‘Yes,’ Mucius interrupted. ‘And you lost.’
Valerian opened his mouth to speak – but Settus had shot to his feet.
‘The legate was serving as a tribune not as commander, you arsehole!’ Settus glared at Mucius – who glowered back. ‘You don’t fucking scare me,’ Settus informed him, ‘so stop giving me the eye like I’m one of your bum-boys in the First. Your lot are all soft bodied and gaping arsed – ’
‘One more word and I’ll kill you, Settus!’ Mucius’s hand strayed to his sword.
‘Keep dreaming, shitcunt.’
‘ENOUGH!’ Valerian was a little surprised at the power in his voice: anger had got the better of him and it had worked. ‘The pair of you will sit down, now, or I swear by Minerva I’ll have you both crucified!’ The two men hesitated, their blood up, but Settus gave way first and sat. Thinking he had achieved his moral victory, Mucius finally lowered himself to the bench. Valerian composed himself. ‘As I was saying . . . none of you have faced the Dacians. And the Primus is right: we were hammered by them. We cannot afford to let that happen again. The responsibility . . . the fate of the empire rests with all of us. So get over yourselves and think of Rome . . . your woman . . . your kids or your dear old mother – I don’t care what. But for the sake of the gods, we need unity, not a pissing contest. Clear?’
There was a moment’s hesitation before the centurions responded as one. Valerian shook his head and puffed out cheeks before turning to the scribes. ‘Is shitcunt one word or two?’ he asked, and, to his relief, most of the men laughed – more from the release than the quality of the joke he reckoned. ‘I think we can scrub the last few bits from the record. Now,’ he turned back to the centurions. ‘Where were we?’
Rome
The house was adequate, located in the heart of the Roman capitol – and it was priced accordingly. Still, despite the exorbitant rent she had agreed to, Lysandra was satisfied. If she was honest with herself, she would have paid double to be free of the Temple of Minerva Medicus. And, while she was being honest with herself, she was confident that the priestesses were glad to be free of her as well. Since news of her recovery had reached Rome’s Hellene expatriates, they had flocked to the temple to catch a glimpse of her, hailing her as some sort of demigoddess.
Perhaps they were right. She had always walked close to Athene and had survived where no one else could or should have. Of course, she could not state this publically and had accepted the praise and goodwill with her customary humility knowing that, to these simple folk, a few words from her or a touch of the hand would mean a great deal.
But it was not only amongst the poor that her fame had spread. Rich Hellene merchants and equestrians also paid court to her, sending her gifts and endless correspondence. They loved her – one of her own had made good and shown the Romans that Hellenic valour was still strong.
Further proof of that was in the letter before her. It both angered and pleased her at the same time.
‘Aesalon Nocturna refuses to fight,’ Lysandra tossed the note on the huge pile of papyrus and wax tablets that littered her desk.
Ever near, Kleandrias grunted. ‘What did you expect? Only a fool would face you twice, Lysandra.’
‘You seem to be forgetting that she defeated me.’ The words were poison on her tongue.
‘She was lucky,’ Cappa said. He and Murco were lounging on couches, playing dice half-heartedly.
‘Yes,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘She was. And clearly she knows it to. I smell fear beneath her platitudes.’
‘Platitudes?’ Kleandrias raised his eyebrows and Lysandra gestured that he should read the missive.
‘It reads like respect,’ he said after a moment.
‘She fears me.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Lysandra could tell that he was soothing her and it irked her. However, she chose not to make an issue of it.
‘But still,’ he went on, ‘there is nothing here that reads false. You are a champion and so is she – like Hector and Achilles,’ he added with a smile. ‘Both great warriors – Hector fell but that . . .’ he trailed off as Lysandra glared at him. ‘You are still a champion, Lysandra.’
Petulance was not an admirable trait and Lysandra tried to force her pique away. If Aesalon would not fight, there was one of two things she could do about it: accept it or try to shame the woman out of retirement. Sting her pride – anger her back into the arena. For a moment she imagined herself giving an oration to the Hellenes of Rome, calling the so-called Gladiatrix Prima a coward and urging them to march on the Flavian Amphitheatre demanding that a rematch be held.
