Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

  Sorina raised her spear and pointed. ‘See them? Heading east.’

  ‘Aye, but they’ve not seen us, I’ll guess.’ Both women looked at each other and, as one, they slid from their mounts. ‘Down, down,’Amagê hissed. The others dismounted, gripped their horses by their necks, lowered them gently to the ground and lay across them to keep them still.

  Sorina counted thirty horses. ‘Romans,’ she said to Amagê. ‘A cavalry squadron. They are looking for us, Amagê.’

  ‘Good,’ the Clan Chief replied. ‘Let them. We’ll follow them. And finish them.’

  ‘They’re a long way ahead,’ Sorina cautioned. ‘I want them, but we could lose them in this weather.’

  ‘They won’t know we’re coming,’Amagê insisted. ‘We’ll ambush them.’

  As she spoke, thunder rolled above them and the rain fell hard in thick icy droplets. Sorina did not need to say that the going would be hard: all knew it – but all hungered for vengeance.

  The Romans disappeared from view and, after giving it some time to be sure that they could not be spotted, they allowed their mounts to rise. ‘Let’s get them,’ Amagê said as she mounted. ‘Let’s make them pay.’

  All knew that they had much ground to make up on the cavalrymen. They rode as hard as they dared, but the going was treacherous and all of them were worried for their mounts’ safety. A horse could break her leg easily or fall and throw her rider and with the Romans laying waste to everything for miles around, there would be no safe haven for an injured warrior – most of the locals had fled and would soon become attached to the war band. But at least the weather would make it equally perilous for the Romans. If they fell here, sooner or later, they died here.

  The weather worsened, rain falling in thick, blinding sheets, thunder rolling in the sky above. No one complained, but Sorina guessed that all must be thinking they would not find the Romans in this deluge. But none put voice to it, so they carried on, eyes trying to pierce the gloom, ears straining to pick out the sound of voices or the whinny of other horses through the heavy, omniscient patter of the rain.

  The hours crawled by, miserable afternoon turning to dark early evening. Sorina’s fingers were numb on the leather, her feet so cold she could no longer feel them. She needed to rest – they all needed to rest, and well they knew it. ‘We should head back,’ she shouted to Amagê.

  ‘We must keep searching!’

  ‘We’ve lost them!’ Sorina reached out and gripped Amagê’s arm. ‘And if we stay out here all night, it could be us that gets ambushed!’

  Amagê gritted her teeth, but Sorina could see in her eyes that she knew she was right. The Sarmatian cursed. ‘All right,’ she said at length.

  Sullen, they angled back in the direction of the encampment, cold, soaked and frustrated. The rain eased off but with that came the biting chill of evening and Sorina bit down hard to stop her teeth from chattering. Nobody spoke, heads bowed low as their weary horses plodded on.

  ‘I am looking forward to the tent and something hot to drink,’ Sorina offered, hoping to break the tension.

  Amagê wiped her nose on her sleeve and looked over. ‘Feeling it?’ she asked, her lips lifting in a grin.

  That was the way of her, Sorina thought; fiery and quick-mooded. ‘Aye,’ she admitted. ‘I am...’ She stopped as she saw horsemen approaching in the half-light – directly ahead of them. For a moment she hesitated – but they did not.

  ‘Fuck!’ A man’s voice. A Latin curse. The sound of a sword being dragged from its scabbard. ‘Third Turma, on me! On me!’

  ‘Romans!’ Amagê’s voice rang out. ‘At them!’

  Sorina dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and she shot forwards, an arrow from a bow. Her heart rose to her throat as she sped towards the on-rushing Roman cavalry, spear levelled. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she saw the tribespeople thundering headlong in a mad rush to wreak vengeance on the hated enemy. In sharp contrast, the Roman’s had formed behind their decurion, a ballista bolt formation with him at its head.

  Sorina raised her spear, as did the decurion: they had marked each other out, it was clear – but he had the small shield and armour with which the Romans equipped their troopers. Sorina wore mail – but no shield with which to deflect the man’s attack.

  Screaming her battle cry, Sorina drew her arm back as the two forces hammered towards each other, each heartbeat bringing them closer. Behind her she could hear the wild shouts of the tribespeople, in front the harsh calls of the decurion to his men to stay in formation, beneath her the laboured breathing and snorting of her horse, the dull pounding of her hooves on the earth.

