the man however. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘They can dig too. Trained by an ex-centurion. Ditch and rampart will be no issue to them, but I’d leave the stone work to your lads and mine.’
Valerian sighed. It was what it was and he had to deal with it. And, if he was honest with himself, it was more blessing than curse. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’ll ensure that there will be no fraternisation – and put them to work.’ He turned his attention to Lysandra. ‘Let us hope that toil is enough to keep their minds off . . . other matters. For now.’
The Dacian Plain
It was good to be free of the sprawling mass of the encampment. The rain fell in a fine mist, cleansing and life-giving and there was a bracing chill in the air that enlivened the flesh and made the heart beat stronger.
It was grand to be alive. Sorina glanced at Amagê who rode at her side at the head of a party of fifty riders, all good men and women, all heavily armed. Amagê looked back at her and winked, reminding Sorina of the previous night’s passion. She was a fool, she chided herself, but love made fools of everyone and her feelings for the Sarmatian Clan Chief were growing deep.
Amagê had decided that a scouting mission was in order; all knew that they would soon encounter the Romans, the question was when. ‘They will be searching for us too, ’she had said. ‘Better that we know where they are and they don’t know we’re coming.’ Sorina reckoned the truth of it was that Amagê was as keen as she to spend some time riding free of the responsibilities and mundane governance of the Tribes that had gathered to her banner. Always fractious and at times petty, there were many feuds and many fights. It was the way of things, but it could be draining when one constantly had judge and execute fines and punishments, rewards and boons.
‘I don’t like this ground, ’Amagê said. ‘Too soft.’
It was true – the rain had made the grasslands thick with mud. No real issue for a small band such as this, but Sorina knew well that the tread of many thousands would churn up the earth and make riding perilous. ‘There’s truth in that,’ she replied.
‘Amagê!’ one of the riders called out – one of the Clan Chief’s own Sarmatians by her accent. ‘Look there!’
Sorina followed the line of the woman’s spear to see a small farmstead – or what remained of it. As one, they turned the heads of their mounts, urging them gently towards the ruin. As they drew closer, Sorina saw a murder of crows as the approaching horses startled them and they exploded skywards, their harsh cawing ripping through the air. Sorina swung her leg over her horse’s head and slid to the ground. She had seen this many times before in her youth.
Corpses lay bloated and stinking in the cool air; they had been so mutilated by the scavengers that only their clothing told her if the bodies were men or women. The children were
all too obvious. ‘Romans,’ she spat.
Amagê leapt from her horse and joined her. ‘Children? But why?’
‘It is the way that they make war,’ Sorina replied. ‘No honour. No mercy. Their soldiers are like stone, Amagê. They feel nothing, care for nothing save that their orders are carried out. What kind of man can kill a child?’
‘A Roman soldier.’ The question was rhetorical, but Amagê answered anyway, her eyes cold with anger. ‘They will pay for this. Zalmoxis will have their screams as music while he sups on their souls.’
‘We should bury them,’ the Sarmatian woman said. ‘It’s wrong for the carrion to get them.’
It was grim work. As they lifted the bodies from the ground, they fell apart, alive with maggots and other foulness; the stench was overpowering. But it had to be done. They made a cairn for the family and Sorina could see the hatred hardening on the faces of the riders. War was like that: it began as a grand adventure, something that you knew you would survive. You would be honoured and your grandchildren would sit on your knee and listen to your stories of valour. But those stories never told of the children killed, the women raped and the putrid corpses left on the field.
‘Let’s leave this place,’Amagê said.
They pushed on, leaving the cairn behind them. The rain grew heavier, coming down in thick droplets that pounded horse and rider, and Sorina hunched down in her cloak, the lightness of spirit she had felt long since fled. They continued west, following the line of the river. As they did, there was yet more evidence of the Romans and the destruction they had wrought. ‘The people will hear of this,’Amagê said. ‘When they see what we have seen, they will cry out for vengeance.’
Sorina did not reply. Something caught her eye, a movement to her right. She slowed her mount, raising her hand that the others might do the same and peered into the distance.
‘Riders,’ she murmured.
‘Where?’
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 30