Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

  Illeana marched by Titus and Kleandrias. Neither man spoke, both walked with their heads down, both wrapped in their grief, and Illeana felt a bitter swell of guilt that she had not been able to save Thebe. She wanted to tell Titus that had she seen the blow coming she would have stopped it if she could.

  But to what end?

  What could she, Gladiatrix Prima, the one person here for herself and not for a cause say to him? She had come because she wanted to experience something new, something that few women – and men for that matter – in the civilised world would ever know: the thrill and exhalation of pitched battle. In her imaginings, Illeana had reckoned it would be far sweeter than the rush of victory in the arena. She believed that war would be the ultimate thrill.

  She had been gravely mistaken. Words from the Aeneid came to mind: Wars. Horrid wars.

  ‘What did you say?’ Titus glanced at her and she realised she had let the words in mind slip out of her mouth.

  ‘Just thinking aloud,’ she replied.

  ‘Virgil, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s right. I’d forgotten all of this,’ the former centurion admitted.

  ‘Old men only remember the glory days,’ he added, his voice thick.

  ‘You’re not old, Titus.’

  ‘I am now,’ he said. ‘I’d known Lysandra since she was not yet out of her teens – nearly ten years, Illeana. And Thebe longer than that. They’re all gone now. All of them. Hildreth. Penelope. Eirianwen. And now Lysandra and Thebe too. Back then, it was business. They were fighters and I was their trainer. They went to the arena and, more often than not, they’d come back – if not unharmed, in one piece. But this is different. I should not have let them come here, Illeana. I should have been more of a man and stopped them.’

  Illeana was about to reply, to offer a word of conciliation, but the deep rumble of Kleandrias stopped her. ‘I think, my friend, that Lysandra would not be dissuaded by anyone. She was . . . unique.’

  Titus looked over to him. ‘You loved her, didn’t you? For a long time.’

  Kleandrias kept his eyes down and his voice steady. ‘Aye. That I did. Who that knew her could not?’

  Titus’s smile was a ghost. ‘Plenty. She was, as you say . . . unique.’

  ‘I should have told her,’ Kleandrias said. ‘Perhaps if I had, all of this would not have come to pass. Perhaps she would have had me and her fate would not have been so dark.’

  Illeana shook her head. ‘I have not known her as long as you both. And, Kleandrias, I believe she loved you in her own way,’ she added the lie. ‘But I know her well enough to know that hearth and home, wife and child would not be a path Lysandra would have chosen. Not when her goddess called her to this . . . Mission.’

  ‘A call I wish she had not answered,’ Kleandrias replied. ‘I do not wish to be impious, but I fear that Athene’s words could have been misinterpreted. Things run hard against us and Lysandra has fallen.’

  ‘She fell in battle, her sword in her hand. She was a Spartan – isn’t this the way you people look forward to going out?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘And we are not done yet,’ Illeana pressed on. ‘We still live, the barbarians are in disarray and we have allies waiting for us behind a strong wall. Maybe Athene’s message was that she would die so the Empire – and Greece – would live. Like Leonidas.’

  ‘You believe that to be true?’ Kleandrias lifted his gaze from the ground.

  ‘Yes I do,’ she lied. ‘What else could it be? Think about it – poems will be written about all of this and recited long after we’re all ashes. Lysandra’s fame will endure – she fought and died for her goddess and her land. A fitting epitaph for her, Kleandrias, and I think she would have it no other way.’

  His smile was tight. ‘Aye. But I wish with all my heart it could have been otherwise.’

  ‘All of us do,’ Titus said.

  ‘That and a few sesterces will get you a bowl of soup,’ Illeana said. ‘Harden your hearts and don’t fall victim to despair. Remember, if there’s no cause to fight for, there’s always revenge. Think on that. We did our job back there – we held them and your Athene came and rescued us with her priestesses, didn’t she? We killed enough of the bastards and with a Roman legion standing with us . . . we will win this thing. I’m sure of it.’

  Both men looked at her and she saw the kindling of a cold anger behind the grief in their eyes. Good, she thought. They’d need it. Because what she’d just spouted was all hot air. There were too many barbarians and not enough of them to hold out for long. Sooner or later, they’d be over whatever defences Valerian and his soldiers had built and that would be the end of it.

