Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

  ‘Halt!’ one of the girls on the wall shouted down to her. Lysandra recalled that duty well – and in her time, no one unannounced had come to the gates. ‘State your business!’

  ‘I am Lysandra of Sparta,’ she called back. ‘A Mission Priestess. I return . . . home for a time. I would speak with the Matriarch.’

  ‘Wait there!’ The girl disappeared from view and the other priestesses on the ramparts fingered their spears as they looked down at her. She heard shouts from within. She had known her arrival would cause a stir; the temple had few unannounced visitors and she knew she must now be the most famous priestess of all: she who had gone out into the world and gained honour fighting in the name of the goddess. She hoped Deianara would be there, Halkyone and Melantha too, and wondered if and how they had changed.

  The girl returned to the walls. ‘You will wait!’ she shouted down. ‘The Matriarch comes at no one’s beckoning.’

  And that, Lysandra supposed, was to be expected.

  Afternoon wore into evening as she stood vigil. She would not give them the satisfaction of removing her helmet or war gear. She had dismounted knowing full well that a dignified display of Spartan stoicism could be ruined by the horse farting or becoming agitated.

  At length, the great doors of the temple began to open and, in the shadows of her helmet, Lysandra smiled. Her heart beat fast in her chest and her mouth was dry – again, she was reminded of the Gate of Life.

  An honour guard stood, holding torches to keep the dark at bay. They marched out towards her; like herself, they were armed and armoured, faces and identities obfuscated by shadows and bronze. There were no words; they flanked her and waited for her to step forwards.

  Lysandra took a deep breath and walked into the home of her childhood; it was unseemly, but she was all but overcome by the emotion of it. Her eyes flicked here and there as she entered the temple, the great statue of the goddess dominating the courtyard, the palaestra, and of course the whipping post. She could not stop her head from titling towards her old barracks – and memoires of it flooded over her like the tide.

  To her left and right, the priestesses had assembled and before her, on the steps of the temple, the Matriarch awaited, Halkyone by her side, her expression taut and stern. Lysandra stopped at the steps and knelt.

  ‘Rise and show your face.’ The Matriarch’s voice was weaker than she remembered – but then she was ancient now. Lysandra stood, removing her helmet, her eyes lifting to meet those of the old woman. ‘Speak then, Lysandra.’

  Lysandra gathered herself. Everything that had happened to her

  since the ship had been wrecked, all her trails, her achievements – all of it had led her here. The hand of the goddess had guided her home, and Athene did nothing without purpose.

  ‘Nine years ago,’ she began, ‘you chose me to be the Mission Priestess – the youngest ever,’ she added. ‘I have travelled far – to Asia Minor and to Rome herself. I was made a slave . . . a slave, but I honoured the goddess still. Through the strength of my arms and my faith in her, I triumphed. I gained my freedom and I have raised a temple to her and all the gods.

  ‘But my Mission is not complete. I thought to live out my days in a temple of my own building. Grow old there. But this is not the Will of Athene. No,’ she paused. ‘She speaks to me still and when I hung on a thread between life and death, she offered me a choice! Elysium . . . or that I would “lift my shield in defence of my homeland”. I now know the truth of her words.

  ‘War is coming, sisters. From the north. You know that the Romans were defeated there by Decabalus. They plan to strike back against him – but it is a gambit. If they are defeated, the road to Hellas is open to the barbarians and they will fall upon this land with fire and fury.

  ‘The Romans came to me and asked me to lead men – and women – in battle against the foe. And this is why I am here – my Mission . . . my journey . . . all of it was to bring me home. I call on you now, sisters. As we did so long ago against Pyrrhus, so we must do again against this Decabalus and his . . . allies. It is time for us to march out against the enemies of the goddess and raise our spears in her honour. In doing so, we glorify her and we defend not only Sparta but all Hellas.’

  Lysandra fell silent – and the silence endured. The Matriarch regarded her, expressionless – but she saw Halkyone’s mouth twitch in approval and she was proud.

