Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 8

  Well, not quite nothing, she amended. She was still the most beautiful woman in the empire – despite the scars that had been delivered by the impossibly tough Spartan. Illeana picked up a hand-mirror and looked at the one down her cheek – it had not been a deep cut and, now that the swelling had gone, managed in some strange way to almost enhance her looks, drawing attention to her cheekbones and her otherwise flawless skin. But if the cut to her face had not been deep, the one to her shoulder had; it pained her still, having cut deep into the muscle. She knew in her heart that though she would return to fitness in time, she would not be able to rely on it in the arena. Other fighters might bear to fight at a level less than perfection, but not Aesalon Nocturna. She had to be at her peak – all the time. She knew that, even with a suspect shoulder, she would still be a dangerous opponent. Perhaps the most dangerous. But she could no longer be sure.

  Illeana rose from her empty bed and walked to her balcony, wondering what to do for the day. As always, the first thing that occurred was to begin training again: even if the life of a fighter was denied her, there was no reason that she should not keep her skills honed. But as she raised her arm to the ceiling to test her wound, it ached and she knew that today was not the day. She could run and do light callisthenics to keep in trim – but anything else would just damage her shoulder further. It was frustrating in the extreme.

  She recalled the conversation she had had with Pyrrha before she had been killed and she had told the youngster the truth. It was the sheer thrill of combat that attracted her to the arena. There was nothing like the high it gave her, not drink, not drugs, not sex. And it was ultimately depressing that it was lost to her forever.

  Illeana called her slaves to her and demanded that they prepare her bath. Perhaps she would visit the Ludus Magnus – if only to watch the fighters at their work. She needed to feel some sort of connection with the place again – perhaps as a trainer. She had, after all, trained Pyrrha. That the girl had been killed was not her fault. No one on earth could have defeated Achillia – no one except her, of course.

  Illeana had heard that, in defiance of the gods themselves, Achillia still lived. It was incredible to her that the Spartan survived; she knew she had struck a killing blow, seen her fall all but dead to the sands. Yet, somehow, she had clung to life. Illeana found her lips twisting in a half-smile: despite her arrogance and overweening piety, the Spartan was a woman to be admired. Almost her equal in many ways. She herself was not so conceited as to think that, on another day in another battle, she would have been guaranteed a victory. It had been a close fight; the closest she had ever fought. It could easily have been the Spartan who struck the decisive blow.

  But she had not, and Aesalon Nocturna emerged as victrix. Again.

  The thought lifted her mood as she slipped into the warm, petal-strewn waters of her bath. Perhaps becoming a trainer was the way to go: it would not replace the ultimate thrill of knowing that each moment in the arena could be your last, but she recalled the peaks and troughs of emotion she had felt when she watched Pyrrha fight and die. Different of course, not as intense as personal combat, but perhaps in time it would satisfy her.

  ‘Domina?’ the unobtrusive voice of her body slave, the ancient and wiry Naso interrupted her reverie.

  ‘What is it,’ she asked.

  ‘There is a message here for you. From one Lysandra of Sparta.’

  ‘Lysandra?’ Illeana sat up in the water. ‘Well?’ she snapped, ‘read it!’

  Naso cleared his throat with air of a man who was going to deliver an unpopular message to the plebs. ‘To Aemilia Illeana From Lysandra of Sparta, Hail,’ he began.’ I trust that the grievous wounds I inflicted upon you are healing well and you will soon be able to fight again. The victory had the touch of Fortuna as I think we both know and I am sure that your Roman public, accustomed to gladiatorial displays, know this as well. I shall, therefore, offer you a chance to redeem your honour and permit you to fight me again. If you have the courage. I expect your response forthwith.’

  Illeana was stunned for a moment. All fighters had to have confidence, but this bordered on the delusional. She had won the fight, not Achillia – Lysandra, she corrected herself. Yet this challenge read as though the opposite were true. It was ludicrous and Illeana found herself chuckling at the audacity of the woman.

