‘You’re enthusiastic,’ Amagê said as they walked away. It warmed Sorina that she linked arms with her.
‘I hate Romans,’ she said. ‘I can find no pity in my heart for them. They took my lands, made war on my people, made me a slave. And you saw what they did to those families out there. And you put on a good act,’ she added pointedly.
‘I don’t want defiance when I’m after information.’ Amagê was blithe. ‘Better to let them think there’s hope . . .’ she stopped as a high-pitched wail followed by a cheer rolled across the night. ‘Someone’s lost his balls already. Where was I? Doomed men can be stubborn – I don’t need to waste hours with torture with what I can get with a smile in a few moments.’
‘They didn’t tell us much.’
‘They told me enough to know that stepping up the pace was the right idea. Durostorum isn’t far from here – a few days at most. They won’t have finished their wall. And the Roman was right.. . We’ll run over them in a single day.’
They had reached her tent and it looked warm inside. ‘And their re-enforcements?’
‘Won’t matter one way or the other. Come inside, Sorina – the night is cold. We’ll warm each other.’
Her words not only sent heat to Sorina’s loins but also warmth to her heart.
They rode out at mid-morning, despite Amagê’s urging to pick up the pace. But the tribes warriors were not soldiers like the Romans. There was no real military discipline here; rousing them and getting them moving took time.
The wind whipped across the grasslands from the river, bringing with it a biting chill – but the rain had stopped and Sorina found it more bracing than discomforting. She rode at the head of the tribespeople, Amagê at her side. The Sarmatian’s fit of pique over their slow start soon evaporated with the mist. ‘A finer day,’ Sorina said to her.
‘No rain, either, Amagê grinned. ‘Makes a change.’
‘Let us hope it stays this way. Horses or no, our feet will still leave a bog in our wake.’
‘Zalmoxis smiles on us, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps. Or the Earth Mother. Either way – harder ground would be better.’
‘With no mist, the Romans will see us coming from miles away,’ Amagê noted. ‘The sight of us will terrify them. Unman them.’
‘We have enough numbers to swallow their legion,’ Sorina said.
‘But we must not underestimate them, Amagê. As I have said – the Romans did not conquer the world by being foolish or cowards.’
Amagê laughed. ‘You worry too much.’
‘I just don’t want to lose more people than we have to.’
Amagê looked at her, her eyes glinting. ‘Unlike Decabalus.’
Sorina shrugged. ‘He has become a king. They do as they will, Amagê. His world and his view on it has changed – yours doesn’t have to.’
‘But when Rome is gone, the world will have changed. It will need new kings. And queens. Like us,’ she leaned across in the saddle and punched Sorina on the arm to take the weight from her words. But Sorina knew she spoke from the heart; Amagê was young – she still had ambition whereas all Sorina wanted was an end to Rome and peace. Peace by Amagê’s side for as long as she wanted her to be there. But she knew well that if that was her desire, she would have to play in the game of power alongside her.
They rode without speaking for a time, but it was far from silent around them, the braying of pack animals, the song of the horses, the sound of the earth sucking at the feet of the tribes as they marched on. There was music too, laughter, song and conversation: these were things that truly mattered in life. But always in the warrior was the need to test him or herself against death. The music of battle was a crueller sound than this.
Sorina looked into the distance and squinted. There was a dark smudge on the horizon, dark against the beautiful green of the plains, stretching from bank to bank of both rivers. ‘What is that?’ she said to Amagê.
The Clan Chief craned her neck, she too narrowing her eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured. ‘Let us find out!’ Without waiting for a response, she cried out and slapped the rump of her horse, sending her flying forward. Sorina cursed and dug her heels into her own mare, calling Amagê’s bodyguards to follow her.
They ran over the wet ground as fast as they dared, but they were not long at the gallop before it became clear what they were looking at. Amagê pulled her mount to a halt and Sorina was by her side a moment later.
The rampart stretched from shore to shore with sharpened stakes for its teeth. Below it was a deep ditch and, behind the uniform line of wooden obstacles were the Romans.
‘They were supposed to be at Durostorum,’ Amagê snarled. ‘That rampart is complete . . .’
