Here again, it became congested and many fell, trampled to death so close to succour. Behind, the fighting was intensifying as the barbarians came on in greater numbers. Lysandra could feel their rage, their frustration – they had nearly won their prize and it was being snatched from them.
‘Go, Lysandra!’ Kleandrias lifted her from the ground and almost threw her up the ladder. ‘Go! We are right behind you!’
She clambered up and eager hands hauled her over – the Artemisians had made safety, grim faced and dour, they were doing the lifting of Heronai, legionary and what remained of Euaristos’s mercenaries.
She remained with them, watching the fight as it crept closer to the walls, living each death as it happened, exulting as another barbarian fell. There were so many of them – and what had started in good order was descending into a rout as the enemy poured more and more bodies into the attack. Each passing moment saw ten or more armoured figures cut down and swallowed by the mob. They were losing more in the frantic scramble to the redoubt than they had the entire day.
‘Archers make ready!’ She heard Titus’s baritone rasping in the night. ‘Ready . . . Loose!’
Now the Artemisians rained shot down on the advancing barbarians and Valerian’s whistle sounded. The legionaries that were engaging them backstepped and backstepped again. Then, to a man, they dropped their shields and ran for it. Their backs to their foes, hundreds were cut down as they fled, hindering each other in the desperate flight to live.
Men hurled themselves at the ladders and the Artemisians ran back, forming up again and loosing what munitions they had left to cover the retreat. Lysandra herself stayed at the walls, hauling the desperate men into the temporary safety of the redoubt.
It was like a scene from Tartarus as the Romans were slaughtered by the barbarians as they fought to gain the wall, screaming at their fellows to climb faster, begging for their lives as they were cut down.
A man – one of the last – gripped her wrist and she pulled, overbalancing as she dragged him over. They fell, thudding down hard on the fighting platform.
‘I thought they had me there!’ Settus exclaimed. ‘Oh! It’s you! Glad you’re alive, love.’ He gave her a crack-toothed grin before scrambling to his feet and began screaming orders at his men.
Hundreds of warriors died as the close range volley smashed into them, hurling them from their feet as the cursed archers shot at them from their redoubt. Sorina felt the mood change as the exultation turned to anger and fear as the black-barbed death flew from the narrow – and packed – redoubt.
The plainspeople – so close to victory – began to back away.
‘Tomorrow,’ Amagê said to her, glaring death at the Romans. ‘Tomorrow, they will all sing to Zalmoxis. Those fires,’ she gestured to the burning onagers, ‘will be as nothing.’ Her face glowed like gold in the firelight and her eyes burned with fury – and for a moment, Sorina feared her and knew that she would make good her vow.
Lysandra had seen this before on a smaller scale, under the great arena of Halicarnassus and also after Domitian’s spectacle. But there was a part of her mind that had erased the worst of it.
She moved through the buildings of Durostorum where the wounded and dying had been housed to be saved or breathe their last. Her Asklepian Priestesses worked alongside the Roman Army surgeons, doing what they could for those that would live and ending the suffering of those they could not. At least Bedros had left enough medical supplies for them before his betrayal.
The stink and noise inside the biggest building, the same one in which they had met the merchant and his captains, was overpowering. Pain made children of them all in the end and the suffering of others did nothing but heighten the fear in everyone else. There was sawdust on the floor – it was there to soak up the blood, but there was too much and the ground was a dark crimson mulch that stuck to the soles of her boots.
Telemachus was there, looking gaunt, thin and faintly ridiculous in the armour he wore. He was comforting those he could and she wished she had sent him away with Bedros. He looked over at her and his smile almost broke her heart: even now, he did not judge her.
There were so many in here, she thought as she looked around. So many wounded and so many dead on the other side of the wall. The exultation of surviving the barbarian counter-attack had been short lived when she realised how few of them remained – Euaristos’s men having been all but wiped out. Even the Athenian himself had not survived and the knowledge cut her deeply. He was a good man at heart and a loyal friend. But he was dead now. Along with Thebe, Cappa and thousands of others.
‘Lysandra,’ Kleandrias came to her side. ‘Valerian is looking for you.’ She nodded briefly and turned away, hating herself for being glad of the excuse to leave.
