Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

  Amagê needed no second command, like a hound let off its leash, she bounded forward, her bodyguard in tow. Sorina gathered herself and rushed after her. Amagê was shoving her own people out of the way, her bodyguards forcing their own number off the walkway and into the ditch as they piled forward towards a ladder and it was into this breach that Sorina ran, her long legs eating up the space they left in their wake.

  Amagê almost flew up the steps and disappeared over the top of the wall – and a head flew into the air no sooner had her feet hit their fighting platform. The bodyguards were close behind her and then Sorina found herself clambering up the rough wooden rungs and until her fingers touched the stone at the top. She took a deep breath and hurled herself over.

  Amagê was causing carnage on the packed fighting platform, her axe rising and falling with deadly efficiency – a fearsome weapon – a terror weapon that the auxiliaries were not used to. But she had no shield and it was dangerous – a man leapt at her – a commander if the cross-crest on his helmet was anything to go by.

  ‘Amagê!’ Sorina screamed, but her voice was lost in the din as the officer thrust his blade at her lover. If Amagê had not heard, one of her bodyguard’s had: there was no time for him to block, cut or parry – he simply leapt before her and took the sword blow in the chest.

  The auxiliary commander stepped back, withdrawing his bloody iron. ‘Look alive there you men, ‘he shouted. A Greek, she realised – Athenian, the same accent as Balbus’s catamite back at the ludus. It was cultured and urbane – like the man himself, she reckoned. His cloak was fine, his armour expensive. An Athenian dandy. ‘Hold them! Hold them!’ That, Sorina decided, would be the last order the bastard gave. She moved in, attacking him from the side. He turned sharply and raised his blade to block move, the impact juddering down her arm and into her shoulder.

  Fast, she realised. He punched out with his shield in the Roman way, his gladius held high and close to the left rim. Sorina stepped back, banging into someone fighting behind her and kicked out – the old gladiatorial trick. Her foot crashed into the boss of his shield and the Athenian shrieked in pain, his scutum falling from his grasp. She had broken his wrist – she could see the sick pallor of pain whiten his face, the sweat sheening as she cut down with her sword.

  He had courage and his own blade came up to parry, the shorter blade allowing him to counter cut, the tip of the gladius missing her throat by a finger’s breadth. He had missed his killing strike and, in doing so, had exposed his right side to her. She thrust hard with the longsword, the blade piercing his armour just under the pit of his arm. He cried out in pain, blood exploding from his mouth as the cold iron ruptured his internal organs. The Athenian fell and nearby, she heard his men groan.

  ‘Euaristos!’ one of them shouted. ‘Euaristos is down!’

  It was as though this Euaristos was the spine of them. At his death and with Amagê’s relentless assault, men were falling to her blade like wheat to the sickle and the fight seemed to drain from the auxiliaries. They were falling back – about to break.

  ‘Come on!’she screamed. ‘Come on!’ A man engaged her, but he was old and fat – a man that should have been with his grandchildren by the looks of him. Once he may have been skilled, but Sorina was too quick for him, ducking under his thrust and sweeping her sword down, its edge biting into his thigh, shearing through muscle and flesh. He fell and she stuck him through the throat, leaving him to choke on his own blood.

  She attacked another, but he backed off, falling over a corpse and crashing down. Sorina leapt at him and rammed her sword into his groin and revelled his piteous screams of agony. In that moment, she was young again. They were breaking – she could feel it.

  More men were piling up the steps of the fighting platform, Romans this time, led by a centurion. In all the chaos it was a strange thing to see that he had tattoos on his arms. He screamed obscenities as he charge into the battle and, backed by his optio, began to seize back the ground the plainspeople had won.

  Amagê faced him and her axe bit into his shield, ruining the bronze rim and splitting it. The centurion let it go, unfazed and stepped forward as Amagê swung her axe at his ribs. But the little man was too quick and was inside her guard. Sorina’s heart was in her mouth but the centurion was too close in the press of bodies to use his gladius. His shieldless left arm looped over Amagê’s right and he jerked her elbow upwards, causing her to cry out. The centurion’s head jerked forward and he butted her in the face with his helmet – Amagê fell back and she could hear that tattooed Roman calling her a ‘fucking cunt’ before he was forced to deal with one of her bodyguards.

