Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

  ‘And to you, sir.’

  The merchant bowed his head, not knowing what else to do. He made his way out and closed the big wooden doors, leaving the legate alone. Valerian looked around the empty room, now heavy

  with silence. ‘At least we have a wall,’ he said to no one, his voice echoing slightly in the gloom.

  Lysandra seethed at the betrayal. She had not expected it of Bedros, whose life and ship she had saved. She stormed though Durostorum town, leaving her friends in her wake. As she walked, she could hear the sailors lying to the legionaries about reinforcements and they made haste to their ships. She wanted to shout the truth of it to the heavens, but she knew she could not.

  Lysandra made her way back to the wall, climbing to the top, acknowledging the challenge of a Roman guard with a wave of her hand; the man knew who she was. All of them knew who she was.

  She put one foot up on the ramparts, leaned on her thigh and stared out onto the darkening plain before the town, imagining it blackened by hordes of warriors as they came on. And come they would, she thought to herself. She heard the guard challenge again and the very officious reply: ‘Telemachus, Officer of Logistics – Heronai.’ It made her smile, taking the sting out of her anger.

  ‘You cannot blame them,’ Telemachus said as he came to her.

  ‘Why not? They are gutless cowards.’

  ‘No. They are just normal men. This is not their cause, not their fight.’

  ‘If we fail here, the gate to Hellas will be open! What is a more important cause than that, Telemachus?’

  ‘Big wars don’t concern small men. They care about their wives, their children and their livelihoods. And they can sail away if the axe falls on Hellas, Lysandra.’

  She nodded. There was no arguing with that.

  ‘Believe me, I was tempted to join them, Telemachus added, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  She glanced at him and he winked; she knew well he was trying to make light of it for her. ‘And you did not.’

  ‘No. You need me. Priest . . . Officer of Logistics . . . and soon to be war hero.’

  ‘And my dear friend,’ she said, putting her hand to his bearded cheek. ‘You are more than a friend. You are a brother to me, Telemachus.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ he took her hand in his own. ‘Sometimes, I wish I had never met Lucius Balbus. Life was simpler when I was an impoverished man working my devoted craft in Athene’s shrine. Then I met you – and look where it has got me.’

  Lysandra laughed; Telemachus had a way of lightening her soul. ‘I made you rich. You enjoyed the hospitality of my Deiopolis . . .’

  ‘Which I ran profitably for you . . .’

  ‘And the hospitality of the Temple of Aphrodite. What skills did those girls bring to the Heronai?’

  Telemachus flushed with embarrassment and coughed. ‘Thebe had them working with the Asklepians – the healers.’

  Darkness had fallen now, the black hand of the Dacian night smothering the plain like sack cloth. Around them, the Roman legionaries began to light braziers to keep warm and puncture the darkness. ‘Thebe,’ Lysandra said quietly, turning her eyes once again to the east. ‘I wish . . .’

  ‘And I. She was a good soul, Lysandra. You know as well as I that she now sits in Elysium, her cup filled with Ambrosia.’

  ‘With Penelope,’ Lysandra smiled at the memory of the lusty island girl. ‘I made mistakes, Telemachus,’ she said after a moment. ‘I did not think that the ground would fail us. I assumed that I was right.’

  ‘What strategos doesn’t? You’ve read more books on this than I, but even I know that most battle plans go wrong the moment you meet the enemy – because they have plans of their own.’

  ‘Yes, but I should have known better. Because of my mistakes, Thebe is dead. Hundreds are dead.’

  ‘You did what you could with what you had. The Romans needed time to finish the wall. You gave them that time. They all believe the goddess is with you now, Lysandra. Not least that you bring a thousand Lysandra’s with you. Your Sisterhood is something to behold. It is plain to see Athene’s hand in this.’

  ‘She is with us. She saved me, Telemachus. I should have died back there, but I did not.’ As Lysandra spoke, she felt the truth of the words in her heart.

  ‘You should have died when Illeana struck you down and you did not,’ he replied, impersonating her accent for the last few words. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let us get down from here. You can bore – sorry . . . regale me with tales of your youth.’