  She glanced down at the scar on her shoulder. It was a livid reminder of their fight. Illeana knew that if she had not managed an instinctive lunge at Lysandra – more by luck than judgement – this blow would have seen her defeated. She closed her eyes, thrilling at the fear in her belly. She was afraid of Lysandra – to come so close to defeat yet still have achieved victory had taken almost everything she had to give – an experience she had neither need nor desire to repeat. She had won; Lysandra had lost – and Illeana had nothing to gain or prove by fighting her again. Only a fool tempted the fates.

  ‘Do you have a response, Domina?’ Naso, ever the professional, queried.

  ‘Yes,’ Illeana thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I do. Tell her that I have retired from the games as Gladiatrix Prima and Victrix.’ She paused thinking for a moment. Lysandra was an intriguing woman – there was a part of Illeana that wanted – needed, in fact, to get to know her better. No one had ever pushed her so close, no one had ever dragged the reserves from her that the Spartan had – and no one had ever made her afraid. ‘Naso. Add that it would be my pleasure and honour to meet Lysandra of Sparta. My respect for her prowess is considerable and I would like to raise a cup to her bravery – we are both champions and there should not be enmity between us.’

  They were, she realised, similar creatures. As she was already feeling the abyss of emptiness left by her retirement, so must Lysandra. The challenge was most likely bluster, but in it Illeana wondered if perhaps she had found a kindred spirit.

  Moesia

  Valerian tried very hard not to grin at Settus stalking up and down the ranks of recruits like a lion choosing which prisoner he would devour in the arena. His first act as legate of the IV Flavia Felix legion had been to order Settus’s instatement as centurion. For Valerian, it was the least he could do – Settus had been a friend to him when he was down; and, if he was honest with himself, the legion would need men like Settus to mould the recruits into soldiers.

  Recruits was almost too fine a word; as the newest centurion, he had to give Settus the lowest ranking century – the Tenth of the Tenth cohort. But for Settus he knew it was the fulfilment of a dream; and, if he knew Settus, the beginning of a nightmare for the unfortunates who had been assigned to his century.

  Valerian glanced up at the iron-grey sky. It always rained in the east, he thought to himself: just like Dacia. The legion had marched from Italia to Moesia to train in earnest and, as any veteran of the last campaign knew, the weather could get on top of you. As he thought it, a light drizzle began which would have been an omen anywhere else in the world.

  He nudged his horse forward as Settus and his optio finally had the men arrayed to his satisfaction. ‘These are your recruits, Centurion Settus?’ he said, his voice carrying to the rear ranks.

  ‘I’m afraid so, legate,’ Settus said with a sigh and a slight shake of his head. Both of them had heard the ‘welcome speech’ enough times and knew exactly what to say in front of new men. Such was the army, Valerian thought: it never really changed. He regarded the men and could not keep the disappointment from his eyes. Exslaves, old men and boys had been pulled in to bolster the numbers and Valerian knew well that the Commander in Chief, Tettius Iulianus, was none too pleased to have him on his staff. As such, the Felix Legion received the worst of the worst. ‘They don’t look as though they’ll be any good to Rome, centurion.’

  ‘That’s very true, sir, very true. Not at the moment. But I’ll knock ’em into shape. Or Optio Slanius here will make sure they’ll die trying to get there. ‘Settus’s optio flexed his shoulders on cue. He was huge and had the aspect of a boxer – flat-nosed, chip-tooth
ed and scarred. The grin he gave Valerian was evil and he looked again at the recruits, now feeling some pity for them.

  ‘Carry on!’ Valerian nodded and retreated, deciding to watch for a few moments before returning to his command tent.

  ‘I am Sallustius Secundus Settus,’ Settus began to pace again. ‘Or, to you useless fucks, Centurion Settus or sir. Forget what your old man might have told you about “real soldiers” and “doing all the work”: I’m a fucking officer and you will address me as such. Forget that and . . .’ He raised his vine staff. ‘I will ram this so far up your arse you will be able to pick your teeth with it.’

