Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

  After some time, Mucius heard the tramping of booted feet and the cursing of his men as they laboured through the brush. The sight of them breaking cover would scare the shit out of Settus’s ragged little band.

  Mucius stood as the first line of legionaries shoved their way through the bushes. ‘That’s it, lads!’ he shouted. ‘Those bastards have been yanking our chain most of the fucking day. Time to make them pay!’ He dragged the thick wooden training sword from the loop at his hip. ‘Let’s get ’em . . . First of the First . . . CHARGE!’

  The men let out a war cry and ran at the defences, hurdling the ditch as they went. Settus was on the rampart above, screaming at his men to loose javelins. Blunted spears arced out, clattering the First as they stalled at the ditch. Mucius cursed as he saw men dropping to the ground left and right. Settus had dug pits that in a real conflict would have been layered with caltrops – each a stout wooden base with a metal barb. They were called ‘daisies’ by the men and could be as effective at bringing down infantry as horses.

  Mucius gritted his teeth as the black-clad judges went around informing the ‘planted’ that they were out of the game – he was both impressed and annoyed at Settus’s forethought. ‘Come on!’ he shouted, as the First scrambled out of the ditch. Cursing, he picked his way across the ground, trying to avoid the caltrops.

  Mucius sensed rather than saw the spear hurtling towards him – sometimes in battle, the luck of the gods prevailed. He hurled himself to the ground and felt it part the transverse horsehair crest of his helmet. Looking up, he saw Settus making a ‘wanker’ gesture at him, a chip-toothed grin all over his face.

  But Settus had problems of his own. The First of the First were hard, experienced men and they were making short work of the Tenth’s defences. Mucius hauled himself up. ‘That’s it, lads!’ he exhorted, moving across the ditch. ‘Let’s get ’em!’ The First roared in response and, with a suddenness typical of battle, they were through – and the real fighting started.

  It was a game, true enough. But there was pride at stake for the First – they were not going to be bested by the Tenth; even if this task was beneath them, they took to it with gusto, shields smashing forwards, wooden blades pulping noses and bruising flesh.

  Mucius scrambled over the barricade. ‘First of the First! Form a fucking line, you dozy twats!’ he shouted. ‘Form line! Let’s roll them over. Livius!’ He called out to the optio – just in time to see Settus’s own Number Two, Slanius, kick Livius in the balls and shove him back over the rampart. Livius rolled down the short hill, clutching himself and flopped into the ditch, out of the fight.

  ‘They’re forming up!’ he heard Settus scream at the top of his voice. ‘Tenth century, form line! Form line!’

  To their credit, and Mucius’s surprise, the Tenth did a fair job of getting themselves together and locking shields. Just as his own men hit them like a battering ram. The sound of shield crunching on shield was loud – just like a real battle, he thought with a grin. But there was no clash of steel here, just the staccato thudding of wooden weapons and the occasional ‘clang’ as a man took a blow to the head.

  The judges moved up and down the lines, calling out as they decreed men were wounded or killed – and it was clear that the First were going to overwhelm Settus’s bastards in the short order. ‘Come on,’ Mucius urged them on. ‘They’re going to break . . . BREAK THEM!’

  Settus’s line was wavering – even if the little upstart himself was fighting like a man possessed, trying to win the battle all on his own. But the class and cohesion of the First was – as Mucius knew it would be – too much for the men of the Tenth. One by one, they were beginning to fall as the First pushed them back.

  Settus forced his way across the melee of struggling men, heading straight for him. Mucius grinned and beckoned him on, ready to settle their score.

  The high-pitched sound of whistles cut through the fighting, stopping both Mucius and Settus in their tracks. It was over.

  Mucius looked behind Settus to see that the Tenth had been completely rolled over – it was senseless to continue the fight as more men could get injured needlessly. Despite wooden swords, there was minor carnage on the battleground and Mucius was surprised to see that the Tenth had done some damage to the First. His men knew they had been in a fight, of that there was no doubt.

  He turned his gaze towards Settus and felt the eyes of his men on him. Both the Tenth and First knew what this was really about. The First had beaten Settus’s men, but that outcome had never really been in doubt. The real question was who had the toughest commander. ‘All right, Settus,’ he said, loosening the leather chinstraps of his helmet. ‘Get out of your armour and let’s settle this.’