  For her part, Illeana would take as many of the bastards with her as she could, and she swore before Venus, Fortuna and Jupiter Best and Greatest – if they would hear her and if they were real – that she would not be captured alive. But she promised herself that, like Lysandra, she would die with a sword in her hand and the blood of her enemies upon it.

  ‘That true, what you said?’ a woman asked her – one of Lysandra’s hypaspistai judging by her gear.

  ‘Yes, it’s true,’ Illeana replied, a little embarrassed that she’d been overheard.

  ‘Good, because most of the girls are close to having had enough,’ the woman said. ‘Me too, for that matter.’

  ‘I thought you were priestesses. And former gladiatrices? In Rome, a gladiatrix fights on to the last. You Greek girls are different, I take it?’

  ‘I’m not Greek,’ the woman shot back. ‘I’m from Halicarnassus.’

  ‘There’s a difference?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘In your dreams. But really – are the Heronai, the women of Lysandra’s temple, servants of the Olympians going to roll over and give in because they’ve had a kicking?’ Illeana found her voice rising as she spoke and she could feel the eyes of many in the ranks on her. She took a breath.

  ‘By the gods, girls,’ she said. ‘I’d expected better. On my left a geriatric trainer of fighters and on my right greybeard Spartan and me, a Roman – albeit a pretty one, I’ll grant you.’ That raised a few chuckles and she pushed on. ‘We’re still here to fight. Now listen and pass the word . . . Lysandra and Thebe may have fallen and I know all of you have lost friends. But we’re still alive. The IV Felix awaits us – they have supplies and a wall – a proper wall – to fight behind. Your onagers and scorpions will be set by now and they’ll give the barbarians a warm welcome when they come. Let’s send them all to Hades, Heronai. Let’s kill them all.’

  It wasn’t much of a speech – Lysandra was so much better at it, as was Thebe for that matter. Illeana didn’t like the taste of the words on her tongue, either. The war sickened her and she wanted nothing more than to get away, return home and count herself lucky to have survived one day of it.

  But her words seemed to have some effect and Illeana could feel the mood around her change. It had not lifted – but it had gone as cold and hard as the frosted mud beneath their feet. And that would have to do, she thought.

  It kept them strong until at last, they saw the first of Bedros’s ships coming towards them from the west and knew that, for now, they were safe.

  Many of the Heronai patted her arm or nodded at her as they marched by, eager now to be aboard and free from danger. They were looking to her for leadership – because no one yet trusted or even liked the aloof Spartans who claimed command. But leadership was a thing she could not provide.

  It came to her then. Was she not the Aesalon Nocturna? The most beautiful and deadly gladiatrix in the Empire? Her name caused fear and love in equal measure, no man or woman could resist her – or so it was written on the walls of the Flavian Amphitheatre. If she could inspire the Heronai as she inspired the crowds in Rome, she would. If she could lead by example – by killing – she would. If this would make them fight harder, she would do it.

  As the thought came to her she watched Bedros’s s
hips rowing fast upriver. And, for a moment, she believed her own lies that they might just survive this.

  Durostorum

  There was no time to rest. No sooner had their feet touched dry land, Halkyone marshalled the surviving commanders of the Heronai and demanded that they be taken at once to ‘the Roman Commander’.

  As they rushed through the town – it seemed to Illeana that the Spartans went everywhere at a half-trot – she was struck by the work that had been done in the short time they had been in the field. Houses had been knocked down, their remains protruding from the ground like the ruins of a long since vanished civilisation.

  Settus escorted the Heronai commanders to Valerian’s praetorium, which had yet to be demolished. He ushered them inside and then left in haste.

  Illeana was shocked at Valerian’s appearance. He was unshaven, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion, his skin a grey pallor. She had always liked the man: he had been a worker at the Flavian when he had fallen on hard times; he and Settus had made their fortune selling fertilizer for the gardens of Rome, she recalled. And now, here he was, a legate of his own legion. A sweet poison, she reckoned. He rose as they entered, but did not get a chance to speak.

  ‘I am Halkyone of Sparta,’ the priestess told him. ‘I command the Heronai now.’

