Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

  You will raise your shield in defence of your homeland. The words of the goddess echoed through her mind. She recalled an earlier vision: that of blood on her hands. She had considered her achievements as a gladiatrix the fulfilment of that message, but the truth of it was that there was more blood to spill. And not only her own.

  ‘Thinking deep thoughts?’ Kleandrias came and stood next to her; it was uninvited and rude of him, but Lysandra guessed that he wanted to talk to take his mind of his seasickness.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘It is heavy responsibility that I bear, Kleandrias. All my life I have served the goddess. I cannot remember a time when I have not,’ as she spoke she realised the truth in her words. ‘And now . . .’

  ‘And now you sail to your destiny.’

  ‘Yes. The Temple . . . Balbus’s ludus . . . the battle for Domitian . . . it has all been to prepare me for this.’

  ‘The goddess has marked a path for you, Lysandra. She has chosen wisely.’

  Lysandra smiled at him, grateful for his support. ‘She offered me a choice, you know. She said that I had earned my place in Elysium. Or I could get back my life and defend my homeland. Our homeland.’

  ‘Lysandra,’ Kleandrias turned her to face him. It was, she felt, over-familiar of him, but she allowed it. ‘Duty, honour, service to the Athene and Sparta herself are what defines you. That is why you were chosen. And that is why we will win. You are . . . the best of women.’ He looked at her with a strange intensity that she had not seen before, his hard hands tightening on her biceps as he did so. The fervour of the goddess, she surmised.

  ‘Thank you, Kleandrias.’

  ‘We will be home soon, Lysandra,’ he said – and for a moment, he had the look of a man who was about to kiss her, but he blinked and his lips went tight as though he was embarrassed by his words. Kleandrias looked into her eyes for a moment longer before turning away and making his way back to Cappa and Murco who had – for now – ceased their puking.

  Lysandra turned her eyes back to the Great Green. Despite Kleandrias’s words, her heart was heavy with trepidation. And not a little fear of what was to come.

  Sarmatia

  ‘It still does not sit well with me, Teuta.’ Sorina whispered in the dark quiet of their tent. Outside, the sound of music and laughter was loud – as it always was when the tribes gathered in peace.

  Teuta sighed. ‘It must be this way. You said it yourself – many, many times on the way here.’

  Sorina took the barb. ‘I did, didn’t I? Perhaps to convince myself. But Decabalus plays a dangerous game here. Or, I should say, he has me playing a dangerous game.’

  Teuta did not answer, leaving Sorina to her thoughts. It was the way of things lately. Teuta was not as she had been in Balbus’s ludus; things were simpler there, but since their return to Dacia, Sorina had reclaimed her mantle leaving Teuta with little honour, little to do and little reputation other than that of Sorina’s lover.

  They had ridden long and hard, leaving Dacia as Decabalus had bade them, travelling north, taking his messages to the wilder tribes of Sarmatia. They had come at Sorina’s word – her voice was second only to the King of the Dacians. Her life had many strange tributaries, she thought. From Clan Chief to the basest of the base – slave and gladiatrix. But then, to rise to the top, she became queen among them: Gladiatrix Prima. And now, free, she was more than Clan Chief. She was the proxy of the King of Kings. And because of that, the Sarmatians had answered the call – as they had done before.

  ‘Sorina!’ A man’s voice sounded from outside their tent. ‘The Chiefs will see you now.’

  ‘You must do what you think is right, Sorina,’ Teuta said.

  Sorina smiled. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ she said and rose to her feet. ‘I shall be back soon.’

  ‘And I shall wait – as always.’

  Sorina was about to offer her a sweet word, but Teuta turned away. She sighed and left the tent to see a bodyguard of three waiting for her. Big men, tough, long-haired and raw-boned – they were still what the Dacians had once been, she thought to herself: people of the plains, they rode the endless grass seas, fighting, living, loving and dying with only an earthen kurgan to mark their passing.

  The life of the encampment swam through Sorina’s senses – the smell of meat on open fires, voices raised in passionate song. Here and there, a shout of anger and the crack of a fist into flesh; she looked around to see the campfires stretching far into the night; from a hilltop, it must look as though the stars themselves had fallen.

