For the first time in her life, Lysandra’s unshakeable faith in Athene was rocked to the core. The goddess should have come to her aid. Even if this was the domain of the sea god, she had enough power. Perhaps her survival was proof that Athene was still with her. But there was a part of her that wished that she had perished with the rest. The prospect of a slow, lingering death in the middle of the ocean filled her with dread, and it was all she could do not to burst into tears. She bit her lip, refusing to give Poseidon the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
She drifted for hours. The clouds vanished and the sun re-emerged, beating down on her, its heat seemingly magnified by the sea. Everything hurt now, her skin seeming too tight over her flesh, her muscles aching and stiff; fatigue threatened to overwhelm her but Lysandra knew that she could not rest – she might slip off the spar and that would be the end of her.
She kept telling herself this, holding on to the thought with a fierce tenacity, till even thinking itself became hypnotic and she was forced to keep jerking awake; but soon, the battle against both physical and mental exhaustion became too much and she could fight no longer. ‘Let Poseidon take me then,’ she murmured as sleep dragged her into its own depths.
Lysandra was drowning. Water filled her mouth and the screams of the gulls mocked her as she died.
Panicking she came to full wakefulness, thrashing around to escape certain death. As she did so, she fell away from the spar and her bottom hit the sand.
She sat, waist deep on a shore, coughing and spluttering, spitting out seawater. The tide seethed around her, its hiss incessant, mingling with angry cawing of the gulls that had roused her. Something touched her leg, making her yelp in surprise. She looked down to see the body of a legionary, face down in the surf. She shrieked and scrambled away, half-running, half-crawling onto the beach.
Lysandra took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. The sands were strewn with detritus from the ships that had gone down in the storm. And there were bodies everywhere, partially obscured by feasting gulls, and with their gear and personal effects scattered around them. It was as though half the soldiers and sailors in the fleet had found their way here.
Wherever it was.
It could be one of the many islands in the Aegean – or perhaps Asia Minor proper. There was just no way of knowing for sure until she found help. As the thought occurred to her, she heard the whinny of a horse. Lysandra turned and there, down the beach, she could see a small knot of men, some mounted, others picking through the flotsam and jetsam that had washed up on shore. She looked skywards and whispered a silent prayer of thanksgiving to Athene. The goddess had not deserted her after all.
‘Hey!’ she called rising to her feet and waving her arms over her head. ‘Over here!’ Three riders detached themselves from the main group and cantered towards her. ‘Thank the gods!’ she said as they drew up to her. The gods, it appeared, offered succour in strange guises. These men all looked hard-bitten and crude – but then, what could one expect – clearly they were not Hellene. One was bald with dark brown skin and bulbous eyes. As he grinned at her, she could see that he had misshapen teeth. The second man had a curled beard and ringlets hung about the side of his face. The third was clean-shaven with his hair cropped close and he had a long aquiline nose that looked as if it had been broken once and had set badly.
‘Thank the gods indeed!’ the dark skinned one said in accented Latin. ‘Our lucky day. How much do you reckon we can make on it?’ He turned to the one with ringlets.
‘Who can tell?’ ringlets replied. ‘She looks a mess now, but will scrub up well enough no doubt. And she’s tall – shame about the tits, though. Mind you, Stick, we should test the merchandise first.’
The one called Stick rolled his eyes. ‘If you must.’
‘Tiro? ‘Ringlets glanced at broken nose. ‘Me first?’
‘No,’ Tiro threw his leg over his mount’s head and slid from her. ‘Me first.’
Lysandra drew herself up. ‘I am a Priestess of Athene,’ she announced, ‘recently assigned to the Fifth Macedonian Legion. I am in need of your help.’
‘Priestess is it?’ Stick eyed her. ‘Not any more, I’m afraid. You’re a slave now. Gideon and Tiro here are going to fuck you – Jews and Romans – what can I tell you? They’re barbarians. Once they’ve finished, we’ll sell you on.’