  She hurled her spear with all her strength and it flew true, the warhead sawing into the man’s throat before he could bring up his shield. Bright blood flew in the chill air and the decurion fell from the saddle. But before he had even hit the ground the forces collided in a screaming mass of flesh, iron and steel. Horses shrieked in terror, rearing and plunging as sword and spear flashed about them in the melee.

  Sorina ducked as a Roman spatha cut the air above her head and she heard the choking wail of agony as it took the woman behind her. She scrabbled for her sword and had it loose just in time to deflect a spear thrust from a big cavalryman – a Gaul if she was any judge. She lashed out at him, but he was gone, plunging past her into the fight. The man behind him was not so fortunate and she felt the satisfying judder up her arm as her blade bit deep into his shoulder, cutting down into the bone. His harsh shout of pain cut through the mad cacophony of battle, music to her ears.

  Age fell away from Sorina at that moment, the weight of years lifting from her as they always did in the eye of the battle’s storm. Another rider flew past her and she cut sideways and high, over his shield and into his neck. The man’s horse pounded on as his headless body jetted a crimson geyser, a blood offering to Zalmoxis.

  By her side, Amagê had wrested her axe from her saddle and she looked in time to see her deliver a huge blow to a Roman – it split his shield and must have broken his arm in the process; the soldier did not stay to trade blows but ducked his head low and kicked hard at his horse, sending it darting forward.

  Then she was free, with no men to kill in front of her. Sorina urged her horse to turn and turn fast lest she be caught in the back.

  But the Romans had not stayed to fight. They had used the arrowhead of their wedge to punch through the Sarmatian cavalry and were making a break for it, leaving their dead littered on the field.

  ‘After them!’ Amagê screamed, waving her axe about her head. ‘Kill them! Kill them all!’

  ‘No!’ Sorina shouted. ‘Wait! Hold!’ The Sarmatians milled in confusion as she countered the order of their Clan Chief.

  ‘You dare . . .!’ Amagê urged her horse forward so she could scream into Sorina’s face, fury etched on her beautiful broad features.

  ‘There will be more out there,’ Sorina shouted back. ‘If we give chase, we could end up with blown horses and half the Roman army on our backs. You’re too important to risk, Amagê . . .’

  The Clan Chief’s impotent howl of fury cut her off, rending the air with its hate. ‘Check the bodies,’ she ranted. ‘See if any are alive – we will have our sport with them, the bastards!’ Her grey eyes turned to the backs of the fleeing Romans. ‘Soon,’ she said. ‘Soon we will have our sport with all of you.’

  Durostorum

  ‘They are like worker bees,’ Lysandra observed.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Telemachus marvelled. They stood on top of Durostorum’s town wall looking north as the ditch and rampart trailed into the mist. Thousands of men – and now women – toiled in the cool air, shifting tons of earth with only their shovels and the strength of their backs.

  Titus cleared his throat. ‘To be fair,’ he said, ‘we drilled for this back in Asia Minor.’

  ‘But not on such scale,’ the priest said, clearly unaware he was wiping his sandals on Titus’s professional pride.


  ‘It is obvious that you did,’ Lysandra decided to offer balm before the centurion could take offence. ‘The Heronai are fine soldiers, Titus. Thebe, you have done a better job than I ever could have,’ she finished with a lie.

  ‘Oh, no Lysandra, everything I did, I learned from you,’ Thebe said. That was the truth of course, but there was no need to point it out.

  They had done well, the women were fit, in good spirits and clearly working as one to their purpose. Behind the walls, Lysandra could see her artillery pieces taking shape at regular intervals, fearsome onagers, ballistae and scorpions. It was an impressive array – and a continuous bombardment from these beasts would be demoralising – not to mention lethal – in the extreme.

  ‘The poor weather works against us,’ Kleandrias observed. ‘The ropes on the war machines must be kept covered in tallow in this,’ he opened his palm to the omnipresent drizzle.

  ‘And the wood oiled, we know,’ Titus gritted. ‘Priest . . .’

  Telemachus looked rather smug as he answered. ‘Everyone knows that the weather in the north is foul. So I overstocked. All is in order.’

