Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3)

by Russell Whitfield

  Valerian walked the line of the redoubt, offering a word here and there, trying to will courage into his men, being careful not to burn himself on the bubbling cauldrons that they had prepared as a welcoming gift for the barbarians.

  He crossed from the Felix to the Heronai lines, seeing Lysandra and her ever-present protector, Kleandrias by her side. The big man looked relaxed and almost happy. This, Valerian supposed, was this ‘Spartan way’ they kept mentioning. They were a fatalistic bunch, but all seemed content that there would be a bloody battle and the prospect of a painful death at the end of it.

  Lysandra herself looked untroubled and indeed resplendent in her red war cloak and bloody armour. She nodded as he approached. ‘Legate.’

  ‘Strategos,’ he replied. ‘Last night . . .’

  ‘I spoke the truth,’ she cut him off. ‘You are a good man, Valerian. Let today bring what it may.’ He was about to respond but her eyes told him not to – Lysandra was not one for small talk and platitudes. She looked away, turning her strange, ice-coloured eyes towards the field. ‘You should go,’ she told him. ‘They are coming.’

  He saw the great mass of bodies undulating forward, big men at the front heaving the walkways with them. The barbarians were yelling battle cries, taunting the defenders, the sound of their voices rolling towards the redoubt like an ocean swell.

  Valerian took a step up onto the wall, facing the enemy. He wanted to turn, to make a dramatic speech, something that would inspire the defenders to greater courage, to make them fight harder. But he had nothing. So he drew his sword and pointed it to the sky in defiance of those that came to kill them. Some god chose the moment to kick up the wind that caught his cloak, making it flutter to one side and, at the sight of him, the defenders cheered. He heard a woman’s voice – Illeana’s – begin to chant his name and soon it was taken up by the rest: Valerian . . . Valerian. His heart swelled with pride and gratitude because he knew in that moment that their faith in him had not faltered – even if he had failed them.

  There was nothing he could do about the past or the future. Lysandra’s words stirred in his memory – virtus. He had recovered it here. A shame, he thought, that he would probably die here before he got to tell anyone about it. Valerian lowered the sword and kissed it, swearing that he would fall upon it rather than be taken again.

  ‘Orders, sir?’ one of Lysandra’s Heronai called out.

  Valerian turned and raised his voice. ‘Fight!’ he glanced at Halkyone and her Spartans. ‘Until we win. Or die.’ He jumped down from the wall and made his way back to his own section, taking up a position by Mucius.

  ‘Not much of a speech, if you don’t mind me saying so, legate,’ he said, handing Valerian a spare shield.

  ‘Didn’t have a lot more to say, Primus. Unless you’ve got any ideas?’

  Mucius laughed then. ‘No, but there is something that has been bothering me. Something that Settus said.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Is shitcunt one word or two?’

  Sorina gripped the spear tight in both hands as she trotted towards the wall, leaping over bodies both friend and enemy. They had looted the corpses all night, and now many of her people had armour and shields. Those that had lacked swords now carried them – they would turn the weapons of the Romans and Greeks against them. The spear in her hands had once belonged to one of Lysandra’s ‘invincible’ Spartans. For all her vaunted training and supposed superiority, the bitch had died like any other.

  With Amagê at her side, she felt a sense of freedom; she had been wearying of war, but now she knew that she had been lying to herself. This was truly living. And the future would bring what it would. She ran on, realising that they were not yet under attack. ‘They have no arrows!’ she shouted to Amagê. ‘They have nothing left!’

  She carried on and could make out Lysandra, red cloaked amongst the grey of her gladiatrices and, further down the line, the crimson and bronze wall of the Spartans. Then the Romans – there would be more on the other side of the wall, she knew. And she knew that, come the noonday sun, they would all be dead. She prayed to the Earth Mother that she would meet Lysandra in battle and bring her low.

  In front, the walkways had reached the pitiful Roman redoubt and the men were raising the platforms. Rocks, spears and even crockery rained down and then Sorina heard screaming as the defenders poured boiling pitch down on top of them. She vowed vengeance for this too: they had wronged the plainspeople and the Dacians and soon they would pay.