  Someone in the middle ranks sniggered at that and Settus drew to halt and smiled. But there was no warmth in it. ‘Yes, I know. I’m a funny man. I crack myself up. Like now, for instance. The comedian there has just earned you lot extra fatigues. If you don’t know what fatigues are yet, come the end of the day – you will. And I’ll still be laughing. Something tells me you won’t. Now,’ he began to pace again, ‘it’s obvious to me that you are all less than the shit on my boots. But I will make soldiers of you or you will die in the attempt. Work hard, do as you’re told, perform well and you will find me benevolent, kindly and like a second father to you. Fail me and you will curse the day your whore mother spat you out of her poxy cunt. Any questions?’

  He halted and glared at everyone and no one in particular. Every man in the century had the good sense to keep their eyes front and their mouths shut. Settus picked on a tall, rangy old-timer who was front and centre. ‘You!’ he screamed into the man’s face. ‘What’s your fucking name?’

  ‘Caballo, sir!’

  ‘Caballo? Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘No, Centurion Settus!’

  ‘I like you, Caballo,’ Settus leered. ‘Ex-slave are you? Or have you seen time in the legions before? Come back for one last crack at the big payday?’

  ‘Ex-Slave, sir. Manumitted because I’m here to fight the barbarians, sir.’

  ‘So, slave,’ Settus got in close, invading the taller man’s personal space. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Not at the moment, sir.’

  ‘Well, well. That’s good, Caballo, very good.’ Settus resumed pacing. ‘You lot should learn from this man. He may have been a slave but he seems to have some sense. “Not at the moment” he said. And he’s right. Asking a question is not a bad thing. Asking it twice is. Don’t make me waste my autumnal years telling you the same thing over and over again.

  ‘Now,’ Settus moved on, ‘whatever Caballo was before, he is now a recruit in my century. That goes for the rest of you. You are all equally worthless in my eyes and here’s your first lesson for free. You will work as a team: the only worth you have in this life from this moment forward is the worth you prove to me and my commanders. But mostly to me. What happened in the past is in the past – and there it will stay. In other words, any ganging up on someone because he was a slave or a prisoner or anything else, you will answer for it. My century; my rules. Am I clear?’

  Settus got a mixture of ‘yes sir’ and ‘yes Centurion Settus’ but he seemed satisfied.

  ‘Let’s begin shall we? Turn to your left. The other left!’ he screamed as someone – inevitably got it wrong and was duly pounded on the back by the eager Optio Slanius’s vine staff. ‘Right foot first . . . and right . . . left . . . right . . .’

  Valerian had seen enough. He dismounted and hailed an idle legionary to take his horse to the paddock as he wandered through the vast camp back to the praetorium – his command tent situated at the very heart of the legion and surrounded by its guardsmen and standards. The men on duty saluted him as he approached but Valerian could read the disdain in their eyes. No one respected him and he knew it: his inexperience of field rank was a heavy enough cross to bear for the few veterans in the legion but – worse – he was unlucky. The irony of being given command of the Felix – ‘the fortunate’ legion – was not lost on him, nor, he suspected on anyone else. Word had got around that their new commander was the highest ranker to survive Tapae: to have such a man leading them on a return to the site of his former defeat was a bad omen.

  Valerian entered the command tent and threw his wet cloak onto a couch. He should, he thought, be a man revitalised. Frontinus had been true to his word and had delivered everything he had promised – the patronage of the emperor, the command itself, exoneration and a chance for revenge on the Dacians. But the drunken feeling of resolve that had filled him in Rome had long since fled, and now Valerian could barely shake the feeling that he was being set up to fail even though there was no good reason for the suspicion.

  He sat at his desk, trying to push the depressing thoughts away, but the truth of it was that being so near to Tapae had brought close the horror he had experienced at barbarian hands. His sleep was restless, the nightmares had returned and with them the fear – and he put his rising paranoia down to this. But paranoia aside, nobody in the legion had faced the Dacian hordes before – nobody except him. And with the men he had at his disposal, Valerian doubted if they would make much of an impression. But it was his task to ready them – to prepare them. And if he could, perhaps his family name would be saved from the ignominy he had brought upon it. Perhaps virtus could be his again.