She pushed the idea aside – it was beneath her to act in such a way.
Despite the fact that it was Aesalon’s training that had led to Varia’s death, she could not find hatred in her heart for the beautiful Roman. Varia had chosen her path – and her death was Lysandra’s to bear – her punishment for sins committed.
The truth of it was that Aesalon had fought with honour and grace and, on the day, the better woman had won, as hard as that was to accept. Aesalon had been lucky – Lysandra knew that she was by far the better fighter than the Roman – and she guessed that Aesalon knew it too. The Roman version of Tyce – Fortuna – was capricious, even her own beloved Athene was sometimes at her whim. So it must have been on the sands that day.
She picked up another letter.
‘What is that one?’ Kleandrias queried.
‘Another marriage proposal,’ Lysandra tossed it to the ground. ‘Have a slave take them to the scribes – I will draft a general response that can be copied.’
‘Will you ever marry?’
Lysandra looked up at Kleandrias, grinning. ‘Gods, no. I prefer women. Much less complicated than men, generally more intelligent and certainly less demanding.’
‘I just thought that . . . ‘Kleandrias trailed off. ‘You know . . . children and so on.’
‘I hate children, Kleandrias. They are noisy, smelly, petulant and irritating. Much like men, in fact.’
Cappa and Murco chuckled, but it was evident that Kleandrias failed to see the funny side at all and looked rather hurt. She had probably offended his machismo.
‘Let us say that when we are both old and grey I will marry you,’ she offered an olive branch as she turned her attention back to the letters. ‘We shall live out our dotage together, educating the younger generations on Spartan virtue.’ She paused, an ornate scroll catching her eye. ‘Interesting. Domitian’s seal.’
‘The emperor!’ Cappa exclaimed. He and Murco sat up, their game forgotten. ‘You have a letter from the emperor?’
‘You seem surprised,’ Lysandra was nonchalant. ‘I have met him before.’
‘So have we,’ Murco commented. ‘You know – me and Cappa were Praetorians. For his father.’
Lysandra ignored him. ‘Ah. I am invited to a symposium at the palace. In honour of my battle with Aesalon Nocturna. It seems that we two are the toast of Rome at the moment.’
‘Can we come?’
Lysandra glanced up at the two bodyguards, amused. ‘It seems my children and men analogy carries some weight. I believe in Roman society it is unseemly for a woman to travel unescorted. You two are my bodyguards. It is your job to accompany me. And you, Kleandrias, if you wish it. I shall need someone with whom I can disdain Imperial high-living after all. These Romans are well known for their decadence.’
Appearances had to be maintained. Despite her hatred of makeup and hairdressing, Lysandra knew that she would have to adhere to protocol. It would be unseemly to arrive at the Imperial palace wearing a simple chiton. At least she had enough in the way of jewellery: gifts from her admirers had seen to that, though most of it was gold and Lysandra preferred silver. But that would send out the wrong message – according to the outrageously camp freedman she had hired to advise her on Roman high fashion.
Despite his irritating lisp and Rhodian accent, he seemed to know his work well, as he should given the huge
amount of money his consultancy was costing her. In Rome, it seemed that everything was about turning a profit, but judging by the reactions of her bodyguards for the evening, it was money well spent.
He had dressed her in her customary red, an exquisitely cut stola that served to soften the hard, angular lines of her physique. The Rhodian had wanted her to wear a long-sleeved garment but Lysandra had refused: her forearms were criss-crossed with scars, the marks of her trade and she wore them with pride. If the symposium was in honour of gladiatrices then to Lysandra’s mind it would be absurd to pretend that they were anything other than what they were.
‘You look like Athene herself,’ Kleandrias breathed as she emerged from her room.
‘Aye,’ Cappa agreed. ‘The goddess come to earth.’
He nudged Murco who added a self-conscious ‘Very nice’ which, from the taciturn Roman, was high praise indeed.
