As they arrived, they were confronted by two guardsmen who looked sharp and alert – even if they were a little long in the tooth. Thus far, she was more than impressed by this place – it was well organised, clean, tidy and seemingly upheld good standards of discipline.
‘Is the officer on duty?’ Kleandrias asked. ‘We are hiring.’
‘Good to know,’ one of the men grinned. ‘I’ll take you in.’ He turned and banged on the door and, without waiting for response, opened it and led them into the praetorium.
The room was large and pleasantly warm, dominated by a large desk behind which sat the officer-in-charge. He rose, a smile creasing his handsome face. ‘By the gods,’ he said. ‘I knew we would meet again, Lysandra.’
She could not help herself from grinning. ‘Greetings, Euaristos.’
The Deiopolis, Asia Minor
‘They look very grand,’ Telemachus observed. ‘You should be proud, Thebe.’
The former gladiatrix waved his praise away, though she enjoyed hearing it. ‘I only told them what to do. It is they who have made the accomplishment.’
On the fields outside the Deiopolis, the women of the temple rushed to form up, their booted feet pounding on the damp earth. The days of dust were past now; Saturnalia approached and the weather was turning, rain and cold wind the constant companions of the women as they drilled.
Titus had taken command for the parade. ‘A commander,’ he had said to her, ‘should watch from afar as her people do the work.’ The acknowledgement of her role was praise indeed from the centurion.
The hypaspistai and other regular infantry took time to get in line – there was no getting away from this, she knew. Heavy infantry was not so called for nothing, even if they were carrying less kit than their male counterparts would have been.
‘Nervous?’ the priest asked her.
‘A little,’ she admitted. She looked to her left where the small band of Romans, Sextus Julius Frontinus amongst them, were assembled. Ostensibly, they were here to formally complete the purchase of the Deiopolis, but Thebe and all the women on the field knew that they were essentially here to assess them. As though he felt his eyes on her, Frontinus turned his head towards her. She looked away quickly, back to the troops on the field.
The formation was simple: a solid block of hypaspistai in the centre, with the swordswomen protecting their flanks. In turn, lightly armed slingers stood to the left and right of the infantry blocks, an offensive buffer for their slower moving counterparts. Arrayed behind them were archers; these women, trained hard by the merciless Priestesses of Artemis, considered themselves the elite. Even those that had not been women of the temple had taken on the religious practices of their trainers and all had taken to oiling their hair and tying it into a queue to mark themselves as different from the rest.
At their backs, raised up on a long rampart, was the artillery. Thebe had been a slave, a gladiatrix and then a woman of the temple – she had never seen these war machines until their construction at the Deiopolis – and they terrified her. They were like mechanical beasts, groaning and taut before they spat death across the field.
A woman’s voice rang out and she could hear – even from this distance – the clank-clank-clank of the ballista ratchets, the creaking of the onager ropes being pulled tight. After the awful creaking and groaning of the war machines was finished, the woman barked another command and everything on the field lurched from stillness to motion.
The sound of the artillery being released was terrifying, sounding to Thebe like a hydra – the hiss and thump of the onagers, the sharp retort of the ballistas and scorpions spitting their missiles into the distance.
The awful noise was accompanied by the wailing of pipes as the foot soldiers advanced under a canopy of arrows launched from their rear.
‘I cannot imagine facing that,’ Telemachus said to her.
It was true. In the arena, Thebe had known fear, but there was a way to overcome it – to fight back, to get to grips with your opponent and hurt her. The thought of walking in closely packed ranks as death fell from above was a horrifying thought.
The infantry plodded forward until they were at the apex of the artillery’s range, then the music of the pipes changed and, as one, the women raised shields and drew swords. It was smooth, the countless hours of practice now paying dividends. A few more steps and another change in the cadence; her soldiers broke into a slow, loping trot. To charge in formation was impossible for the hypaspistai, despite Lysandra’s claims her Spartan Sisterhood had perfected it. Thebe had found that only the last few steps could be managed at full sprint. But a slow, relentless jog had been worked on and perfected.