  There was little else the Romans could do as the walkways came up, their legs catching the top of the wall and fitting into place. No sooner were they down than the soldiers were pushing them off – a dance went on for a time as the archers among the tribes peppered the wall with arrows, forcing them to lift their shields or duck out of the way.

  The advance stalled as the men at the front struggled to get the walkways to sit, but soon, the defenders were out of munitions save for rocks and these could not halt them for long. The bottom of the redoubt was strewn with bodies but worse were the wounded, men horribly burned and blinded, screeching with pain, begging for succour that would never come.

  Then the first walkway bit and their warriors began to stream up it, right into the teeth of the Roman legion. Sorina screamed encouragement, angling her run towards the gladiatrices. She wanted Lysandra. This time, the Spartan would not escape.

  ‘How’s the leg?’ Illeana asked Helena – not for the first time.

  ‘It’s still fine,’ the lochagos replied.

  ‘They’ll be up this side soon,’ Illeana observed as the barbarians charged up their makeshift bridge to meet the Felix. At once, the shouting began as battle was joined. She saw Valerian in the thick of it, his red cloak flying as he fought with his legionaries.

  ‘I was hoping they’d have given up by now,’ Helena said. She jumped in shock as a walkway crashed into the wall right by her. ‘Quick!’ She ducked down and put her shoulders under it and Illeana did the same. They heaved but the weight was too much.

  ‘They’re coming!’ someone shouted.

  The women exchanged a look and extricated themselves. ‘I was hoping that too,’ Illeana said. She jerked her head to one side as a spear flew past her. ‘But you have to say – they have guts.’

  ‘Let’s spill some, then,’ Helena said as the first of the enemy charged up to meet them.

  The kid’s lifeblood flowed out and it dropped to the floor, dead.

  ‘Save them, Athene,’ Telemachus prayed. ‘Save them because they fight for you.’

  Outside the small hut, Murco paced up and down, a sword held loosely in his hand. Telemachus could feel the man’s eyes on him as he prayed, but some things could not be rushed. He spoke no more but raised his palms and silently begged the goddess for deliverance; his heart was open and she would know that it was also for himself that he prayed. He was her servant and she had put Lysandra in his life and to this gods-cursed country he had come.

  Telemachus was not a warrior and he was desperately afraid. He was ashamed that he felt relief when Lysandra had commanded the tough bodyguard to protect him and shame that he felt it.

  Lysandra.

  He loved her like a younger sister, for all her faults. Life had been harsh with her and she had endured more in her few years than many would in a hundred lifetimes. And she deserved to survive this, he told the goddess. She was not perfect, but her faith in Athene was unshakeable – it was the cornerstone of her life, her devotion – and that devotion had brought her here.

  ‘Ever has she done your bidding,’ he said aloud. ‘She deserves to live.’ He lowered his hands and turned, hearing the first of the screams.

  ‘It’s started, Priest,’ Murco said to him. ‘We’ll have to wait till the killing on this side starts and see if we can slip away in the chaos. Stay close to me, alright? I’ll protect you.’

  ‘Thank you, Murco. Should I find a sword?’

  The man’s mournful face lifted fo
r a moment. ‘Best you don’t.’

  Telemachus looked toward the walls. All around them, the fighting raged and even he could tell that it was hopeless. His guts churned with fear and he wondered how men – and now women – could do this to each other. Heads flew from bodies, torsos were spitted on sword and lance, limbs were cut away – and the noise; the song of Ares was loud, screams of terror and pain, the clash of weapons. It was madness.

  He watched as the fight raged and saw the defenders giving way as the unstoppable tide flooded over the walls, forcing them away and to the ground. It was chaos then, men and women falling or climbing or leaping to the streets of Durostorum. He saw Lysandra’s red cloak billow behind her as she threw herself to the stones. Kleandrias landed by her side and dragged her to her feet.

