Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Read online

  ‘You have my thanks,’ Valerian responded not sure himself if he was being disingenuous or not.

  Frontinus harrumphed, clearly not sure either. ‘In any event, the emperor has agreed that you are to be reinstated into the class of equites . . .’

  ‘I don’t have that kind of money,’ Valerian interrupted. ‘If your people have been keeping an eye on me, then you’ll know that Settus and I are purveyors of high quality shit which make the gardens of Rome bloom. A good living – but not enough to buy my way back in – even if I wanted to.’

  ‘A good thing for you, then, that I have secured you an income from the emperor himself,’ Frontinus sat back and let that sink in for a moment.

  Despite his melancholy, Valerian was taken aback. The patronage of the emperor was no small thing; even Settus, who always tried to maintain an implacable air looked utterly stunned. ‘Why?’ Valerian asked. ‘Why would you do this? Why would he do this? I am . . . nothing.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Frontinus waved that away. ‘Valerian, I know you have suffered loss. You were to be married – to the gladiatrix girl. Settus has told me that her death has cut you to the core. If love is ripped away, it leaves a man empty and cold inside: you think I’m too old to remember? I am not.’

  ‘You have my thanks,’ Valerian murmured. Perhaps he had been too quick to jump to conclusions.

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Frontinus said. ‘I have been remiss. We served together and you were a damn fine officer. I could – and should – have helped you before. But Rome is a demanding mistress. I serve her still. And so should you.’

  ‘I could be of no further use to Rome.’

  ‘I disagree. As does the emperor. Domitian now sees you as a man with unique experience, the only man of quality to survive the Battle of Tapae. A man with good cause to hate Dacia. A man whose hand would not be stayed by mercy. The emperor has decreed that a new war must be proscribed against these savages who have inflicted so cruel a wound upon Rome. Dacia must be punished – Summa exstinctio.’

  ‘Summa exstinctio,’ Valerian repeated. Total war – the utter destruction of an enemy – women and children included, was an unprecedented order.

  ‘Just so,’ Frontinus said. ‘They will pay in blood for what they have done to us. To you,’ he added, his eyes telling Valerian that the old general had a fair idea of what treatment he had received at Dacian hands.

  ‘And you wish me to serve as your tribune?’

  ‘Gods no!’ Frontinus exclaimed. ‘That would be a waste of your experience. Your orders are to take command of a legion, my boy.’

  Valerian was stunned. ‘A legion,’ he repeated, wondering if he was now so drunk that he was hearing things.

  ‘Indeed,’ Frontinus nodded. ‘You will serve under Tettius Iulianus in the coming campaign – should you accept the emperor’s generosity of course.’ He left this hanging for a moment. It was obvious that an imperial command of this nature could not be refused – you did not spit on the emperor’s hand when he extended it.

  ‘Fuck me!’ Settus put in, the matter already decided in his mind.

  ‘We need more wine here. A lot more wine.’

  Frontinus reached across the table and gripped Valerian’s wrist. ‘Your emperor offers you a chance for vengeance,’ he whispered. ‘Take it. Take it and punish the barbarians for what they did to you. And to Rome.’

  ‘Revenge!’ Settus raised his cup.

  ‘Revenge.’ Frontinus did the same.

  Valerian hesitated. Could he wash away the pain he now felt with the blood of the Dacians? Perhaps, he thought, and perhaps not. But it couldn’t make him feel any worse. ‘Revenge,’ he said and drunk deep of his wine.

  A part of him hated himself for being so easily swayed. He knew that Frontinus was playing him like a lyre and he guessed that the Old Man knew that he knew it. But he was in an impossible situation – no man could refuse an Imperial edict and expect to survive. And, even if life had no meaning anymore, Valerian had no wish to end his existence under the torturers’ knife or as food for the beasts of the arena. Better to die fighting and take as many Dacians as he could with him.

  He became aware of a looming presence outside the booth: Frontinus’s bodyguard had approached and leant in to whisper in the old man’s ear.

  On receiving the message, Frontinus broke into a broad grin. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I will leave you to your entertainment.’

