Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 12

  ‘No, I . . .’

  ‘Right,’ Valerian sighed. ‘You fell.’ It saddened him a little that a distance was growing between himself and Settus. It hadn’t occurred to him that it would happen, but of course, from Settus’s point of view, if he was seen to be the legate’s pet, then his life would be intolerable with his peers. But warring factions within the legion were intolerable to him as legate – it all needed to be stamped out. ‘How are your men progressing?’ he changed the subject.

  ‘That Slainius – my optio – is a vicious bastard. Even I’m scared of him. But the men are terrified. So we’re getting the best out of them, I reckon.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate to me, Settus. I’m serious – I understand the whole my-century-is-the-best speech – but I need to know.’ He didn’t add it, but the as your mate suffix was implicit.

  ‘They won’t let you – or me – down, sir. One of the lads – Caballo – is showing signs of leadership. Which, by the way, is a fucking contradiction, because he’s an ex-slave, but who knows the way of the gods? What I mean to say is – I know what I’m doing. Slanius is enough of a sadist to keep ’em on the straight and narrow and Caballo gives them a shoulder to cry on. And he does a really good impersonation of me which cracks the men up.’

  Valerian held back a smirk at that, imagining someone lampooning Settus. ‘So you reckon they’d hold their own in some field work? Bit of friendly competition with the other centuries?’

  Settus gave Valerian his crack-toothed grin. ‘They’d fucking relish it, sir.’

  Publius Mucius Cinna was the son of a soldier, who in turn was the son of a soldier. He knew with certainty that he – like his fathers before him – would die in the service of Rome. Not for Mucius the drooling, piss-stenched years of senility, his memories of the glory days lost to the confusion of the aged. He would end his days under the eagle.

  He counted himself an honest man, a trait, his father had warned him all those years ago, that would land him in trouble one day. And it had.

  He could pretend that his position of the Felix Legion’s Primus Pilus was an honour gifted to him for years of loyal service. But the truth of it was, it was demotion to the shittiest legion in the empire.

  Legion? From his hilltop vantage point, Mucius looked on as the men marched out on exercises. Out of the five thousand that made up the Felix, his century had the only men worthy of calling themselves soldiers. The rest . . . it was all he could do to refrain from spitting as the thought came to him.

  The legion – like some giant, iron-plated snake, undulated over the gently hilled Moesian countryside. These barbarian lands were all the same, Mucius thought bitterly – green, wet and stinking – muggy in summer, freezing in winter. It was as though the gods had become bored with the north and just decided that Germanian topography was all that the savages deserved.

  The rhythmic thump of a horse’s hooves on damp grass dragged his attention away from the legion.

  The legate.

  Mucius bit down on his own teeth to stop himself from sneering. If the Felix legion was barely worthy of the name, its commander was a disgrace to the banners. A boy, foisted upon better men by the idiot politicians in Rome. And worse, a cursed boy, the taint of defeat hanging around him like a pall.

  ‘Morning, Primus,’ Valerian nodded at him.

  ‘Sir.’

  The legate turned his attention to the marching men below. ‘Not bad,’ he murmured. ‘Not bad at all.’ Mucius kept his counsel, but his distaste must have been written all over his face. ‘You disagree, Primus? You may speak freely.’

  ‘I’ve served with better, sir.’

  ‘As have I. But, we have what we have. We must . . . do what Romans do. Find a way to win.’

  ‘With that lot? They’ll shit themselves at the first sign of the enemy and run away. They’re not proper soldiers – they’re . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know – geriatrics, children and slaves. But it’s your job – you and the other centurions – to make them soldiers.’

  ‘My men are soldiers.’

  ‘That’s not enough, Primus. You are a fine officer – your First of the First is the cream of our somewhat clotted legion – but it cannot win a battle alone. I need you to show some leadership here.’

  Mucius bristled. ‘Am I still speaking freely?’ He waited until Valerian made a gesture of acquiescence. ‘All right, then. I don’t need a lecture from you, legate. Maybe you should look to your other officers.’

  ‘Like Settus?’

  Mucius didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

  The legate sighed and turned his attention back to the marching troops below. ‘This little feud between you and him needs to end,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘He lacks respect.’