  ‘I am still young, Telemachus,’ she replied and allowed him to lead her away.

  Neither they nor the guards on the wall saw the dark shape crawling towards the ditch. One man alone – a brave man. A Sarmatian, strong, proud and loyal to his Clan Chief.

  He had a good eye for detail and he reckoned he knew how wide and how deep was this wall of theirs. And that knowledge would serve Amagê well.

  News of the returning cavalry patrol had spread fast and the wall was crowded with Heronai and Spartans on the southern side. The north and the town proper were held by the Romans with Euaristos’s mercenaries linking the north and south wings.

  The morning was hard and cold, clouding Lysandra’s breath as she stood on the ramparts looking out to the east. Illeana was by her side and the bitter wind whipped through her hair. They watched as the turma trot towards Durostorum. The town’s main gate opened and burly legionaries staggered out, carrying a thick gangplank in an upright position – to the ‘encouragement’ of their comrades. On reaching the lip of the ditch, the soldiers let go of the huge plank and it slammed down, affording the cavalrymen a quick entrance to the town proper.

  The turma clattered across the makeshift bridge and the unfortunate soldiers were tasked with dragging it back inside – again to the hoots of derision both from their fellow legionaries and the mercenaries who had been derided by the men of the IV Felix for not being ‘proper soldiers’.

  ‘That was the last patrol,’ Illeana observed.

  ‘I know,’ Lysandra replied, meeting her gaze. Illeana continued to look at her, clearly trying to implant her thoughts without speaking. Lysandra shook her head, a smile playing about her lips. ‘You are keen for me to find out what is happening, then?’

  Illeana tipped an ironic salute. ‘Yes, strategoi,’ she said.

  ‘Strategos,’ Lysandra corrected, she turned and shouldered her way through the women gathered on the ramparts and made her way to the town proper. She was pleased that when she reached the Roman section the men saluted her as she passed; it bolstered her confidence to have their recognition despite her failures.

  She saw Valerian rushing to meet the decurion in command of the turma. Halkyone and Euaristos were striding towards him. Valerian glanced over to her and beckoned her on; around her, Roman legionaries were loitering, craning their necks, trying to listen in only to be harangued by their centurions and optios to get back to work.

  ‘Report!’ Valerian said to the decurion. ‘You’re the last men in. Are they on the move?’

  The decurion nodded. ‘Yes, sir. They saw us watching and didn’t even bother to send a patrol to see us off. They broke camp – in some sort of order – and have commenced their march. Heading right for us. Good thing the merchantmen are bringing more bodies. There’s an awful lot of the bastards heading this way.’

  Valerian glanced at Lysandra – the lie had taken hold at least. ‘How long?’

  ‘Two days,’ Lysandra said. ‘It is a two-day march from the narrow point to here.’

  Valerian nodded and turned back to the decurion. ‘Thank you, decurion. You and your men get yourselves some food in your guts and some wine down your throats. Have your relief ride out to find Iulianus. Report this news and tell him that . . . that, whilst we expect to be reinforced, we cannot confirm when they will arrive. It may well be too late. Tell him . . . tell him that we will do our duty and we hope to welcome him and his men to Durostorum soon.’

  ‘Sir!�
� The decurion saluted and made off, leaving the commanders standing in a loose semi-circle.

  Valerian turned to the others. ‘Euaristos . . .’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Your casualties . . .’

  ‘Serious. But we can hold our ground, sir. Old soldiers endure.’

  ‘Halkyone?’

  ‘Look to your own soldiers, legate,’ Halkyone replied. Lysandra admired her – tall and strong, her red cloak wrapped around her, dark hair streaked with grey, the crow’s feet at her eyes; she looked every inch the Matriarch she was born to be. Lysandra promised herself that when this was over, she would rebuild the temple in Sparta in thanks to Halkyone and the Sisterhood. ‘I have reinforced Lysandra’s troops with my Spartans,’ Halkyone said. ‘We alone put fifty thousand barbarians to flight. We will do so again.’

  ‘Spartan confidence,’ Valerian chuckled.

  ‘Spartan honesty,’ Halkyone replied evenly.

  ‘And Lysandra,’ Valerian looked her in the eye.