  Settus’s grin was eager. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  They both began to remove their kit, and as they did so, the injured and unhurt alike began to shout encouragement to their respective champions. It was for the better, and he realised the wisdom of the legate’s move. Whatever the outcome of his personal battle with Settus, the men would wear it. There was now even some lighthearted banter going on between the two groups of bloodied and battered soldiers.

  Neither Mucius nor Settus waited for the judges to get involved. Once stripped down to their tunics and boots, Mucius looked over at his smaller opponent. ‘Ready?’ he asked. Settus didn’t answer – he just ran at him.

  The two men collided, Settus taking Mucius around the waist in a shoulder charge. They crashed to the ground, rolling over and over, each trying to gain purchase on the other. Snarling, Mucius emerged on top and rained down punches on Settus’s face. Settus was not done, however – he grabbed Mucius’s arm confusing him for a moment. Then, agonising pain lanced through his wrist as Settus bit down hard.

  Cursing, Mucius rolled away, as did Settus. The little man was up fast, blood oozing from a cut above his eye. The sound of the men shouting encouragement was loud in Mucius’s ears as he closed on the still-eager Settus. Mucius swung a vicious right, aiming to knock Settus out of the fight, but the Tenth’s centurion was fast, blocking the blow with his left and countering with a hook of his own that slammed into Mucius’s cheekbone and following up with a straight right that crunched the cartilage in his nose. Then Settus was on him, raining in punches.

  Mucius covered up like a boxer, taking most of the blows on his forearms. His head cleared and this time it was his turn to barge forward. He stooped and grasped Settus around the waist. Fury roared through him and Mucius straightened his legs, lifting the shouting and cursing Settus up and heaving him back. The Tenth’s man crashed to the ground in a heap. Mucius turned fast to see Settus on his hands and knees, about to rise. He lashed out with a kick to the other man’s jaw, sending him down before he could get up.

  Settus was stunned – Mucius could see it. He waded in with his boots, kicking Settus in the back, the ribs – anywhere he could land leather. The First of the First screamed encouragement and then took up the chant ‘Primus, Primus, Primus!’ and beneath it, a collective groan from the Tenth.

  He swung a huge kick, but Settus rolled away, his own boot lashing out, kicking the knee of Mucius’s standing leg. He crashed to the damp earth on his back, winded, willing himself to get up. But the expected onslaught from Settus did not come. Mucius rose to see him standing off, gasping for breath, his fists raised.

  It looked as though he was there for the taking, but Mucius had been in enough bar brawls to see that Settus had something left and was probably trying to lure him in. He too put his fists up and they circled to the screams of advice from their men.

  He lashed out a kick, trying to smash Settus’s bollocks to sauce, but the little man was too canny, side stepping and then wading in with his fists. Mucius responded in kind – he was the fresher man now – and he was bigger, stronger and tougher than the Tenth’s centurion. Once the burst of Hercules’s rage had left him, Settus could be picked apart. Mucius softened him up with a right cross that staggered him, but Settus
came straight back with a thunderous body punch that almost made Mucius vomit. Not that he had time as Settus’s fist crashed into his cheekbone, staggering him. White light flashed in front of his eyes and he swung a punch in desperation, hoping to fend Settus off. He felt his fist hit flesh – and it was enough to halt the other man.

  Mucius spat out blood, spirals floating in front of his eyes. Settus was still standing, blood sheeting down his face, staining his chipped teeth. His eyes were gone, but he was still on his feet. Mucius was all but done and he knew it – he had to finish it now. He moved in, opening up with a barrage of punches. Settus took some on the arms and to the face, but still he didn’t fall, responding with hooks and straight punches that smashed through Mucius’s guard, snapping his head back.

  He hit back, a vicious, lancing right that connected with the point of Settus’s jaw. The Tenth’s centurion staggered, his legs dipping and his guard dropping low. Mucius swung a huge blow with his left, knowing that when it connected, Settus would be put to sleep.

  ‘Wake up! Come on . . . are you all right? He’s out of it.’