Lysandra breathed deeply of the cold night air outside and looked up at the sky. Above, the stars twinkled far off, beautiful and uncaring. There were campfires everywhere for those who had not found bedding inside the buildings that remained, people huddled in small groups, talking in low tones. As she walked with Kleandrias, she heard many snatches of conversation. Some felt that Iulianus would be here soon, others that Bedros would return with reinforcements and still others that she feared spoke the truth. That, come first light, the barbarians would get over the redoubt and it would be all over.
‘We will hold them,’ Kleandrias said as though reading her thoughts.
She looked across at him and smiled, feeling the wound on her face pulling as she did so. ‘Of course we will,’ she replied.
He saw through it. ‘It is not like you to be fatalistic, Lysandra. The goddess is still with you.’
‘I know she is,’ Lysandra replied. ‘But she promised me a life full of hardship and pain in her service – and that I would lift my shield in defence of my homeland. I am doing so here. I wonder . . .’ she trailed off. ‘I wonder if the Morae had already marked me to die by Illeana’s hand – if the life I have led since then is one of borrowed time.’
‘If that were so, then you would have fallen back there at the river,’ he was full of earnestness. ‘You are special, Lysandra. I cannot believe that Athene would save you only to forsake you again.’
‘Perhaps.’
There was no more time to speak as they approached the praetorium and went inside. Lysandra was shocked at Valerian’s appearance – he seemed to have aged ten years since she had last seen him, his skin was grey and he had dark smudges under his eyes. With him was his Primus, Halkyone, Titus and Illeana, the three of them coated in blood as she and Kleandrias were. She went to Titus and, to his surprise, she embraced him and kissed his bearded cheek. ‘You saved us all,’ she said.
Titus flushed red. ‘I was just doing as I ought,’ he coughed, trying to extricate himself.
‘Good initiative,’ Halkyone looked at the former trainer with something like respect. ‘You saved many lives, old man.’
‘I’m not that old,’ Titus muttered, breaking the embrace.
‘I am glad you are alive,’ Valerian said to Lysandra.
‘As am I,’ she forced a sternness into her tone that she did not feel. It was as though the day’s battle and retreat had taken something from her that she could not replenish. ‘I am surprised to see you here, Illeana. Is Helena . . .?’
‘No, she’s alive.’ The Roman still somehow managed to look like a dramatic heroine rather than a bedraggled, bloody mess. Looking at her now, Lysandra wished that their paths had been different. That they could have perhaps shared something of what she and Eirianwen had shared – they were, as they both had acknowledged, similar creatures. ‘She took one in the thigh when we made a run for it. She’s getting stitched up, but she’ll be all right.’
‘Are you all right?’ Lysandra asked her.
‘Tired, sore shoulders, but otherwise unharmed,’ Illeana smiled.
But Lysandra saw that it did not reach her eyes. ‘So,’ she looked at Valerian. ‘How do we get out of this?’
Valerian le
aned back in his chair. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t think we can. I . . . I have failed us all.’
‘Don’t talk like that, sir,’ the Primus spoke at once. ‘We have men yet. We’ll hold them.’
‘That we will,’ Kleandrias put in.
‘Despair is for weaklings,’ Halkyone said. ‘You shame yourself by such a display.’
‘That’s helpful,’ Illeana interjected.
‘I am speaking the truth . . .’
‘He is not a Spartan, Halkyone,’ Lysandra’s interruption was weary.
Valerian sought her eyes. He did not speak but she could see the gratitude there. ‘I did not think they would press an attack by night. I should have thought of it – made proper preparations. As it is, my error of judgement has cost us all dearly. I am sorry.’
‘All commanders err,’ Lysandra said. ‘Even me. My errors cost lives. Yours have. That is war, and you should not need a woman to tell you that, legate. And Halkyone is right . . . we cannot give in to despair.’ It was a lie – they all had succumbed to it. The losses of the retreat had been catastrophic and everybody knew it. Except perhaps Halkyone. Halkyone who was as Lysandra would have been had she stayed in the Temple of Athene. Halkyone who still spoke with all the arrogance Lysandra herself had once possessed, staunch in her belief that her blood made her superior to all others. ‘There are no war tricks we can call on,’ Lysandra continued. ‘We must fight until we win,’ her eyes flicked over to Halkyone who, thankfully, saw fit not to joke,’ or until we are overcome. Think on this,’ she added. ‘We have lost many, yes. But we have killed thousands of the enemy. Thousands. And wounded more.’