  ‘Good news, sir?’ Settus enquired, evidently curious as to what the bodyguard had said.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Frontinus replied. ‘It appears that Achillia has survived her bout with Aesalon Nocturna after all. She lives again – and I am pleased, I rather liked the girl.’

  It was all that Valerian could do not to snort with derision. The fates were playing with him again. They give him a legion with one hand but insured that the woman who killed his love was delivered from death with the other. It was almost funny.

  Settus jerked his chin at him, indicating that he should rise, and he did – albeit unsteadily.

  ‘Salute,’ Settus acknowledged Frontinus formally – as a soldier should.

  Valerian did not hesitate – he had made his pact. ‘Salute,’ he repeated.

  Frontinus eyed him for a moment before nodding. ‘I will be in touch,’ he said before turning abruptly and taking his leave.

  Lysandra was bored.

  Bored of being cooped up in Rome’s Temple of Minerva Medica, bored of being told she must rest and, most of all, bored with being told of how lucky she was to have survived the bout with Aesalon Nocturna. If anyone had been lucky, it was Aesalon herself – one fluke blow had settled the issue. Lysandra’s own survival had nothing to do with luck: the goddess had intervened – not only because she had seen that the Roman woman’s ‘killing’ blow had been a stroke of luck but also because she now had a new purpose for her. And Lysandra burned with the desire to find out what it was. She knew she had received visions while in the grip of the fever after her injury but she could only recall fragments, snatches of her childhood and past. But the goddess had spoken to her again, of that she was certain.

  Her friends – Telemachus, Thebe, Titus and Kleandrias, along with the bodyguards Cappa and Murco, had been constant companions during her rehabilitation, but even their company was beginning to irritate her. Of course, they meant well but there was only so much they could talk about during their daily visits – and now these visits had turned into a general debate about what was best for her and where she should go next: Kleandrias was all for a visit to Sparta; Telemachus and Thebe urged that she should get back to the Deiopolis as soon as possible; Titus said that she should stay in Rome whilst he and others took care of work at the temple; the bodyguards – rightly – that she should do as she wished.

  She knew that Telemachus was correct as always. The Athenian priest had a way of seeing to the heart of the matter and truth of it was, she had forged the Deiopolis in the fire of her will. The women there needed her, and the crushing loss of Varia proved that should her attention wane, disaster awaited. But Titus was also correct: there was something that she needed to attend to in Rome first.

  ‘You have made the right choice,’ Telemachus agreed when she told them as they gathered around her bed. He glanced at the others with an I-told-you-so look on his face, which was a typical Athenian trait.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But the healers will not let me. I fear that these Romans have no concept of the Spartan constitution – we heal faster than lesser peoples. I am ready to leave this place now.’

  ‘It is not their fault,’ Kleandrias put in. ‘They are only treating you as they would anyone else . . .’

  ‘I am not anyone else,’ Lysandra shouted, frustration at being cooped up bubbling to the surface. ‘I am Lysandra of Sparta!’ She was about to say more, but the effort of shouting pulled on her wound and, to her shame, she winced. ‘But my own wishes aside . . .’ She calmed herself with effort. ‘You are my friends, not my n
ursemaids. As you say, the Deiopolis needs attention. Titus . . .’ she addressed her old trainer. ‘You, Thebe and Telemachus must return to attend to matters whilst I am away.’

  ‘I’m sure all is well there,’ Thebe assured her.

  ‘I would feel better if you did, however.’

  Thebe opened her mouth to protest, but Telemachus cut her off. ‘If you insist,’ he said.

  ‘I do insist,’ Lysandra replied. ‘My friends, I love you all dearly and I am grateful to you for watching over me. But, as I have said – I am nearly whole again.’

  ‘I don’t know, Lysandra, ‘Thebe began.’ We should stay – or at least I should.’

  Thebe was a caregiver, steadfast and loyal, and an example for the women of the Deiopolis to look up to – she needed to be back there. ‘Cappa and Murco will be close by,’ Lysandra assured her. ‘They will continue to see that I am well cared for. Is that not so?’

  ‘Aye, lady,’ Cappa affirmed. ‘We’ll let nothing happen to you.’

