‘It’s never a good idea to bring religion into a war,’ Titus muttered.
‘Nevertheless – it will be the glue we need to hold this . . .’ he almost said ‘madness’ but stopped himself in time. ‘This . . . army together. And besides . . .’
‘Besides?’ Titus raised both eyebrows in question.
‘If the women go, they will be granted Roman citizenship, land in Asia Minor and a life-long pension. Frontinus’s word on it.’
‘I will do my part of it,’ Thebe announced. They both looked at Titus.
‘And I,’ he agreed. ‘Lysandra has never asked for anything from me in all these years. She asks now, and I will not refuse her.’
‘She asked plenty of me in the past,’ Telemachus smiled. ‘But she’s my friend. More like my younger sister, in fact.’
‘I admire your loyalty, priest. But what can you bring to a war plan? It is a dangerous business.’ Titus had no malice in his voice and Telemachus was not offended by the question – though a part of him felt that he should be.
‘An army cannot function without finance, Titus. I will ensure that all goes according to plan. Make sure that everyone gets paid. And that Rome keeps her end of the bargain.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Titus grinned, scooping up his wine cup. ‘Who knows with Lysandra,’ he added. ‘With her in front, we might even survive.’
‘Spoken like a true believer,’ Thebe nudged him.
They raised their cups and drank, each of them knowing in their hearts that soon after the Kalends they would probably all be dead.
Rome
‘I think I will just leave most of it.’ Lysandra eyed the clothes and ornaments strewn all over her bed with weary eyes. Her rented apartments were a scene of unorganised chaos as slaves, supervised by a short-tempered Kleandrias, filed her correspondence and packed her belongings in a frenzy.
‘I dunno . . .’ Cappa was lounging against a wall, picking his nails with a dagger. ‘There’s some nice stuff in there. Gifts and all that.’
‘I have “nice stuff ” back at the Deiopolis, Cappa.’
‘You’re going to sell the Deiopolis, though,’ Murco said. ‘And Cappa’s right – there is some nice stuff from your admirers. It’d be wrong to just toss it.’
Lysandra glared at them, knowing they were right and allowing herself to be piqued by it. ‘You pack it then!’ she snapped, and strode off, knowing that they were exchanging a what’s-wrong-with-her look between them.
She went to her balcony, on edge, nervous and testy – unlike her usual self. She didn’t know why.
‘Yes, you do,’ the voice at the back of her mind whispered.
Lysandra looked out over the Capitol. It was a beautiful city, a testament to what Roman money could do with Hellenic artistry – in places at least. A lot of Roman architecture bordered on the vulgar. Like the Flavian Amphitheatre. She could see it from the balustrade; she could see it everywhere she went in the city, its towering walls seeming to mock her.
‘Let it go,’ Kleandrias had counselled her many times. ‘Some you win, some you lose.’ It was true. No one, not even she, was invincible. And that, she realised, was why she was so anxious. Frontinus was asking a lot of her – maybe he was asking the impossible. She realised in her quieter moments that he had played her like a lyre, appealed to her pride and got the result that he wanted.
Lysandra smiled, despite herself. As a younger woman, she would never have realised this, assuming that his assertions of Spartan superiority – and perhaps more importantly – her superiority were correct. In the former he was of course right. In the latter – he was probably right.
‘Lysandra.’ Kleandrias’s deep voice interrupted her self-depreciation. She turned to face him, forcing herself to smile. He returned it, his hard visage softening somewhat. ‘I have messages for you,’ he said, handing her two wax tablets.
‘From Bedros,’ she eyed the first. ‘A merchant captain,’ she explained, noting Kleandrias’s blank expression. ‘A good man and a good friend. Useful in a fight too,’ she added. ‘He will transport us as requested. For a fee, naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ Kleandrias agreed. ‘I’ll have your acceptance of his terms sent off straight away. And the other?’
Lysandra opened the tablet. What she read hit her like a physical blow.
‘What is it?’ Kleandrias took a step forward, concerned.
‘It is from Aesalon Nocturna,’ Lysandra said. ‘She wants to meet. Tonight.’
