Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 10

  ‘I have retired,’ there was finality in her voice, despite the smile that came to her lips. ‘Actually, you have retired me. My shoulder,’ she touched it, ‘will never be the same again. I would always be at less than my best. And that is something I cannot tolerate.’

  Lysandra pressed her lips into a thin line, a mark of her irritation. Yet for all that, she understood Illeana’s feelings on the matter. Knowledge of a debilitating injury would make her a lesser fighter. It was hardly her fault that she was not possessed of superior Spartan breeding and suffered from the weaker constitution that so plagued the lesser races of the world.

  The door to the anteroom opened before Lysandra could respond and a steward entered. ‘My goodness,’ he said as he breezed in. ‘I’ve seen you both in the arena, but I must say that seeing you both up close is indeed breathtaking.’ He lowered his voice. ‘A good thing the emperor’s wife is not attending the celebration – I rather think you two would have upstaged her.’

  ‘Clearly there is nothing wrong with your eyesight,’ Lysandra said as she rose to her feet, realising she was a full head taller than him: there was a part of her that always enjoyed looking down on others.

  ‘Quite so, quite so,’ he agreed. ‘Now, if Rome’s own Venus and Minerva are ready, the emperor has summoned you both.’

  ‘Athene,’ Lysandra corrected as he led them out.

  The steward took them down a beautifully decorated corridor at the end of which was a set of large double doors. The corridor itself was flanked by statuary; busts of great Romans from the distant and recent past. Lysandra felt the eyes of history on her and was, despite herself, impressed. Of course, it was the Roman way to err towards self-ostentation. Hellenes preferred to honour the gods as was right and proper.

  ‘Here we are then,’ the steward said as they reached the doors. ‘I shall announce you. Aesalon Nocturna, you will make your way to the couch at the emperor’s right hand, Achillia to his left.’ Lysandra bristled at that – the position on the right was the position of honour, but there was nothing to be done about it. However fortunate Illeana had been, it was she who had emerged as victrix.

  The steward opened the door and stepped in front of them both. ‘Titus Flavius Domitianus, Lord and God, Emperor of Rome!’ he began. Lysandra was stunned at the noise the little man was able to generate from his compact frame. ‘I present to you the two finest gladiatrices in the empire, they who recently graced the sands of the Flavian Amphitheatre. I present first the worthy defeated, champion of Asia Minor, the Spartan Achillia!’

  Lysandra squared her shoulders and breathed out sharply through her nose; she was, she realised, nervous. She stepped past the steward into the imperial triclinium. It was vast. Lysandra had seen lavish before, but this was beyond anything she had encountered. There must have been a hundred guests, reclining on couches or standing and mingling with others. Flute girls and lyre boys dressed in next to nothing played and danced amongst the revellers and the scent of incense hung heavy in the air. In the centre of the room, on a low plinth two wrestlers struggled with each other, watched halfheartedly by some aficionados of the sport.

  As she entered, all eyes turned towards her and there was a round of polite applause, which she acknowledged with her customary dignity before making her way towards the emperor’s dais. He had not changed much in the years since she had seen him, save for gaining a few extra pounds in weight. But he still had that brooding, handsome face and the piercing black eyes that she remembered so well. He smiled as she approached and bowed. ‘Hail, Caesar,’ she said.

  Domitian gazed at her. ‘Apparently, it is now the custom for my guests to prostrate themselves at my feet – that is what the liberal writers would have you believe anyway.’

  Lysandra met his gaze. ‘I do not believe everything I read, Caesar. Especially the words of liberals who I rather think would serve the empire better as food for the lions.’

  Lysandra had managed to draw a chuckle from her host. ‘Of course,’ Domitian said. ‘I imagine that liberals are not fashionable in Sparta – even today.’

  ‘Though I have not been home for many years, I am sure that is the case,’ she replied. ‘Their pomposity disgusts me – whining about the strength of the very empire that affords them the luxury of their complaints.’

  ‘Very perceptive,’ he said, gesturing that she should sit at the couch on his left. ‘You serve the empire, then, Lysandra of Sparta?’

  ‘I serve the goddess Athene, Caesar. It would seem that her will and the empire’s are in concert.’

