‘No there aren’t. There are wives of clan chiefs or their daughters, but these days, it is mostly the men who rule. But you, Sorina, are not like most women. You are like me – and that is rare, is it not?’
‘Perhaps today,’ Sorina admitted. ‘I don’t know how things changed; I was a slave of the Romans for many years. When I returned home, things were different.’
‘More different in Dacia than with us,’ Amagê said. ‘But even in Sarmatia, things change.’
‘Eventually,’ Sorina grinned. ‘You northerners are a rough sort.’
Amagê laughed at that. ‘Lucky for you that we are,’ she said after a moment. ‘Otherwise you’d be running back to Decabalus swordless. You got your wish because you know that we love a fight.’
‘You could have said no,’ Sorina reminded her. ‘And you still could send me back swordless if that is your wish.’ This, she knew, was hedging. But she was a little tired of Amagê holding all the advantages.
‘I could not, and well you know it,’ the Clan Chief replied. ‘Not without losing face and facing a challenge to my status. The Clans are sold on the fight – so a fight they will get.’
‘Good.’ Sorina moved towards the flap of the tent, eager to be away. The air was cloying and her head was still thick.
‘Why not stay with me today?’ Amagê suggested. ‘I’m sure Teuta will not mind. My man will keep her entertained.’
‘Your man?’ Sorina arched an eyebrow.
‘Of course.’ Amagê sat up, the covers falling away from her body; Sorina was aroused at the sight of her nakedness – and annoyed that she was so. ‘I wanted some time with you so I arranged for a handsome warrior to amuse your lover. I think she was enthusiastic enough anyway.’
The admission sent a mild spark of anger through Sorina. ‘I am pleased that it worked out so well,’ she said. ‘We all enjoyed the night. But I am with Teuta – and have been for years.’
‘Things change,’ Amagê was blasé. ‘People change.’
‘Some people,’ Sorina replied, careful with her tone. She did not want to anger the younger woman, but she was riding along a path that she was unsure of. ‘We have been through a lot together.’
‘That is past,’ Amagê said. ‘This is now. You are different now, are you not? No longer the slave, but the queen. The Right Hand of Decabalus, Warrior of Tapae and now, Bringer of the Northern Clans.’
Sorina puffed out a breath she did not know she had been holding. She sat on the floor, realising that there was no getting away from this conversation. ‘What are you saying, Amagê?’
‘You and I are alike. We are strong. We are equals. That is a rare thing for women in this world.’
Sorina smiled. ‘You sound like I did when I was younger.’
‘That is because it is true.’
‘I am with Teuta,’ Sorina said again, the words sounding frail even in her own ears.
‘She is not your equal. In life. In bed. Tell me the truth – was last night better than with Teuta?’
‘Nothing can beat the thrill of new flesh, Amagê,’ Sorina said. ‘But life is not all about that. There is friendship. Trust. Companionship. These things take time and must be earned by both partners.’
Amagê’s grin was crooked. ‘Are you rejecting me, Sorina?’
‘You make it sound as though we were to be wed. We got drunk, we lay together. It was good. More than good. But I could not cast Teuta aside because . . .’ She hesitated, unsure what to say next – and Amage’s hooded gaze was smug because of it. ‘Because I am loyal.’
‘But you do not love her.’
‘I don’t love you either.’
‘Not yet,’ Amagê turned and lay on her front. ‘Go then,’ she said, surprising Sorina that there was no anger or malice in her voice. ‘Run to Teuta. But remember last night, Sorina. And if you change your mind, you have a way out. After all, it was not Teuta who came to her tent and found a man riding you, was it?’
‘If things were another way, Amagê, I would be with you. As you say, we are the same. And, I will admit – it thrills me that you would want me in your bed. And at your side.’
Sorina made her way to the tent flap. As she placed her hand on it, Amagê spoke again. ‘One thing . . . I have decided that today will be a day of rest. After which, we will march in haste.’
Sorina dropped her hand. ‘I told you Decabalus’s plans,’ she said. ‘We must let the Romans think they are safe – it is a ruse.’