Lysandra felt almost sick with fear as Gideon also slid from his mount, grinning at her. There was nothing she could do, save for one thing: she turned and bolted, running across the sands as fast as she could. Behind her, she could hear the men laughing at her. Faster and faster her feet pounded on the sand – but she was weak and she could tell they were gaining. Lysandra rushed past a corpse and the gulls, disturbed by her passing, flew up in a fury – behind she heard the two men curse as they were caught in the gaggle, gaining her precious seconds.
She ran on and saw another body; angling her path she headed towards it, hoping to repeat the same trick twice: but this time as the gulls flew, she saw the soldier wore a sword. Lysandra ducked and rolled, coming up by the body and dragging the weapon from the man’s scabbard and turning to face her enemies.
She was a Spartan: she would die on her feet with her wounds in front.
Chest heaving with exertion, she raised the weapon as the men drew close to her.
‘Oh!’ Gideon laughed as he trotted to a halt. ‘You should put that down, darling. You could hurt someone. Come on now – Tiro won’t take long, but I promise that I’ll have you in Heaven in a few strokes.’
Despite her fear, his tone offended her. ‘I think not,’ she said. ‘You will die before I let you touch me.’
‘Put the sword down, girl,’ said Tiro, his tone hardening. ‘We don’t want to have to kill you,’ he drew his own weapon, ‘but we will if you try to put up a fight. Got it?’
Lysandra kept her eyes on him, but allowed herself a look over his shoulder. Stick was still someway off on his mount, watching the proceedings. She could not see his expression but she guessed it would be one of amusement. Her grip tightened on the sword and in that moment she realised that fear had fled. The long years of training suddenly kicked in and with omission of thought she leapt into the attack.
Time seemed to slow as she moved across the sand: she saw Tiro’s eyes widen as she came towards him, his sword moving to defend – so slow. Even as his guard came up she was through it and her blade speared into his throat. She felt the vibration of it up her arm as the steel parted flesh, bone and gristle; a fountain of crimson erupted from him as he fell back, clutching his neck in agonised astonishment.
Dragging the blade free, she whirled, her salt-begrimed hair whipping across her face as she did so. Her stance was low and she saw Gideon pulling out his sword. It was half way from the leather when she struck, plunging the blade into his groin.
He screamed as he fell to the sand, clutching his ruined genitals, the purplish remains of them crawling down the blade of her sword. ‘Oh God!’ he shrieked, his voice suddenly high pitched. ‘Oh God no! Please God!’
Lysandra advanced on his stricken form.
‘Please! Please don’t kill me! I’m begging you please . . . I have a wife . . . children . . . please . . .!’ Gideon burst into tears, the salty water running down his fleshy face.
Something changed in Lysandra as she stood over him. She knew that she should feel repugnance at what she had done and fear of the consequences. But the truth was she felt a burning, heady rush that filled her to the core. ‘I told you,’ Lysandra said and rammed her sword into his throat.
She stepped away, the sense of elation that had come over her suddenly fleeing. For a moment, all was still and then she heard the high-pitched blast of a whistle. Stick was blowing for all he was worth and the other riders had heard and now headed their mounts towards her.
Sword in hand, Lysandra turned towards the sun and ran. It was so bright, filling her vision, filling the horizon.
‘Run Lysandra! Run for the lig
ht!’
She knew that voice. She had heard it from the days of her childhood. The goddess spoke to her again!
‘Run Lysandra!’
Behind her she could hear the pounding of hooves and the shouts of furious men. They were gaining and she gritted her teeth and dug deep.
‘RUN!’
The light became impossibly bright, searing her eyes and she was forced to close them – but still she forced herself on, running blind now. She heard herself gasping for breath and suddenly was aware of a burning pain in her side.
Then Lysandra opened her eyes. And lived again.