‘Those aren’t legionaries,’ Sorina said. ‘Auxiliaries on the right flank. Mercenaries, by the looks of them, on the left. These must be the re-enforcements.’
‘Unless the prisoners lied.’
‘Unless they lied.’
‘It matters not,’Amagê turned her horse.
‘When do we attack?’
‘Now. We attack now.’
Lysandra watched as the horizon began to turn black with bodies, thousands and thousands of them, cavalry and infantry. She turned to Kleandrias. ‘This is it, then.’
‘Aye.’ He was quiet, he too staring into the distance.
Lysandra swallowed, feeling nerves and no little fear well up in her stomach. She had faced a battle before – but that had been a fair fight and a spectacle. This was horribly different. She knew the goddess was with her, knew that this was the moment she had been born for – and perhaps yearned for. Yet, now that it was upon her, the sickening reality of the odds marching towards her, she almost baulked.
But she had marched her army to a fight from which they could not easily run; they had no cavalry so they could not outrace the Dacian allies. Nor were Bedros’s transports anywhere nearby to evacuate the troops. Here they must stand.
‘This is it, then!’ Illeana unwittingly repeated Lysandra’s words. She strode towards them, her peerless green eyes alive with excitement. ‘There’s enough of them, isn’t there?’ she added as the blackness on the horizon grew even thicker.
‘There is,’ Lysandra agreed.
‘Good thing you have a plan then,’ Illeana said. Then she turned away, looking at the oncoming horde and spoke in a quiet voice. ‘I can’t wait for this.’ She took a moment, seemingly in quiet contemplation; then she laughed. ‘Where do you want me, Lysandra? Where shall I fight?’
‘You should stay back at first,’ Lysandra advised. ‘They will be fresh and eager . . .’
Of course, Illeana would not hear of it. ‘In the front, then? ’
Lysandra smiled. ‘In the front. But behind the stakes!’
Illeana slammed a fist over her heart, a flawed attempt at a military salute, and then made her way forward.
‘I’ll have what she’s had.’ Cappa approached with Murco in tow. He spat on the floor. ‘This is it, then . . .’
Kleandrias and Lysandra chuckled. ‘So it would seem,’ she said. ’
I don’t think it’s funny,’ Murco said. ‘There’s a load of people over there that definitely want to separate my head from my body.’
‘Make sure that they don’t,’ Kleandrias advised.
‘I’ve got your back, brother,’ Cappa said, surprising Lysandra. There was no jocularity, no banter. Not this time. He turned to Lysandra, ‘And you stay close to us. Let us do our jobs.’
Lysandra nodded and looked around for the hypaspistai; they were making their way forward to the centre of her line. Across the field, she could see Euaristos’s men moving into position, the brazen crow of their buccinas contrasting with the shrill wail of her own pipers.She peered into the throngs assembling behind the vicious rows of sharpened stakes and saw Thebe’s white-crested helmet and cloak weaving in and out of her heavy infantry. Behind them, were her peltasts, armed with javelin and sling and, bringing up the rear, the Priestesses of Artemis
. Aloof and secure in their élan, these women knew well that many lives depended on their speed and accuracy. Lysandra wished that she could have brought the full force of her artillery to bear on the enemy at this point – squeezed between the two rivers, the onagers would have devastated them. But she may as well have wished for Athene to appear and strike down the barbarians herself. The line of Artemisian archers spanned both contingents – thinner than Lysandra would have liked but it was her opinion that concentrating missile attack on a single segment of the enemy would cause pressure elsewhere on her front as the barbarians bunched up to avoid the arrows. Better to keep an even spread of death.
Beyond the archers were the pack animals, medics, cooks and other personnel. The carts, which carried the medical supplies and wine, were being emptied – these would now be used to ferry the wounded from the front. Lysandra turned and looked back from where they had marched – hoping that Bedros and his ships would not let them down.
‘We should be about it, then,’ she said to Kleandrias. He was looking at her strangely. ‘What?’
‘You resemble Athene herself,’ he said – which, Lysandra fancied was true, given her red cloak and armour.