  ‘I bet you didn’t anticipate it being this foul,’ Murco complained. He and Cappa had accompanied Lysandra, despite her strong suggestion that they could assist with the construction of the wall. Cappa claimed that, as an ex-Praetorian and now her bodyguard, his pace was close to his strategos. It was the basest and most obvious flattery and Lysandra admitted to herself that it had worked like a charm. But he had then been acutely embarrassed when Illeana had volunteered herself for the work.

  ‘Look there,’ Thebe pointed.

  ‘What?’ Lysandra squinted into this mist.

  ‘A rider,’ the Corinthian said. ‘There.’ She leaned closer to Lysandra. ‘See him?’

  ‘Yes. Valerian’s scouts – some of them at any rate.’ She had to know what their news was. ‘Cappa . . . Murco . . .’

  ‘Yes, strategos,’ Cappa said, as Murco rolled his eyes.

  ‘Find Euaristos. I will be at Valerian’s praetorium. Tell him to meet me there.’

  The cavalryman was young – perhaps still in his teens. He had a stoat-like face and eyes that were too close together, dark and wet with fear and shock. His face was ashen, coated with a thin sheen of sweat and his hands trembled on the cup as he held it. His shield arm was pressed close to his chest, broken or badly sprained.

  Valerian was not sitting behind his desk; rather he placed himself next to the lad on a bench, which, Lysandra thought overly familiar. But then, Valerian was a Roman. ‘Thank you for coming,’ the legate said as she entered, Euaristos in tow. She did miss the irony in his tone.

  ‘I saw the rider approach,’ Lysandra said. ‘What news?’

  ‘Take a seat,’ Valerian offered. ‘And help yourself to wine.’

  Euaristos needed no second invitation, but Lysandra hesitated. She did not want to drink lest it fog her mind and there was always the temptation that she would want more. ‘I will have water,’ she said to the Athenian.

  ‘This is Marcellus,’ Valerian said, his voice gentle. ‘Tell us what happened.’

  Marcellus finished his cup and, ever the gentleman, Euaristos was there with the jug, giving the lad an encouraging wink as he did so. ‘We were on patrol,’ Marcellus began. ‘The weather was shite . . .’ He looked over to Lysandra who waved away the obscenity. ‘. . . Really bad,’ Marcellus went on. ‘Visibility is poor out there. Not that there’s much to see after the legions have been at work. Anything standing ain’t standing anymore.’

  ‘Summa exstinctio,’ Euaristos said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Marcellus nodded. ‘We’ve been out in the field what . . . five days now? Something like that. You lose track, you know. We were due to head back here, but the decurion – Arius – he wanted to push on. So we pushed on.’

  ‘Go on,’ Valerian encouraged.

  ‘Sir, we found the enemy camp,’ Marcellus blurted.

  ‘Good! Good lad,’ Valerian patted his shoulder. ‘Well done.’

  ‘But, sir . . .’ Marcellus looked at his commander as though fearing he would be in trouble. ‘You’ve never seen anything like it! It was early evening. Dinner time. Sir, we saw their campfires. There were more of them than stars in the sky.’

  Valerian’s eyes flicked over to Lysandra who raised an eyebrow in response.

  ‘How many do you think?’

  ‘Beyond counting.’

  ‘I need a number, lad.’

  ‘Tens of thousands. Sir, I can’t be sure – there were so many. Like ten Flavian amphitheatres.’

  Lysandra thought that had to be gross exaggeration, but it was nonetheless clear that a huge force was descending on them. ‘Where are the rest of your men?’ she asked. Marcellus looked at Valerian for approval before answering, which irritated her.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Valerian said. ‘She’s a soldier too.’

  Marcellus had the look of a man that didn’t believe what he’d heard, but he did as he was told. ‘We scarpered after we saw it. On our way back here, we ran into a barbarian patrol,’ he met her gaze. ‘Men – and women warriors like you, miss —’

  ‘Address me as Lady or strategos, boy,’

  ‘Yes . . . Lady. Sorry. We ran into a barbarian patrol,’ he said again. ‘Arius had given orders that if that happened, we were to punch through and make a break for it. On no account were we to stick around and fight. The information we had was too important, that’s what he said. Priority was to get back to Durostorum and report.

