‘Yeah, well not this time.’ Settus folded his arms. ‘Besides which . . . If we’ve got to hold a position, we can’t be guarding prisoners and all that crap – they’ll turn on us first chance they get. Better we kill everyone and nick their supplies. The lads’ll crack on once they’ve had the orders. Better we do it when they’re pissed up, though,’ he admitted. ‘For once, Mucius is right – some of them have kids of their own and that can make a man hesitate.’
Valerian found himself envying Settus at that moment. The world was simple for him – get an order, obey it. And the little man was correct – he should have no qualms about ordering the summa exstinctio; the Dacians had all but ruined him.
But not all Dacians. Toasting revenge with Frontinus in a Roman bar was one thing. Ordering innocents to their deaths was quite another. But he was in command now – a legate. And with that came responsibility; after all, it was his virtus that the Dacians had taken from him – and part of Roman virtus was doing one’s duty, whatever the cost. ‘The orders are explicit,’ he said. ‘We will carry them out.’
Taenarum, Laconia
‘Lysandra!’ The handsome Athenian leapt to his feet and rushed across the austere praetorium. She braced herself as Euaristos embraced her, kissing her cheeks and holding her close. Cappa and Murco had met the aging enthusiast before and knew his ways but, she noted, Kleandrias bristled at the Athenian’s familiarity.
She blushed, remembering that the mercenary captain had almost bedded her when they were both out of their minds on cheap wine. Almost, but Dionysus had blunted Euaristos’s spear that night.
‘It is good to see you!’ he said. ‘And Cappa!’ he broke away from Lysandra and took the bodyguard’s arm in the warriors grip. ‘Murco. Still dreaming of fine wines, my friend.’
‘Good to see you too, mate,’ said Murco, his usually mournful expression lifting.
It didn’t take Euaristos long to be drawn to Illeana. ‘Ahh,’ he said. ‘Aesalon Nocturna. I am honoured to meet the greatest gladiatrix in Rome.’
Illeana appraised him for a moment, clearly pleased that he knew who she was. ‘A pleasure,’ she said. ‘But I am Aesalon no longer. I am just Illeana now.’
Euaristos waved that away. ‘You will always be Aesalon Nocturna, my lady, just as Lysandra’s legend as Achillia will live forever. I am humbled in the presence of greatness.’
Illeana’s eyes flicked towards Lysandra and she gave a half-grin in response. He may well have been somewhat over effusive, but Euaristos knew how to complement a woman.
‘I have heard of your battle in the Flavian,’ Euaristos went on. ‘Everyone has, in fact. You have become something of a legend, Lysandra – the gladiatrix of Athene whom the goddess saved. Even in defeat to the mighty Aesalon Nocturna, you triumphed. A fine tale.’
‘And a true one.’ Lysandra felt a glow spread across her face. ‘This is Kleandrias,’ Lysandra introduced the big man. ‘A fellow Spartan, my former trainer and dear friend.’
Euaristos offered Kleandrias his arm and it was taken; the telltale bulge in Kleandrias’s biceps told her that he was squeezing way too hard as men were wont to do. However, as effete as he looked and acted, she knew well that the Athenian was a hard man and would not baulk. They matched each other for a time until it became embarrassing.
‘We are here on business,’ Lysandra announced, ending the contest.
Euaristos broke away and made a show of shaking his arm. ‘Strong grip, friend,’ he chided.
‘It is the Spartan way,’ Kleandrias replied. ‘We measure a man by the strength of his arms.’
‘I see you and Lysandra have the same book of stock responses,’ he mocked, which made both Cappa and Murco snicker.
‘Please,’ Euaristos gestured to a bench at the other side of the room. Lysandra glared at her bodyguards who, suitably chagrined, went and got the seat and placed it in front of Euaristos’s desk. ‘So,’ Euaristos clasped his hands in front of him, eyes never leaving Lysandra’s. ‘Business.’
‘We are here to hire men,’ Kleandrias began.
‘You are?’ Euaristos interrupted. ‘Or Lysandra is.’
That threw Kleandrias somewhat. ‘Of course, Lysandra,’ he sputtered. ‘But I am a former mercenary. I know your ways.’