Outside, Lysandra could hear the raised voices – as though there was a crowd close to the house. Intrigued, she made her way to the balcony to see what the commotion was all about.
No sooner had she emerged she heard an excited shout of ‘there she is!’ Looking out into the street she saw a throng of people – old, young, rich and poor. On sight of her, they cheered and began to chant her name. Through the mob, a group of Praetorians were trying to forge a path, their bodies forming a cordon around a huge litter, borne by harassed looking slaves.
Lysandra raised her arm in acknowledgement to the crowd – clearly, some of Rome’s Hellene population had come to send her off to the palace in style and the gesture touched.
‘They love you,’ Kleandrias noted as he came to stand next to her. ‘It is strange, do you not think, that as a Spartan, it should be you that can unite the Hellene’s in this way?’
‘Not really. Five hundred years ago, our pre-eminence was etched into the psyche of the lesser peoples of Hellas. Even after Leuctra . . .’ she trailed off, recalling her childhood in the temple and how the very mention of the word had earned her a beating. ‘ . . . And those dark times that followed, all men knew – and still do – that Sparta is the epitome of all virtue. In the modern arena, I bring those virtues into stark relief, Kleandrias. I am beautiful, I am honourable and I am deadly – all the things people expect a Spartan to be.’
‘As is right and proper,’ he agreed. They both watched for a few moments longer as the Praetorians pushed their way to her door.
‘We should go.’
Lysandra raised her fist to the sky, which sent the crowd into a frenzy and the chanting of her name began anew. ‘It is a good way to begin the evening,’ she murmured as she followed Kleandrias.
The litter was large and spacious and the slaves were excellently trained: Lysandra’s journey through the city was smooth, swift and altogether pleasurable. Whilst she appreciated the admiration of the mob, it was still pleasant to be closeted away from their unwashed attentions.
The journey through the Capitoline district was surprisingly fast; no one was going to argue with the pack of Praetorians that escorted her and it seemed to Lysandra that she had hardly had time to settle in the litter before it was placed gently on the ground and the door slid open by a grinning Cappa.
‘It’s been a few years,’ he offered her a hand out.
It was all Lysandra could do not to gawp at the beauty and sheer scale of the Domus Flavia – Domitian’s royal place. She recalled thinking that Sextus Julius Frontinus’s governmental residence in Halicarnassus had been opulent, but compared to this place it was a pauper’s hovel. In the Roman fashion, everything was on a huge scale – like the Flavian Amphitheatre. She recognised it not only as a work of art but also as a political statement. Everything had to be bigger and more grandiose than anywhere else in the empire. Huge statues adorned the avenue that led to the inner sanctum of the Flavians, fountains pumped clear water from the Tiber in intricate displays, each cunningly arrayed to catch the light of what seemed like thousands of torches. Marble – so much marble: it must have cost tens of millions of sesterces to construct this place.
‘What do you think?’ asked Murco as she looked around.
She recovered herself. ‘It is overstated,’ she sniffed.
The bodyguard chuckled as the Praetorians directed them to the palace proper. Lysandra kept her eyes front, refusing to be overawed by the opulence around her. That was the expected reaction and it had always been her way to defy expectation. And the truth of it was that, despite the scope and lavish expense, it was all a little crude and smelt of new money. Unlike the great – and superior – classical constructs of the Hellenes, which were in the main to honour the gods, this place was clearly a monument to the power of humankind and as a result was somewhat crass.
The Praetorians led them to a lush and beautifully decorated anteroom. ‘You’ll need to wait here,’ the centurion in charge told her. ‘Your men will come with us.’
Lysandra regarded him for a moment before responding. ‘These men are my bodyguards,’ she advised him. ‘I should not be separated from them.’
He was an older man, perhaps in his fifties; despite his military demeanour, he had kind eyes and a friendly visage. ‘This is the Domus Flavia, lady,’ he said. ‘The home of the Emperor of Rome: probably the safest place in the world. And, even if it wasn’t – I’ve seen you fight. I’m confident that if any assassins are abroad you can handle them. Your men will be safe enough too – they will be treated as honoured guests. You have my word.’