  Mucius opened his eyes to see the faces of Lucius and Settus’s optio, Slainius, hovering over him. He felt ill. ‘What happened?’ he asked, his voice sounding as though someone else was using it.

  Lucius rolled his eyes. ‘You walked onto a right hook.’

  ‘They didn’t call him the hardest man in the Second Augusta for no reason,’ Slainius added. ‘That’s what he keeps telling us, anyway. Can you get up?’

  Mucius felt utterly drained and all he wanted to do was lie there and let the pain sink into the damp earth. He looked to one side to see the Tenth celebrating, shouting and cheering, some of them lifting Settus aloft – which looked painful. To the other side, the First of the First, looking, by and large, taken aback. That wouldn’t last long, he knew – they’d be eager for payback soon enough. Mucius had lost the fight and had to take it on the chin – literally and figuratively. He sighed. ‘Yeah.’

  Slainius hauled him to his feet. ‘Good fight, Primus,’ he nodded and walked off to his own century.

  ‘Unlucky,’ Livius shrugged.

  The men of both centuries had gone quiet now, seeing he was back on his feet. He steadied himself, drawing in a lungful of air. ‘Centurion Sallustius Secundus Settus!’ he shouted. ‘On parade!’

  Settus, now set down by his men, looked left and right, unsure what to make of it. But he was a soldier. He marched out, stood before his superior, snapped to attention and saluted. ‘Yes, Primus,’ he responded, dark eyes glittering with supressed anger. He suspected, Mucius guessed, that he was about to be punished for his victory.

  ‘At ease,’ Mucius gave him leave to stand loose. ‘Your men fought well!’ He invoked his parade ground lungs, ensuring that his voice would carry. ‘Stood against the finest in this legion, holding their ground against better men. There’s something to be said for men that fight when they know they can’t win. What do you reckon, First?’ His men pounded on their shields in appreciation; it was an art that Mucius had down pat, able to praise the winners and the losers in the same breath.

  ‘Thank you, Primus.’

  Mucius regarded him. ‘And you fought well. A little too well for my liking!’ This raised some guffaws amongst both sets of men. ‘We’ve had our differences, you and me, your men and mine. We’ve met in the field and sorted it out. As men should. I would put it behind us, if you would.’

  Settus nodded. ‘Yes, Primus.’ Mucius didn’t think he meant it, but Settus – like Mucius himself – realised that Valerian was right. The legion came first. ‘Good!’ he shouted. ‘Good. Then your lads and mine will have a few drinks tonight. At our end of the camp. First round on First!’ The Tenth cheered at that and, given that they had won the day, the First looked magnanimous enough.

  Settus met his eye, nodded once and saluted before making his way back to his men.

  Brundisium, Southern Italia

  Brundisium was just as chaotic as Lysandra remembered. The incessant buzz of a thousand conversations assaulted her ears, punctuated frequently by shouting, laughter and cursing. The thump of bare feet on wooded gangplanks, the crash of broken freight (followed by the roars of enraged captains and shrieks of punished sailors) coupled with the overriding stench of seaweed was a strange balm after weeks and months in the city.

  Or perhaps it was that after a period of inertia, she was once again moving forward – albeit in a direction she could not have foreseen. She glanced at Illeana who was taking in the chaos around her whilst Kleandrias pushed would-be purchasers away.

  Having received Lysandra’s promise that she could join her on the ‘Dacian adventure’ as she had taken to calling it, the Roman had attached herself to Lysandra’s coterie like a barnacle to a ship. To be fair to her, Illeana was no passenger – she added funds to their cause and, truth be told, Lysandra was coming to like her.

  But there was a price – both Illeana’s fame and her beauty. If someone could possess too much of a good thing, it was her. She could strike down man and woman, beggar and emperor with her eyes. Lysandra thought that if she herself walked with Athene, then the Roman gladiatrix must be touched by Aphrodite. But this could only be more evidence that she had indeed been chosen by the gods to fulfil this mission. If Athene and Aphrodite were at odds in Ilium, they would not be so in Dacia.