‘Not quite,’ she commented with a smile – a smile that hid the churning worry in her belly. She placed the heavy, open-faced helm with its red crest on her head. ‘Now?’
Kleandrias laughed. ‘Perhaps another statue of you is due, Lysandra.’
‘Let us see what happens here first, Kleandrias.’
The big man swallowed and glanced at Cappa and Murco; the latter caught the look and developed a sudden interest in the deployment of the troops – and needed Cappa’s opinion on it. ‘Lysandra,’ Kleandrias rumbled. ‘If something happens to me today . . .’ he hesitated as she looked at his plain, honest face. ‘I mean to say that . . . I struggle with these words . . . if I fall . . . I want you to know . . .’
‘I do,’ she cut him off. ‘Just make sure you do not fall.’ His eyes filled with hope and Lysandra felt mean spirited that she did not return his affections; but what else could she say to him? Now was not the time. ‘Let us be about it,’ she said.
‘I was wondering when you’d turn up,’ Thebe said as Illeana shoved her way to the front. The Gladiatrix Prima looked primed and ready – her green eyes alight with anticipation. ‘You want to be in the Emperor’s Box for the games,’ she added.
‘I’ve never fought in a war before,’ Illeana said, turning her gaze towards the enemy. She hefted her shield – as with the rest of the heavy infantry, Illeana had the secutrix scutum – not as large as its military cousin, it still afforded a good deal of protection. And Thebe knew that, like the rest of the women, Illeana would be well used to wielding it.
‘Stay close to me,’ Thebe advised. ‘You’ve not had the training the other girls have had.’
‘I understand,’ Illeana replied, surprising Thebe at her willingness to do as she was told. But then, Illeana was a surprising woman. Thebe had expected to hate her. After all, Lysandra had nearly died at her hand. But Illeana had no malice in her; it was all about professional pride for the Roman. Fighting was her job and she was the best – nobody could dispute that now. The thought brought a wry smile to Thebe’s face: Lysandra would dispute it.
‘Are you afraid?’ Illeana asked, catching her off guard.
‘No,’ Thebe lied quickly.
‘I’m shitting myself,’ a woman nearby piped up, causing a ripple of giggles around her.
‘This’ll be easy compared to the arena!’ Thebe shouted. ‘We’ve all fought – and not with friends at our sides and at our backs. And not protected by a wooden wall of spikes. Think on this, girls. Some of those bastards out there will have killed before, but most of them won’t. They’ll be serving their chiefs, that lot – duty bound. Not professionals. Not like us. Every single one of us has had blood on their gladius. We’ll put the fear of the gods into them!’ The cheer she got in response was shrill and reedy – not a little fearful itself. ‘Just stay in formation,’ she added. ‘No one’s getting the missio for a flashy performance. Shields close. Strike true. Hold them off. That’s all we have to do. Hold them off. A wound is as good as a kill – we’ll be back on the boats before we know it.’
She looked across the field as the Dacian allies advanced – infantry to the front, horse soldiers behind. Her heart beat fast in her chest now and she realised that the comparison with the arena was apt. She was always afraid before the fight. Everyone was. But with that knowledge came the comfort that as soon as it began, the fear would fall away. She glanced at Illeana. ‘A little,’ she admitted.
‘A little what?’ Illeana did not look at her, her eyes fixed to the front.
‘Afraid,’ Thebe murmured.
‘As am I, all of a sudden.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Oh, I know,’ Illeana looked over to her and winked. ‘It’s no fun if you’re not a bit afraid, is it? You can’t fully appreciate life unless you’ve stared death in the face a few times. I will miss the thrill in later life. It’s a shame we have to get old, Thebe.’
‘If I’m a day older by tomorrow, I’ll be happy,’ she replied. She could feel the change in the women around her. Illeana’s banter was having some effect on them, as though they were drawing courage from her.
‘They’re taking their time,’ Illeana observed of the barbarians.