‘And I know Lysandra. I think she’s quite capable of putting out her terms, don’t you, friend Kleandrias?’
Kleandrias bristled but there really was no comeback to that. Lysandra was grateful for the fact that Euaristos was treating her with the deference she deserved. She was a little tired of Kleandrias leading the way and Illeana being the centre of attention. ‘The goddess is indeed with us,’ she said. ‘Euaristos, I could not have hoped to have found you here.’
‘Likewise,’ he grinned.
Lysandra let his easy and predictable charm wash over her. ‘We have been tasked with a matter of great importance. You have heard by now of the battle at Tapae?’
‘Of course. Not good news,’ he shook his head. Lysandra’s eyes were drawn to his temples – he still dyed his hair. ‘But Rome will endure. She always does. I expect that this Decabalus will soon be decorating a cross.’
‘Would that were so,’ Lysandra replied. ‘But the ramifications of the battle are far reaching, Euaristos. The fact of the matter is that Rome does not have the manpower to crush the Dacians. Not without weakening her frontiers elsewhere.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Because Sextus Julius Frontinus told me. I am here at his – and Domitian’s behest.’
‘You’re not serious,’ Euaristos leaned back in his chair. ‘Of course, Rome hires mercenaries, but for specialist work – cavalry mainly. We’ve had no contracts from them. This season is almost over – everyone’s gone to Parthia. Again.’
‘That is unfortunate,’ Lysandra said. ‘But I assume that the Romans did not anticipate such a drastic defeat. Five legions were lost, Euaristos. Five.’
‘By the gods,’ the mercenary commander paled. ‘Five. The news was that Rome had suffered a set-back and nothing more.’
‘Of course,’ Lysandra said. ‘What else would you expect them to say? The truth is somewhat different. Tapae is the greatest disaster since Varus marched into the Teutoberg Forest – and he only lost three legions.’
‘Very well,’ Euaristos said. ‘I accept that. But why are you here, Lysandra? With respect, Rome has generals aplenty. And you are . . .’ he hesitated . . . ‘well . . . you’re . . .’
‘Yes, I am a woman. Who would suspect that Rome would assign a Greek woman to this task? It is an obfuscation,’ she explained. ‘Frontinus will send troops what troops he can muster. Decabalus will know of this – Frontinus assures me that he has spies and I have no reason to doubt it. It is my task to recruit a legion if I can. A surprise for the Dacians. They will expect three legions ranged against them. My legion will be the fourth. And Decabalus will have no idea that we are coming.’
‘I need a drink.’ Euaristos was earnest.
‘I’ll go,’ Murco offered. He got to his feet. ‘Come on, Cappa.’
‘You don’t need me to hold your hand,’ Cappa retorted.
‘No, I need you to pay.’
‘Fuck’s sake . . .’ Cappa grumbled.
Lysandra was grateful for the interlude – it allowed Euaristos at least a few moments to digest what she had told him.
The Athenian rubbed his temples. ‘We don’t have that many men here,’ he said. ‘Half a legion at most. And they’re not the highest quality. The best men . . .’
‘Have gone to Parthia and it’s late in the year,’ Lysandra said. ‘I have other troops – I hope to raise at least three thousand. Veterans of my battle for Domitian’s birthday.’
‘Your battle for Domitian’s birthday was comprised solely of women. You’re not seriously proposing that you march female soldiers into a war.’
‘The Dacians do,’ Lysandra said. ‘As do the Gauls, the Britons and the Germans.’
‘But they�
��re all savages.’
‘That is true. But civilised men baulk at killing such creatures. This was the undoing of the Romans at Tapae. They baulked at killing women. And were killed by them. That is why I will march female soldiers into a war.’
Euaristos shook his head. ‘I am not sure that even you can do this, Lysandra. The men will not take you seriously.’
‘They will take my gold seriously, though. I will pay them a third more than their standard wage. I have the money and I have the backing of Rome and her Emperor.’
Euaristos shrugged. ‘We can but try. I am with you, of course. The others . . . I will arrange an assembly. You will speak . . . and we shall see.’
‘Yes,’ Lysandra said. ‘We shall.’