  Sorina went in from the side, reckoning she could take him but, like Amagê, the centurion had guards of his own. His optio rushed her, a big man with chipped teeth and an evil expression. He tucked in behind his scutum keeping it close to his body and jabbed his sword at her. She parried, realising she had hardly seen the blow coming.

  Because it was nearly dark.

  The optio charged her and there was nothing she could do – the battle swirled around her, there was no room to manoeuvre – she could only leap back and hope that there was no one behind her. ‘Kill her, Slainius!’ she heard the centurion scream as he picked up a fallen shield and threw himself elsewhere into the fray.

  She struck out at Slainius, but the man was canny, taking the blow on the scutum and stepping forward – as he must have drilled ten thousand times in the past and, again, the viper’s tongue of his gladius spat out, forcing her to parry. And this, she realised, was what he had been waiting for. He punched out with the shield, the boss cracking her on the forehead and Sorina’s world became white as she fell back. Her heels hit something solid and she crashed to the wooden fighting platform and, as Slainius rushed to kill her she realised that, in death, Euaristos had had his revenge on her – for it was his corpse that had tripped her. Fear welled in her as Slainius’s arm went back, ready to strike.

  Amagê’s axe cut his head from his neck, sending blood fountaining skywards, drenching her with its hot stink. The Clan Chief’s face was sheeted red, a livid wound above her hairline where the centurion had butted her, but she was still strong and dragged Sorina to her feet. ‘It’s getting dark!’ she shouted over the din.

  ‘We can’t stop!’ Sorina said. ‘They’re expecting us to flee with the night – we can still break them. We can do this. ‘It was true – even though the centurion’s counter-attack had done Amagê here, the plainspeople were spilling over the wall in numbers now. She could not see left or right and did not know if the Romans and Lysandra still held. But she did know if they broke the centre they could flank them both.

  Victory was in their grasp – and they would seize it by night.

  Valerian bit his lip as the mercenaries began to give way.

  He’d seen it before – here, in Dacia – how quickly a cohesive fighting force could collapse and become a disorganised rout. The Tenth and Eighth of the Tenth had joined the fight, but were soon swallowed up, indistinguishable from the mercenaries in the half-darkness.

  He was seized by indecision. Should he throw more men into the centre and hope they threw back the assault or cut and run, back to the redoubt? Night was falling fast and the enemy was showing no signs of aborting their attack. And for all the drilling, he had not thought to conduct the exercise of retreating to the redoubt in the dark.

  And because of that – because of him – thousands could die. He could lose here; the Empire could fall because of it, because he had not thought of everything. Even now, as he hesitated, people were being killed. The wall had to hold, he decided, bringing the whistle to his lips. He blew again, longer blasts this time – sending the remaining centuries of the Tenth cohort into the centre and hoping that this would be enough. As they ran forward to the sound of the buccinas, he could barely see them.

  Night had come to Durostorum. And as it did, the centre of the line collapsed. And Valerian knew that the reserves would arr
ive too late.

  The Heronai were holding.

  But night had come and Lysandra was finding it harder and harder to see what was going on down the line. It looked bad in the centre, but she trusted Euaristos was canny enough to throw back the enemy.

  ‘At least they will not see how few we are if they get up here,’ Kleandrias said to her.

  ‘Let us hope they do not get up here, then,’ Lysandra replied. She was coated in blood and gore, her right forearm slick with it, her shield battered and scored. Kleandrias himself looked like Ares, fresh from the Field of Troy. ‘Murco,’ she turned to him. He too had a ghastly aspect, his armour spattered crimson. ‘Are you all right?’ She did not mean physically: clearly, he was hale, but Cappa’s death must have cut him deep.