  She allowed herself a moment of fancy, imagining that she was a female Jason with Illeana as her Heracles, accruing a group of heroes to travel with her on an epic adventure to save her homeland. She looked across at Murco who was picking his nose as they walked; feeling her eyes on him, he tried to pretend that he was in fact only scratching. In any event, it brought Lysandra crashing back to reality.

  It was slow going as the group were buffeted this way and that by the crowd, but finally Lysandra spied their destination. The Galene was moored, one of a thousand other ships in the dock but Lysandra’s heart lifted at the sight of it. Her, she corrected mentally. Her captain, Bedros, was leaning over the side of the ship, forearms resting on her stout wooden beam. He laughed aloud as he saw her approach and then disappeared from view.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ Illeana arched an eyebrow as, moments later, Bedros was charging down the gangplank towards them.

  Lysandra had no time to respond as Bedros was upon her, lifting her up in his altogether too hairy embrace, kissing both her cheeks. ‘Lysandra the Spartan,’ he said.

  Lysandra was prepared to indulge his unseemly display – truth be told, she had a place in her heart for the merchant captain. ‘Bedros,’ she grinned. ‘It is good to see you again. These are my companions – Kleandrias, Cappa, Murco and . . .’

  ‘The Aesalon Nocturna,’ Bedros identified. Illeana inclined her head as though being recognised was her due and Lysandra tried not to grind her teeth in annoyance.

  ‘Aemilia Illeana,’ the Gladiatrix Prima favoured Bedros with a smile.

  ‘Come aboard, come aboard,’ the captain beckoned them. ‘All has been made ready,’ he added. ‘We can sail anytime.’

  ‘Sooner than later, then,’ Lysandra said. ‘There is much to be done and I have little time to do it.’

  ‘Then we’ll set sail!’ Bedros laughed and rubbed his hands together. He turned away and began bawling at his men, many of whom Lysandra recognised from her first voyage on the Galene.

  ‘We don’t really like boats,’ Cappa whispered to Lysandra as the captain made off.

  ‘The Galene is a ship,’ Lysandra corrected, remembering that Bedros took umbrage at this kind of elementary mistake.

  ‘Huh. Who cares? ‘Murco put in. ‘You can’t trust the sea,’ he added.

  ‘Most sailors call it “The Great Green”, Lysandra informed him, pleased that she could impress her nautical knowledge on them all.

  ‘I don’t care what they call it,’ Murco looked around as though he could be heard by all and lowered his voice. ‘It’s dangerous.’

  ‘If you know a better way
to Sparta, I would like to hear it,’ Kleandrias said. ‘Are you scared of a little water?’

  ‘No,’ Murco lied. ‘We’re just saying it’s a big risk is all. Right, Cappa?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Enough,’ Lysandra said. ‘Bedros will have made all the offerings to the gods that are necessary to protect us from the wrath of Poseidon. Neptune,’ she added before her bodyguards pretended they didn’t know who she was talking about.

  The two looked at each other. ‘But you used to be a priestess,’ Cappa said. ‘Still are, really. You could – you know, add some extra prayers. Athene favours you.’

  Lysandra could not help herself. ‘Yes, but she and her uncle Poseidon are not friends. Invoking Athene in Poseidon’s realm could be seen as a slight – I have made that mistake before.’

  ‘What happened?’ Murco’s eyes were wide.

  ‘The first time I set sail the ship sank. The second time we were attacked by pirates.’

  ‘And the third time?’

  ‘This is the third time,’ she grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let us hope that Poseidon has had his fill of me.’ She moved off, leaving both men staring after her. There was silence for a moment before Kleandrias and Illeana erupted into gales of laughter.

  Despite the fears of her two bodyguards, the clouds did not darken nor the seas turn to mountains when the Galene was on open water. The ship dipped and rose on the waves, causing both Cappa and Murco to vomit over the side, their superstitious apprehension lost in the misery of seasickness. Even the ever-redoubtable Kleandrias’s skin was slick with sweat and he had a grey pallor; he was bearing illness with stoicism and determination – better than Lysandra herself had. She recalled being in the same position as Cappa and Murco, hurling her guts into the Great Green and looking just as undignified.

  Lysandra made her way aft – it was one of the few places on board where any kind of solitude was available to her. She looked out over the water, her mind churning like the white water in the ship’s wake. It was happening.