  Halkyone and her Spartans were forming up alongside the hypaspistai – making a shield wall to protect both legionary and Heronai as they rushed to regain their formations.

  ‘Won’t be long now,’ Murco told him.

  Valerian did as he had been trained to do, punching out with the shield and thrusting with the gladius. He ducked low behind the big scutum, exposing only his eyes and shins as he fought. The press in front was immense as more of the attackers piled in and Valerian found himself being forced backwards, crashing into the man behind him as the barbarians hurled themselves at the shield wall.

  ‘Don’t fall!’ the man behind shouted, pushing the boss of his shield into Valerian’s back, righting him. He used the momentum to stab a woman that rushed at him, her sword raised. As he caught her in the throat, he realised she held a gladius. It tumbled from her dead fingers and her place was taken by a warrior who cut down with an axe. The blade cut through the rim of the scutum sending wood chips flying. Valerian yelled in fright and dropped it, ramming his blade into the Sarmatian’s side; the iron went in deep and he had to twist to free it. The warrior’s hands were clawing at his face, his filthy nails gouging the flesh. Valerian put his hand under the man’s chin, forcing him away as he struggled desperately to free his weapon.

  The man next to Valerian fell, crashing into him and a barbarian stepped into the gap, killing the next ranker. ‘Close the ranks!’ Valerian’s voice sounded shrill in his own ears as he finally dragged his gladius free. He heard the blast of Mucius’s whistle and gratefully spun away as the man behind him – the man who had saved his life – stepped up and took the brunt of the next attack.

  Breathing heavily, Valerian staggered to the rear of the line, taking the pats of encouragement from the men as he did so. He looked around, craning his neck to see the state of the battle and it made for a grim sight.

  A seemingly endless tide of enemy warriors still poured over the walls; those that had reached the streets were forcing the defenders back on all sides. The Felix were fighting hard, but Lysandra’s Heronai were being pushed back on the leftmost flank. Their centre and right were held by the Spartans and hypaspistai – their weapons and armour were ideal for this fight, the long spears and big shields keeping the enemy at bay, cutting them down in large numbers.

  They were godlike. But they were not gods – and they, like their sisters of the main Heronai corps, were being killed. But they were holding.

  Valerian found himself moving forward, a few steps each time the whistle sounded. He had no shield now, so he asked for one from the man who was rushing past to take his place in the rear. ‘Look after it for me,’ the fellow said, glad to be rid of its weight.

  Moments later, Valerian spun forward and hurled himself back into the fight. He gritted his teeth and punched forward, felling a warrior with the boss and followed up with a downwards thrust.

  Then there was sharp, searing pain. Valerian heard himself cry out and he looked to see an Amazon withdrawing her spear from his side. Blood spewed from his armour in a fountain and his legs went. The woman’s triumphant scream was cut short as a soldier plunged his gladius into her neck and rough hands grabbed Valerian, saving him from a terrible death at the feet of his own men.

  The sound of the battle began to fade and he heard panicked men shouting ‘Get him to the medicus!’ He was being carried, the world tilting crazily, the combat playing out like some dim and distant dream. He saw the Heronai breaking, as even their valour could not hold back the tide against them. Some of the attacking warriors stopped mid-fight to ravish the fallen women in the heat of battle. ‘Thin the line!’ he croaked. ‘Bridge the gap or we’re done for!’

  But no one heard him. And even if they did, there was nothing they could do about it now.

  Illeana was tired, her hair plastered to her head, drenched in sweat. Her helmet was gone; she’d taken a hit on the top of the head and it had dented inwards, opening a cut. It was intolerable to wear it, so she’d cast it aside. She was no student of war, but anyone could see that they were losing the battle.

  Helena still lived, but the Heronai had been pushed back. As it was, she was at the rear of the ‘line’, but in truth it was more a mob fight now. Only the Spartans and hypaspistai retained any sort of order, but they, like the rest, were being forced back, their ranks thinning as exhaustion began to overcome even the elite warriors.