  ‘I’m alive,’ he said shortly. ‘Look out!’ he added, causing Kleandrias to spring into action, cutting down as a head popped up. It was a wild-haired woman with stray coloured hair. She didn’t even scream as he opened the top of her head with his blade, she simply dropped down and out of sight. He and Lysandra shoved the ladder away from the wall, but no sooner had they done so did another come a few yards down the line.

  ‘This is bad,’ Kleandrias observed. ‘I can hardly see as it is.’

  Lysandra nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. ‘The night favours them.’ She was about to speak again when Murco stumbled into her. For a moment, she thought that he had been hit by missile shot, but it was clear he had just stumbled. The gladiatrix next to him was down, scrambling to get up when the next in line fell over her. A sick feeling of panic welled up inside Lysandra; she knew at once what was happening. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  Illeana cut the man’s throat and shoved him in the face, tipping him off his ladder. ‘Helena!’ she shouted, not needing to add anything as the lochagos heaved the ladder away from the wall.

  ‘This is just like the arena!’ Helena yelled. ‘Fighting by torchlight!’

  ‘Except there isn’t any torchlight!’

  ‘You Romans are always complaining!’ Helena was about to speak again when the woman next to her stumbled and crashed into her. Illeana risked a look down the line and saw that it was becoming compressed and ragged. She could hear screams and shouts of surprise – and the sound of Spartan voices cursing their allies as they ordered them to turn about.

  Something told Illeana to move: it saved her life as an axe whistled past her head. A warrior, huge and black in the darkness, was standing atop the wall and he leapt down – foolishly as she smashed him in the face with the edge of her sword, shattering teeth and bone. She struck again, this time in the neck, killing him outright. ‘What’s going on?’ she shouted at Helena.

  ‘I don’t know!’ the lochagos admitted. ‘Just keep fighting till we get the order to withdraw!’ But again she was knocked sideways by the girl next to her and careened into Illeana, knocking her down.

  For a moment, a terrible fear welled up in her that she would be trampled, but she was hoisted to her feet from behind. There was no time to thank her benefactor as dark hands scrabbled at the wall and warriors hurled themselves over. Illeana hacked down, feeling her blade bite deep into a shoulder: she had been aiming for the skull, but in the dark it was impossible to strike accurately. She withdrew the gladius and stabbed forward, hitting something again – head or torso, she couldn’t tell which. Someone grabbed her and she felt a thud on the collarbone as a sword hit her – it was a man, big and strong, but unskilled. She head butted him and stamped on his foot, giving herself stabbing room and rammed her sword into his guts, feeling hot blood drench her wrist. He screamed in pain as she twisted the blade to disengage it from his entrails, hearing the wet, popping sound as it came free. With it came a torrent of gore and the stink of shit as he fell. Her collarbone hurt like Hades but she knew it was not broken and, thank the gods, the armour had done its job.

  Thank the gods. Lysandra would be pleased if she knew that Illeana was finding some use for religion after all.

  ‘I can’t see anything!’ A legionary shouted at the top of his lungs.

  ‘I can see you, Marcus!’ Mucius heard Livius scream back in his best parade ground vocal. ‘And I can see you’re not fucking fighting! So face the front and put iron to the enemy or I’ll carve your balls off and use the sack for a fucking purse! A small fucking purse!’

  Mucius couldn’t believe that the fight was still going on: it was as black as pitch now and still the barbarians were throwing themselves up the wall. It was as dangerous for them as it was for the Felix and her allies, but he reasoned their leaders knew that they had the bodies to waste and his people didn’t. He could hear thumping on the platform as boots from without landed within and the screams and curses of men in close quarters battle. This was the Roman way, though. The lads had been trained for this – punch – stab – punch – stab. A thumb’s worth of iron would put a man out of the fight.

  ‘Contact left!’ he heard the panicked shouts ripple down the line. ‘Contact left!’

  Contact on the left could only mean one thing. He looked up to see if the legate was going to give any orders, but he heard no whistle and nor could he see Valerian in his vantage point, the darkness having swallowed him whole. ‘Ignore that!’ he shouted at his own men. ‘Eyes front and fight front – let the lads on the left deal with the left. We have to hold this fucking wall!’

