At the rear of the line were the pipers, the youngest girls of the temple, most of whom were still in their teens; girls too young to fight. There were ten of them – enough to make a cutting racket that would pierce the cacophony of battle. Lysandra remembered well the fight at Domitian’s spectacle – the sound had been immense, screaming horses and women, cheering crowds, the pounding of hooves. There was nothing in the world quite like it.
‘Greetings, Heronai,’ she said to the girls; it was important to make each one of them feel as though they were as important as the rest. She did not doubt that the younger ones had been hazed for not being able to fight. ‘On you, all depends. Because if those loud-shouters in front of you can’t hear what dance I want, it will go wrong for us very quickly. I am counting on you most of all.’
Lysandra looked across the field once again. She could see a mounted Euaristos trotting up and down the front ranks, no doubt exhorting his men not to fail. There was no time for that now, she thought. She could sense that the hypaspistai were keen and tense – ready to get on with it.
She drew in a lungful of air. ‘Helms!’ she shouted. There was a pause: the women were not ready for the command and some were scrambling to dress their heads. Lysandra gave them time, then ordered, ‘Shields!’ This time, the transition was smooth as the troops hefted their aspides onto their shoulders. ‘Spears!’ From the rear, it looked as though the phalanx had taken a small jump as the weapons were plucked from the earth. Lysandra glanced at the pipers. ‘By the right . . . One . . . two . . . one . . . two . . . one . . . two...’ At this order the women began to march on the spot: cohesion was key and it made sense to give them a few steps to get into rhythm. Lysandra’s heart beat fast in her breast as she looked across at the Hellene mercenaries, her mouth dry with fear and anticipation. ‘Forward!’
The pipes wailed and the women took off at a measured step towards the line of mercenaries. Lysandra saw Euaristos jerk the reins of his horse, pulling her head about: clearly, he had not expected her to be the aggressor and that she would simply wait for his men to march on her. ‘Shields . . . Port!’ she shouted and the hypaspistai responded, bringing their aspides to bear, each woman interlocking her shield with a companion to her left. ‘Spears . . . Ready!’ The staves came up and swung down in perfect unison and Lysandra felt a surge of confidence – Thebe had done well; better than she could have hoped. Lysandra had not seen the manoeuvre performed so well since her youth in the Temple of Athene.
‘Here they come!’ Laurenia’s voice rang out loud as the mercenaries began to meet the hypaspistai advance with their own. That too was encouraging; clearly Euaristos was not a commander who liked to fight a battle sitting on his backside.
The Hellene mercenaries came at them in an easy trot, their line thinning out from twenty-five shields across to fifty – and they were smooth in the change, their movements showing them to be long-practised and comfortable.
‘Steady now, ‘Lysandra spoke to the pipers:’ Extend the line . . . fifty shields. Ten left and ten right – double the ranks.’ This was a true test – and Lysandra’s heart was in her mouth. If her women faltered now, it would all be over before it began.
But they did not.
She presented the same front to the enemy, but the ten shields to either flank were double-packed with hypaspistai – weakening her centre but giving her wings that she hoped would provide a massive punch. She dug her heels into Hades’s flanks and urged him forward. ‘Middle thirty!’ she shouted. ‘Give ground when we strike! Give ground when we strike!’
The women in the line cried out, indicating that they understood. Lysandra jerked the reins, causing a snort of protest from Hades. ‘Stop your whining,’ she muttered as they cantered back to the rear. ‘Very well, ladies,’ she said to the pipers. ‘Ready . . . at the double...’ the screeching wail upped in cadence and her women responded, the line phalanx speeding up, eating the distance between them and the mercenaries. Euaristos responded in kind, his own troops breaking into a run. The Roman auxiliary formation was quicker and more flexible than her own and Lysandra knew she could not match them for speed. But she prayed she could beat them all the same.
Now it was all a question of timing. The battle lines drew closer and closer, the harsh war cries of the Hellene men loud and raucous. She couldn’t give her order too early, the phalanx could fall apart if she did. But too late and it would not have enough momentum. ‘Athene, ‘she whispered. ‘Guide me.’ Lysandra puffed out air from her cheeks and raised her fist. ‘Charge!’