  ‘We’ve had it!’ Helena shouted. ‘I’m not going to let those bastards take me alive,’ she added. ‘Look!’

  The enemy were raping the wounded. The sight set fury aflame inside of her, a helpless rage because she knew that there was nothing she could do to save them. She thought of the crowds at the Flavian, cheering her on as she killed for sport. For fun. Romans in love with death. But most of them had never seen it up close. She had never seen it up close. Not like this. ‘I’m not going to let them take me, either,’ she said. As she spoke, there was a groan and a roar of triumph as ever thinning line of Spartans and hypaspistai finally broke apart. Without the group cohesion they reduced to fighting alone or in small knots.

  A heavy-set young woman with dark hair – short at the sides and spiked on top – roared in triumph as she cut down one of the Spartan Priestesses, the blade biting deep into the woman’s chest. A splash of blood flew as the woman fell and the Corinthian helm fell from her head. Illeana recognised her as Deianara – Lysandra’s blonde friend from childhood. She recognised the barbarian too: it was the one who had taken Thebe’s head.

  ‘I’m going to kill her,’ Illeana said to Helena, ‘and then think about what to do next,’ she said. Without waiting for a response, she walked forward, a strange sense of calm settling on her.

  The battle had broken down now – a thousand fights and individual duels raging on the streets of Durostorum. The dark haired Sarmatian seemed to sense her coming and she looked up. Illeana pointed her bloody sword in the woman’s direction and she nodded, bounding towards her, axe held confidently in both hands.

  ‘You’re pretty,’ the woman said to her in Latin as she drew close.

  ‘And you’re fat,’ Illeana replied.

  Big men came to aid the warrior – her bodyguards, Illeana realised. She must be facing a chieftain. ‘She’s mine!’ the woman barked.

  Illeana came forward with her gladius – ‘going for the red’, as Pyrrha would have had it. The Sarmatian was fast, though, and she skipped back, swinging the axe out as she did so. The tip of its blade caught Illeana in the temple and opened it up, stunning her. Too tired, she realised as she hit the ground, rolling away on instinct and coming up again. She knew she would have been dead if there had been any force behind the blow, but it had been delivered when the chieftain had been off balance. As it was, she felt hot blood sluicing down her face and the smile on the barbarian’s face told her that the cut was bad.

  Warriors from both sides rushed past them and Illeana saw from the corner of her eye that several Heronai were engaging the bodyguards – seizing her chance, she came into the attack again, ducking under a swing from the big woman and executing a cut across her ample belly. The chieftain gasped and stepped back, her hand flying to the wound.

  The pain seemed to galvan
ise her and she roared in fury and flew at Illeana, the blade of the axe spinning in a terrifyingly intricate pattern; she could not block, nor could she attack for fear of breaking her sword.

  ‘Coward!’ the chieftain snarled, snagging back her blade and stamping forward. ‘I’ll send you to your gods!’ She swung the axe in a vicious uppercut and Illeana saw her chance, stepping to the side and smacking the haft of the weapon away. She rotated her wrist and skipped past her enemy, the iron biting deep into her fleshy bicep. Bright blood flew and the woman shrieked in pain. She spun around, flailing with the axe, but Illeana had found her speed and silently thanked Venus-Aphrodite for it, stepping back as the blade hissed past her.

  Illeana lunged forward, going for the red – the woman’s side, exposed by the swing of the axe. The gladius went in deep and blood geysered both from the wound and from the chieftain’s mouth as the cold iron ruptured her internal organs. The axe fell from her hands and Illeana pressed harder with the sword, forcing it in further. ‘I’ve only just found religion,’ she said. ‘Too early for me to meet my gods just yet.’ She twisted the blade savagely, making the woman cry out in agony and then dragged it free.

  The chieftain fell to her knees and Illeana finished her with a thrust to the throat, watching with satisfaction as she fell in a heap, choking on her own blood.

  She looked up and saw men pouring over the western wall. They looked like legionaries from the Felix, but she realised that their tunics were red and their shields had a different blazon.