  ‘I will not fail,’ she said, and in that moment she felt the goddess at her side and believed what she said. ‘We will hold.’

  ‘I was expecting you to add or die,’ Valerian joked.

  ‘She has spent too much time with you xenoi,’ Halkyone said. ‘We will hold. Or die. That is the Spartan way.’ She said it with a straight face, but there was mockery in her eyes.

  ‘All right then,’ Valerian said. ‘One day to prepare. One day to make sure that the preparations are good. And then we fight. You know the plan. Hold the wall. If you are hard pressed, throw in your reserves. If other units can stiffen you, they will be sent. If not, we’ll order a fighting retreat back to the redoubt. All of us.’

  ‘What if we’re winning on the left and losing on the right?’ Euaristos wanted to know.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Valerian said at once – with all the confidence of a man who had asked that question of himself a hundred thousand times. ‘They have men to spare and we don’t.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We can’t win here. But we can save the Empire – and Greece – if we hold. And to hold, we have to do it together. Romans. Athenians. Spartans. Men and women. Infantry. Artillery. Archers. Cooks. Healers. All of us. We are one Army. We all depend on each other now.’ He let that hang, seeming to gauge each of them and perhaps, Lysandra thought, he was gauging himself as well. Lysandra had often thought Valerian a weak man – he was too kind by far, his heart soft. But yet, she sensed he had grown into this role – he was no Caesar, no man of blood and thunder, fiery speeches and pounding of the chest. Instead, he appealed to the decency in the hearts of all of them. His words would bind them stronger than she suspected he realised.

  ‘Legate,’ Halkyone said. ‘You spoke of preparations.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Drill will continue. And also, some gardening.’

  ‘Gardening?’ Halkyone arched an eyebrow.

  ‘We’re going to plant some daisies.’

  The disruption caused by the Greek raid on their encampment had been far reaching. It had taken an inordinate amount of time to herd the horses. Not all had been recovered and many of those that had were now being used as beasts of burden.

  This was no work for a horse, Sorina knew – they were noble creatures and she, like tens of thousands of the plainspeople had learned to ride as she had learned to walk. Scythian, Sarmatian, Magyar, Hun, Dacian – all of them shared the love of these animals. But, as she had said to Amagê, this was a war like no other. Decabalus aped the Romans and Amagê used horses to drag planking carved from the bones of Dacia.

  It was an act of necessity. Their scout had reported the structure and strength of the Roman defences in detail: they would need to cross the ditch swiftly and with ease to avoid would be a repeat of the fiasco against Lysandra.

  Sorina should have killed her on sight and she cursed her desire for a drawn-out revenge now. She had desperately wanted to debase the haughty Spartan, to see her ravaged, abused and tortured to pay for her crimes. Instead, Sorina had been cheated of her vengeance and now she prayed that Lysandra had made it back to Durostorum. This time there would be no hesitation, no taunting, no capture – if she had the chance, she would cut Lysandra down on sight. Then she would take her eyes, her ears and her tongue so that her shade would wander Greek Hades forever blind, deaf and dumb. An eternity of torment.

  ‘It seems that your Decabalus has had his way after all,’ Amagê said to her, bringing her back from her dark thoughts.

  They had been riding for some time, each step bringing them closer to Durostorum. To Lysandra. Sorina forced herself to concentrate. ‘I told you the truth,’ she said. ‘But you are right . . . we have delayed and the Romans will be dug in like tics now.’

  ‘I was wrong before,’ Amagê said, her voice soft. ‘Many died because of my impetuousness. I underestimated your Lysandra. I will not make the same mistake again. I promise you that, my love.’

  The epithet lightened Sorina’s mood. ‘You did what anyone who fights with honour would have done,’ she replied. ‘And, heed me when I say, what is done is done. Nothing can bring those we lost on the field back to us. But we can revenge ourselves on those who defy us. We can save our way of life and drive a sword into the heart of Rome and her Empire. What happens here in the east will resonate throughout the world. I pray, Amagê, that is the death knell for all those who would cut roads on the face of the Earth Mother, make their fortunes on the slavery of others and destroy the natural order of things.’