All the while, the archers kept pace, shooting, running forward and shooting again, their ‘spindles’ spiking the earth in front of the infantry.
‘It’s a waste of material,’ Telemachus noted. ‘How many broken arrows will there be at the end of this?’
‘It’s necessary,’ Thebe told him. ‘These Romans have to see that we will not shame Lysandra.’
The infantry slowed and changed formation, refusing a flank and forming up on an echelon to counter the threat from an imaginary enemy; again, it was smoothly done and then came the climax.
A shrill, wailing tune floated to them across the breeze and the women began to reorder. Behind them, archers began to trot forwards and on the flanks, the light infantry ran towards their slower moving counterparts, who began to form into circles. This was a difficult manoeuvre but an essential one – it was the only defence they had against cavalry. Inside the ring of flesh and iron, the light infantry and archers could pepper enemy horse with shafts and stone.
If it came to this, Thebe was in no doubt it would be a war of attrition – either the enemy would break the circle and her troopers would be killed. Or the spears and swords of the Deiopolis would stand firm and win the day.
As the women drew to a halt, she looked across at the Romans and hoped they were impressed.
Credit to the secretary, Nikos – he had done wonders with the dinner hosted within the walls of Athene’s sanctuary in the Deiopolis. It was by far the grandest of the buildings therein – an extravagance to which even Lysandra herself had admitted.
Frontinus had dismissed his aides and he, Titus and Thebe reclined on couches. Telemachus had absented himself. He was, Thebe thought, probably on the field at this very moment, collecting spent arrows and ballista bolts.
They were served by the Priestesses of Aphrodite, each one chosen for their exquisite beauty, and entertained with lyre and voice by the women of Apollo’s temple. The food was excellent and Thebe was well pleased – the ex-governor could not fault their hospitality.
‘I enjoyed your display,’ the old man said once their main repast was done. He nodded his thanks as a girl filled his wine cup. ‘It was ragged in places – but that’s to be expected given the time you’ve had to train your women.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Thebe bristled inwardly, but held her tongue. It would not do to argue with the man – she had done her level best with the troops and that was all she could do. She was not, after all, Lysandra.
‘But for all that, they seemed adequately prepared. Field battles are not a parade ground after all.’
‘They’re well prepared,’ Thebe said. ‘Most – myself included – fought in your spectacle for Domitian. Those that didn’t, still have experience of the arena. All of us have put iron into their foes at one stage or another. This, I think, is the main thing, sir?’
Frontinus regarded her and she knew she was being assessed – he seemed affable enough, but Thebe knew his mind was as sharp as a razor. ‘Quite right, young lady,’ he agreed. ‘Quite right. All the training in the world can go to Hades when confronted by the enemy. That’s why we have centurions.’
‘We have them too, sir,’ Titus said. ‘Sir, if I may be blunt –’
‘I would expect nothing else,’ Frontinus’s interruption was softened by a grin.
‘There’s truth in that,’ Frontinus agreed. ‘Young Valerian – you remember him – told me as much. As have others – serving in Germania for instance. That Chattian bitch Auriane gave the legions out there more trouble than they could deal with. But you’re right,’ he added. ‘They do think it’s absurd.’
Titus gestured for more wine, ensuring that their guest’s cup was full. ‘Your colleagues do not know these women.’ Thebe was surprised at the earnestness in his voice. ‘You do – it was under your patronage that our former ludus flourished. You elevated our women from a sideshow to something that men of quality could appreciate. Thebe has done good work. Those girls you saw today will not disgrace her. Or you. I have seen battle many times. Many times. I was a centurion once, sir. And I was a trainer of gladi-atrices . I know the look in the eye of a killer. And our soldiers have it.’