The line exploded forward, the women’s feet in good time as they ploughed towards the onrushing mercenaries. She looked over at Euaristos and could sense his surprise at this, but he had only moments to take it in before the hypaspist phalanx crashed into the auxiliary formation. Lysandra winced at the impact and at once a cacophony of male shouts and female screams erupted as the fight began.
The hypaspistai crouched low, sinking their shoulders in the bowls of their shields to take the weight of the mercenary charge. Their staves licked out, catching men in their faces and necks.
In the centre, the Hellene men poured through the weakened line, the women in the middle ranks backstepping frantically. They had to absorb the attack: they could not hold and if they tried, they would collapse and the game would be up. But even as they moved back, their staves licked out, hitting the men and disrupting their formation.
The heavy spears of the auxiliary men were not as long as the eight-footers of her hypaspistai and their oval shields were not as big – they were struggling to get at their foes and she could hear the shouts and curses of frustration rising as they were hurt and not able to strike back.
On the wings, her women ploughed into their opposite numbers, the heavier flanks forcing the Hellene men into a funnel. Arms raised and staves rammed into flesh and armour as the hypaspistai shoved forward. ‘Come on!’ Lysandra shouted without intending to. ‘Crush them in! Crush them in.’
This had been her stratagem – give ground in the centre and squeeze the mercenaries in a vice – praying that the big aspides and the long staves would do the work before the men got to grips with her troops. It was working, but the girls in the centre were hard pressed to hold them now. Euaristos’s men were not green or rank amateurs and they fought back with savage ferocity, bearing the pain of a whack with a stave to close in on her women and even up the contest.
It got nasty then.
Up close, both hypaspist and auxiliary were forced to use the rudis – wooden training swords. They were heavy and they hurt when they cracked you on the head. For a moment, Lysandra recalled Hildreth and her sparring match at Balbus’s ludus. Hildreth had schooled her that day and soon after she had become friendly with the loud German. Until the day she killed her.
Lysandra forced the memory away and concentrated on the fight at hand. On the flanks, her women had managed to turn the auxiliaries and they were closing in. But the cost was heavy, she could see many retiring hurt, clutching injured limbs, blood pouring from broken noses and teeth. In the centre, however, the men had gained the upper hand and Lysandra realised that they were going to push through and escape her trap.
She looked over at Euaristos and raised her hand. He responded and she called out to the pipers. ‘Sound the halt!’
They responded and Lysandra could hear the shouts of Euaristos’s centurions bawling at the men to disengage: it was pointless to continue the fight now lest more people be injured. The lines pulled apart, shoulders heaving with exertion, men and women dragging injured comrades away. Lysandra pressed her lips into a thin line, bitterly disappointed. There had been no obvious victory – but her women had held their ground for the most part and fought like the Furies. In a real battle, the eight-foot doris would have killed and maimed, not simply bruised and inconvenienced. In this case – there would have been carnage.
But it was not about that.
She looked over to the mercenary lines where aid was being a
dministered in the form of cups of wine. Her own troops, too, were being given a drink by the younger girls – and they deserved it. She rode towards Euaristos whose grin she could see from afar. ‘Well,’ she asked as she drew closer to him.
‘Magnificent,’ he complimented. ‘And your soldiers aren’t too bad either.’
‘Do not be insufferable, Euaristos.’
Typically, the rebuke left him unruffled. ‘I thought they were excellent. But it is not me you have to convince,’ he gestured to his men.
Lysandra nodded and steered Hades over to the lines sitting auxiliaries. ‘Men of Hellas,’ she shouted. ‘You fought well. I think you would have carried the day in the end!’ This was met by cheers and no little laughter – of course they would have thought thus. ‘But still – you were hard pressed, were you not? You know why this match was drawn and you now know the calibre of my troops. I see many of you sporting a bloody nose and broken mouth. In battle, those wounds would be killers, my friends. So I ask you now. Will you fight with me?’