  ‘You dare to come here, Lysandra?’ The Matriarch said. ‘You, who have been gone for nearly a decade? You, who have whored yourself for your Roman masters? You, who has built monuments not for the glory of the goddess but for her own self-adulation? They tell me that there is a statue of you – gladiatrix – in the city below; that the fools in the council allowed it because some rich Roman demanded it. Your former owner.’ She laughed, a harsh, wheezing sound from the cracked bellows of her lungs. ‘Owner. Yes. Last I remember, no Spartan called herself slave. No Spartan would permit it. I would rather die than submit – unlike you, whore, who would cavort naked for the pleasure of a Roman mob.

  ‘You always were a vainglorious child,’ she went on, each syllable she uttered burning into Lysandra’s mind. ‘I indulged it – this was my hubris, my hope that a child in my charge did indeed hear the voice of the goddess. And here, standing before me, is the result of it. You are an abomination, Lysandra. Your overweening vanity insults me, this sisterhood, the city of Sparta and the goddess herself.’ She looked Lysandra in the eye. ‘I cast you out! From this Sisterhood and from our polis. You are xenos – a foreigner – now, Lysandra. Halkyone – take her cloak and her weapons! She is not Spartan, she is not of this temple and she has no rights to any of it.’ Halkyone hesitated, her expression aghast. ‘Do it!’ the Matriarch shouted; years of ingrained obedience to command kicked in. Halkyone walked down the steps to Lysandra.

  The words of the Matriarch swirled through her like a bitter gale. How could she have been so wrong?

  Halkyone approached her, her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed. Lysandra could read the shock in them, the disbelief. She did not resist as her old teacher tugged the scarlet war-cloak from her back. She herself cast the helmet to one side, the impact of iron on stone too loud in the stillness of the temple. She gave up her spear but when Halkyone reached out to pull her sword from its scabbard, Lysandra’s own hand went to it. Her eyes met those of the older woman and she shook her head slightly.

  ‘No one will have my sword,’ she said, over Halkyone’s shoulder to the face of the Matriarch. ‘Unless they can take it from me.’

  ‘Does your arrogance know no bounds?’ The Matriarch screeched from the steps.

  Something inside Lysandra snapped then. She walked past Halkyone and placed her foot on the bottom step. ‘My arrogance,’ she said. ‘The arrogance is yours, old woman. You, who has not set foot in the real world since before you bled as a young girl. You, who hide the truth of what was from those that should know it. I understand why.’ She heard her voice echo around the palaestra. ‘I understand that we must preserve the history and the myth of Sparta. I know that we are pre-eminent, our blood makes us better than all others. But I had expected you – of all people – to recognise when the goddess called. In this temple, we train for war. War is coming. And Sparta, for all her courage, will be laid low if we do not meet this threat. I fight in the name of Athene herself . . .’

  ‘Silence!’ the old woman all but screamed it. ‘You are cursed, Lysandra. I curse you – in the name of Athene – I curse you. May her hand guide the furies to rend your soul.’

  Lysandra looked up at the great statue of the goddess and then to the lined, ancient face of her Matriarch of the Temple. ‘Curse me?’ she hissed. ‘Curse me! You do not have the right or the authority to do so.’ She heard the women of the temple gasp at her words. Lysandra advanced up the steps towards the Matriarch. ‘Athene!’ she shouted. ‘Hear me, Oh goddess. Hear me who has served you in blood. Hear me, Lysandra of Sparta who has honoured you and raised a temple by her
own hand. I beg of you . . . strike me down now if I am not your Handmaiden. Strike me down!’ She stopped half way up the steps, her ice-coloured eyes burning with anger. ‘You, Matriarch, are cursed,’ she spat. ‘I curse you. In her name,’ she gestured at the statue. ‘You cannot unmake who I am, old woman.’

  She thought for a moment that the Matriarch would take a step back, but she did not; she had more steel in her than that. ‘You place much stock by your sword arm, Lysandra,’ she said. ‘And you bandy curses before the goddess in her own temple. We shall see who is cursed.’

  Lysandra baulked then, seeing with clarity into the old woman’s thoughts. ‘Still your tongue, Matriarch! Do not say it! Do not. You accuse me of arrogance and vainglory? Do not let your own spill the blood of my sisters.’