Thebe felt her cheeks colouring at Titus’s words. The centurion was so sparing as to be frugal with his praise. To hear it lavished in such a way filled her with a sense of pride that she had not felt in years. She served Lysandra – as Lysandra had delivered them all from slavery and given them a life they could not have imagined – it was her duty. She did not begrudge the Spartan’s legendary prowess – or her prodigious ego. But the Deiopolis, the winning of freedom, the battle for Domitian’s spectacle – all this had been Lysandra. For once, Thebe herself was centre stage – and it was good to know that she had not been found wanting.
‘I hope so,’ Frontinus said. ‘They’ll need it.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Are they ready?’ he asked, earnestly. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ she heard herself answering. ‘I am certain they are. All is in order. Lysandra’s instructions were to have the troops ready and march them to Ceramos by the Saturnalia. The troops are ready, the supplies and transportation prepared and built. All that remains is to march.’
‘Ceramos is a natural harbour,’ Titus said. ‘Where are we going after we get there?’
Frontinus smiled. ‘Taenarum.’
‘For mercenaries?’
‘Yes. And to meet with Lysandra. Gods willing, she will have recruited the soldiers that you need.’
‘And after Taenarum?’
Frontinus reached into his toga and produced a scroll. ‘Here are the orders. Take them to Lysandra at Taenarum.’ Titus was about to speak, but Frontinus stilled him with a wave of his hand. ‘Secrecy is all,’ he said. ‘I trust you, of course, but the wrong word in the wrong place at the wrong time could jeopardise everything. You will find out soon enough, Titus.’ It was clear that that was an end to it. ‘Have you given them a name?’ Frontinus asked suddenly.
Thebe exchanged a confused glance with Titus. ‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir,’ she said.
‘A name – all legions have a name,’ Frontinus explained. ‘Normally chosen from the place they are founded, though some are more fanciful – Gemina, Minerva and so forth. Is that not so, Titus?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the centurion agreed, colouring a little as though he should have thought of this. ‘It’s good for morale,’ he said to Thebe. ‘It makes you feel part of something – something you would be ashamed to let down.’
‘We can name them ‘Carian,’ Thebe said. ‘We are in Caria – here is where they were formed.’
Frontinus laughed. ‘Yes we could, but surely there’s something more apt.’ Thebe was acutely embarrassed as both she and Titus floundered under the old general’s gaze. ‘I have it,’ Frontinus said. ‘They are Greeks, mostly – I know what the Greeks are like, we can’t use a good Roman name. Let us call them the Heronai.’
Thebe raised her cup in toast. ‘The Women of the Temple it shall be.’
Moesia
The praetorium was warmed by the comforting glow of the brazier, warding off the winter chill of Moesia.
Valerian re-read the message from Tettius Iulianus for the umpteenth time. Clearly, Nolus’s report had not done the Felix Legion a disservice – because Iulianus’s inferences were those of surprise at the Fourth’s apparent fitness for battle. He had ordered them to move out and prepare for ‘a holding action if necessary’.
‘What do you think?’ he asked Mucius. He had invited the Primus – and Settus – to the praetorium as his most senior and most trusted officers respectively.
‘He’s a cunt,’ Settus offered. This garnered a look from Mucius. ‘Don’t leap to his defence,’ Settus admonished. ‘He assigned you to this legion,’ the little man reminded his superior. ‘You may be First of the First, but you’re First of the First of the Last.’
‘That’s because the rest of you are fucking useless!’ Mucius retorted. ‘I’m here to inspire you lot.’
‘You couldn’t inspire a stiffy in a brothel, Mucius.’
‘That’s not what your mother keeps telling me.’
‘All right,’ Valerian interjected, gratified by the apparent improvement in their relationship. ‘I meant of our orders, not what you think of Tettius Iulianus.’
‘Vague,’ said Mucius after a moment. ‘And I don’t like vague.’
‘I don’t see it that way,’ Settus said. ‘Look. Orders are to march into barbarian country, prepare a defence and wait for re-enforcements. And kick the shit out of any cunt that comes near us. How is that vague?’
‘Because it doesn’t give us any intelligence on the strength of the enemy, what kind of re-enforcements we’ll be getting and – crucially – how long we’re supposed to hold the ground for.’