  ‘So that’s what we did. I saw Arius go down in the first contact, a woman took him out with a spear. I was lucky to get away with my life,’ he added. ‘Some of us got through – there must have been fifty of them against our thirty – and we legged it. Oppius – he’s the oldest – took command after Arius got killed. He said we should split up. We’d be harder to track that way and someone was bound to make it home.’

  ‘You are the first,’ Lysandra informed him. ‘As your legate says, you have done well.’

  ‘These barbarians,’ Euaristos said. ‘How far away are they?’

  ‘Two days march,’ Marcellus replied. ‘Look, I know how long it takes to get a legion moving. It is like the barbarians have ten legions . . . I reckon two days.’

  As he spoke, Lysandra saw Valerian’s face go white; fear, she recognised. She recognised it because she had felt it herself. Not the fear of losing one’s own life but the fear that the thousands of souls you were responsible for lived or died on your decisions. ‘Thank you, Marcellus,’ Valerian said, surprising Lysandra with the steady timbre of his voice. ‘You get on back to the medicus. Rest up. You’ve done well, son.’ Marcellus got to his feet, saluted and made his way out.

  ‘What is it?’ Lysandra asked as soon as the boy closed the door behind him.

  ‘The wall,’ Euaristos answered for the legate. ‘It won’t be finished in two days. Even if we dug all day and all night.’

  The realisation almost made Lysandra sick. If the boy Marcellus was even half correct on the numbers, they could not hold off the barbarians without adequate defences. ‘How long?’

  Valerian stood and poured himself wine, which he drained in one go. Wincing on the bitter taste, he replied: ‘Four days. At least.’

  ‘If that wall isn’t ready, we’ve had it,’ Euaristos said – needlessly in Lysandra’s judgement.

  ‘Options?’ She ignored him and spoke to Valerian.

  ‘We had no idea that they would move so fast,’ Valerian replied. ‘I need time to think. To plan.’

  ‘Sadly, that is one option not availed to you, Valerian,’ Lysandra said. ‘Time. We have none.’

  ‘Get out!’ Valerian snapped. ‘I will think on this and give you your orders presently.’ Well used to taking orders, Euaristos rose and saluted, but Lysandra stayed put – which threw her Athenian companion entirely; he did not know whether to sit back down or head for the door. ‘I just issued –’

  ‘Valeria
n,’ Lysandra interrupted. ‘There is only one answer to this.’ Lysandra felt the familiar and comforting warmth of the goddess with her as she spoke. She knew she was right – Athene whispered at the back of her mind, urging her, encouraging her to speak.

  ‘Make it good, Spartan,’ Valerian said.

  ‘We attack.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ the legate snorted with derision. ‘The boy said ten legions. We have one, supplemented by women and auxiliaries. No offence,’ he glanced at Euaristos who opted to sit back down. ‘Even if Marcellus has exaggerated twofold – two legions against five – we’d be obliterated. And if he is right, the result is the same – we do not have the numbers. And think on this – we’re holding the line for Iulianus. If we fail, the Dacian allies will fall on him and it will all be over!’

  ‘I do not intend to annihilate their entire host,’ Lysandra felt her cheeks colour with anger at the audacity of the man’s dismissal of her suggestion. ‘You need time to build the wall. You do not have it. I can give it to you.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ Euaristos broke in. ‘Lysandra, you are an inspiration and I believe in my heart that Athene is with you – just as all my men do. But Valerian is right . . .’ He trailed off. ‘I didn’t sign up to throw my life away. Or the lives of my men.’

  ‘Nor I,’ Lysandra replied. ‘But hear me out. My . . . legion . . . can march out into the field. We can take a strong position and hold it – to delay the enemy while you, Valerian, and your ‘real’ soldiers can finish the fortifications.’

  ‘There are no “strong positions”,’ Valerian answered. ‘This is grassland, forest, and a few hills. But even taking a position on the high ground isn’t going to help you. And it’s not as though you can bring your artillery with you if you want to move at speed. And you’d need to.’

  ‘We know that they are strong in cavalry,’ Euaristos said. ‘We have none to combat it. And if we build a marching camp, they’d just surround and overwhelm us. It’s not as if we can make another wall between the two rivers further down. Look what happened here.’