  ‘Nor I,’ Kleandrias rumbled.

  Lysandra smiled at her countryman. Of course, Kleandrias felt accountable for her so-called defeat as he had largely been responsible for training her. That was probably a correct assumption, but it would be churlish of her to point this out – so if the man wished to stay to assuage his guilt then she should allow it. Besides which, she enjoyed his company and it was clear to her that he adored her and she was big enough to admit to herself that she rather enjoyed the attention. When they had first met, she had been in awe of him – now the situation was reversed.

  ‘Very well, then,’ Telemachus nodded. ‘Lysandra – Athene, as always, walks by your side. We shall make ready to return – dare I say – home.’

  ‘You have given up on your Athenian roots, Telemachus?’ Lysandra arched an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve lived longer in Asia Minor than I’ve spent in Athens,’ he scratched his beard ruefully. ‘I think that it is my home, now, yes. But there is a part of me that wants to see the city of my birth once more.’

  ‘I will always be Spartan, no matter where I live,’ Kleandrias put in.

  ‘Naturally,’ Telemachus responded smoothly.

  Thebe looked to be on the verge of tears. ‘You will do as the healers say, Lysandra?’ she asked. ‘You two won’t let her leave here till they say she is fit,’ she turned to Cappa and Murco.

  ‘We promise,’ Murco’s response was as bland as the man himself.

  Thebe did not look convinced but sighed. ‘Just make sure,’ she said. She moved to the bed and embraced Lysandra, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Be well, sister,’ she said and pulled her as close as she could without hurting her. One by one, her friends said their goodbyes and departed, and as soon as the sound of their footsteps had passed from earshot, Lysandra turned to Cappa. ‘Pass me the stylus and wax pad, please.’

  ‘I thought you were in a bit of a hurry to get rid of your mates,’ he grinned. ‘What have you got in mind?’

  Lysandra grinned back. ‘Rematch,’ she said, her heart beating fast with the anticipation of it.

  ‘A woman?’ Tettius Iulianus was aghast. ‘No, Frontinus – that is at best madness and at worse an affront to the gods. I will not have it.’

  Frontinus had expected this reaction and was prepared for it. The two men were reclining in his triclinium, well fed and watered as they discussed the forthcoming Dacian campaign. ‘She is no ordinary woman,’ he replied.

  ‘She’s still a woman – a Greek and a gladiatrix,’ disgust was evident in his dark eyes. ‘Rome will not associate herself with such an abomination. I will not associate myself with it. There are plenty of mercenary commanders out there, men still loyal to the empire — and their own purses. We will use them.’

  ‘I think you’re rather missing the point,’ Frontinus responded. ‘Decabalus has spies everywhere – as do we. He knows we are planning a punitive expedition as we know he is well prepared for it. When he hears that Valerian has been given command of a legion, he will believe that we are desperate for quality leadership – the boy’s shame is well known, so why would he be chosen for a command?’

  ‘I wonder that myself.’ Iulianus was sour. ‘I have better men for the job.’

  ‘No, you do not. Despite what he’s been through, I know that the boy has the gift of command. I served with him in Britannia and Cambria.’

  ‘Cambria.’ Iulianus shook his head. ‘A gods-forsaken shithole if ever there was one.’

  ‘True,’ Frontinus said. ‘Nevertheless, the decision has been made – by the emperor,’ he added – a little needlessly, but if Iulianus was going to be obstructive then he ought to be reminded that Frontinus had Domitan’s ear. ‘It makes sense. All Valerian has to do is give you time to complete your work. You will not fail. But . . .’ he paused, choosing his words, ‘war is a dangerous business my friend. If things go awry then all the blame can be laid at his feet. Of course, we don’t anticipate things going badly. And, naturally, in victory, you will take all the plaudits and he will remain anonymous. History will remember Tettius Iulianus – Gaius Minervinus Valerian will not even be a footnote – unless he fails, in which case he will become the Varus of the modern era.’

  Iulianus grunted, mollified by the flattery but obviously remained unconvinced. However, Domitian had agreed with Frontinus – so he had to accept it. ‘And how does this fit in with your insane scheme for the gladiatrix?’