‘I am not sure,’ Kleandrias drew himself to his full impressive height. ‘I will stay with Lysandra.’
‘Us too,’ Cappa added with far less enthusiasm.
‘My orders are to leave the lady here till she is summoned by a steward. ‘Look,’ he raised his hands placatingly, ‘what they’ll do – because this is what they always do – is announce her so she can make a big entrance. She can’t do that with you three in tow. It’s all part of the show, lads.’
‘Sounds fair enough,’ Cappa was obviously looking forward to the ‘honoured guests’ part of the evening.
‘My duty is to be with Lysandra,’ Kleandrias folded his arms, making her smile.
‘I can see that Spartan virtue triumphs over Roman decadence yet again. Go, Kleandrias – keep Cappa and Murco safe and do not allow them to swim too deeply into their cups.’
‘Orders are orders, Kleandrias,’ Murco said, edging towards the door.
Kleandrias ignored him and gazed at Lysandra for a long moment, his eyes going soft as he did so. ‘If that is your command,’ he said at length.
‘It is.’ She sat on one of the couches, eyeing the low table that was full of sweet meats and wine.
‘Well, that’s that then,’ Cappa said. ‘Lead on, centurion.’
Lysandra felt like an indulgent mother as the men trooped out. She poured herself a cup of well-watered wine and glanced around the room, wondering when she would be called in. Despite herself, she was a little excited. Of course, she had met Domitian before, but to be invited to the palace was an honour indeed.
The door to the anteroom opened once again and Lysandra made to rise. But it was no steward who entered.
In the doorway stood the unmistakeable form of Illeana – the Aesalon Nocturna.
Lysandra remained composed, but her heart thumped hard in her chest. She saw the start in Aesalon’s eyes as she entered: the Gladiatrix Prima had not been prepared for this meeting either. However, she too hid her feelings well, her full lips lifting in a smile as she entered. Lysandra was struck by her beauty – she was more than beautiful, she was magnificent. Her stola was as white as new snow, perfectly accentuating the dark auburn of her hair and piercing green of her eyes. Lysandra had once thought that Eirianwen was perfection, but looking at Aesalon Nocturna she knew otherwise.
‘Achillia,’ she greeted her as Lysandra rose. ‘I am pleased to see you.’ She paused as they kissed each other on each cheek. ‘You have recovered well.’
Lysandra sought a b
arb in the remark but could see none, the Roman’s comment appearing genuine. ‘I heal quickly,’ she replied as she returned to her couch. ‘As do you – that blow would have finished anyone else.’ She raised her cup in a toast – ‘to your fortitude, Aesalon Nocturna.’
Aesalon sipped from her cup. ‘Illeana, please . . . Lysandra? And yes – the blow would have finished anyone – it finished me, but I was lucky enough to have struck first. If I had missed . . .’ she trailed off. ‘But it is past.’
Lysandra regarded Illeana over the rim of her cup. ‘But we will fight again.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Illeana responded. ‘There is no need – I have no desire to fight you again. Nor do I have to.’
Lysandra felt her face pinken with annoyance. ‘You are afraid to face me again. You were lucky, by your own admission. I deserve a chance to set things right.’
Illeana laughed softly, the sound almost musical to Lysandra’s ears: it was, she thought, difficult to remain hostile to someone who rivalled Helen of Sparta herself. ‘Afraid? Yes, of course. Our fight was close – too close. We could have died – you should have died. Yet here you sit. If we fight again, I may kill you – or you may kill me. That is hardly a desirable outcome for either of us. You are a warrior, Lysandra and I have never met your like.’ She gazed at her for a long time before continuing. ‘And I know you think the same of me. We are sisters of a sort, don’t you think?’
Lysandra considered that for a moment. There was no hatred between them, no real enmity, even over Varia’s death. The truth of it was that the blame for that could not be laid at Illeana’s feet: if she had not trained her, Varia would have found someone else to do the job. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she said at length. ‘But I would even the score with you, Illeana.’
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 9