  ‘For what? Your position as First Spear in the empire’s shittiest legion? Like it or not, Mucius, Settus – and I for that matter – served with Sextus Frontinus. We won with him.’

  ‘That was then,’ Mucius was pleased to point out. ‘This is now.’

  ‘True enough,’ the younger man acknowledged. ‘Very well, Mucius. Very well. It might please you to know that, as part of this exercise, I’ve given orders for one of my centuries to secure an area. From which they could, say, harass a legion on the march, interrupt supply lines – that sort of thing.’ He looked pointedly to the north – in the distance, Mucius could make out a thickly wooded forest.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m sure that by now they’re dug in deep, like ticks. As you know, we don’t have any auxiliaries at this time, so if these manoeuvres were the real thing, I’d need to dispatch an elite force to get rid of this potential threat to the security of the legion . . .’

  ‘You’re setting my men against Settus’s?’ Mucius didn’t know whether to be pleased or affronted.

  ‘Well . . . yes.’ The legate shrugged. ‘I reckoned that it was probably for the best that this contest had a conclusion, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not going to be a contest!’ Mucius looked again towards the forest, suddenly eager to be back with his men, eager to be getting to grips with the tattooed little upstart.

  ‘Don’t be so sure, Primus,’ the legate said. ‘He’s no fool. But whatever the outcome, you two will shake on it and that will be an end to it. Do I have your word on that?’

  ‘You do, sir,’ Mucius agreed – hastily, he recognised. Too hastily.

  ‘I’m not setting you up,’ the legate said as though reading his thoughts. ‘Settus knows that your unit will be out looking for him – his men are armed with practice weapons, so he also knows there’ll be a fight. But that’s all he knows. Your job is to locate his force and take him out. I’ll have judges put in with your men – as I have with his. So . . .’ Valerian gestured to the distant forest. ‘Over to you, Primus.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Mucius eyed the foreboding trees with a degree of suspicion.

  His optio, Livius, twisted his lips. ‘Shit, I don’t know. What was it the legate called us – an elite force? Elite force, my arse.’ He lowered his voice. ‘This is auxiliary work, Primus. We’ve no business slogging our way through that,’ he indicated the black barked trees. ‘We all know what happened to . . .’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Mucius cut him off. Livius was steady and levelheaded – but he could also nag like an old wife. ‘If I hear the name Varus one more time today, I’ll break you to the ranks.’

  ‘I’m just saying, is all,’ Livius held up his hands defensively.

  ‘Varus was ambushed and outnumbered,’ Mucius gritted. ‘All we’ve got to do is find Settus and his slaves and give them a kicking.’

  ‘Then why ask me what I think?’

  ‘Professional courtesy.’

  ‘My arse.’

  Mucius glanced back at his century, idling on the grass. The men were – like himself – pretending that entering the forest wasn’t scaring them. But it was – everyone knew that these barbarian woods were cursed and ghosts lurked in the
mists. But they had a mission.

  ‘All right,’ Mucius tapped his chin. ‘Let’s see. Livius, get a contubernia ready. No shields – I need them moving fast and light. Skirmish line – fifty feet apart. Get ’em out scouting and reporting back at regular intervals. I’ll get the rest ready to move. We’ll follow them up. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Livius saluted and made off to carry out his orders, leaving Mucius once again to turn his attention to the forest. ‘All right, Settus,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s see what you have.’

  The Deiopolis, Asia Minor

  Life was good, Telemachus decided. The goddess was good. After years of loyal service, she had finally rewarded him. Life in Lysandra’s Deiopolis was everything he had imagined it to be and more. Lysandra had made beautiful what was once hard and cruel, building upon the grounds of her old ludus, converting the houses and cell blocks to places of work and worship. As such, each of the twelve Olympians had their own sphere of influence within the compound.

  Yes, most of it was rudely designed – aside from the complex’s centrepiece, a magnificent statue of Athene crafted by the famous Apollodorus of Damascus – but, for all that, it was a grand place. Tourists flocked to it and paid handsomely to pray at the feet of Hellenic pantheon – especially the Temple of Aphrodite that, despite the obscene fees charged by the priestesses for their services, was by far the most profitable enterprise in the entire place.