Dacia
There was no change in the landscape, but Sorina could feel in her bones that they had crossed into her homeland. The taste of the air, the feel of the wind on her face, the music of the Mother’s breath on the grass – these were of Dacia now.
The night was cold but not wet and the host celebrated the crossing into a new land. Thousands of men and women drank and made merry, singing the old songs and praising the god Zalmoxis.
Sorina had drunk herself into melancholy. She was in no mood to celebrate – guilt lay heavy on her shoulders, dragging her down. She berated herself for being a coward too; in her heart, she knew she should tell Amagê the truth. That they were all Decabalus’s cat’s paws, that he wanted to whittle down the numbers of tribes that had – as he saw it – defied him. Living amongst the Clans once again, Sorina had realised that defiance was far from their minds. They simply didn’t care.
But she was afraid. To assuage her guilt would probably cost her life and wreck Decabalus’s strategy. He was right: the truth was they needed the plainspeople to trap the legions and destroy them or the cost to Dacia would be very high. She knew from bitter experience the effectiveness of Rome’s war-machine. Even in defeat, they would extract a heavy toll and, despite Decabalus’s assurances, she did not believe that the legions sent this time would be such easy prey as Fuscus’s men had been.
Fuscus had had five legions at his disposal and all the arrogance that an unbeaten army facing a ‘barbarian’ enemy could muster. He had paid for his overconfidence with many thousands of Roman lives – his own included. The next general they sent would not be so vain, she knew. Rome had not become master of the west by being stupid. Rome was a wolf, a tenacious, cunning creature that never gave in. Rome would win or Rome would die. This was their credo.
Sorina weaved her unsteady way through the camp, forcing herself to smile as those that recognised her embraced her. Each touch, each kiss on the cheek that she returned felt like a betrayal and she was eager to return to her tent and drink more so that sleep would claim her.
She found her tent – no easy task with her head fogged from beer and her path diverted by a milling sea of humanity. Sorina felt a weariness press down on her as she sighted her destination, a heaviness that permeated her very bones.
She lifted the flap to find that the tent was occupied.
Teuta lay on her back, legs splayed as one of Amagê’s warriors fucked her. Teuta’s eyes were squeezed shut as he penetrated her, teeth gritted, her skin slick with sweat. Her gasps and moans of pleasure were punctuated by the warrior’s guttural enjoyment. Empty jugs were in evidence, left haphazardly on the floor.
The man stopped, feeling the cold draught of night air on his buttocks and Teuta’s eyes flew open. ‘Sorina!’
‘Join us, woman,’ the warrior said, his voice thick with intoxication. ‘I am man enough for you both.’ Teuta squirmed away from him, trying to cover her nakedness.
Sorina looked at them both. The smell of their lust hung heavy in the air. Teuta’s nipples tight and pinched, the warrior’s cock engorged and slick with her juices, his public hair damp.
‘I just came for a drink,’ Sorina said, her surprise numbed by the alcohol in her blood. She was not hurt – Teuta was young and her body was hers to do with as she pleased. Besides, Teuta was jealous of Amagê and Sorina knew her well enough to realise this was probably her way of getting even.
‘I’ll give you something to drink,’ the warrior suggested.
‘I am not for men,’ Sorina said shortly, lifting a skin from the floor of the tent. ‘Teuta – throw him out when you’re done with him. And clean up,’ she added.
She exited fast, back into the chill of the night, leaving them be. This had been coming; Teuta was not the Teuta of old, the gladiatrix of Lucius Balbus.
As soon as the thought came to her, she knew it to be unfair. Teuta was still Teuta – it was she who had changed. She was no longer Gladiatrix Prima. She was Clan Chief and the Right Hand of Decabalus. And Teuta was nothing but her lover. What could Sorina give her now? A home, wealth and a shoulder to lean on. But she could not fill her belly with seed – and though she seemed young to Sorina, Teuta would soon be too old to bear a child.
It hurt that things between them could be reaching their winter. Perhaps she could mend it, Sorina thought. She would talk to Teuta on the morrow – she owed her that and much more.
Irritation hit her now as she sucked in a breath of cold air. Not because Teuta has chosen to fill herself with cock, but that she had chosen Sorina’s tent to do it in – consigning her to a night of sleeping by someone else’s fire.
