Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Read online

  Also by Russell Whitfield:

  GLADIATRIX

  ROMA VICTRIX

  Myrmidon

  Rotterdam House

  116 Quayside

  Newcastle upon Tyne

  NE1 3DY

  www.myrmidonbooks.com

  Published by Myrmidon 2015

  Copyright © Russell Whitfield 2015 Russell Whitfield has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-910183-03-8

  Set in 11/14.25 Bembo by Ellipsis Digital Limited, Glasgow

  Printed and bound in the UK by

  CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  For anyone who has ever sat at a keyboard

  with an idea and a dream.

  You can do it.

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  67 A.D.

  Sparta

  ‘It is an honour that she’s been chosen!’ His voice was muffled by the wall of her bedroom, but Lysandra could hear the anger in it.

  ‘She is my child, Arion!’ Her mother sounded fraught with tears.

  ‘She is my child too, Kassandra. And it is not the Spartan way to go against the will of the ephors, let alone the gods themselves. Your tears are shameful! This is an honour,’ he said again as though trying to convince himself. ‘And you have always known this day was coming.’

  Lysandra could not understand why they were arguing. Ever since she could remember, her parents had told her that she was more special than the other girls with whom she played. She had been chosen at birth by the Goddess Athene to be her priestess – a fact that the goddess herself had confirmed many times in her dreams. And this, the eve of her seventh birthday, marked the day before she would have to leave home and serve in the great temple on the acropolis.

  Her parents continued to argue in the gynaikon – the women’s room – next to her own. This was her mother’s private abode and it was odd that her father was trespassing there. Still, Lysandra supposed, it was an important day for them too and all she wanted was for them to be proud of her. She rolled out of bed, rubbing her eyes and opened her door, padding across the floor to her mother’s room. ‘I cannot sleep,’ she announced as she walked in causing her parents to stop in mid-flow.

  ‘Get back to bed!’ they ordered in unison – as was the way of parents.

  ‘I cannot sleep,’ she said again. ‘You are making a noise – and you told me that I had to go to bed early because tomorrow is a big day and I needed to be strong and not cry. How can I sleep if you are going to keep me awake by shouting next door?’ Her gaze challenged them both and she saw the ice-coloured eyes of her father soften and the skin around them crinkle.

  He laughed then. ‘It has always been the way of Spartan women to upbraid their men! Would you carry on that tradition, Lysandra?’ he asked crouching down and opening his arms to her.

  She walked to him and put her arms around his neck. ‘Rub your beard on my face!’ she said. She loved the rough, scratchy feeling of it. Her mother got to her feet and joined them, putting arms around them both. ‘Do not cry, mother,’ Lysandra said. ‘I want to go to the temple.’

  Her mother just kissed her over and over again. Eventually she said, ‘I know. But we will miss you.’

  Lysandra squirmed out of her father’s grip and transferred herself to her mother’s arms. ‘I will miss you too, but when I come home I will be grown up and have lots of stories to tell you. And I will have my grown-up teeth.’ This was important: having grown-up teeth was proof that one was indeed an adult.

  ‘You see, Kassandra,’ her father said. ‘The child has no fear of this and we should have none either. Now it is late . . .’

  ‘Can I not stay up with you?’ Lysandra hedged. She was awake anyway and it would now be impossible to sleep. ‘Or at least play in my room?’

  Her mother placed her down on the floor and kissed her again. ‘It is late,’ she repeated her father’s words. ‘You must get to bed.’

  ‘But you said you would miss me!’ Lysandra challenged, teasing her mother’s long, coal-coloured hair. Parents always said one thing and then told her to do something else, which she felt was entirely unfair.

  ‘And I will.’ She put Lysandra down and tickled her under the chin, making her giggle. ‘But, still – it is way past your bedtime.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Bed!’ they both said at once, pointing at the door.

  Lysandra tutted. ‘All right,’ she sighed and turned, stamping just a little so they would know that she was displeased. She was special, she thought to herself – she should be allowed to stay up late. As she climbed into her cot she determined that she would stay awake anyway and eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation.

  She strained to hear what they were saying, but they were now making a point of speaking quietly and then, quite suddenly, she closed her eyes and knew no more.

  The dawn was grey and cold and misty rain drifted from the sky, the sort that you could hardly see yet somehow seemed wetter than normal rain. Lysandra and her parents stood by the gate of their home, watching the lone rider approach. All three were soaked through, both Lysandra’s and her mother’s long black hair plastered to their heads, her father’s beard sodden and dripping.