  Domitian was about to reply when the steward announced Illeana, his deep baritone seeming to fill the room. As the Gladiatrix Prima entered, the Romans in attendance went into rapturous applause – more than she herself had received, but that was to be expected. The acclaim washed over Illeana and she lifted her chin, her eyes hooded as she drank it in. With effortless poise, she made her way to the dais and bowed.

  ‘Hail, Caesar,’ she said softly, appraising him as he clearly appraised her.

  ‘Illeana,’ Domitian purred. ‘You look magnificent. A goddess.’

  ‘Caesar flatters me,’ she responded.

  ‘You are deserving of flattery. You are victrix,’ he added, forcing Lysandra to resist the urge to sigh. ‘Your battle with Lysandra was magnificent. As a Roman, I had hoped you would win, but I have seen her fight before and I feared for you.’

  ‘Lysandra is the most dangerous opponent I have ever faced,’ she acknowledged her with a glance and a nod of respect. ‘The truth, Caesar, is that on another day it would be she and not I that won the battle. Fortune was with me.’

  ‘Beauty, skill at arms and modesty,’ Domitian indicated that she should sit. ‘You are a woman of many virtues.’

  ‘And vices,’ she added as she sat and Lysandra was sure that she winked at her emperor as she did so. The realisation hit her that they must be lovers or at least had shared the same bed at one time or another.

  Domitian continued to flirt with Illeana, leaving Lysandra to take in the surroundings. Far across the room, she could see Cappa, Murco and Kleandrias. The two Romans were enjoying the hospitality, drinking laughing and grabbing at the wine slaves as they went past. Kleandrias was doing his best to look unimpressed.

  ‘Thinking deep thoughts, Lysandra?’

  The voice startled her and Lysandra looked up to see Sextus Julius Frontinus approach the couch. ‘Frontinus,’ she rose, genuinely pleased to see him. He held out his hands and she took them in hers, kissing him on both cheeks.

  ‘May I?’ he indicated the couch.

  ‘Of course.’

  He groaned as he sat. ‘Gods, that’s better. The trouble with making deals is that they’re normally done standing and I’m at an age where I’m more comfortable reclining.’

  ‘What kind of deals are you making these days?’

  Frontinus took some wine before responding. ‘We’re going to war, Lysandra. You must have heard about the catastrophe in Dacia.’

  ‘I was in training then,’ she responded. ‘Of course, I know that there was a defeat, but I am sure that it is only a temporary setback.’

  ‘Quite,’ he said. It seemed to Lysandra that he was going to say something else, but stopped himself. ‘Well, you have come a long way, haven’t you? From shipwrecked priestess to Gladiatrix Prima and now you sit at the hand of your emperor.’

  ‘He is not my emperor,’ Lysandra corrected. ‘Sparta is a client state, not a conquered territory, Frontinus.’

  ‘Of course. Slip of the tongue. I’m getting on a bit, you know.’

  Lysandra grinned. ‘I rather think, Frontinus, that you are not as decrepit as you would have everyone believe. This must work for you in your . . . deal making.’

  He chuckled. ‘Perceptive as ever. Politics is like being in the arena in a way. Show them you are weak when you are strong . . .’

  ‘. . . And show them you are strong when you are weak. An old adage and a true one.’

&nb
sp; Frontinus glanced at Domitian and Illeana. ‘You were unlucky,’ he commented. ‘As was I. I lost a fortune betting on you, Lysandra.’

  She shrugged. ‘I would have more sympathy if you were a poorer man. But everyone knows that Croesus would envy your fortune. But you are quite right. I was unlucky.’ As she spoke, the injustice of it all welled to the fore. ‘I should have another chance, but Illeana states that she has retired, thus denying me. It is most frustrating. On another day . . .’ she trailed off, wishing with all her heart that she could go back in time and change the fight. Do something that would have altered the outcome.

  Frontinus nodded. ‘Who can know the will of the gods? There is a method in everything they do.’

  ‘Of course. But even I struggle to see reason in this.’

  ‘Perhaps because if you had won, the Roman emperor would not have been so magnanimous as to invite the Hellene victrix to a celebration – which would mean that you and I would not be sitting here now.’