  ‘Ah,’ Frontinus motioned for a slave to pour more wine for them.’ I spent time in Asia Minor as you know. To the Greeks there, she is a heroine of almost divine status. She is the Gladiatrix Prima still – they worship her. You know of young Trajanus?’

  ‘A man to watch, I’m told.’

  ‘He had a frieze of her commissioned for her battle with the former champion.’

  ‘But your gladiatrix is not Gladiatrix Prima in Rome. She was defeated. By a Roman, I might add. I imagine your purse is still stinging from your ill-placed faith in her.’

  ‘Indeed, ‘Frontinus felt a glow of inner satisfaction as Iulianus began to walk into his trap.’ She should have died – but she did not. Did you know that, before she became a gladiatrix, she was a Priestess of Athene? It could be said, her goddess has spared her for another purpose.’

  ‘Nonsense. She was spared by good Roman surgery and medicines.’

  ‘As any educated man knows. But the vast majority of mercenary soldiers are not educated. We can use this to our advantage. It is my intention to spread the word of the “divine intervention” among the Greeks in my former province of Asia Minor and indeed on the Greek mainland. I will then dispatch Lysandra – Achillia as you know her – to recruit mercenaries from the Greek peninsula and bring them to Dacia. All this will be conducted away from the prying eyes of Decabalus. In this manner, we reinforce Valerian’s legion with another, cover your actions against the Dacians and give any relief or flanking force a nasty shock. They will think they are facing a rearguard, after all – they will learn a costly lesson.’ He leaned forward on his couch. ‘Iulianus, I know this woman. She is extraordinary. Her training in her Spartan temple coupled with her unique celebrity makes her an ideal choice. Nobody will suspect her – and through her we will ensure your victory in Dacia.’

  ‘I don’t need a woman to cover my back,’ Iulianus snapped.

  ‘She won’t be – as far as everyone is concerned, that task falls to Valerian. Lysandra will . . . edited out of dispatches, so to speak. Unless everything goes wrong, in which case her involvement will be blamed on Valerian. That way, even if you lose . . . you don’t lose at all.’

  ‘We cannot afford to lose,’ Iulianus sat back, deep in thought. ‘We have to win. Rome cannot suffer another defeat in Dacia. It would portend the end of the empire.’

  ‘Which is precisely why we should seize every advantage we can,’ Frontinus concluded like a lawyer. ‘Iulianus, I know it is distasteful. But nobody will expect it. And there is something else. Valerian reported that the men hesitate
d to kill the Dacian warrior women – it is a perverse and un-natural thing to send a woman into battle, but the barbarians have no such compunctions. Lysandra has women of her own that can combat this . . . fear. She owns a school of trained killers: years ago, she led them in a mock battle for the emperor. I might add she handled them well.’

  ‘A mock battle,’ Iulianus shook his head. ‘Marvellous.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose you’ve already got Domitian’s approval for this?’

  ‘The emperor is a great admirer of Lysandra.’ Frontinus smiled.

  ‘All this assumes that this woman of yours will do what you ask. She may refuse.’

  Frontinus chuckled. ‘I think I can persuade her. In fact I know that I can.’

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘Because,’ Frontinus replied, ‘it will flatter her ego. Which is, I might add, prodigious.’

  ‘This is madness.’ Iulianus’s hawk-like face crumpled in defeat. ‘I won’t be associated with it.’

  ‘You won’t be,’ Frontinus assured him. ‘Unless you lose. So it’s best for all of us that you do your job and allow me to do mine. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Yes, I think that we do,’ Iulianus got to his feet. ‘I will take my leave of you, Frontinus. I have a war to prepare for.’ He stalked out, fury hanging about him like a mourning pall.

  There had been plaudits, of course. Many and varied, humble and extravagant; these coupled with the boons from an elated Domitian had almost doubled her already vast fortune.

  But now, weeks after her victory over the Spartan, Aemilia Illeana found that all the wealth in the world was no substitute for the thrill of facing down an opponent in the arena. She had indulged herself in any and all number of diversions, but after the sexual thrills had passed and the hangovers from too much wine had faded, she found that she was left with nothing.