Silence.
So that was it then. Lysandra cursed inwardly, but she would not beg. She would take her soldiers and face the Dacians with fewer numbers.
‘I’ll fight with you, Lysandra!’ She looked and a centurion – recognisable by his cross-crested helmet – rose to his feet. ‘By the gods, your girls can fight!’ He aimed a kick at the man nearest to him. ‘On your feet, you idle bastards! Who will fight with Lysandra, Priestess of Athene!’
The men began to get up, thumping their shields. One fellow began to chant and it was picked up by the others, their voices raised in salute: ‘Heronai . . . Heronai . . . Heronai!’
Across from them, her hypaspistai rose too and cheered their opposite numbers. Lysandra looked over at Euaristos who was wearing a look as though he’d known this would be the outcome all along.
It was a good beginning.
‘How did it go?’ Illeana was sitting on a bunk, doing her best not to look as though she was in pain.
‘As planned, ‘Lysandra told her as her friends fussed around the beautiful Roman. Even Titus was charmed by her – so was Thebe for that matter. As for Telemachus, Lysandra was quite sure he would soon be composing bad Athenian poetry just so he could indulge in suffering unrequited love. ‘It was a hard fight, but the Heronai gave as good as they got. We have casualties, of course, but nothing major.’
‘It doesn’t feel like nothing major to me,’ Illeana said. ‘My back’s on fire.’
‘You were only supposed to fight one of them,’ Lysandra reminded her.
‘You said you wanted them to be in awe of me,’ Illeana was all sweetness. ‘They are now, aren’t they?’
There was no point in reprimanding her. Lysandra would have done the same thing herself. ‘As is everyone, it seems,’ she said, glancing at Telemachus who looked away from Illeana quickly.
‘So what now,’ he asked, pretending he hadn’t been staring.
‘We are done here,’ Lysandra informed him. ‘There are no more preparations to be made. Tomorrow we sail for Dacia.’
A quiet settled on them then and Lysandra felt the weight of the goddess on her shoulders. She had said the words and sail they would – to her destiny. This is what the goddess held in store for her. All her life, her sorrows, her training, every triumph and every catastrophe, it had all been in preparation for what was to come. For this fight she had given up her place in Elysium.
‘The goddess is with us,’ Kleandrias said. ‘We shall win,’
‘Or die,’ muttered Telemachus.
‘Win or die,’ Lysandra smiled. ‘That is the Spartan way.’
Durostorum, Dacia
They had laid waste to the surroundings. Villages, farmsteads and isolated communities had been wiped out. Slim pickings for the troops in terms of booty and, Mucius thought, it had taken far too long. That was the trouble with summa extinctio: you had to be thorough. As it was, the march to Durostorum had taken ten days – too many in his view.
The Felix was drawn up in a crescent, cutting the small town off by land – the only escape would be by river and those that could get away probably would have done so by now. Those that remained were in a hopeless position and they must now see it.
‘Not much to look at, is it?’ Valerian said.
Mucius had to agree. It was just like a thousand other barbarian towns – a ramshackle collection of stone and wooden houses surrounded by an unimpressive wall that the Felix would have to raise and reinforce once they had taken the town. But, unimpressive or not, the Dacians had men standing to arms on it waiting for the inevitable attack. ‘We should get on with it, sir,’ he advised.
‘He’s right,’ Settus agreed. ‘The boys are ready and these cunts will roll over as soon as we get anywhere near them. And there’ll be women in there.’
Mucius saw the look of distaste on Valerian’s aristocratic face. Well, war was not something for a man of delicate sensibilities. Men would kill, men would die and women would be raped – and then they would die too, as per the orders of the Emperor himself. A shame about the kids, though, but Mucius knew well that today’s children were tomorrow’s trouble and nothing made a more committed insurgent than slain parents.
‘Hit them with some artillery, sir?’ Mucius prompted.