  Telemachus had just visited there himself – a perk of the job for which he did not have to pay – and he supposed that this was the reason for his bonhomie. That and the fact that he was becoming a very rich man for doing what he had always done – administering a temple.

  Hands behind his back, whistling a jaunty tune of his own devising, he made his way to his quarters, smiling and nodding in greeting along the way to the priestesses and temple staff that knew him. The sun was sinking, casting an orange light onto the white stone of the Deiopolis – it was his favourite time of the day. As the sun set, the sounds of the temple became somewhat muted, save for the clack of wooden swords coming from the Temples of Ares and Athene. It served to remind him that, as grand as the place was now, it had been bought and paid for in blood and gold earned on the sands of the arena.

  It was time for a cup or two of wine, he decided. A reward for the efforts of the day – and he needed one after the exertions at Aphrodite’s Temple.

  His quarters were of adequate size, kept neat and tidy by his own hand. Telemachus could not abide mess and disorder and it had shocked him to see how the usually disciplined Lysandra conducted her business affairs. Then again, Lysandra was hardly gifted with acumen of that kind.

  Unusually, his secretary, the big-haired Nikos, was waiting for him as he entered.

  ‘Sir . . .’ Nikos began.

  ‘Telemachus,’ the priest corrected – for the umpteenth time. ‘I’m not Spartan, I’m not a trainer and I’m most certainly not a soldier. Come on,’ he threw his arm around the younger man’s shoulder. ‘I need a cup of wine. And so do you, by the look of you,’ he added, noting Nikos’s tense expression.

  ‘Old habits,’ Nikos acknowledged.

  The two entered Telemachus’s office – a homely affair, less severe and more tastefully decorated than the bleak cell from which Lysandra liked to work. Perhaps that explained the mess of her accounts – chaos out of all that order. ‘Sit down,’ he bade Nikos, pouring wine for them both before he sat at his desk. Everything was cleared – aside from two, sealed leather message tubes: one of them bore Lysandra’s name, the other, the seal of Sextus Julius Frontinus.

  ‘The messenger said they were urgent and were to be opened only by your hand,’ Nikos took a hefty hit of wine. ‘His horse was half dead.’

  ‘I hope you – ’

  ‘ . . . Offered him lodging and had his horse tended to at the Temple of Artemis. Of course.’

  ‘I’m surprised the priestesses didn’t pepper you with arrows.’

  ‘They may be mean-spirited towards men, Telemachus. But they love animals. And shooting.’

  Telemachus let his mouth twist in a half-grin to mask his concern. The one thing Lysandra was not prone to was panic. Arrogance, obstinacy, parochialism and ruthlessness, yes. But never panic; the fact that she had seen fit to ensure the messenger underscored the urgency of her communication worried him. ‘Let’s see what they want, then.’

  ‘Shall I leave, sir . . . Telemachus?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, because the messages were for your hand only and the Lady always insisted that private messages were to be read in private.’

  ‘The Lady isn’t here. You’re my secretary for now, so my rules apply – alright? And besides,’ he broke the seal on Lysandra’s tube, ‘you’ll be writing the response anyway. Better handwriting than mine.’ He pulled out the scroll and began to read. After a few moments, he put it down and laughed.

  ‘I feared it was bad news.’ Nikos looked relieved.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then why are you laughing?’

  ‘Hubris.’ Telemachus said, recalling his cheeriness of a few minutes ago. ‘Nikos – please would you go and find Thebe and Titus and have them come here. At once.’

  Nikos set his cup down and made off, leaving Telemachus to open Frontinus’s messages, hoping it was all some terrible misunderstanding.

  It was not.

  ‘She can’t be serious,’ Titus said. He, Telemachus and Thebe were on some hastily gathered couches in the office. Wine and food had been brought, but it was largely untouched.

  Telemachus regarded him from under his eyebrows. ‘How long have you known Lysandra?’

  ‘A bit longer than you.’

  ‘And in all that time, have you known her indulge in comedy?’ There was no answer to that. ‘She’s serious all right. The goddess has spoken to her,’ he added. Titus was about to talk again, but Telemachus overrode him. ‘You Romans view the gods differently to us, Titus. I am a priest – I know that Athene speaks to – and sometimes through – Lysandra. For all of her . . . foibles . . . Athene loves her. As she loved Odysseus – Ulysses – I suppose.’