  ‘They are not your sisters, xenos. You have offended me and the goddess in her own house. The goddess demands to see you punished . . .’

  ‘I will not fight here.’

  ‘Then you are doubly cursed as a coward too.’

  That stung. ‘Do not speak of matters of which you have no understanding, Matriarch. I will go – with sadness in my heart. I believed that we, the sisters of this temple, would lead others in defence of Hellas – as warriors of Athene. I have learned now that you preside over nothing but a shallow reminder of how great we once were.’

  She turned her back on the old woman and made her way down the steps, fury flowing through her like strong wine.

  ‘You will not leave!’ the Matriarch shouted. ‘Bar her way! And strike her down if she resists.’

  The assembled priestesses flowed like water into a phalanx, an impenetrable wall of bronze and iron. It was beautiful to see – the precision that she so admired now turning its spears on her. Lysandra turned back to the Matriarch. ‘You old fool! Please. Do not do this!’

  ‘Deianara!’ the Matriarch’s voice rang out. ‘Step forward.’ She held Lysandra’s gaze for long moments.

  And smiled in triumph.

  Moesia

  The night – as nights invariably were in Moesia – was cold. Valerian hated the cold and he could well sympathise with the legionaries that had pulled guard duty on such a wretched night. As he empathised, he felt the first drops of rain hit his head and cursed under breath, now regretting his decision to not wear his helmet.

  He made it his habit to walk the camp at night – he had done it when he was a tribune and saw no reason to stop now that he was a legate.

  Legate.

  His lips twisted at the thought. He was hardly that, but at least – thanks be to the gods – the legion had stopped sliding into anarchy and had begun to perform well. Better than well.

  He climbed the steps that led to the rampart and strolled along, coming to the first sentry, who snapped to attention. ‘Sorry, sir,’ the man said. He looked tired and well over forty. ‘I know who you are, but centurion’s orders – password please.’

  ‘What’s your unit, soldier?’

  ‘Tenth of the Tenth, sir.’

  ‘One of Settus’s . . . men.’ He was going to say ‘lads’ but that would have been disingenuous.

  ‘I have that honour, legate,’ the man said and Valerian couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Caballo, legate.’

  Valerian recalled that Settus held this man in high regard – or at least, considered him a force for good in the century. ‘Good to see you on alert, Caballo. Carry on.’ He made to move off.

  ‘I’ll still be needing that password, sir,’ Caballo said.

  Valerian raised his eyebrows. This was all about procedure and he was impressed that – despite their genial conversation – Caballo was sticking to the letter of the law. He thought for a moment, recalling the centurion’s meeting of earlier where such things were set. Of course, Settus had chosen it. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Ugly cocksucker.’

  Caballo nodded, his smile a white slash on his face in the darkness. ‘Can’t say as I’ve ever noticed an ugly cocksucker myself, sir.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I’ve always got me eyes shut.’

  Valerian chuckled and slapped the man on the shoulder before moving on. He made his way along the ramparts – it took almost an hour a night to complete the circuit – a singularly unpleasant duty in the rain. On the other hand, he didn’t have to stand out all night in it like the sentries did. What was two hours of his time to listen to their jokes, their complaints, their ambitions? It was good generalship, he had read. And, at least if he didn’t feel like a proper legate, he could at least give an impression of one to his men. It seemed to be working: he didn’t often read utter contempt for him in their eyes, even if that could have been attributed to their centurions beating the respect into them.

  It was colder still when he made it back to the praetorium; gods, he was looking forward to getting out of his wet clothes! ‘Not long to go before your changeover, lads,’ he said to the two sentries on guard outside his command tent. They had the good grace to smile, though Valerian was sure they hated him for going into the warm.

  And it was warm in the tent. Valerian desperately wanted to just lie on his bunk and rest, but the slightly painful ritual of armourremoval needed to be performed. Whoever designed the lorica segmentata was a genius, he decided, but still – one could never get the stuff off or on without losing a few layers of skin. Rather than a leather cuirass, Valerian had opted to wear the standard issue kit because he felt that the men would warm to him more if he did. Still, legionaries had their mates to help them out of the stuff. Having untied the leather thongs that held the front of the strips closed, he shrugged the armour back as far as it would go before it wedged – defiant – at his triceps. Next was the humiliating jumping up and down routine to get it to slide down his arms; a quick turn and he snagged it by the neck piece before it hit the floor with a crash.