It was true – as the land between the rivers narrowed, the advance was becoming slow and congested. Now that they were closer, Thebe could see them struggling in the muddy fields – not the first few ranks but those behind, as their feet churned up the sodden Dacian ground. But they were determined and pushed on, and she could make out individual forms as they drew nearer, the tall, bulky shapes of men making up the vast majority, but there were females among them too – as Sorina had told them all once, back in Balbus’s ludus.
‘I don’t think a few sharp sticks are going to stop this lot,’ the woman who had admitted to her fear earlier prophesised.
‘Good!’ Illeana shouted. ‘I’d hate to have come all this way, leaving blessed Apollo’s sun on the other side of the world and not have a fight at the end of it. I want to kill these bastards for their weather alone!’
That got some laughs and Thebe was relieved because of it, especially as she knew Illeana had only invoked the name of the god because she was with believers. Then, there was more hilarity as, as though on cue, thunder rolled across the sky and the first drops of rain began to fall. It was light at first and then, with Dacian typicality, it grew heavier and heavier until the familiar thick, blinding sheets came down.
It was hard going for the Dacian allies as they slogged towards the lines of stakes, but there was a palpable feeling of hatred rolling across the field to the Heronai lines. Thebe could imagine no mercy from these people – they were there to wipe out the thin line of humanity that stood between them and their ultimate goal of Durostorum and the last line of Roman defence.
The wailing of pipes floated to them from the rear and then, moments later, what sounded like the clap of a giant’s hand followed by the hiss of a thousand hydras. Thebe looked up and saw the black shafts of arrows arcing overhead, disappearing into dark skies before falling. Screams erupted from the barbarians as the first barbs found their marks, but there was no respite – again the Artemisian Priestesses spat death at the enemy.
‘Swords!’ Thebe screamed at the top of her lungs. All down the line, the harsh scrape of metal followed by the ‘thunk-thunk’ of the women’s gladius blades banging on the right edges of their shields.
The barbarians were galvanised by the arrows and they sped up as best they could in the muck, heaving themselves towards the Heronai line. ‘Here they come!’ Thebe shouted. ‘Here they come, girls! Stay steady . . . stay in formation!’ As if in answer to her, the enemy roared a battle cry and came on, swords and axes glinting dully in the rain. Arrows began to fall among the Heronai now, the barbarians bringing their own
missile troops to the fight. But unlike the Priestesses of Artemis, there was no cold order to their attack, no cohesion. But still, there were enough of them out there and their barbs carried death as well as the Artemisians. Thebe could hear the careening impact of metal warheads on the shields and armour and the odd cry as one found flesh.
Thebe’s grip tightened on her sword and she licked her lips: she could see faces now as the barbarians ran towards her: big, bearded men, eyes and mouths wide as they screamed at them, bolstering their courage; the warrior women, faces twisted in fury, fear and hate.
And then they were at the ditch, flowing into it like a river of armoured flesh, fingers scrabbling at the mud on which they could gain no purchase. It was chaos a few feet below their feet, the furious war cries now becoming screams of fear and panic as the warriors behind piled in, trampling the fallen as they were unable to halt the momentum of the thousands of bodies committed to the rush.
Above them, the arrows continued to rain down on the barbarians, an unmerciful torrent that tore flesh and snuffed out lives with impunity. In the ditch below, the bodies piled up, the living and the dead filling the ghastly pit with flesh.
Thebe was shoved from the side – one of the peltasts was there, and she saw more of them, pushing their sister soldiers out of the way, hurling javelins and slingshot down at the helpless warriors in the pit. She could not count the kills, but many hundreds must have died in the first few moments without getting to grips with them. But that, she knew, would change.
The barbarians were clambering over their own dead and wounded, the bodies providing more purchase than the mud, and they were gaining height now, pulling themselves closer to the top. Pipes wailed and the peltasts shoved their way out again, running to the rear to replenish their arms.
A helmeted head and armoured shoulders heaved into view at the lip of the ditch – a few scant yards from the wall of stakes. All along the line, bloodied, mud-covered shapes were rising from it like Furies from Tartarus. Thebe steeled herself as the first man, wielding a massive, curiously-angled sword came rushing at her. Behind him, more and more of them clambered up, filling the narrow ground, forcing their first rankers onwards by the press of bodies alone.
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 33