She looked around to see the strong shape of Amagê walking towards her. She could tell by the Clan Chief’s gait that she too had been over-indulging. The younger woman had a sack of beer swinging from her left hand.
‘I thought this was your tent?’ Amagê said – too loudly – as she approached.
‘It is,’ Sorina shrugged. ‘It was. Teuta is within. She is . . . not alone.’
‘Ahh,’ Amagê threw her fleshy arm around Sorina’s shoulder. ‘You are not . . . interested?’
‘No – they’re young. I’m old, drunk and tired. And I’m not for men.’
‘I’m drunk and tired too. Lay your head with me?’
Sorina’s heart lurched with shock. She did not want to spend any more time with Amagê than necessary but she knew that to refuse would be to offer insult. She forced a smile. ‘You honour me.’
They walked through the encampment, sharing the sack of beer; the liquor was doing its work on Sorina and, she could tell, Amagê too. The Clan Chief spoke of the coming battle and how she would carve up their enemy – it was the heartfelt boast of the drunkard – and the Earth Mother would hear the truth in her words. To drink before battle was to honour the goddess.
Thunder rolled across the sky and cold spits of rain began to fall. The two women began to hurry, but as soon as they increased their gate, the sky split and let fall a heavy downpour, soaking them.
Sorina was sorely unimpressed by the freezing deluge – especially as Amagê was so drunk she couldn’t find her way. They took several missteps and had to double back through crowds of people, all of them eager to be inside – which slowed their progress.
Amagê’s tent – when they eventually found it was capacious, befitting a woman of power. Sorina was grateful as she parted the flap and stepped into the warmth. The interior was well stacked with hides that kept out the draught and ensured the floor was dry and a brazier gave out a dim orange light that swathed the tent in shadows. Amagê’s belongings were stacked to one side, packs, bags and an assortment of weapons – won in battle and given as tribute, Sorina guessed.
‘Agh!’ Amagê cursed as she stumbled in. ‘Fucking rain! Put more wood in the brazier, Sorina.’ Sorina did as she was bidden as Amagê began to strip off her clothes, kicking them here and there. Her body thick and strong, her breasts heavy and her belly round – like the Earth Mother, Amagê was a vision of the fertile woman in her prime.
The Clan Chief wrapped a cloak around herself as Sorina too began to disrobe. Amagê’s grey eyes never left her as she did so; her gaze embarrassed Sorina for reasons she could not tell. She had been naked in front of
thousands of Romans, heard their screams and insults. Perhaps, she thought, it was just because she was long in the tooth. She remembered a time from years ago, she had seen Eirianwen swimming back at Balbus’s ludus in the flush of her youth and felt the same way.
She was older now.
And Eirianwen was dead.
‘By the Mother!’ Amagê said. ‘You’re hard. Lean. Like a Roman statue.’
Sorina grimaced. ‘I need a cloak.’
‘Here,’ Amagê rummaged around and tossed one to her. ‘Sit by me.’
‘Not more beer,’ Sorina said, forcing a laugh. She had had enough.
‘No,’ Amagê said. ‘Not beer.’ She rose to her feet and went to her packs, the cloak wrapped around her and returned a few moments later with a small vial.
‘I thought you were tired,’ Sorina said. She could only guess what narcotics Amagê was planning on ingesting on top of a lake of beer and knew from bitter experience that the after-effects were seldom worth the experience.
‘I was, but no longer. Put your tongue out.’
‘Amagê . . .’ Sorina drew back a little. ‘I must rest.’
‘You are a guest in my tent,’ Amagê reminded her. ‘Enjoy the hospitality I offer.’ Sorina struggled to think of an answer that would not be rude, but none came to mind. ‘Put your tongue out,’ Amagê said again. She did so and the Clan Chief reached out and shook the vial, depositing two drops. Sorina swallowed. ‘Disgusting,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Amagê agreed. She tipped a few drops into her mouth, swallowed and winced. ‘But it will make your head and your skin sing.’
‘And ache tomorrow?’ Sorina forced a grin.
‘No,’ Amagê said. ‘It will give you sweet dreams, a light head in the morning – and calm guts.’
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 21