This was no formal invitation, Lysandra knew. No need to dress in Roman finery, no need to adopt airs and graces that the Romans so valued. It was clear from her missive that Illeana wanted to talk – about what she had not said, but it could only be their rematch.
Cappa and Murco escorted her through the streets, weaving their way through the heavy press of people and traffic. Wagons were not permitted into Rome before sundown, but at night the streets became a stinking free-for-all. At least Illeana’s domus was far enough from the subura for them to arrive relatively free of grime.
The Gladiatrix Prima’s abode was situated on the Quirinal Hill – its opulence unobtrusive in that it was surrounded by places equally lavish. Cappa whistled appreciatively. ‘See, this is the life,’ he said.
‘You think my apartments are unworthy of you, Cappa?’ Lysandra queried. She was making light, she realised, to hide her nerves.
‘I think your apartments are wonderful,’ Murco soothed – unconvincingly. He rapped on the gates to Illeana’s domus and waited. It took some time for an old slave to arrive. He wrestled with the locks, begging their pardons.
‘This is the Gladiatrix Prima, Lysandra,’ Cappa announced as though daring the old man to contradict him.
‘You are expected, lady,’ the slave looked past Cappa and directly at Lysandra. ‘I am called Naso. Aemilia Illeana awaits within. I will escort you to her and ensure your slaves are tended to.’
‘They’re not slaves,’ Lysandra put in, mollifying the outburst she knew would come from Cappa. ‘These men are my bodyguards.’
Naso peered at her as he opened the gate. ‘You need bodyguards?’
‘No. But someone needs to keep them employed.’ Smirking, she moved into the courtyard with Cappa and Murco in tow.
‘Follow him,’ Naso said to the two, gesturing to another of Illeana’s slaves who lurked discreetly in the darkness. ‘He will see to it that you are refreshed.’ Ever the professionals, both men waited till Lysandra gave them a slight nod.
‘You’re sure?’ Murco queried.
‘Enjoy the wine.’ Lysandra clapped the taciturn bodyguard on the shoulder; Murco fancied himself an authority on wine and always drank it like a barbarian – unwatered – prophesying that one day everyone would drink it like that. Both Lysandra and Cappa knew well that this was a bald excuse.
‘This way, lady.’
Naso led her through the atrium and into Illeana’s home. It was exquisite, its mosaic floors depicting scenes of gladiatorial combats. There were busts of Roman gods – and the Emperor himself.
‘The tricilinium, lady.’ Naso opened the door to the dining area. It was low-lit and another slave, a vaguely handsome German-looking creature, stood in the shadows, armed with a bowl and towel. ‘He will see to your needs,’ Naso advised her before walking out backwards, bowing his head.
The German flexed his shoulders as he regarded Lysandra with what looked like open lasciviousness – which she found mildly insulting. ‘Just wash my feet and legs,’ she commanded, sitting on one of the lush couches. ‘My lower legs,’ she added as the slave undid her sandals.
As he washed her with the warm, perfumed water, Lysandra noted that the mosaic and décor in the tricilinium were overtly sexual – the usual god-ravishing-mortal scenes. The Corinthians, Lysandra decided, had a lot to answer for.
‘Will there be anything else?’ the German asked as he dried her legs.
‘My hands and arms,’ she instructed. He did as he was bid and
she dismissed him, reclining on the couch. The room was silent but Lysandra fancied that the beating of her heart could be heard. She was nervous and chided herself for it.
The door opened once again. It made Lysandra jump but it was merely yet more slaves this time bearing food and wine. But behind them came the Aesalon Nocturna and again, as every time she saw her, Lysandra was struck by her magnificence – the woman truly was blessed by the gods. She was strange, those green eyes and full lips would look odd on anyone else – but Illeana was pure perfection. Lysandra realised she was staring and rose to her feet to greet her host.
‘Illeana,’ she said as the Roman approached.
‘Lysandra.’ Lysandra felt herself flush as Illeana’s plump lips brushed both her cheeks before moving to her couch. ‘It is good to see you again without the pomp and ceremony of an imperial audience.’