  Valerian turned his attention to the endless pile of paperwork that he had to attend to. Bureaucracy was the key to the success of Rome’s legions as surely as the tip of the gladius and the shield wall. Checks and balances, supplies and requisitions, sick and active duty lists, all had their part to play in the smooth running of the machine. Valerian could have turned much of this over to his subordinates but he felt that the responsibility should be his and his alone. If the Felix succeeded in the task set for her then all would know that it was the hand of Gaius Minervinus Valerian that had guided her. And if she failed . . . he smiled grimly as the thought occurred to him. If she failed, it really would not matter to him as he would be dead. He had made his peace and would never allow himself to fall into Dacian hands again.

  Valerian worked for some hours, agonising especially on the punishment details. There was a part of him that wanted to be Crassus-like in his judgements but another that wanted – maybe needed – his men to like and respect him. But in his heart he knew that respect could only be won on the battlefield, so Valerian was happy to go along with the penalties noted by the duty officers: they knew best after all.

  It was, Valerian realised, as he signed a flogging order, time for the daily meeting with the centurions and tribunes that made up his staff. He set his paperwork aside and composed himself, calling out to have scribes sent to him at once. Everything said had to be recorded and analysed later – he could not afford to miss anything vital, but the sad fact of the matter was that the daily reports all tended to be the same.

  Slaves filed into the tent bearing the benches that would seat the staff, followed closely by disgruntled looking scribes – Greeks mostly, and Greeks were only suited to soft climes and softer lifestyles. Here, at the cold, damp edge of the world, they were out of sorts. Soon after, the officers entered, filling the praetorium with the harsh gutturals that all centurions had to master as part of their job.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Valerian raised his voice in greeting and was pleased as the conversation died down at once. They might not respect his person, but at least his rank still carried some weight. ‘I will hear your reports by century,’ he turned his gaze to the grizzled form of Mucius; grey haired, grey eyed and almost pale grey in colour, Mucius looked as though he had been cast from sword iron. As Primus Pilus – the first spear – Mucius commanded the legion’s elite first cohort when in battle. When not in action, the First of the First – the leading century was his dominion.

  ‘Sir,’ he got to his feet and snapped a salute. ‘I have seven men down with minor ailments,’ he said, his gravelled voice filling the tent, ‘caused by this fucking climate, but nothing that will keep them out of the next war I’ll hazard.’ The men in the roo
m chuckled. Everything about Mucius screamed military, making Valerian feel inadequate and grateful in equal measure. Like Settus and the rest, the man was a born soldier. ‘Training is progressing well,’ Mucius continued, ‘but that is to be expected – we don’t have conscripts, slaves, freedmen and associated scum in the First.’

  His glare and tone bordered on insubordination, challenging Valerian, testing him. He swallowed, trying to think of some suitable put down but nothing came to mind and Mucius’s flicked to one of his fellow officers, his face fixed in an I-told-you-so expression. Valerian rose to his feet. ‘Conscripts, slaves, freedmen and associated scum,’ he repeated. ‘You forgot old men and boys, Primus,’ he addressed Mucius by the soldiers colloquial for his rank. ‘Yet, these conscripts, slaves, freedmen, associated scum, old men and boys make up the greater part of this legion. They, like us, are committed to win or die in the defence of Rome . . . or am I to take it that your view differs from that of our Lord and God, the Emperor Domitian? After all, it was his genius that allowed the replenishment of this great legion from this . . . associated scum. Perhaps . . .’ He swallowed. ‘Perhaps you think that you know better than he? After all, you’re a man of your experience, all scars and medals and proven valour? Or am I mistaken? Perhaps you criticise the quality of your brother soldiers out of too much love for your own men. This I can understand, but it is bad form for a senior officer to cast aspersions on the troops of his peers. Do it again and I will break you, Mucius.’

  ‘Break me?’ Mucius had been turning more and more purple with each syllable of Valerian’s public dressing down. ‘Break me? The legion wouldn’t stand for it.’

  ‘They’ll stand for it because they’re Roman soldiers, you arrogant bastard. They obey orders – my orders. Let me be clear . . . ‘Valerian raked his gaze over the assembled men. ‘I know that my appointment here is not a popular one. And you need to know that I don’t care what you think. Not one of you has faced the Dacians – I have . . .’