‘Well at least it tells us where the ground is.’ Valerian muttered.
‘And that doesn’t sit well either,’ Mucius added. ‘It’s almost as though we’re being sent in . . .’ he stopped as realisation hit him.
‘Yes, quite,’ Valerian agreed.
‘What?’ Settus looked from Legate to Primus and back. ‘What?’
‘As bait, you twat,’ Mucius informed him. ‘Summa exstinctio is a rare order, Settus. We’re to go in and clear this city . . .’
‘Town,’ Valerian corrected.
‘. . . Town. Kill everything and wait for back up. If that’s not sending a signal to the barbarians to come and carve our balls off, I don’t know what is.’
Settus failed to look moved by this. ‘So,’ he asked. ‘So what? It’s a fuck load easier defending a position than it is marching around Dacia looking for hairy arsed bastards to kill. Let ’em come to us, that’s what I reckon.’
Mucius rolled his eyes. ‘This probably won’t be a town as we know it, Settus. It’ll be some barbarian shithole with a two-foot high fence for a wall . . .’
‘Then we’ll build a fucking wall, you idiot. You should sack him and make me Primus,’ he told Valerian.
‘Assuming we have the time,’ Valerian noted, ‘you’re right, Settus.’ The Tenth’s centurion gave Mucius a ‘told you so’ look, which Valerian was prepared to indulge. ‘All this would explain the lack of cavalry at least,’ he went on. ‘Anyone who can ride has been requisitioned by Iulianus. I’ve requested a few turmae for reconnaissance purposes, though.’
‘How many is a few?’ the Mucius asked.
‘Two or three,’ Valerian admitted. ‘Four if we’re lucky.’
‘So sixty to a hundred and twenty men,’ the Primus pulled a face. ‘Better than nothing,’ he conceded.
‘So you say,’ Settus complained. ‘Three horses each, those cunts. They get through supplies like nobody’s business.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Valerian said, ‘our target is on the river. We won’t die of thirst and hopefully we can get
resupplied if needs be.’
‘What’s the name of this pisshole, anyway?’ Settus wanted to know.
‘Durostorum,’ Valerian replied. ‘We’re going to attack Durostorum.’
‘Never heard of it,’ Settus admitted.
‘No one has, probably.’
Mucius laughed. ‘Legate,’ he chided. ‘Aren’t you supposed to say something like “we will punish the enemies of Rome and the name of Durostorum and the IV Felix Legion will echo down the ages”?’
‘It will if we fuck this up,’ Valerian said.
‘Summa exstinctio won’t sit well with some of the lads,’ Mucius said after a moment. ‘I’ve never carried out that order.’
Valerian sat back in his seat. ‘As you say, it’s a rare order.’
‘Fuck ’em!’ Settus waved it away. ‘They all deserve to die. First, because they’ve defied the Empire, second . . .’ he trailed off, meeting Valerian’s gaze, ‘ . . . second because they more than gave you a rough time, didn’t they? You should want to wipe the bastards off the face of the earth.’
Valerian pushed the memories of the aftermath of Tapae aside, the images still vivid and painful in his mind. ‘I hate them,’ he admitted. ‘Even the women. But the children . . .’
‘You’re both going soft,’ Settus snorted. ‘Look . . . summa exstinctio is the order, all right? I shouldn’t be telling you this.’ He stabbed a finger at Valerian. ‘You’re the boss. And you fucking think too much – I blame reading for that,’ he added. ‘We’ve all been in a sacking,’ he expanded. ‘You know what it gets like when you take a town. Women raped, kids spitted, old people killed for sport and the men – well, they have to get killed. And all that is good for our lads, gets it all out of their system.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Mucius said. ‘But you know as well as I do that it wears off after a night or two. The lads can only get so pissed and fuck so many locals. If you’ve been there, you know what it’s like. Once it’s all over, the old ones are left alone, the women and kids taken as slaves or left alone as well.’
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 20