  What little colour was left in Valerian’s face drained away. ‘Lysandra?’

  ‘Dead,’ Halkyone said.

  ‘And Thebe,’ Titus put in. ‘And many others.’

  Valerian sat down slowly. ‘Your priestesses brought the wounded,’ he said. ‘They are being cared for by their own.’

  ‘Your wall does not look ready,’ Euaristos observed. ‘Not from what I saw as we sailed in.’

  ‘We are working as hard as we can,’ Valerian spread his hands. ‘But the conditions are making life difficult. The rain has made the ground soft, we have to dig deeper foundations . . . then it freezes, making the digging harder work. It seems to me that the Dacian gods are throwing their weight into this fight.’

  ‘I spit on barbarian gods,’ Halkyone said. ‘Divine Athene is with you now. We, her Handmaidens, will fight at your side.’

  Valerian gave her the ghost of a smile. ‘We’ll take all the help we can get.’

  ‘Is there any news from Iulianus?’ Titus asked.

  ‘Yes, but if you’re asking if he can help us, the answer is no. He pursues Decabalus inland. Our orders are to hold until we are relieved.’

  Titus chuckled. ‘I see.’

  ‘What happened?’ Valerian asked. ‘Lysandra’s plan was sound. I expected that you would have held longer.’

  ‘Her flank collapsed,’ Kleandrias said. ‘The terrain was too soft for the stakes that defended her wing . . . the barbarians saw this and concentrated their efforts there. Lysandra gave orders that we fight on the echelon – we redeployed, but she was lost to us.

  ‘We fought on. But, Valerian, you have never seen numbers like them. So many warriors – we could kill ten each and there would still be more of them.’

  ‘But they lack discipline,’ Euaristos said. ‘Their morale is fragile. When the Lady Halkyone and her troops counter attacked, they broke. It was like giving them a kick in the stones,’ he extrapolated.

  ‘They didn’t come again?’

  ‘They were unable to,’ Halkyone said. ‘I sent raiders into their camp. Burned their tents and let loose their horses. It slowed them enough for us to slip away in the night.’

  ‘The first good news I’ve heard in a while,’ Valerian said. He was about to speak again when something seemed to attract his attention. He held up his hand. ‘Listen.’

  Illeana heard it then, the sound of shouting from outside. Distant at first, but then it swelled in volume, many thousands of voices lifted as one. They all rose to their feet. ‘They got here fast,’ she muttered.

  Valerian in the lead, they rushed outside, hands scrabbling for weapons.

  But the soldiers were not shouting in fear or anger. Rather, they were cheering. For a moment, Illeana dared to hope that the Roman Army led by Iulianus had arrived, but it was clear that was not the case. The men of the IV Felix and, further down the line, the women of the Heronai were on the wall, shouting and banging their weapons on their shields. She, along with the others, rushed to the steps that led to Durostorum’s wall.

  A lone rider was at the ditch. She was clad like a barbarian, but there was no mistaking her. Illeana found herself cheering with the rest.

  Lysandra had returned.

  Even Halkyone cracked a smile. ‘I told you,’ she said to Valerian. ‘The goddess is with us.’

  From below, a man was running toward Lysandra, clad in a white robe. Illeana saw that the hem was filthy with mud. He sprinted across a gangplank that had been placed over the ditch and rushed towards her.

  Lysandra slid from her horse and almost fell into the arms of Telemachus. Even from here, Illeana could see that the priest was weeping.

  Lysandra felt like kissing the ground when she finally stepped inside the relative safety of Durostorum’s walls. She was exhausted, saddle sore and frozen to the core – Telemachus was holding her up as her friends rushed to her: Kleandrias, Titus, Illeana, Cappa, Murco and Euaristos – all wanted to embrace her, their disbelieve at her survival writ clear on their faces. They took her to her quarters where she waited while they fussed around, ordering water to be heated, food to be brought and a healer summoned.

  Later, having bathed and supped, she sat with them – knowing all too well that she would have to tell them her tale. ‘It will heal,’ Illeana told her, referring to the cut on her face. ‘It’s deep enough, mind.’

