Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Read online

  ‘For now.’ His countenance changed, becoming more pensive – almost angry.

  ‘What troubles you?’

  ‘Dacia, ‘he answered.’ It teeters on the brink of disaster since Tapae. We must respond in force. But we don’t have much force to respond with. Hence Frontinus’s scheme with Lysandra.’

  ‘What scheme?’

  ‘He means to use her as a “surprise weapon” against the Dacians. As leader of a mercenary army. She has a vast fortune as you know his plan is to sideline Dacian spies having her recruit troops and materials. That way, we can raise another legion and no one will know.’

  ‘Lysandra is going to war?’ Illeana arched an eyebrow, her interest and excitement – piqued.

  ‘Yes. With her women too. The Dacians have a large band of horsewomen that have caused us much trouble. Women warriors are an affront to Mars for a very good reason. There is no real way to defeat them in the truest sense: there’s no honour in victory, and if they should defeat you the disgrace is all the greater. No wonder Frontinus affirms that our soldiers have trouble fighting those of the fairer sex – if Dacian women can be described as such. Lysandra’s gladiatrices will have no such compunctions. But I fear we risk a lot on this . . . hunch of his. He places much faith in her.’

  ‘She is unique, ‘Illeana said after a moment.’ If I believed in them, I’d say there is a touch of the gods about her. She should be dead, Caesar – I cut her down. Yet – she lives. She is clearly one of Fortune‘s favourites, and what better trait is there for leadership? I think, perhaps, Frontinus’s faith is well placed.’

  ‘Would you gamble an empire on it?’

  ‘No – but then there’s no real choice is there? If Lysandra can raise her force in secret, it cannot hurt your cause.’ Domitian kissed her then, but her mind was elsewhere.

  ‘Enough talk,’ he murmured, placing his wine cup aside.

  Illeana found that she was no longer in the mood for sensual gratification, filled with a fire of a different kind. Yet one did not deny an emperor – even if one were Gladiatrix Prima.

  Frontinus had spoken long into the night, Lysandra furiously taking notes as he did so. As dawn broke over the city, she asked to take her leave and sent a slave to find Cappa, Murco and Kleandrias. Kleandrias had fallen asleep; the others long since passed out from over indulgence: they had to be carried to a lectica, much to the disgust of Kleandrias.

  ‘They are supposed to be protecting you,’ he told Lysandra as he stalked down the road away from the palace. ‘And they are in your lectica. You are not supposed to be walking – you’re supposed to be in the litter. All they did was drink and fornicate. It was disgusting.’

  ‘Quite so. I take it you did not indulge,’ Lysandra glanced at him.

  ‘I did not. And I did not think your tastes ran to much older men like Frontinus. You said you preferred women.’

  Despite herself and everything that had transpired the previous evening, Lysandra felt gratified by Kleandrias’s jealousy for reasons she could not quite fathom. ‘I rather think,’ she said after a few moments, ‘that you are mistaken in your assessment, Kleandrias. I thought you knew me better.’ He looked chagrined, which she enjoyed. ‘I have much to think on after my conversation with Frontinus – which I will share with you once I have analysed the situation.’

  Kleandrias made to respond but thought better of it. They walked in silence back to the house where Lysandra retired at once to her rooms and began to go over her notes.

  If his battle strategy was simple, the logistics were not. Frontinus’s plan was all about secrecy – his fear of this Decabalus discerning his intentions bordered on paranoia. He was even convinced that the Dacians had spies in the imperial treasury, monitoring what military equipment was being bought and sold – an indication of the strength of forces ranged against them.

  Thus Lysandra’s command was to be independent: she would raise the money to hire the mercenaries herself by selling her assets to Rome. Once victory had been achieved, her funds would be returned – with interest. But of course, the most valuable asset she possessed was the Deiopolis itself. It was worth millions – and she would need millions to raise her army.