  She was led to the main hall at the heart of the encampment – a semi-permanent structure of wood and earth. Guards were posted, but like everyone else they were enjoying a cup of ale and a talk. The men assigned to her stopped and motioned her in. Sorina thanked them and made her way inside.

  It was like a scaled-down version of the camp inside; the addition of a roof doing nothing to dampen the celebratory atmosphere. Herein were the lords, the mightiest warriors and shield-women, clan chiefs and their partners. It was the very antithesis of Rome with its rules on separation: here, men and women sat together as equals, their status earned by the sharpness of their blades or their minds. Prowess and wisdom were not assumed to be purely male qualities and this was manifestly clear in the woman on the high throne at the far end of the hall.

  She was tall, big-boned and strong limbed, her dark hair razored short at the sides and spiked with lime; her keen grey eyes found Sorina’s own the moment she came into the room and her acknowledgement was a slight smile. Around her were men and women of the Sarmatians, the Getae and even a few Scythians.

  The Clan Chief let her stand in the hall for long moments and Sorina tolerated it, knowing that this was all part of the game. She was in another wolf ’s lair now and, if she wanted to run with this pack, she would have to prove herself. Sorina returned the woman’s smile with a half-grin of her own. Even with the lost years in the ludus, she’d been at the game longer than this puppy.

  At length, the woman raised her hand and, after some time, the music, talk and laughter stopped. All eyes turned to Sorina.

  ‘You are Sorina,’ the woman spoke. ‘Clan Chief and Right Hand of the Lord Diurpaneus – now called Decabalus.’

  ‘Now called,’ Sorina’s voice rang true in the still, ‘for his victory over five Roman legions. Even now their Eagles decorate his halls, the scalps of their generals hang from his warhorse.’

  ‘I am Amagê – I speak for the Sarmatians gathered here. Other tribes too have lent me their voice for this meeting.’ She let that hang for a moment. ‘I speak for all of them.’

  Sorina was impressed. ‘Your prowess must be great indeed,’ she acknowledged.

  Amagê laughed. ‘Oh, it is. But that is not why they chose me,’ she added in Latin. Then she said something else in a language that Sorina recognised but could not understand. Amagê stopped. ‘You have no Greek, then?’

  Sorina gritted. ‘I have no Greek. I hate Greeks.’

  ‘And Romans, I’ve heard tell.’

  ‘There’s truth in that,’ Sorina agreed.

  Amagê’s grey gaze was piercing and Sorina knew that her mettle was being tested here. ‘Why? Because they made you a slave and whored you to fight naked for their pleasure.’

  Sorina was surprised at how Amagê’s words affected her. For the briefest of moments, her years in Balbus’s ludus burned bright as the sun in her mind’s eye. The good times with Eirianwen, Stick and Catuvolcos. And then Lysandra. Always Lysandra, raven haired, long-limbed and strange-eyed. And evil-hearted. Sorina blinked to see Amagê’s eyes still on her.

  She had the magic, Sorina realised. Eirianwen had the sight, like her Druid father and this woman too had been touched by the gods. Sorina cleared her throat, aware that the silence lengthened about her. ‘What you say is true,’ she replied. ‘I was made to fight for their pleasure. Do you know why?’ her pale brown eyes swept the room; she was given no answer. ‘You?’ she pointed at Getae cl
an lord. ‘You?’ this to a Scythian. ‘No? I was captured. Fighting them. Fighting, it would appear, for you. I’ll hazard that very few among you have wet their sword in Roman blood.’ Many dark looks were thrown her way.

  Amagê, however, merely smiled. ‘Your prowess is well known,’ she acknowledged. ‘But what need have we to fight Romans? We have no quarrel with them.’

  ‘Other Sarmatians and Getae think otherwise,’ Sorina replied. ‘They ride at the side of Decabalus.’

  ‘Other Sarmatians and Getae are fools, then. Let Decabalus lord it over them if he wishes. He does not rule here.’

  ‘Yet you still gather at his behest to hear my words?’