Valerian nodded. ‘Yes. You’d better get back to your men. I’ll order you in as soon as we’ve cleared the walls.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Mucius saluted and made off, Settus at his side. ‘He doesn’t seem too keen now that we’re at the business end,’ he confided to the little man as soon as they were out of earshot.
‘He’s a gentleman. And a gentle man,’ Settus replied. ‘Not cut from the same cloth as us, mate. Saying that – he’s a hard cunt when he has to be. But unlike myself, he’s not a man of war. He doesn’t like the work, you know what I mean? It’s just a means to an end to him. Still, that’s why he’s the legate and has blokes like you and me to do the killing.’
Mucius laughed. ‘You really do love it, don’t you?’
‘Fucking right I do. Frontinus gave me a second shot – this is the life I love, mate. Nothing like it when you’re in the fight, eh? Speaking of which – I’ll see you when it’s over, all right?’
‘Good luck, Settus.’
Mucius turned away and strode towards the First of the First where Livius was waiting. The men looked in good shape, Mucius thought and Settus was right – they were eager. The truth of it was that soldiers liked to fight – it was a welcome break in the endless toil of marching and building. ‘Livius,’ he greeted.
‘Primus. Let me guess – a bombardment followed by a full assault.’
‘Caesar must be sitting on your shoulder.’
‘I hope so, ‘Livius said. ‘I could use all the luck. I have a bad feeling about this.’
‘If you get killed, I’ll be sure to toast your shade,’ Mucius offered.
‘I’m just saying that we should be careful.’
‘You’re always careful, Livius. Ah, ‘he said, hearing harsh orders being shouted from the rear. ‘Here we go then.’
No sooner had the words left his mouth when the familiar hissthunk of the Felix’s onagers sounded. Everyone looked up as the stone shot arced skywards and fell with awful inevitability towards the men defending Durostorum.
Some of the shot fell short or landed within the town, but many hit the wall, sending stone shards and body parts flying. Even from here, Mucius could hear the screams of the injured. Nothing worse than having to stand there and take it without being able to get back at the enemy, he thought.
The second volley was on its way scant moments later – clearly the artillery boys were wound as tightly as their machines. Just like the legionaries, they wanted to prove that they could put their training into practice.
The shot they used was stone and about the size of a man’s head. It was heavy and caused mayhem when dropped from on high – as the men of Durostorum were learning. Shot didn’t discrimina
te – flesh or stone, whatever it hit it destroyed. The defenders had seen this up close and had – for now – fled the wall.
The bombardment continued and Mucius noted that Valerian was savvy enough to have ordered a focal point for the pounding once the range finding shots were complete. This would mean less work for them later as the entire wall wouldn’t have to be repaired.
Shot rained down at the wall, merciless and unstoppable, pounding the shoddy building work to rubble, opening a widening breach that the men of the legions would soon pour through.
The buccinas – the military trumpets – rang out the orders to stand ready. This was it, then. ‘Shields up and helmets on, boys!’ Mucius shouted. ‘Let’s make short work of this and get in amongst the women and the wine!’ The First of the First gave a small cheer, but they would be focussed now. Any man about to go into the fight knew he had to try and channel the fear he had in his guts into controlled aggression.
‘This is it, this is it,’ Livius said.
‘Steady now, lads!’ Mucius bawled. ‘Remember your training.’ The trumpets sounded again – the order for general advance. ‘By the right! Forward . . . march!’ The First of the First would lead the attack as was their right – and all would be looking to them now.
The IV Felix lumbered forward, a machine honed by many hours of practice. Perhaps not as smoothly as Mucius would have liked, but he had to admit that Valerian had done a good job with the men at his disposal. But manoevring was one thing: the real test of the legion would come once the bleeding began.
The wet grass underfoot trembled with the marching feet, a rhythmic thudding that brought comfort to Mucius and, he guessed, terror to the men preparing to face them. What must it be like to see the full might of Rome turned against you? How would those men be feeling now? That Nemesis, the Goddess of Vengeance was taking her due? Because it was more than likely that some of these men had been dancing on Roman bodies when Cornelius Fuscus and his lot had been wiped out the previous year.
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 28