  A gladiatrix fell before she’d even known what had hit her. Sorina exulted as she pushed forward. They had forced the mercenaries from their fighting platform and had gained the centre. Now, the plainspeople were spilling out, left and right, attacking the defenders in the flanks. It was like lighting papyrus – at once panic began to spread amongst them and she cut another down, hacking her longsword into the girl’s un-armoured thigh and sending her crashing to the fighting platform. Amagê was by her side, the axe chopping down as the Clan Chief screamed and exulted in her power.

  She was like the War Goddess, Sorina thought, a fearsome energy flowing around her as she hurled herself forwards, the axe raised. It came down like a lightning strike from the heavens, the broad blade severing a gladiatrix’s head, sending it spinning off into the night.

  Ten fell, then ten more as the plainspeople sliced through the flank of Lysandra’s fighters as easily as an oar cut the water: it was the dark, too, she realised. The defenders knew they were outnumbered and knew that the wall was their only defence. Now it was breached and now they could not tell friend from foe – and fear was spreading amongst them like wildfire.

  She heard the Roman trumpets sounding as she killed another faceless enemy in the blackness, feeling their life spray out all over her face and neck. And then, like Amagê, she lifted her voice in a fierce war cry, a fire flooding through her as she heard them shouting in Greek and then Latin. ‘Recipio!’ She reached out and grabbed Amagê, pulling her back. Bodies rushed past them in the dark as she pulled the Clan Chief to face her. ‘Amagê! They’re running – that is the order to retreat.’

  Amagê laughed, her teeth and eyes white in the darkness. ‘Let’s finish this,’ she said and turned back to the fight, eager to kill and kill again.

  Valerian wanted to weep but he could not. He had delayed and because of that, he had lost. He should have ordered the retreat as soon as the line began to buckle, but he had hoped against hope that the mercenaries would have reformed – but something had shattered their confidence and even the late arrival of the Tenth Cohort had not been enough – the barbarians had gained the platform and now . . . Now what? He could no longer see a thing.

  He blew the whistle, its mournful sound cutting across the screaming and dying and it was answered by the buccinas. The ground behind the wall was still theirs, he lied to himself. They knew it well, they had been camped there long enough; he had to hope that they could find their way in the dark.

  There was a sound then, a great hiss and a thump that seemed to come from the very earth itself. And all at once, the scene was bathed in
a hellish glare of fire. Huge towers of flame erupted from the rear ranks, burning pillars that scraped the sky, burning at even intervals all the way down to the river in the north.

  Titus had ordered the onagers to be fired. And by their light, Valerian prayed that they still had a chance.

  Lysandra was grateful to hear the order to retreat and more grateful to Titus – the old centurion’s quick thinking might yet be the saving of them. This, she told herself, was one war story of his that she would not interrupt.

  It would be a fighting withdrawal, complicated by getting down the steps, but even now she saw many of the Heronai foregoing that and leaping off to the ground. There was little she could do to stop those that chose to – but a turned ankle could mean death for those that chanced it. Kleandrias and Murco pulled closer to her and began to shuffle away towards the steps, shoving Heronai aside as they did so. ‘Make way,’ Kleandrias shouted. ‘Make way for Lysandra!’

  They made it unscathed and ran for it, down the steps and into the chaos below. To their credit, the troops were forming up before trotting off in good order – not enough barbarians had yet got over the top to hinder the general retreat and pride swelled in Lysandra’s breast as she saw her hypaspistai and the Spartans forming a phalanx, side by side, to protect the rest as they retired.

  The Romans still held their portion of the wall and she could hear the buccinas sound as Valerian ordered his men into the fight to deal with the barbarians who had spilled off the centre platform and onto the ground beyond. As they turned to face this threat, the Heronai ploughed into them from behind, ramming them with shield and spitting them on the points of their swords.

  But there was no time now to check a kill – the closer they got to the ladders that led to the redoubt, the faster they ran. It was human nature, she knew. They were close to safety and even she, Kleandrias and Murco went for it, running hard for the redoubt.