  Her mother gripped her hand squeezing tight and Lysandra glanced up at her and gave her a smile. She could see
the tears on her cheeks despite the rain and there was a small part of her that was embarrassed by this. She was instantly ashamed of this thought and squeezed her mother’s hand back.

  Slowly the rider descended into the small valley that surrounded the house like a bowl and now Lysandra could see that she wore the long, red cloak of a Spartan priestess, her head encased in a redcrested helmet that covered her entire face – it had a thick nosepiece and flared cheek guards – Athene herself wore similar and Soldiers in the old days used to wear them too. It looked most impressive.

  Finally, the rider drew up to them. ‘Greetings Kassandra,’ she spoke to her mother first as was the Spartan way. ‘Arion,’ she inclined her head. ‘And you,’ the helmet tilted towards her, ‘must be Lysandra. I am Halkyone.’

  ‘Greetings, Halkyone.’ Lysandra stepped forward.

  ‘What is in your satchel?’ The priestess gestured at the small bag Lysandra had slung over her shoulder.

  Lysandra hesitated, fearing the worst. ‘Some toys,’ she replied. ‘A writing tablet and some fruit.’

  ‘You will have no need of those things,’ Halkyone confirmed Lysandra’s fears. ‘Bid your parents farewell. Be quick about it.’ Abruptly she turned her horse’s head and walked him away, affording them some privacy.

  Feeling somewhat forlorn at the loss of her toys, Lysandra handed the bag to her mother who started to cry anew: she crouched down and embraced her as did her father. Ashamed, Lysandra found herself crying too.

  ‘Come,’ her father said, his voice gruff. ‘It is not the Spartan way to shed tears.’

  They squeezed her tight once more and let her go. Lysandra wiped her eyes on the hem of her tunic and smiled, trying to be brave. ‘Farewell mother. Father.’ She pressed her lips into a thin line so she would not cry again and turned about, making her way after Halkyone. As she reached her, the priestess did not speak or acknowledge her in any way, simply touching her heels to her mount’s flanks. The horse ambled off, Lysandra in tow.

  Lysandra turned around and looked down at the house where she had grown up, the small field, the helots – her parents’ slaves – working on it and her mother and father looking after her. It was all she had known.

  ‘Lysandra!’

  Lysandra jerked around and looked at the priestess who was riding on heedless of her. It was strange – the voice did not sound like the priestess at all – it sounded more like a man’s. A voice that seemed to come from a dream. ‘Did you say something, ma’am?’ she asked, trotting up to keep pace with the horse.

  ‘I did not,’ the helmeted head tilted down to her. ‘And do not speak again unless you are spoken to. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I understand,’ she replied.

  ‘Take your sandals off,’ Halkyone ordered. ‘Throw them away.’ Lysandra hesitated. ‘But the road . . . my feet.’

  ‘They will harden, child,’ the priestess chuckled. ‘As will you. Obey my order. Now.’

  Her tone broached no argument, so Lysandra did as she was told, all the while thinking that special children should not receive such treatment. It would, she knew, be better when she got to the temple.

  The temple was huge – it seemed to Lysandra that it was more like a miniature Troy than anything else. She started at the thought – it seemed familiar to her somehow as though this was a comparison she had made once before but she could not think of where – or when.

  Halkyone dismounted and rapped sharply on the massive wooden doors and, after a moment, they swung slowly open. She turned to Lysandra. ‘Go and stand in line with the other girls of your age. Do not speak until you are spoken to. And when you are, make sure you obey your instructions.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Lysandra tried to put on a brave face and not to think about her feet, but inside her stomach was churning with trepidation. She hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath and walked into the temple.

  The rain had stopped but the sky was still cold and grey and added to the foreboding nature of the place. The interior was dominated by a large open palaestra, which was occupied by a large group of girls arrayed in neat lines. She made her way to join them, refusing to meet the gaze of the red-haired older girl that prowled the ranks, swishing a stick as she did so. She was nearly a grown up – Lysandra guessed she must be at least thirteen years old – a titan’s age.

  Lysandra stood next to a shorter blonde girl and kept her eyes forward: she had experienced enough of her father’s discipline to know that she would get a smack if she did anything other than as she had been told; instead she busied her mind with trying to take in her surroundings.

  Opposite the main gates stood a large building – certainly the biggest and most ornate Lysandra had ever seen: the structures in Sparta were simple affairs but this had many columns and pictures carved into the stone and it was flanked by two identical statues of the Goddess Athene, spear in hand. It seemed to Lysandra as though the painted stone eyes were looking directly at her.