‘I don’t care.’ Amagê rolled over to look directly at Sorina. ‘A ruse that works well for Decabalus, perhaps, but not so well for the Northern Tribes. I’ve never fought Romans before, but I know that a well-fortified position takes many lives to overrun. Better for my people if we catch them before they are ready.’
Sorina met her gaze evenly, refusing to let her anger rise. ‘As you wish,’ she said. ‘I am sure the end result will be the same.’
‘I’m sure it will for the Romans,’ Amagê rolled onto her front once again. ‘But I think your Decabalus will not be best pleased. Many of the northern tribes defied him, did they not? I can’t help but think that he would have been pleased if our numbers were thinned. As it is – he will be disappointed. But we all deal with disappointment.’
Sorina bit down a retort. ‘I will see you soon, I hope,’ she said and left the tent quickly, leaving Amagê alone.
The air outside was cold and sharp; Sorina took a deep lungful, letting the breath of the Mother clear her head. She walked away from the Clan Chief’s tent at haste, hoping that distance would lessen the spell Amagê had cast. The truth of it was that she desperately wanted her again; Amagê was right, the passion they had shared had taken Sorina to heights that she had not felt in years. They were equals – in life, in bed and, she reckoned, with sword in hand.
And Amagê was perceptive – more perceptive than Decabalus had foreseen. The fact that the Clan Chief had worked it out on her own was a weight lifted from Sorina’s shoulders – shoulders with her head still attached. Amagê could have taken umbrage at Sorina’s deliberate obfuscation of the truth and her rejection of her advances.
But she had not. Which made Sorina want her all the more.
Taenarum, Laconia
Lysandra eyed the latrunculi board as Euaristos made yet another error, allowing her to take the game. She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘You let me win,’ she noted.
Euaristos spread his hands. ‘Of course not,’ he lied. ‘It is merely that you are the superior strategos.’
‘I am,’ she replied. ‘So there was no need to let me win.’ Cappa and Murco got a laugh out of that, but not Kleandrias, who made a show of reading a scroll. Illeana was combing her hair, something of which she never seemed to tire.
At Euaristos’s orders, a barracks had been laid aside for Lysandra’s party and Euaristos, it seemed, had decided to join them. The Athenian had gone to great lengths to show hospitality, ensuring that they were well stocked with food and the best wine he could find. The surroundings were ‘spartan’ as Cappa and Murco kept saying as though it were a huge joke. Walled and floored with undecorated wood with low sleeping bunks and a rough-hewn table, it was, like the rest of the encampment, of Roman design. Several braziers were set about the room, giving a warm hue to the lamplight.
‘Tonight’s the night, then,’ he said, placing the latrunculi pieces back into their box. ‘I am sure that all the men will be yours to command, Lysandra. Your arrival here is all the gossip to be had. It seems that your famous prowess and beauty pre-empts you.’
‘Are you trying to charm me, Euaristos?’ Lysandra smiled, enjoying the attention. She could feel Illeana pout into her mirror; the Roman was unused to not being flattered first.
‘Of course,’ Euaristos was airy. ‘You have held my heart captive since the first day I saw you.’
‘Then you will find that fancy words aren’t the way to a Spartan woman’s heart,’ Kleandrias snapped, looking up from his book. ‘It is deeds of arms that insp
ires the heart of the Lakedaimonians,’ he added. ‘Not . . . poetry. Or whatever you call it.’
‘I call it manners,’ Euaristos replied. ‘And it looks to me as though the lady finds my manners pleasing.’
‘I am here!’ Lysandra snapped. ‘Do not talk about me as though I were not.’
Kleandrias looked chagrined. ‘I do not like his platitudes.’
‘And I don’t like your attitude.’ Euaristos rose to his feet – as did Kleandrias. ‘You are my guests here. Have I not provided for you? Have I not ordered the men gathered so that Lysandra may speak to all at once – on the Saturnalia, I might add. What have you managed to achieve, Kleandrias? Save for training her to a defeat . . .’
Kleandrias balled his fists and Euaristos turned side on – ready to fight, a move not lost on Lysandra. She was about to speak when Illeana turned from her mirror.