‘Quite so,’ Lysandra moved to her own couch. A slave handed her a wine cup, which she raised in toast to the Gladiatrix Prima. Illeana watched her, her green eyes seeming to look into Lysandra’s heart. ‘I am honoured to be invited to your home.’ She left the unasked question hanging – why?
Illeana chose to leave it unanswered. ‘I have the ear of the emperor,’ she said. That and more, Lysandra thought to herself. ‘He tells me that you have been selected for a unique mission on his behalf.’
Lysandra frowned. ‘This is so, but it is not something I am at liberty to discuss, Illeana. I thought that you had invited me here to discuss a rematch. Is that not so?’
‘If I were to offer that, you could not accept, am I right?’
Good sense warred with the injustice of her defeat – and injustice won out. ‘No,’ Lysandra answered, trying hard to keep any tautness from her voice. ‘I would fight you again tomorrow.’
‘And if you lost?’
‘I would not.’
Illeana’s smile was disarming. ‘Even so, it would be a hard fight. The risk of injury would be great. I imagine that Domitian would be displeased if the architect of his scheme were to be put out of action – in victory or defeat.’
It was hard to maintain any sort of aggression against Illeana. Lysandra realised that she herself would not – and had never been – so gracious in victory. It made losing to her somehow more bearable. Even if it was still excruciating. ‘That is true,’ she acknowledged. ‘But I would avenge my . . . defeat. If you agreed to fight me, I would risk the wrath of the emperor.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ Illeana agreed. ‘As would I, if I were in your place.’
‘But you are not in my place,’ Lysandra failed this time to keep the bitterness from her voice.
‘I was about that much away from it,’ she held up her forefinger and thumb.
‘That much may as well be a mile.’
Illeana took a sip of wine, regarding Lysandra over the rim of her cup. She remained silent for some time. Then at length, she spoke. ‘Lysandra, we’re similar creatures, aren’t we? When it all comes down to it, fighting in the arena is not really about fighting at all. It’s about living on the edge – doing things that no one else can do. You know, as well as I, that you’re never so alive as when you’re facing death.’
‘I fight for the glory of Athene and the honour of Sparta.’
Illeana chuckled. ‘Yes, of course. And you don’t enjoy the roar of the crowd in the least and never relish the defeat of an enemy.’
Lysandra recalled her first victory in Halicarnassus that seemed so long ago. ‘In my first fight I felt guilty afterwards, but the more I fought, the more I came to enjoy it.’
‘How old are you now?’ Illeana asked. ‘Twenty-seven?’
‘This is so. You are twenty-six.’
‘If I had not retired, how many years do you think I would have left in the arena? Five? Ten maybe?’
‘Perhaps longer,’ Lysandra thought of Sorina’s lined and hateful visage.
‘But sooner or later, someone younger will rise. Someone quicker. Stronger. Or perhaps just someone luckier.’
Lysandra raised her cup in agreement. ‘No one can defeat Chronos. Or Tyche. Fortuna, for that matter.’
‘Lysandra, like you I’ve done more in my twenty-six years than most women – most men – could even dream of. I have riches. Fame. I am beautiful. But my curse, such as it is, is to always want more. I need . . .’ she gestured, seeking the right word and could not find it. ‘More. And because of that I will fight you again.’
Lysandra’s eyes widened with shock at the proclamation. She had hoped, prayed, for this, and now her faith had been rewarded.
‘But there is one condition,’ Illeana said.
‘Name it.’
‘I’ve never fought in a war before.’
Moesia
The century drew to a weary halt at Mucius’s command, the men sinking down onto the damp earth of the forest. The fear of ghosts had worn off some time before. Truth be told, the deep varying shades of greenery and soft earth made the place quite pleasant – or it would have been if Mucius had not been trying to slog through it in armour and helmet. He sympathised with the men; lugging a scutum through the woods would be no fun at all. They had been searching for some hours and it was slow going.
‘Primus.’ Livius jogged up. Like everyone else, he looked tired and drawn. This was a different kind of fitness to what they were used to.
‘What is it?’ Mucius took a hefty swig from his water skin. It was warm but delectable.