She felt the touch of Athene, forcing her to speak bold words to lift them and she pressed on. ‘I make no secret of it – my being here is of divine intention. Believe it or not, it matters little to me. I thought once that my Mission would be to raise my shield in defence of my homeland – but the goddess also promised me a life of pain and hardship. Perhaps my Mission ends here – in defence of my homeland and something greater. How long, Valerian, do you think the enemy can continue to take such losses? And even if they win here and kill every one of us, what have they won? A small town? And lost an army doing it?’
‘Pity we never went for the cripple,’ Illeana said, causing all to turn to her. ‘Something Pyrrha – Varia – once said to me. Go for the cripple before the slow kill . . .’
‘ . . . Because a slow kill might have enough left in her and kill you before she dies,’ Lysandra finished for her. Titus, her old trainer, smiled and Illeana had the look of someone for whom mystery had been solved. ‘We must assume they will, at some stage, gain the wall. Then we will fight them in the town – house by house, street by street. This will favour us, not them. The Spartans are heavily armoured, each one of the Heronai is a veteran of the arena, well used to fighting up close. Your men,’ she jerked her head at the Primus, ‘are armed and trained for close quarters battle. Big shields, one thumb of iron is your credo, is it not?’
‘It is, Lady,’ the Roman responded.
‘We will litter this place with their dead,’ Lysandra said. ‘The memory of it will haunt them for generations . . . a story to frighten their children. A memory that will shame those of them that survive. For what in fact did this great army of theirs face? A wall of wood, a wall of hastily thrown up stone, a ditch and an army made up of slaves, boys, geriatrics and women gladiators. You question your command, Valerian? Look what you have accomplished here. Because of you, Rome will live. If we do our jobs tomorrow, we will have dealt them such a blow that we will render them impotent.’
‘If Iulianus has won,’ Valerian reminded her.
‘If he has not, history will remember his failure and your valour. Rome gave him everything they had, Valerian, and she gave you nothing. In return, you have given them everything. Virtus is yours and no Roman has more right to it than you. If we fall tomorrow, you will fall with your sword in your hand . . . and in your heart you will know that you did your duty.’
‘You have led us to our Thermopylae, Lysandra,’ Halkyone said, her eyes glittering in the light of the brazier. ‘Our temple is dust and here we stand at the arse end of the world, spears in our hands, fighting for Athene herself. By the gods, what an end, eh, brother?’ she said to Kleandrias. ‘No regrets,’ she added. ‘Athene – Minerva – has decreed. Here we stand. Let us break their spines in the morning.’
‘You all sound like you’re going to die,’ Illeana said. ‘I’m going to live through this.’
‘How do you presume that?’ Halkyone asked.
‘Venus has my back.’ She winked at Lysandra. ‘I’m too beautiful to die in a shithole like this.’
Murco was waiting for them outside, his face still wrapped in grief. Lysandra was about to speak when she saw Telemachus approaching, weighed down by his mail shirt.
Halkyone clapped her on the shoulder. ‘If you cannot sleep, Lysandra, come to us. And if I do not see you on the morrow, have a good death.’
‘And you, Halkyone,’ Lysandra said. It would have been unseemly to embrace her, so she simply nodded and watched as the Matriarch of a temple that was no more made off into the night. Illeana did likewise, walking with Titus towards where the majority of the Heronai had made their beds.
‘I am glad you survived,’ Telemachus said to her.
‘Many did not,’ she replied, suddenly weary. ‘Murco,’ she turned to the bodyguard. ‘I wish to release you from my service.’
‘Why?’ he exclaimed. ‘I have served you well . . .’
‘Yes, you have. Better than I deserve. But I need you now, more than ever. I need you to stand back from the fight tomorrow. And if it goes badly for us, I need you to help Telemachus. He is not a fighting man. My last order to you, my friend. Get him out of here if you can.’