‘Now, now,’ she said. There was something in her tone that made everyone – Cappa and Murco included – look over at her. ‘Gentlemen, it is obvious to me that you are two fine warriors. Handsome. Strong. Brave. You both – as do we all – believe in Lysandra’s cause. Yet, it is the way of warriors to compete – I understand this better than either of you.’ She got up and walked towards them and Lysandra knew that the touch of Aphrodite was on her. She could feel it. ‘But for all that, I ask you for her sake that this rivalry be put aside. Such petty things are for lesser men. Like Cappa and Murco,’ she finished.
Lysandra saw Kleandrias visibly relax, charmed by the beauty of the Roman and Euaristos sat back down, the beginnings of a smile forming.
‘Thanks very much,’ Murco muttered – not offended but playing up to the joke. Cappa began to chuckle; it was infectious and soon, he, Murco and Euaristos were laughing like schoolboys, the heavy cloud of tension that had shrouded the room lifted. Kleandrias forced a smile and offered Euaristos his arm. The Athenian took it and as he did so, Illeana looked over to Lysandra and winked.
‘I am going to walk among the men,’ Kleandrias said. ‘To see how the mood is.’ Cappa and Murco rose too.
‘Good idea,’ Cappa agreed. ‘Maybe we’ll have to change a few minds . . .’ he trailed off, catching Lysandra’s eye. ‘But I doubt it. Come on, Murco.’
Illeana looked over at Euaristos. He managed to hold her gaze for a moment before he spoke, realising that he had been dismissed as well. ‘I will return when it’s time,’ he said. ‘Do not worry, Lysandra. The men here know of you. They know you walk with the goddess.’ He nodded to them both and then left them alone.
Lysandra watched him go. ‘Well?’ she said to Illeana.
Illeana poured herself a cup of wine and offered some to Lysandra, who shook her head and raised a hand. The Roman took Euaristos’s place opposite her. ‘He’s in love with you, you know,’ she stated, a grin touching her lips.
Lysandra was taken aback both that Illeana would mention something like that – and that her thoughts were occupied with such things. Besides, she was wrong and Lysandra knew it. ‘Euaristos is a ladies’ man,’ she replied. ‘He’s charming and flattering – ’
‘Not him! Kleandrias!’
Lysandra’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Do not be absurd,’ she said. ‘He is my dear friend and sometimes trainer . . .’
‘Who looks at you with adoration and is sorely jealous of your Athenian peacock.’
‘Ah,’ Lysandra waved that away. ‘We are Spartans – as a people we find the Athenian ways . . . distasteful.’
Illeana did not respond, giving her words time to sink in. It could not be, Lysandra told herself. She entertained no such thoughts and it was impossible that Kleandrias did. Certainly, he was honest, brave and loyal to her, but then – as Illeana herself had said – she inspired others, did she not? She met the Roman woman’s gaze and, as she had the irritating knack of doing, Illeana seemed to be staring into her heart and holding up a mirror to her soul. ‘That,’ Lysandra said at length, ‘is a complication I could do without.’
‘I just thought I would point it out,’ Illeana replied. ‘He is a good man. Maybe you should consider him?’
‘I do not have time for such diversions,’ Lysandra snapped. ‘I have only ever loved one person. She is dead. And that is that.’
‘A waste.’ Illeana shrugged, giving Lysandra a spike of anger. Losing Eirianwen had been too much to bear and she had sworn she would not allow herself to endure such hurt again. She had sworn – but that had been long ago, and looking at Illeana made her regret her vow – and then feel guilt that she did so.
‘I appreciate your concern,’ Lysandra sounded taut in her own ears, but if Illeana noticed her irritation she did not show it. ‘But there is nothing to be done about it.’ She was about to change the subject, but Illeana, being Illeana, was relentless.
‘You prefer women, then?’
‘Of course. As do you, if I am not mistaken. You kissed me, after all.’
‘That was because you are so adorable, Lysandra.’
Lysandra laughed despite herself. ‘You are mocking me.’
‘Of course I am.’ The beautiful Roman reached out and took Lysandra’s hand in her own. ‘Just remember that he has feelings for you. Treat him kindly.’