  Amagê’s lips lifted in a half-smile – she was enjoying herself, Sorina realised. ‘His deeds give his words weight,’ she admitted. ‘But as I say: we have no quarrel with Rome, nor does Decabalus rule in the north. And we’re hearing your words at his request. He would not send Sorina of the Dacians unless he wanted something. What does he want? As if we didn’t already know.’

  ‘Your swords,’ Sorina said. ‘Your bows. Your horses. Your courage. You say you have no quarrel with Rome? I once thought as you did. I remember – when I was young . . .’ She looked meaningfully at Amagê who could not have seen more than twenty-five summers, ‘. . . that our elders counselled thus. And they were wrong. Rome is a ravenous wolf that will eat the world. Her hunger will never be sated – because for Rome to endure, the beast must be fed! Rome needs armies – armies need to be paid for. To pay requires booty, booty requires conquest, conquest requires land. You have no quarrel with Rome?’ She threw up her hands. ‘Rome will have one with you if Decabalus is not successful.’

  ‘And yet, the great Decabalus has already defeated five of their best legions,’ Amagê responded. ‘Their Eagles decorate his halls and the scalps of their generals hang from his saddle. What need of the great man have we . . . barbarians of the north?’

  Sorina hesitated. She approached a crucial point in the game. A wrong word here could end her cause. Perhaps her cause should end. Decabalus did not need these warriors – he wanted them to fight and die so that they might bend the knee to him more easily. Thin their numbers – and give them a share of his glory in return for their vassalage. But with these tribes . . . victory was assured. Honour warred with hatred of Rome in Sorina’s heart – and hatred won as she knew it would.

  ‘He doesn’t need you,’ she said – and it caused a ripple of shock amongst them. Talk began to babble, cut short when Amagê raised her hand. ‘He wants you. As do I.’

  ‘You?’ Amagê raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

  ‘My hatred of Rome is well known,’ she met Amagê’s grey gaze with the pale brown of her own. ‘Some can see that clearer than others. I would have you ride with us because your strength will ensure our victory. Rome cannot endure two defeats – not any more. If we win, fire will ignite across her borders – burn down her gates and leave the way open for us. Rome has vast lands and her innards are soft. You could make kings of all of your people on her wealth.’ That got a response from most – the thought of hard gold always did.

  ‘But more than that,’ she pushed on, ‘there is the future to think of. Your sons and daughters – their sons and daughters and so on through the ages . . . would you have them know only the name of Decabalus, conqueror of Rome? Sorina, the woman who hated Rome and brought it to its knees? Or would you have the bards sing of your names too? So that your descendants will visit your kurgan and tell your story – not a Dacian one?’

  She was going to say more, but her voice was drowned out by shouts and cheers. Beer-fuelled aggression and lust for gold coupled with the promise of fame were a winning combination. Amagê was looking at her from under a hooded gaze, a smile playing about her lips. Then, the Clan Chief raised her cup and in that moment, the promise was made.

  It was a black victory; the deceit in which she was complicit sickened her to the core.

  Sparta

  It had been many years, Lysandra realised.

  Too many.

  She could have returned many times, but had baulked at it. There were reasons, of course. She twisted her lips in self-reproach: reasons or excuses? It no longer mattered. She was home.

  Home. She had once denied it, saying that she could not return here. But now, as she overlooked the city, her heart was full when she had not realised it was empty. It would be unseemly to shed a tear and this was not the Spartan way – but Lysandra had to bite her lip to stem the gamut of emotions running through her. By her side, Kleandrias also had set his jaw tight and she knew that he felt the same.

  Cappa, Murco and Illeana were with them, hanging back. For once, the two bodyguards refrained from comment, allowing she and Kleandrias a moment to take in the city below.

  It had not changed at all, Lysandra realised, recalling her last sight of it – looking over her shoulder as she rode away – a Mission Priestess riding to a Roman Legion. The Fates, she thought, have had their fun with her since then.

  She looked east and fancied she could see the outline of her parents’ smallholding, and in her mind’s eye she could see the gate, the helots at work in the field. She heard the sound of her mother’s voice, singing the Hymn to Athene. Her father’s laughter. She had been a child when she had left for the temple and perhaps she was only imagining what she thought she remembered.