  Lysandra chuckled. ‘Frontinus, I count you as a friend, but really – I would rather have won the fight.’

  ‘I would speak to you – privately.’

  Lysandra narrowed her eyes at this. Frontinus was shrewd and, friends or not, she knew well that the old man only ever used people to his own advantage. But, despite herself, her interest was piqued.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I will tell you. In private.’ He looked around again. ‘This will soon degenerate, Lysandra – and I know you well enough to realise that orgiastic behaviour is not one of your vices.’

  ‘I thought that that was all a scurrilous rumour.’

  ‘It is for the most part, but the emperor finds you gladiatrices irresistible. He is enamoured of Illeana. He will wait till the . . . er . . . well, when everything starts, and then take her to his private rooms.’

  ‘He is a man’ Lysandra looked over at them to see Domitian gazing at Illeana like a lovesick youth. ‘She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen: it is no wonder he is under her spell.’

  ‘Quite. Will you walk with me? Unless of course I have misread your appetites?’

  Lysandra stood abruptly. ‘No, you have not.’ She offered him her arm, which he took and hauled himself up.

  ‘Of course . . . now everyone will think I am taking you to a private room.’

  ‘My virtue is well known – even in Rome,’ she replied. ‘But if people come to the wrong conclusion, it may serve only to enhance your reputation. I do not care either way.’

  The two made their way through the triclinium, Lysandra giving Kleandrias a reassuring nod as they did so. Cappa and Murco were clearly drunk already, hooting with laughter at some joke that was probably childish and lewd. Kleandrias made to walk towards her but she shook her head – and noted the anger in his eyes as she did so. Sometimes he took his duties far too seriously.

  Frontinus led her into an anteroom, the centrepiece of which was a huge, tabletop map. Lysandra arched as she made her way to it. ‘You wish to give me a geography lesson, Frontinus?’

  He laughed at that. ‘Not quite, but it will serve to illustrate a point.’

  ‘What point?’

  Frontinus turned serious then. ‘This is Dacia,’ he pointed to an area of the map.’

  ‘I know.’

  He ignored her. ‘This is where the Roman army crossed into Dacian territory and this,’ he indicated an area near a mountain pass, ‘is where they were defeated.’

  Lysandra considered the scenario for a moment. ‘Were they caught strung out on the march?’

  ‘No. This was a pitched battle. Full deployment.’

  Lysandra folded her arms and tapped her chin with her forefinger. ‘Full deployment. Then they were outnumbered. Hugely.’ It was the only logical conclusion: the modern Roman army could not be defeated any other way save by overwhelming numbers. They were too disciplined, too well equipped. And too well led.

  ‘Yes they were outnumbered. But not overwhelmingly,’ Frontinus said. ‘Cornelius Fuscus was in command. The Dacians, under their new king, Decabalus, would not be drawn out, so he was forced to march into the interior.’ Lysandra opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed on. ‘He left good lines of supply and communication, ensuring that marching camps were constructed along the route. What happened was this. He engaged the main force here at Tapae, but was caught in a pincer movement – and annihilated. Five legions, Lysandra. All gone.’

  ‘A disaster,’ she agreed. ‘Rome will not make the same mistake twice, I am sure.’

  ‘Rome does not have enough legions left to mount a similar campaign.’

  ‘That is absurd. You can recruit new men and recall some from overseas.’

  ‘It is not as simple as that. Yes, we have recruited new men, but there are only so many regular troops. To recall other legions would weaken our frontiers – and news of this defeat is spreading fast. Like in the arena – we have to make our enemies think we are strong when we are weak.’

  Lysandra looked at him over the map. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘The secondary attack was led by women. Specifically, Sorina of Dacia. I am sure you remember her.’

  At the mention of her name, Lysandra felt the familiar stab of hatred as the barbarian’s face was brought to mind. ‘Yes. I remember her.’

  ‘My reports tell me that our soldiers struggled in the face of this unexpected assault. The truth of it is, Lysandra, that many men hesitate to kill women – some out of honour; some from pity; some from disdain or incredulity that they could be a threat. This allowed the attack to open our lines and . . . well. You can guess the rest.’