  ‘It is of no consequence,’ Lysandra said. ‘It will scar or it won’t. Illeana, I am fortunate to be here, Athene’s strength be praised for it. I will trade a scar for my life on any given day.’

  ‘You must tell us what happened,’ Kleandrias said. ‘We feared the worst.’

  ‘In good time,’ Lysandra replied. ‘Send for Thebe, or I will only have to tell her a second time.’ No one spoke, but all shared a look – it was one of guilt and sadness, and Lysandra did not have to ask to know what had happened. ‘Ah,’ she said after a moment. ‘Poor Thebe.’ Lysandra swallowed, unwilling to say more lest her voice crack and she fell into crying. It would be unseemly to show weakness now, even if these were her friends.

  But still, the news hurt her to the core – as it did Titus, she could tell. Thebe was a good soul, kind and fair. Her oldest friend, she realised. Titus, after all, had been slave master and trainer for her first years in the ludus. But Thebe – Thebe had always been with her.

  But not anymore.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Illeana said. ‘I could not save her. I tried, but the woman struck too fast.’

  ‘It was a battle,’ Lysandra said. ‘All is chaos.’ Then she added: ‘I will miss her. Her death – and that of all those others – weighs heavily on me.’

  ‘This fight has to be fought,’ Kleandrias said, earnestly. ‘We knew this would happen – we almost lost you as well, Lysandra.’

  ‘I was lucky,’ Lysandra said. She looked at Titus. ‘Teuta rides with them. As does Sorina.’

  Titus grunted. ‘I’m not surprised. She was taken fighting against Rome. It is no surprise to find her fighting us again.’

  ‘It would seem that she and Teuta have had a falling out. It was Teuta who freed me – just to spite Sorina. If not for her, I would have faced the same fate as those others. She would not come with me,’ Lysandra added. ‘She has fled this war – and who could blame her for that?’

  ‘She led you away?’ Titus asked.

  ‘No. During the raid on the barbarian camp, their horses were set loose. Teuta captured one and bade me ride for it. I did, but when I got to our lines, you had already marched. I took to the forests and then made my way here. The raid was artfully done. I suspect it has bought us a day or more to prepare. Who ordered it?’

  Kleandrias smiled. ‘I suppose you will want to com
mend the instigator in person, strategos.’

  Lysandra felt a jolt of shame and inadequacy when he used the rank to address her. ‘Is that your way of saying it was your idea?’ she asked, making light of the suggestion to hide her ignominy.

  ‘I am just a simple soldier,’ he replied. ‘But, if you are up to it, I will take you to her.’

  ‘You should rest,’ Telemachus said to her. ‘Lysandra, you have been through a lot – more than you’ve told us, if I know you.’

  ‘Only up here,’ she tapped her forehead. ‘They did not hurt me, save for this scratch on my face. But I was afraid – for a long time, though it shames me to admit it.’

  ‘Anyone would have been,’ Euaristos said. ‘They say that the anticipation of death is worse than death itself. I cannot imagine what it must have been like.’

  ‘All the same,’ Telemachus tried again, ‘mental stress takes its toll on the body. You should rest – immediately.’

  ‘Good Telemachus . . . Where would I be without you, my friend?’

  ‘Not resting when you’re supposed to,’ he sniffed. ‘Go on, then.’

  Kleandrias needed no further bidding and had her out of the door before the Athenian could protest. He led her through what had once been the streets of Durostorum, holding her arm the entire time, walking close to her as though if he let her go, she would vanish.

  ‘My heart broke when I thought you dead,’ he said to her. ‘It would be hard to go on without you, Lysandra.’

  ‘My constant complaining will soon have you thinking differently,’ she offered with a smile. He grinned, but she knew it was not the response he craved. Poor Kleandrias, she thought. The relief on his face when he had seen her alive was keener than all the others combined. He was in love with her – Illeana had said it and she knew it was the truth. He was a good man and she wished she could reciprocate his feelings, but there was nothing in her heart for him save friendship. She wished it could be otherwise, but what she had said to him in Rome was the truth: she was for women and men did not appeal to her. And even if they did, she had sworn that her heart would remain her own; the pain of Eirianwen’s death was still with her.