  Neatly done.

  He hung it on its stand, relieved to be out of it for a few hours at least. He disrobed as fast as he could, ruing the state of his wet boots. He stuffed them with wool, hoping they would soak out by morning. Of course, as legate he could have someone do all this for him – but Valerian considered that it probably wouldn’t send the right message to the men.

  Finally out of wet clothes, he dropped a dry tunic over his head and went to his desk to review orders and correspondence.

  ‘Sir!’ A sentry’s voice.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Visitor, sir – requests audience.’

  ‘At this hour?’ Valerian was at once irked and intrigued. Of course, his rhetorical question got the standard military response: silence. ‘Send him in.’ Fucking couriers, he thought.

  The man – clearly not a courier – entered, rain plastered and doing his best to look unfazed by the filth of the northern weather. Valerian rose as the man saluted, eyes narrowing. It took a moment, but he recognised him.

  ‘Hail, legate,’ the man said. ‘I am . . .’

  ‘Quinctilius Spurius Nolus,’ Valerian rose and greeted him, extending his arm – and noting the confusion in Nolus’s eyes. Of course, Nolus would not remember him.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ Nolus stuttered, now thinking he had made a blunder.

  ‘You did me a kindness a few years ago,’ Valerian smiled. Nolus looked mortally embarrassed that he did not recall the incident and Valerian pushed on. ‘Your slave . . . Tancredus . . . He was once mine. I came to your house . . .’

  ‘Which was once yours – yes!’ realisation dawned on Nolus’s face. ‘You were . . .’

  ‘ . . . Different then,’ Valerian brushed over Nolus’s discomfiture. ‘Fortuna has smiled on me once again,’ he added. ‘At least – I hope she has. Please, allow me to get you some wine.’ He moved to his desk and poured. ‘It’s not the best, but . . .’

  ‘When on campaign, sir,’ Nolus finished, scooping up the cup and draining it in a single swallow. He winced. ‘Not bad.’

  Valerian chuckled. ‘Very politi
c, Tribune Nolus. I’ll have dry clothes and some food brought.’

  Valerian allowed himself to indulge in some small talk as they ate but he was burning with curiosity. As soon as their dishes were cleared, he cut to it. ‘You’re not here to sample the delights of the table,’ he said.

  ‘No, sir,’ Nolus agreed. ‘I’ve been ‘here’ for a few days now.’ He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. ‘My orders – direct from Iulianus – were to observe and assess your men.’

  Valerian did not show his pique at this; he had almost expected it. Even if Frontinus had raised him from nothing, it did not necessarily follow that his peers would consider him anything but. He forced a smile. ‘And what is your assessment?’

  Nolus shrugged. ‘You command a legion. From afar, it looks no different to any other. Only up close can you see the calibre of men in your charge. They’re hardly the pick of any crop . . .’ he held up a hand, ‘ . . . but that is no fault of yours. I see that, despite their disadvantages, they are more than capable. It is my opinion that – with the material to hand – you have excelled.’

  Despite himself, Valerian was pleased. No, he realised. More than that – he was relived; indeed he felt a sense of vindication. Even if his peers looked down on him, it was gratifying to know that his men – and by proxy, he himself – had made the grade.

  ‘I will make my report,’ Nolus said.

  ‘Not tonight, unless you have orders to get right back,’ Valerian was feeling like the soul of magnanimity. ‘It’s a filthy night. Speak to the guards – have them get you a billet on my orders.’ He rose to his feet and extended his arm, which Nolus took.

  ‘It is good to see Fortuna smile on you, sir.’

  ‘Let’s hope she smiles on us all in Dacia, tribune.’ Nolus did not respond; he broke the grip, saluted smartly and made his way out into the night.

  Valerian stared at the tent-flap for a few moments, trying and failing to be irritated by the fact that the man had been spying on him. It would have stung if he had been found wanting. But as it was, he felt the warm fire of confidence burn in his belly.