  Amagê laughed. ‘Big thoughts, Sorina. I just want to kill the Romans after what they did. And you’re mad if you think this will change anything. There will always be kings, always be queens and always people that want more than others.’

  Sorina knew her glance was sidelong. She loved Amagê and she knew now that the Clan Chief loved her back. But she knew also that Amagê loved power. And if the younger woman was forced to choose, Sorina feared that she would be second in the Sarmatian’s heart. ‘We can only hope, Amagê,’ she said after a time.

  ‘I am hoping for a quick victory,’ Amagê replied. ‘I will not make the same mistakes again.’ She looked over at Sorina. ‘You’ll have your vengeance.’

  ‘I just want it to be over,’ Sorina replied. The words came from her soul, she knew. She hungered for revenge it was true, but the corpses by the river would be as nothing to the amount they would leave behind when this battle was finished. Decabalus would have his way: these tribes would be, to use a Roman term, decimated.

  They rode on, the army moving at a fair pace, but not a taxing one. Amagê wanted her warriors fresh when they arrived at Durostorum, ready to fight and eager to kill. Midway through the second day of their march, they – as lead riders – saw it first.

  The wall.

  Fully complete and gleaming with iron, it plugged the gap between the rivers far more effectively than Lysandra’s meagre staves. Even from a distance they could see the ditch and ramparts, the latter bristling with wooden spikes in standard Roman fashion. Higher still, the wall proper, manned with armoured soldiers. She did not doubt they would be backed with archers that would take a heavy toll on the plainspeople before they got to grips with the legionaries, gladiatrices and mercenaries that made up the defence. The southern bank was their strongest position – there lay Durostorum and any fool could guess that this was to be the Romans’ last refuge. If the wall fell, they would stand there and die. They couldn’t run – there was nowhere for them to go.

  Everything now rested on Durostorum.

  Lysandra looked out across the plain as the first riders appeared; dark smudges at first, they soon came into relief, spreading out across the grasslands as they came on. To her right, in the centre, she saw Euaristos’s men leaning forwards on the wall, talking amongst themselves; they knew what was to come, as did her own forces holding the northern point of the line; holding the south and Durostorum town was the IV Felix. They were far from an elite legion, but they had been trained in the Roman way: tha
t was usually enough to defeat barbarian armies of vastly superior numbers. She had to trust that Valerian and his command had prepared them well – as Thebe had done with the Heronai.

  ‘I had thought that our presence here would have deterred them.’

  Lysandra turned and found Deianara at her side, grinning. She had had little chance to spend time with her old friend in the past days in the frantic drilling and final preparations for the forthcoming assault. ‘Perhaps they will learn again that Spartan invincibility is no myth,’ she replied.

  ‘The only thing around here that is invincible is your self-belief, Lysandra,’ Deianara said and swatted her on the backside.

  ‘I am supposed to be the strategos,’ Lysandra gritted.

  ‘Of course. Have me flogged when this is over.’

  Lysandra shook her head. ‘You are incorrigible.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Now we fight. Until we win.’

  ‘Or die?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I plan on winning.’ Deianara laughed. ‘This is what we trained for, all those years. Oh, Lysandra, sometimes I envied you.’

  Lysandra turned. ‘Why?’

  ‘A statue of you in the square . . . fighting in the arenas of Rome . . . honouring the goddess . . . a Roman senator commissioning a frieze of your fight. It is the stuff we all dreamed of. Whereas I . . . I marched up and down a lot and trained.’

  ‘That is the Spartan way.’

  ‘I know. But the men at least would put it into practice. Now, we have our chance again – as it was when Pyrrhus came to Lakedaimonia.’ Lysandra was about to say something blithe, something that a friend would say to another. After all, what contact she had had with her old sisterhood had been full of banter and jocularity. But what she had said was true, and even if Deianara and the others took the rise out of her, she was still a leader and had to act as one. ‘Listen, Deianara. I do not believe what Valerian said. I think we can win here. The wall is high, our spears are sharp and the ground groans with the weight of our artillery stones. We can break them – you and the Sisterhood have proven that already. They will break again.’