  ‘Then your men will have to learn to be more disciplined – and perhaps more ruthless.’

  ‘And again, here is the problem. Many of our recruits are older than usual or ex-slaves.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe that Rome struggles for manpower.’

  ‘Yet it is the truth. The empire is vast – it needs policing and no empire, no matter how strong, can wear such a loss so easily. So Rome needs your help. I need your help.’

  Lysandra frowned, unsure as to the old man’s point. ‘How can I help you? I am rich, yes. Is it money you need – taxes?’

  ‘No. I need you to fight. To lead.’

  ‘I?’ Lysandra was more than taken aback. ‘Frontinus – I know how backward Roman views are when it comes to women.’ It was true. Only in enlightened Sparta were women afforded their true worth. ‘I cannot lead a legion – no one would accept it. And I cannot believe that even with a dearth of manpower there are no Roman generals left.’

  ‘You led an army for the emperor,’ he reminded her.

  ‘But that was a show – a spectacle.’

  ‘You are right.’ His shoulders sagged, defeated. ‘I was desperate. I am desperate, but I should have realised that such a task would be beyond even you.’

  Lysandra felt the recrimination like a slap in the face. ‘It is not beyond me,’ she snapped. ‘I know tactics and strategy better than most of the aristocrats you put in the field. As I proved to you those years ago. It is simply a matter of acceptance: I am fully aware of my own abilities, but others are not. Rome would not countenance it. Nor would the soldiers. No – it is not possible.’

  ‘I am not asking you to lead a Roman legion, ‘he said, his eyes meeting hers.’ Rather a mercenary one. And I would need your veterans. Gladiatrices who would not balk at the prospect of killing women the way men might. Decabalus . . . and Sorina hold all the advantages now. I need to turn the wheel on them. Surprise them. And there is something else to consider.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look at the map. Let us say you are the Dacians. If you defeated Rome again, which way would you go? Where is the richest territory?’

  Lysandra’s eyes were drawn to the beautiful cartography. She swallowed. ‘Moesia.’

  Frontinus raised his eyebrows. ‘And then?’

  ‘Hellas.’

  ‘Yes, ‘his voice was quiet
.’ Hellas. So you see, Lysandra. The only thing that stands between Decabalus, Sorina and your homeland is a few legions of old men and raw recruits.’

  You will lift your shield in defence of your homeland.

  The words of the goddess echoed through her mind as she stared at the map. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and her skin raisedin goose bumps as the enormity of the prophesy welled up within her. A sense of destiny hung over her and in that moment she realised her purpose.

  ‘I will help you,’ she said.

  It was empowering to make the master of the world all but weep with joy. The rush of it was far greater than the physical pleasure of sex. He was lost in her, worshipping her, loving her.

  She gazed at his face as he thrust into her, urging him to greater efforts, her sweat mingling with his till finally, with a sob of the purest ecstasy, Domitian came into her. He continued his strokes, eking every last moment of pleasure he could before finally rolling off and onto his back, chest heaving.

  ‘I can have any woman in the world, ‘he gasped.’ But it is you I desire above all others.’

  ‘Caesar flatters me,’ Illeana repeated the words from earlier in the evening. It had become a private joke between them. She laid her head on his chest, pressing her body close to his as he expected a lover would.

  ‘Say the word and I will divorce my wife. ‘He always said this and she knew that in the aftermath of his passion he meant it.’ I will make you my empress and we shall forge a dynasty such as the world has never seen.’

  ‘But Caesar would tire of me after a while, ‘she teased.’ I am so fine a prize because you cannot possess me.’

  ‘I am emperor. I can possess whatever I desire. And I desire you, Aesalon Nocturna.’

  ‘For now,’ she rolled away from him and rose from the bed, seeking a jug of wine. She felt his eyes on her, knowing the effect her body had on him.

  ‘You are Venus,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps, ‘she glanced over her shoulder and then poured wine for them both. The goblets were huge and adorned with jewels.’ Parthian workmanship?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  Illeana returned to the bed. ‘You are master of all you survey, Caesar,’ she toasted him.