  It was galling – but she realised that the temple had now served its purpose. Athene had called upon her once again – and the Deiopolis had provided her women with all the training they needed to support the cause of the Olympians. Fighters, healers, logistics – all were there in microcosm. It was clear to her that the goddess had this in mind from the beginning.

  Lysandra sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes: there was so much to do, to organise. She had little time. But, for now, she was exhausted. As she sat in the chair, the gravity of what she had agreed to suddenly welled up inside her.

  It was one thing to lead in a mock battle – an entertainment – but quite another to go to war for real. Yet this is what she had been trained for in the Temple of Athene so long ago. The purpose of her sisterhood was to defend Sparta against invaders as they had done when Pyrrhus had attacked. Now that training would be put to the test.

  It seemed to Lysandra that her entire life had been heading towards this moment. Every trial she had faced, every victory she had won was a preparation for this – her greatest challenge. Fitting then that Sorina was among the enemy.

  She brought the older woman’s face to mind – she could recall every line and contour, the chestnut coloured eyes and the brown hair just beginning to streak with grey at the temples.

  No barbarian army can stand against civilised troops.

  It was the argument that had first brought them to blows in Lucius Balbus’s ludus: Sorina had gone on to disprove that statement, crushing the flower of Rome’s army at Tapae. Now Lysandra would even the score.

  She was Spartan – war was in her blood. More, she was steeped in martial lore and far more tactically astute than the career generals who used the military as a stepping stone to political power. They were amateurs and, despite her lack of experience, she was the professional in this matter. She had proven this at Domitian’s birthday and more on the corpses of those she had slain in the arena. What Roman general had actually felt the slick warmth of blood on his sword hand before leading his troops to battle?

  There were no war-tricks that Sorina and her band of savages could pull off this time – Frontinus’s strategy would not allow it. No, this would be a battle that would play into Lysandra’s hands and negate the great advantage of barbarian horse tribes.

  The orders from Frontinus were clear – summa exstinctio. She was to take no prisoners for slaves: she must kill every Dacian. Lysandra smiled slightly, imagining the agony this would make Sorina feel before she herself fell. She deserved it for what she had done to Eirianwen. Sorina should have stayed her hand, let her win. Eirianwen was in the flower of her youth, Sorina in the autumn of her life. Sorina, who claimed to love Eirianwen as a daughter, but not enough to sacrifice herself for that love.

  Lysandra would make her pay. ‘Athene,’ she whispered. ‘Let me have my vengeance.’

  Her head nodded on her chest and she felt sleep begin to claw away at the edge of her consciousness.

  ‘Lysandra?’

  Her eyes snapped open as Kleandrias entered her rooms. The spark of anger at his intrusion was doused as she saw he was carrying a tray with food and drink on it. ‘I thought that you might need some refreshment.’ His eyes fell on her notes. ‘Battle plans? For another mock battle?’ he asked as he placed the tray down.

  Lysandra smiled. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Well – what exactly?’

  ‘Sit,’ she ordered, gesturing to the chair opposite hers. She told him then, enjoying the look of surprise and, she fancied, amazement on his face as the news was imparted.

  ‘You are to do this?’ he asked.

  She did not like his intonation. ‘You think I am incapable of such a task, Kleandrias?’

  ‘No,’ he grinned. ‘But you will need my help. As you know I was
a soldier – a mercenary. I am well-suited to helping you.’

  His smile melted her pique and she met it with one of her own. As he spoke she was reminded of the first time she had met him, all full of bluster and pride. ‘Of course. I was counting on it.’

  ‘What are your plans?’

  Lysandra slid her notes over to him. She was pleased to see him nodding as he read, proof if she needed it, that her thinking on the matter was right.

  ‘Your Deiopolis?’ he looked up from her script. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Frontinus believes that the Dacians have spies in the Roman treasury. He wishes me to sell my assets to Rome – this will pass the notice of any spies as the purchase will not be for weapons. It will be for land – they can hardly be looking out for such things.’

  ‘He is sure there are spies, then?’

  ‘He seemed so. It does not matter either way. We need money to raise troops and this is the most expedient way of turning stone to gold.’