‘Enemy sighted,’ the optio reported. ‘Looks like a scouting party. First contuburium is tracking them.’
‘Let’s take a look.’ Mucius was well pleased. He motioned for the century to stay put while he followed Livius to the advance party position.
Centurion and optio crouched in the deep foliage, looking at Settus’s ‘scouts’. The two men were unarmoured, their red tunics a bright splash of colour in the perpetual twilight of the forest. They had no spears either, just their swords strapped tight to their right hips. They were ambling along, chatting – clearly not expecting any trouble. Mucius nudged one of his own scouts, motioning for him and the others to keep track of the two as they disappeared into the foliage.
‘Take them out?’ Livius queried when they were safely out of earshot, back with the main body of the century. ‘Give them a kicking, threaten to cut their balls off if they don’t tell us where Settus is?’ He threw a look at four black-clad men that Valerian had seconded to the century to judge proceedings.
Mucius grinned. ‘Tempting. But if they’re due back, it’ll tip Settus off that we’re on to him. If we leave them be, they’ll lead us right to him.’
Livius twisted his lips. ‘Could be a trap, though? Hang out some bait for us to snap up. I mean, those two twats were pretty shoddy – even for Settus’s mob.’
‘Even so – we’ve been slogging around here for fucking hours. I don’t fancy spending the night here, do you? After all, you were the one shitting yourself about the fate of Quintilius Varus.’
The optio ignored that. ‘I’m just saying that we don’t want to walk onto a right hook if we can avoid it.’
Mucius weighed it up. Settus and his tenth century needed to be taken down a few notches, that much was certain. But Livius made a good point – losing to the tattooed little runt would be unthinkable. And unbearable. ‘You think Settus has it in him?’
‘You said Valerian reckons he’s no mug.’
‘Yeah, but Valerian is a dickhead.’
Livius rolled his eyes. ‘He’s doing all right.’ He paused. ‘What are we going to do then?’
Mucius was cursing himself for not throwing caution to the wind and springing a surprise on the Tenth. They’d tracked Settus’s scouts and the men were plainly not bait – they were just useless. Still, for all that, they’d led the First right to Settus’s encampment and they were, as Valerian had predicted, ‘dug in like ticks’.
Settus’s men had set up a ditch and rampart – and not a great one by the looks of it – in a large fore
st clearing. Hunkered down in the undergrowth with Livius, Mucius could see the little bantam cock striding around his defences as though he were Caesar at Alesia. There was a patch of clear ground that would afford the First a good run at the barricade, which is what Settus wanted of course.
‘Primus.’
Mucius turned to see one of his scouts crawling through the vegetation. ‘What is it?’
‘As you thought, sir . . . no way around the flanks and Settus has cleared a path to the rear – which’ll make that another front anyway. It looks like we’ll have to do it the hard way.’
‘And no pickets?’
‘No, sir. He might as well be sat up there shouting “try it if you think you’re hard enough”. The prick.’
‘All right, good work,’ Mucius gave him a nudge. ‘Get on back to your mates and get your gear on.’
‘I can’t believe that he was just sitting here waiting the whole time while we were creeping around expecting an ambush,’ Livius noted.
Mucius glared at him. ‘You made me think that,’ he shot back. ‘I should never have listened to you.’
‘It’s my job to point out angles you’ve not thought of.’ Livius was defensive. ‘Your job is to act on the information. It’s not my fault if you make the wrong call. From time to time,’ he amended.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Orders?’
‘Nothing fancy here,’ Mucius jerked his chin at the encampment. ‘If we give them time to prepare, it’ll go harder for us.’
‘Ah. The usual subtle approach then. I’ll tell ’em to charge on enemy sighted. Sir.’ He slid off through the undergrowth to deliver the orders. Mucius liked Livius – but, gods, the man could be sarcastic.
He turned his attention back to Settus’s camp. A frontal assault was always going to be costly in terms of men, but sometimes it just had to be done. Besides which, Settus’s amateur geriatrics would not be able to hold up a sustained assault from his men. If Settus thought a ditch and rampart would be enough to tip the odds in his favour, he was sorely mistaken.
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 13