87 A.D.
Dacia
The rain had fallen, making the air smell fresh with the odour of life; now the sky was a cool grey a stark contrast to the lush grass of the plain. It was a rich green that Sorina reckoned had no match in all the world. It sang with life unlike the sand-blasted deserts of Asia Minor where men had to twist and bend nature in order to live.
She watched as the two wings of Sarmatian cavalry thundered across the sodden ground, their hooves an echo like the hammer of the gods beating upon the earth. This, she thought, was as it should be. Women riding to war with their men at their side, united in one noble cause: the destruction of Rome and all it represented.
Six years before, all this had been the stuff of dreams, a waning candle that she had nurtured in the ludus of Lucius Balbus. But now, under the guiding hand of the great Decabalus, the tribes of the plains and the warriors of Dacia were united in this undertaking.
‘Now,’ she murmured. Even as the whisper escaped her lips, the charge wheeled to the left and the horse archers began to loose their volleys at invisible opponents. The light horses did their work and galloped away as moments later the heavy cavalry charged home. In her minds eye Sorina could see the devastated Roman ranks crushed under their hooves and torn by their bloody swords. The disciplined lines would break and the people of the plains would bathe in their blood and make those that survived beg for their deaths. The god Zalmoxis demanded suffering and sacrifice from a conquered enemy.
‘They look fine.’
The gruff voice of Decabalus caused her to turn in her saddle; she smiled at him, pleased that he was pleased. ‘Aye, lord, they do. Only for you would they train in this way.’
He chuckled at that. ‘I think that your constant haranguing and reminders of Rome’s military prowess cannot be overlooked, Sorina.’
The wind kicked up and Sorina brushed a greying strand of hair away from her mouth. ‘The Romans are great warriors, my lord. No,’ she corrected herself, ‘they are great soldiers as you know.’
Decabalus grunted. ‘The world is changing. The old ways, the ways of honour, would not defeat the Romans. We had to change our ways – even if it goes against the grain. Drilling, marching, training . . .’ he shook his head. ‘I can scarcely believe that we are doing these things. Yet, off the back of it, we are making a civilisation of our own. Armies . . . mercenaries . . . it all costs money these days and cities are places to make it.’
She eyed him as he spoke. He was every inch the Dacian warlord, tall, bearded and scarred, experienced in battle. His armour was not ostentatious but it was decorated with the scalps and finger-bones of some of those he had killed. ‘Whatever it takes to beat Rome, my lord,’ she said. ‘They cannot be bargained with or appeased: they are insatiable in their desire to rule and conquer. They must be stopped or the whole world will fall under their sway. Our victory at Tapae was only the beginning, though. They will return.’
‘I know. They are making their plans as we speak.’
Sorina’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘You have news?’
‘Let us talk in my tent. I will tell you all I know.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned about, his mount’s hooves flinging up clods of wet earth as she cantered away.
‘Yes, my lord.’ Sorina nudged her horse and followed him.
Decabalus’s tent was huge and its opulence spoke of his great achievements. Above his throne were the five Eagles – the standards of the Roman legions they had destroyed utterly the previous year. No one had ever taken so much from them – and the victory had made Decabalus master of territory far beyond the borders of his own land.
Yet it was not to his throne he went. Shrugging out of his wet armour, which dropped to the floor with a thump, he sat on piled rugs and gestured for Sorina to sit at his side. She removed her cloak and joined him, proud of the honour he was affording her.
‘Pour for us.’ He gestured to a bottle and cups placed on a low table. ‘As you have often said, Rome must launch what they will call a punitive expedition.’ Sorina passed him his drink. ‘But Rome has problems. In Germania, the tribes are pressuring their legions, in Judaea there is always unrest . . . all across their frontiers the legions are under pressure. They cannot – and will not – draw men from those troubled places to come here. To do so would give a sign of weakness to the conquered peoples and there would be uprisings the length and breadth of their empire.’ He downed his drink and winced – tzuica was a drink for kings and it tasted of fire, and Decabalus had once presented Sorina with a gift of it. ‘No – they must recruit from within and send more men against us. These will not be of the quality that we faced before – but they will still be a Roman army.’