  ‘It is a sad thing though, Lysandra.’

  She frowned, tiredness now making it hard to think. ‘How so?’ ‘You have told me everything about that place. It was once your ludus – now it is your temple. You have shed blood for it. Sometimes, things are worth more than money.’

  ‘There is no other way. Besides – after my fight with Aesalon Nocturna, I walked the banks of the Styx . . . Athene appeared to me in a vision. She said that I would lift my shield in defence of my homeland. I see now that the vision was true. The Deiopolis was made for this purpose. I was made for this purpose as was Arachidamia so long ago. I am her . . . offspring.’

  Kleandrias nodded. Like any Spartan he knew the story of the princess who led the women of the polis in battle against the Epiran warlord, Pyrrhus. ‘You will call on your Sisters of the Temple then. They have been there for centuries, training for a war that never came. Now it would seem that war is upon them.’

  Lysandra’s breast swelled with pride at the thought. ‘I will lead them out,’ she replied. ‘A Spartan to lead Spartans in battle. You will be by my side.’

  ‘A good beginning,’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘Leave me. I must rest. Then I will draft orders for the Deiopolis. They must prepare.’

  ‘One question.’

  Lysandra regarded him for a moment, fighting the urge to yawn. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You are assuming that all the women of the Deiopolis will want to follow you. Want to go to a war. Lysandra, they are not all like you, surely. Some will be unwilling. Afraid.’

  ‘Then they will answer to the gods!’ Lysandra snapped. ‘I will have no one with me who is not . . . with me.’ She squeezed her eyes closed, calming herself. ‘I am not going to conscript my women, Kleandrias. All will have a choice. Any who refuse will have a pension and my goodwill.’

  ‘And for those who join you?’

  ‘I will have Frontinus ensure that they are granted Roman citizenship and a lump sum of cash in addition to their regular pay – on completion of the mission. And exemption from tax if I can.’

  ‘A sweet deal if every I heard one.’

  ‘Rome is desperate. Frontinus will agree to my demands – he has no choice. If he did, do you really think that he would approach me?’

  Kleandrias thought about that for a moment. ‘Perhaps he would. Is there a better strategos in the empire?’

  She smiled. ‘We shall find out soon enough.’

  Dacia

  There was a change in the air, the cold fastness of winter fading into brighter mornings and longer nights. Sorina could taste blood in the wind too: the summer would bring days of slaughter.

  The warriors’ training was going well enough, but it went against the grain. The Dacians were unused to order, preferring instead to embrace the chaos of battle and fight as champions should with skill, courage and honour.

  But the Romans had no honour. To them, war was not a sacred thing, it was merely a process by which they achieved their aims and, as had been proven with the blood of countless thousands, they could not be defeated using the old ways of war.

  Decabalus knew this and had mimicked their methods, dealing them a crushing blow that served well to keep the host in check.

  Even so, there were divisions in the tribes – those utterly loyal to Decabalus and those becoming unsure by the interminable lingering before the war began.

  ‘They are a problem.’ Decabalus said to her as they sat on the rich rugs that decorated the floor of his tent. ‘A problem you can help me deal with.’

  Sorina smiled. ‘I think you overestimate my sway with them, my lord.’ It was true: she had a reputation as warrior and war-leader, but she was old. The young always disagreed with the old; it was the way of things.

  ‘The Romans are beginning to move,’ Decabalus scratched at his beard. ‘My spies provide me with information on their legions,’ he added both with a sense of pride and as if he sought her approval.

  ‘You have spies in Rome?’

  ‘Slaves. The Romans trust them to do everything and don’t notice them doing it. It would seem they can only muster three legions to send against us. Three!’ He laughed and slapped his thigh. ‘Three to do the job that five could not do before. And I know that one of these legions, the Felix, is of low quality. Old men, slaves . . . the dregs of their empire.’

  Sorina grunted, eyeing the jug of tzuica placed on the low table between them. ‘So you meet them on the field and crush them. We have the warriors to overwhelm them.’