  ‘So this is Sparta,’ Illeana had nudged her horse forward to stand by Lysandra. ‘I had not expected it to look so modern.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘I imagine that everyone still thinks of it as it was in Leonidas’s day. But that was more than five hundred years ago now.’

  ‘But the people are still as they were then,’ Kleandrias put in. ‘Most of them anyway.’

  Illeana favoured him with a smile. ‘This is true. I have spoken to people who have visited here. It is a popular place with Romans to take a vacation – there are many cities in Greece that have ancient things in them, but none that live in the ancient way. I have heard it said it is like living history.’ This last she directed at Lysandra who was clad in her armour and scarlet war-cloak, her full-faced Corinthian helm tucked under her arm.

  ‘Let us be about it then,’ Lysandra said, placing the helmet over her head, enjoying the languid weight of its red horsehair crest.

  ‘Impressive,’ Murco commented.

  ‘Shut up and get in line,’ Cappa cut him off. ‘We ride in her wake.’

  There was no need to be nervous. Yet, as she rode through the city, her stomach churned and sweat beaded and crawled down her back. Even if Sparta was home, she had never really known it. Her childhood had been spent cloistered in the temple, her youth with the Fifth Macedonian Legion and then on the sands at Halicarnassus. She knew everything about her city – but had never lived as part of it.

  People stared at her as she rode past, mouths agape at her spear and her war finery. The Priestesses of Athene could still inspire awe, then; even the Roman soldiers on guard duty did not stop her or request she hand over her weapons as was common law. This religious tolerance was one of the reasons for their success as an empire, she knew. All Rome wanted was land, taxes and a nominal acknowledgement of the Emperor’s supposed divinity; everything in a conquered territory was left much as it was. Not that Sparta had been conquered, of course. She was unique. But, looking around, it was clear that the city through an adult’s eyes was not as anachronistic as she had thought.

  It was very much a small Roman town, replete with forum and theatre. If Sparta had never been conquered, she had certainly been subjugated. Much like herself, Lysandra thought. She lived away from here, fought in Roman tournaments and was in the service of a Roman governor – even if Athene had willed it. Then again, the goddess was pragmatic.

  ‘Look there!’ Kleandrias pointed, steering his horse to the left – annoying pedestrians as he did so. He dismounted and turned, grinning all over his face. ‘Lysandra, look!’

  And there i
t was. Lysandra slid out of the saddle and approached the plinth. It read: This statue of Lysandra the Spartan, Gladiatrix Prima of Asia Minor was raised by the Spartans and paid for by L. Balbus.

  ‘I told you,’ Kleandrias said.

  Lysandra could not help but smile, recalling her old lanista, Balbus; typical of him to mention that he had paid for it. The statue was tall, depicting her holding a sword aloft, her face serene. It looked nothing like her, of course – she wondered briefly who had modelled it. The woman could be here, now, she realised, walking by and wondering why a priestess was admiring the work.

  ‘You will live forever now.’

  Lysandra turned to look at Illeana, hearing a note of wistfulness in her voice. ‘It is not the first work on me,’ she said. ‘There is another, commissioned by Trajanus. It is a frieze, smaller than this, though.’

  ‘There are none of me,’ Illeana replied. She didn’t add ‘even though I defeated you’, but it was implicit.

  Lysandra was surprised she felt no irritation at this. ‘That is probably because no artisan could do you justice,’ she said.

  Illeana smiled her smile, and Lysandra felt the warmth of it. ‘We should go?’

  They paused at the foot of the hill that led to Sparta’s acropolis. ‘I must go on alone from here,’ Lysandra said, her voice sounding disembodied from within her helmet.

  ‘I will take the others and find us lodgings,’ Kleandrias offered. ‘The Last Stand is an inn of good repute.’

  Lysandra nodded and turned her horse’s head away. She swallowed; this was somehow more nerve-wracking than waiting at the Gate of Life in the arena. She rode up towards the temple. It was no longer such an imposing place to her eyes – the Deiopolis was many times its size – but still, as the shadow of the walls fell upon her and the helmeted heads of the guards tilted in her direction, she could not suppress the shudder that crawled down her spine.