‘I would stay with you, Lysandra,’ Telemachus said. ‘I will not abandon you here.’
‘Kleandrias will keep me safe. But I cannot fight if I am worried about you, my friend. Please. Do this for me. Besides . . . who will write all of this down if I fall? My tale will surely need some Athenian embellishment.’
‘Do not speak of such things.’ Telemachus pulled her close. His body shook and she knew he was sobbing.
‘Get out of here,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Get out of here and live if you can.’ She pushed him away gently and jerked her chin at Murco who nodded.
‘I’ll look out for him,’ the Roman said. ‘Come on, Priest,’ he added. ‘Let’s get you out of that armour and find something that doesn’t make you stick out so much.’
Lysandra watched as the two walked away before she too made off, Kleandrias at her side. He walked with her in silence towards her quarters and, without being asked, came in with her.
‘Spartan,’ she observed as she looked around. It was lit and heated by a single brazier. A low bunk was in one corner and a table with a jug of wine on it in another. She picked it up and sniffed; it was still good. ‘Wine?’ she asked him. He nodded and she poured for them both. ‘We should get out of this armour,’ she said. ‘I am weary of it.’ They both struggled out of their kit, weapons and armour clattering to the floor.
They stood in the half-light, close to each other and poured a libation before sipping the wine. He looked at her as though she was the only thing in the world and she saw again what Illeana had seen. Kleandrias loved her. He had stood by her, fought for her, bled for her and had wept like a child when he thought her dead. She wished in that moment that she loved him, but there was nothing for him in her heart but warm affection. But she knew they would be dead tomorrow, so tonight she could lie to him. Tonight, she could do something for somebody other than herself.
She placed her cup down on the table. ‘Hold me, Kleandrias,’ she said. He pulled her close, patting her on the back, thinking to comfort her. ‘No,’ she pulled away, holding his bearded face in her hands. ‘Not like that.’ She saw disbelief in his eyes and she could not hold his ga
ze so she kissed him softly on the mouth, her tongue seeking his. ‘Love me.’ He responded, surprising her with his gentleness, caressing her face with his bloodstained hands as he kissed her. She lifted his tunic away and ran her hands down his hard chest, puckered and ridged with scars. He kissed her again, more urgent but still as though she was something fragile, something he could break. Her own tunic came away and he looked at her, marvelling as though he had never seen her thus before.
‘You are the most beautiful woman the gods ever put on this earth, Lysandra,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Lysandra went to the bunk and lay down, reaching out her hand and he joined her, his great male form arching over her. For a moment she was afraid: Nastasen and his men and the attack in Halicarnassus, sickening fear remembered. Kleandrias kissed her face, stroking her hair as his thighs parted her own. She could feel him pressing against her, his body yearning to join with hers, seeking the font of her sex.
He pushed and she gasped as he entered her, shocked at the feeling of another body joining her own, not by force. Kleandrias moaned in joy and kissed her again, beginning to move, slowly, gently so as not to hurt her.
Lysandra closed her eyes as she gave her body to him. She wept as he made love to her, thinking of Eirianwen, of Varia, of Thebe and all those she had lost. She wept for her sins, her selfishness and her failures. But most of all, she wept for Kleandrias, who was a fool because he now believed that she loved him too.
He moved faster, losing control and she moaned in response so that he would not know that her mind was elsewhere and then he cried out as he came into her, filling her with his seed, the sweat of his body mingling with hers.
‘I love you,’ he whispered.
She kissed his neck but offered no reply.
The grey sky was smudged with the smoke from the burnt onagers, the acrid stench of scorched wood floating to the defenders of Durostorum. Red-eyed and weary, they looked out at the killing field that separated them from the enemy host. It was littered with corpses, a glut of Roman and Hellene bodies where the fighting had been thickest. Out of bowshot, the barbarians were working feverishly, retooling their ramps – with these they would clamber up to the redoubt and this time, there was no artillery to pound them, no ‘daisies’ to slow them down. Little did they know that the fearsome Artemisians were now so low on arrows, they could make no difference. At least not with their bows. Dacia’s allies would come on unimpeded; there was nothing to stop them but swords and shields and those who stood behind them.
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 44