Sorina tipped back her cup to cover her surprise. ‘You fear them?’ she asked as she poured another measure for them both.
Decabalus chuckled. ‘Only a fool would not. As you said in our council after Tapae – the Romans did not conquer the world by luck alone. We cannot afford to be complacent.’ He paused, regarding her from over the brim of his cup. ‘I am depending on you, Sorina. You, of all the battle leaders, have a respect for the legions that the others lack.’
Sorina nodded: Decabalus had the rights of it. ‘The other chiefs are saying the right things, my lord, but Tapae has changed everything. There is a strong belief in our invincibility now.’
‘Which must be fed,’ he replied. ‘But not overfed. Confidence, not arrogance, yes?’
‘Yes. When do you think they will come?’
‘Next year. They are not yet ready. That is the only reason they agreed a peace treaty after Tapae. They are paying huge amounts in gold and weapons to ensure that I keep the tribes in check. In return, I have promised them that now that my interests are secured we will go north in search of new lands. Hence our military buildup.’
Sorina shook her head. ‘The Romans are not so foolish as to believe such a thing.’
‘Of course not. But it is a diplomatic lie that saves face while both sides prepare for the next war. The Romans are buying time with their gold; we are using their gold against them. We have all the advantages – we must ensure these are fully exploited.’
Sorina considered that for a moment. ‘Superior manpower . . . short lines of supply . . . the ground is ours and our warriors are confident. Rome will be drawing on the dregs of her army and, in all likelihood, will employ mercenaries to bolster her forces. Men who fight for pay will always lose against those who fight for a cause.’
‘It is my hope that they do hire mercenaries; it will be easier to infiltrate their ranks. Romans make poor horsemen. Their cavalry is usually German or Gallic. And most Romans can’t tell the difference between one “barbarian” and another.’
Sorina laughed at that. ‘True, my lord. What will your strategy be?’
‘I see no need to deviate from what worked before,’ Decabalus replied. ‘The situation has not changed – the Romans must bring us to battle. They must punish us. We’ll lead them on another merry dance, stretch their supply lines to breaking point. Your task will be to shadow them from behind. Once the battle is joined, it will be as before. We will hit them from front and rear, envelop them and finish them off.’
‘As simple as that?’ Sorina raised her eyebrows.
‘As simple as that,’ he answered.
‘You’re confident that the Romans will just do as you hope?
Last time, they turned on the population in an attempt to draw you out. We cannot allow that. If we mass our forces and hit them hard – we can overcome them by sheer weight of numbers. This would be a sounder strategy than what could become a drawn out conflict.’ Sorina eyed him, aware that she had probably over stepped the boundary of rank that separated them but aware too that she must speak up. Caution was not the way to deal with Rome. They had professional soldiers, well used to endless marching with no glory at the end of it. It was their job and they would do it regardless of whether there was a battle in the offing or not. She said as much to Decabalus, but he dismissed this with a wave of his hand.
‘As you keep reminding me and everyone else – the Romans can fight. History has proven that they – more often than not – overcome larger forces of lesser-trained troops in open battle. I am proud of our warriors, we have done well in mimicking the Roman ways, but I am not so foolish as to think we can match them, even if we did beat them once before. That was a surprise to them – they will have learned.’
‘All the more reason not to repeat the same tactics,’ Sorina put in.
‘They need a quick victory,’ he answered this at once. ‘They need a battle – to humble us. We can draw them into a hostile environment, stretch their supply lines as I have said. They will turn to ‘foraging ’ – exploiting the locals, which will make them hate Rome even more. They will do the work for the main army, attacking those lines. Taking back what was taken from them. This will weaken the Romans. And when they are sufficiently softened-up, I will strike. And you, my battle-maiden, will close the jaws of the wolf.’
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 5