  ‘But this is madness!’ Titus leaned forward on his couch.

  ‘It is not!’ This from Thebe. ‘You know her. You know what she can do. That sort of thing can only be inspired by the Gods of Olympus. Lysandra died – and lives again. If Athene calls . . . don’t roll your eyes at me, Titus . . . Lysandra must answer. As must we. All we have,’ she gestured at the surrounds, ‘all we do, we owe to her.’

  ‘To be fair, you did your share of bleeding in the arena, Thebe,’ Titus raised his cup in a peace gesture.

  ‘That’s as maybe. But no Roman senator commissioned a frieze of Thebe. They do not still speak of Thebe in Halicarnassus and beyond. There is no statue of Thebe in Corinth – ’

  ‘So, she’s serious,’ Telemachus interjected. ‘And it falls to us to help her.’

  ‘Let’s hear it again – the short version, though,’ Titus amended hastily.

  Telemachus sighed. ‘I laid out a map on my desk,’ he said, swinging his legs off his couch and moving towards it.

  ‘We are to sell the Deiopolis to the Governor of Asia Minor,’ he said. ‘The price over the odds – but not excessively so. With the money, we are to fund Lysandra’s recruitment of a mercenary army to support the Romans in defence of the Empire against Decabalus – his Dacians . . . and Sorina’s Amazons. Frontinus has engaged propagandists amongst the gathering places of Hellene mercenaries. Their task is to rally them to the Roman – or rather Lysandra’s – cause. Her fame as the woman Athene saved will assist in this.

  ‘The priestesses of this temple also play a part in this plan,’ he went on. We must convince as many as we can to march with us.’

  ‘What about the ones that don’t fight? ‘Thebe asked. ‘They’re not just Priestesses of Ares, Athene and Artems – ’

  ‘Logistics,’ Titus interrupted. ‘You can’t have men and women
marching together. But the Deiopolis has everything a campaign needs in terms of skills. Cooks, woodcraft, leather workers, armourers, healers . . . everything. Lysandra,’ he smiled, despite himself, ‘thinks of everything, doesn’t she?’

  ‘There are women that have left here that fought in Lysandra’s spectacle,’ Thebe said. ‘Many are still local. They would fight for her, I know it.’

  ‘Then it’ll be down to you to convince them, ‘Telemachus said. ‘Now look,’ he pointed at the map. ‘We’re here. We need to get here – just outside the village of Ceramos – one week before Saturnalia. It’s a natural harbour as you can see.’

  ‘Turn of the year is only four months away,’ Titus said. ‘It takes six months to train a legionary. We – ’

  ‘That’s taking a civilian and making him a soldier,’ Thebe interrupted. ‘Our people can already fight. Most have already seen a battle.’

  ‘A mock battle,’ Titus pointed out.

  ‘Lysandra trained us well. Marching. Drilling. Many hundreds moving as one. I remember it well – the others will too. I led my women with honour.’

  Titus rubbed his beard. ‘Rome must be desperate to countenance this. I know our girls fought for Domitian’s spectacle, but would they stand in a real fight? With men?’

  ‘Doesn’t that come down to training?’ Thebe’s eyebrow was arched, her response barbed.

  ‘Yes and no,’ Titus adopted his ‘voice of experience’ and it was all Telemachus could do to refrain from rolling his eyes. ‘Morale is key. If they’re fighting for something – that’s the thing. I can tell you, the many times I’ve faced battle . . .’

  ‘They will be fighting for something,’ Telemachus said quickly, cutting off the inevitable lengthy yarn. ‘There is Lysandra, yes. They know the goddess favours her. And, let’s be honest, they owe her. They’ve lived a life here like no other.’

  ‘Even so,’ Titus said. ‘Gratitude only goes so far. You’d be asking them to leave all this behind and go to a war.’

  ‘Athene speaks through Lysandra,’ Thebe folded her arms. ‘All the women in the Deiopolis know this. They will answer her call – the call of the goddess.’