‘I will keep that in mind.’ She wondered for a moment if Illeana’s words and deeds were prompted by self-interest. Lysandra recalled before their first fight, the Roman had tried – and failed – to put the seed of doubt in her mind. Perhaps she was trying to play with her emotions now. She was about to question her but the words died on her lips. Illeana had nothing to gain. And, though the realisation was bitter, nothing to prove. She was victrix.
Lysandra withdrew her hand. ‘I must prepare to address the men and convince them to join me.’
‘Athene is with you.’ Whatever gravitas that statement should have had, Illeana spoilt it with a mocking wink.
‘You really should take the gods more seriously,’ Lysandra muttered.
‘I there are gods, they seem to indulge my blasphemy.’ Illeana shrugged. ‘Why should I change?’
Illeana left soon after – purportedly to find Euaristos, but Lysandra guessed that the Roman knew she needed to be alone. She prayed to Athene for strength. As the time drew close for her to address hardened, cynical mercenaries, Lysandra wondered if she could really sway them. Despite her certainty that Athene was on her side, Illeana was living proof that not everyone gave the gods their due reverence.
Perhaps she should ask Kleandrias or even Euaristos to speak on her behalf. Like it or not, the soldiers would take the word of a man over hers. This was not the arena and Lysandra was not beloved here, despite what Euaristos had said about her fame among the men. She knew well that the Athenian was glib, silver-tongued and more than overt with his flattery.
Lysandra eyed the wine jug that Illeana had left, wondering if a cup or two would purge her of doubt.
No.
The voice of the goddess whispered at the back of her mind, stilling her even as she rose to go to the table. It was plain, then, that this was a task she must undertake herself. Lysandra recalled Athene’s words to her on the shore of the River Styx. ‘I can promise you three things: firstly, that what remains of your life will be one of hardship, pain and loss; second, that you will raise your shield in defence of your homeland; and third, that the name of Lysandra will be lost to the sands of history – but that of Achillia will be known many thousands of years hence, when everything Rome has built is naught but ruin and men have themselves become as gods.’ Hardship, it seemed, came in many forms. A Spartan – and she still was Spartan, she reminded herself, despite what The Matriarch had said – would endure physical privation without compliant. But this was a different kind of trial in an arena of which she was unfamiliar.
She had become a leader amongst the women of Balbus’s ludus because she was superior to all of them. She had led and commanded an army at Domitian’s spectacle and the goddess had chosen her to lead this fight.
But as the door opened an
d Euaristos came in, she realised that all of that was small comfort.
Dacia
The IV Felix crossed over the border from Moesia to Dacia on the evening of the Saturnalia. The entire legion complained, of course, but then they would. Complaining was as essential to a legionary’s morale as a cup of wine at the end of the day’s march, but once the orders had been delivered, Valerian was pleased that the holiday was forgotten and his men just got on with the task at hand.
The weather was horrendous. Cold rain lashed him as he rode at the head of the column, the icy droplets unerringly finding their way through his cloak to soak him to the skin. At least he was riding. Iulianus had ‘gifted’ the Felix the four turmae of cavalry that he had requested and these men he had thrown in a small screen to cover the line of march and reconnoitre the surrounding area.
Not that Dacia was any different to Moesia; endlessly green, which would, he imagined, in summer be lush and verdant. If Dacia even had a summer.
Valerian hated this place.
As soon as the Felix crossed the border, he was struck by the memories of the battle at Tapae and its horrific aftermath. The Dacians had destroyed the army and almost destroyed him in the process, stealing his pride, his dignity – his virtus: the very essence of his being.
With an army again at his back, he had a chance for vengeance; a gift, albeit a dubious one, from the wily Sextus Julius Frontinus. Valerian counted himself no fool; this mission was at best dangerous and he knew well that if Iulianus failed, he and his men would be food for the worms.
But he would not be captured again. He swore it once more to Jupiter and Pluto that he would fall on his sword or cut his own throat rather than suffer torture at the hands of the Dacians and their Amazons who delighted in emasculating Roman soldiers – an act, he reckoned, that was as symbolic as it was barbaric.
The pounding of horse’s hooves broke his reverie as a young tribune rode up, ruddy faced from the rain.
‘Sir. Scouts report a farmstead not far from here. They think they’ve not been seen.’
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 23