  There were other buildings that surrounded the palaestra – and again this seemed familiar to her, though she knew that could not be possible as she had never been to a place like this. These looked to her like small houses and Lysandra guessed that this would be where the priestesses lived.

  They stood in silence for some time and it soon became boring. Her feet hurt, the day was getting colder, the wind whipping through her hair – it was as though the interior of the temple grabbed it from the sky and sent it blasting across their lines.

  Someone began to cry and, like a spider scuttling across a web to eat its prey, the red-haired girl pounced. There was a swish, a sharp crack and then a howl of pain. She dragged the transgressor from the line and hurled her to the ground and began to beat her with the stick. The girl screamed, cried and begged but the redhaired priestess did not relent. Lysandra had been smacked before but never like this and she had to bite her lip not to cry herself at the sight of it.

  Eventually, the girl from the line just curled into a ball and this made the older one stop. ‘Anyone else cries or makes a sound, you’ll get worse than that!’ she announced and gestured to someone Lysandra could not see. Soon two more teenagers came running across, hoisted the smaller girl from the ground and carried her off.

  After that, nobody cried, but Lysandra could hear sobs and sniffs coming from all around her. This was not what she had expected at all. If she was special then all these girls must be special too; they had also been chosen to serve the goddess, so it seemed wrong that they should be treated in such a way.

  There was movement from the temple. Lysandra watched as a group of priestesses filed out, clad in armour as Halkyone had been, but these women carried spears and great, round shields. They formed up either side of the dark entrance of the building as an elderly woman made her way out to stand between the two lines.

  Even from where she was standing, Lysandra could see that the woman was ancient: the lines of her face were carved deep, cracks in the granite of her visage. She was small, much shorter than Lysandra’s mother, but there was a presence emanating from her, drawing all eyes to her.

  ‘I am the Matriarch of the Temple.’ Her voice was strident, much louder than Lysandra had expected it to be. ‘Once, long ago, I stood where you now stand. Some of you are afraid. Others homesick, still more confused.Some of you feel all of this and more besides. I tell you now that your childish whims will no longer be indulged. You must cast them aside. You girls are special – chosen by the goddess herself to serve as her handmaidens,’ she went on, confirming what Lysandra’s parents had always told her. ‘You are doubly blessed – chosen by Athene and of pure, Spartan blood. Doubly blessed and so you will be doubly tested.

  ‘We Spartans are superior to all other races and creeds: we are the most sacred race ever to sanctify the earth with the imprint of our feet. Our blood is pre-eminent . . . yes, but we must hone our bodies and our minds. Like swords, they are tools to be forged . . . tempered . . . sharpened. Weakness is not tolerate
d here. If you are weak, you will be beaten without mercy for, like iron, the harder the body is beaten, the harder it becomes. In time, you will learn that pain – like any other feeling – can be suppressed. Controlled. You will learn to serve the goddess, to shun comfort and to excel in any endeavour. You will learn to be Spartans. That is all.’ She turned and made her way back inside, followed by her guards.

  As soon as the doors had shut, the red-haired girl rounded on the group and began screaming at them to follow her before taking off at a run. Lysandra and the others obeyed at once – as they were supposed to.

  There was no comfort to be had, no succour, no relief from the relentless cruelty of the older girls. Everything about the temple seemed designed only to make life miserable. Lysandra cried more in those first days than she had ever done in her life: they had broken her resolve to resist her tears as her hair had been hacked off. The scissors had cut her head in many places, the pain of which caused the dam of her will to break. So she sobbed and screamed for them to stop – and received a beating for it.

  Yet, it did not take long to become inured to the constant abuse: Lysandra and the other girls came to expect it as part of their daily regimen; the slightest transgression, real or imagined, would elicit the same response. In time, no one shed tears; they learned to bear the abuse in silence, knowing full well that crying would only bring more punishment.

  Their clothes were taken away and they were each given a single red tunic and a thin cloak. These, they were told, would have to last a year and it was their responsibility to look after them.

  And what had once been fun now became a constant torment. Lysandra had loved to run – she fancied herself as quick footed, but in the temple, the neophytes were made to run everywhere. Before every sunrise, they were dragged from their beds and sent to run around the compound, sweating and straining, bodies wracked with stitches and sore muscles. The older girls – the acolytes – showed them no mercy. Only when they deemed exhaustion was real and not faked – some had tried that ruse and suffered the consequences – did they relent.

  A breakfast of water and blood soup followed and then they were set to marching in step, endless hours of parading up and down, changing formations, breaking into a run and stopping in unison. These things were drilled into them so constantly that Lysandra actually began to dream not of her parents but of the shouted commands from their chief tormentor, the red-haired Melantha.