  Decabalus picked up on the hint and gestured for her to pour for them. ‘The legate in charge of the mission is Tettius Iulianus. This one is no Cornelius Fuscus, that’s what I’m told. A hard man and a wily general. I anticipate more than a handful of trouble if I allow him to call on all his resources.’

  Sorina nodded her agreement. ‘It is wisdom not to underestimate the Romans, my king. This has been my counsel to you and the war chiefs.’

  ‘It intend to make them divide their forces. Which is where I need your help.’

  ‘How?’ She leaned forward.

  ‘You will lead a strong force – comprising those that are less than enthusiastic about my ways of making war – to the north. The story is that you are looking to recruit more warriors from those tribes that have not already provided them. It may look like intimidation. It may look like a show of just how powerful we’ve become if we can afford to send a war host to sweep up extra warriors. But I don’t care how it looks. What I want is for the Romans to know about it. This will force them to divide their army – they must guard their supply lines and their backs. A legion, I think, will be assigned to this – in all likelihood the Felix.’

  ‘But this strategy plays into their hands!’ Sorina exclaimed. ‘They will pick a strong position and fortify it. Poor quality troops or not, we would lose thousands to them before we overwhelmed their defences!’

  ‘Yes,’ Decabalus nodded. To Sorina, it seemed that in the low lamplight his eyes took on a feral gleam. ‘Thousands of those that question my authority and those that were slow to answer my call.’

  Sorina drained her tzuica, wincing at the liquor’s acrid bite. She had thrown it back to hide her shock and disgust: disgust at Decabalus for planning to waste tribal lives so casually; disgust at herself for realising that it was necessary if the king was to retain an iron grip on power. She poured some more tzuica for herself and met his gaze. ‘You think like a Roman,’ she said at length.

  ‘To win, I must.’

  ‘I know,’ her reply was quiet.

  ‘Then you know I am right.’

  She did not reply, staring at the floor, hating the truth in his words.

  He must have taken her silence for reticence. ‘Sorina, you are the only one I can trust to do this. That is my plan, laid bare to you. No one else knows the truth of it. I don’t have to say that I will remember those that aid me.’

  And those that don’t. Sorina knew the threat was implicit. It irked her – he need not have
bothered. ‘I will always aid you, Decabalus,’ she said. ‘I hate Rome and all it stands for. This . . . sacrifice is worth it.’

  Moesia

  ‘What happened, Settus?’

  The fact was that Valerian knew all too well: Settus was sporting a black eye and three men from Mucius’s First of the First had ended up mysteriously in the infirmary with broken bones and head injuries. The centurion was drawn up to attention in the praetorium, doing his best impression of stoicism.

  ‘I fell, sir. Banged me head.’

  ‘At ease, Settus.’ The older man relaxed slightly, but was still on his guard – which irked Valerian a little. ‘Cup of wine? I’m a legate – it’ll be better than the piss they’re giving you, these days.’ Without waiting for a response, Valerian poured two cups for them. ‘Sit down,’ he gestured to the chair opposite his desk.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘I fell, sir.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Settus! I need to know – I can’t have my centurions at odds with each other. So can we drop the pretence that we’ve just met. Permission to speak freely granted, alright?’

  ‘I can’t be seen to have special treatment,’ Settus thrust out his chin, which from hard experience Valerian knew meant that he was as set as concrete on the matter.

  ‘I’m not giving you special treatment, you idiot. I’m asking you for a favour. None of those bastards trust me and nobody will tell me anything. So, what’s the story?’

  ‘Not much to tell,’ Settus tipped back some wine. ‘That cunt Mucius has given his lot free reign to take the piss out of my men. It got out of hand at our tabernae,’ he referred to one of the encampment’s drinking houses.

  ‘Your tabernae?’

  ‘That’s right. First of the First have no reason to be at our end of the camp unless it’s on business or they’re looking for trouble. It was the latter.’

  ‘So you took it upon yourself to deal with the situation?’