Roma Victrix (58 page)

There!

Lysandra saw the gap and her sword speared out, sinking deep into the flesh that joined Aesalon's shoulder to her neck, all but severing the muscle there. Aesalon screamed in agony and staggered back, crashing into the wall, her bloodied sword falling from her grasp.

Too tired to feel anything, Lysandra made to step forward, hoping that this courageous woman's pride would allow her to raise her finger and seek the
missio
.

Her legs would not obey her and suddenly she became very aware of the noise and the torchlight around her. And there was pain, a sickening agony in her side. She looked down and saw a gaping wound there. Blood gouted from it, drenching her legs and soaking into the dark sand.

She had been stabbed in the last exchange and she had not felt it until now.

The world tilted crazily as she saw Aesalon speed past her vision, her bloodied fist raised to the heavens, then the ravening mob, and finally the stars of the night sky. As her head hit the sand, blood bubbled from her mouth, crawling down both cheeks. She could not breathe, her chest working but to no avail.

Lysandra could see images flickering before her eyes as though she were underwater: her mother and father looking after her as she was led away to the Temple of Athene; then standing in line with her Sisters, singing the paen to the goddess, swimming with her friend Deianara in the Eurotas River… all seemed to merge into one. Then she saw Varia, little Varia who she had loved as her own, little Varia who she had killed. She saw her Eirianwen, her beautiful blue eyes full of tears. ‘Do not cry!' she whispered. ‘Do not cry!'

Around her, Lysandra could hear the crowd chanting ‘
Roma Victrix,
Roma Victrix, Roma Victrix...'

And then there was nothing.

Illeana slid down the wall, the rush of victory leaving her and, with it, the last of her strength. The wound in her shoulder was bad, the muscles gone, and she knew in that moment that she would never fight again. As the crowd chanted her name, she crawled over to Achillia.

The Greek woman had given her what she most desired, the fight of her life and the proof that she was indeed
Gladiatrix Prima.

But the sweetness of victory was marred: Achillia was a warrior – the daughter of warriors – and she had honoured her goddess with this fight. The gods could not be so cruel as to take her from the earth. But as she reached her side she knew the truth.

Achillia of Sparta was dead.

As Charon lifted Achillia's body onto his cart, Frontinus cursed under his breath.

Iulianus nudged him in the ribs.

‘I think,' he grinned, ‘you owe me some money.'

‘I've lost more than money!' Frontinus snapped.

‘Don't be a bad sport, old boy,' Iulianus chuckled. ‘Win some, lose some, as they say.
I'd
never back a Greek against a Roman – but you live and learn.'

Frontinus forced himself to smile back. There was, he thought, no point in explaining his plan now. There was no victorious Achillia to inspire Greek mercenaries to fight for Rome. There was just a corpse who would soon be forgotten. It was a shame, he thought, as the arena attendants helped the badly wounded Aesalon Nocturna away. He had rather liked Achillia and she had been useful to him in the past. A pity she could no longer serve his – or Rome's – designs.

That burden would now fall squarely on the shoulders of Gaius Minervinus Valerian.

Sorina awoke with a start.

Around her, the camp was alive with noise. Twenty thousand she had found and twenty thousand were ready to march with her.

The Sarmatians she had convinced to join Decabalus's banner were eager for Roman gold and Roman blood. For too long, the tribes had lived in fear of the empire: now they would have their revenge.

‘Are you all right?' Teuta opened a sleepy eye.

‘Yes… no… I don't know.' Sorina replied. Something from the dream goddess had unsettled her and she could not quite remember what it was. ‘I was dreaming,' she said, trying to force the memories back as though she was squeezing a near-dry sponge. ‘I was dreaming of Eirianwen. She was crying. And I was dreaming of…vengeance.'

‘Oh, we will have our vengeance, Sorina. Listen…' she gestured to the activity of the camp beyond their tent. ‘This is not even half the forces that Decebalus can muster. Your tribe, my tribe, the Sarmatians, the Dacians, the Getae and more. All are poised and ready. We'll wait for the Romans to come and when they do, we'll trap them and finish them. This will be their last battle, Sorina. And one day, the head of their emperor will ride one of our spears. And the young women will sing songs of Sorina of Dacia who brought the tribes down on the empire and trampled the eagle beneath her horse's hooves. This is prophesy. This is destiny.'

It was not the Spartan way to cry, but Kleandrias could not help himself.

He looked down at the corpse, tears spilling over his cheeks.

Cappa and Murco were there, as were Lysandra's friends – Titus, the priest Telemachus, the gladiatrix Thebe – all openly weeping over the body of the slain.

‘I will take her home,' he gasped. ‘I will take her to Sparta and she will have a gravestone. I will take her home.' He spoke then the words that he dare not utter whilst she had breath in her body lest they shame her. The words that he had wanted to say since the first moment he had laid eyes upon her. He knelt and held her hand that had not yet cooled and kissed it, whispering his love for her over and over as though she would somehow hear him.

He prayed that, in Elysium, perhaps she would.

Shale crunched under the woman's bare feet as she walked along the beach.

To her right, the greyish river churned listlessly, hissing as it washed up to the shore. In every other direction stretched an endless plain of shingle, as far as the eye could see.

The sky was as barren and featureless as the desolate landscape it looked down upon. It was devoid of cloud, moon or sun. Or life.

No birds flew here, and no animals grazed along the riverbank. She could not remember how she had come to this place.

The woman caught a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye. She squinted at the river. She could see a small boat in the distance, its tall pilot obviously poling the little craft towards her.

Perhaps he could tell her where she was.

The boat drew nearer and she saw the pilot silhouetted against the stark sky. He was clad in a heavy black cowl, its hood pulled up to conceal his face. Her eyes were drawn to his hands: where the flesh of a normal man should have been, the chalky white of bone gripped the pole.

This was Charon, the ferryman of the dead.

She remembered then: the amphitheatre, Aesalon Nocturna
,
the roar of the crowd and the burning agony of the wound in her side.

Dead.

Lysandra wanted to run away, or find a sword; to do something – anything – to avoid her fate. But she just stood, rooted to the spot, watching the inexorable approach of the figure in the boat.

The boat slid sluggishly up onto the beach and Charon disembarked. With morbid fascination, Lysandra watched as the skeletal hands moved up to the cowl, seeking to pull it back.

‘Do not look upon his face.'

Lysandra whirled around to confront the speaker.

Before her stood a tall and impossibly beautiful woman. Her luxuriant hair cascaded in golden waves down her back, her raiment was of pale white silk and her flawless skin was the colour of alabaster.

But it was her eyes that held her. They were grey, a deep grey; those eyes held wisdom. They were the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

And in her right hand she held a spear.

In awe, Lysandra dropped down onto one knee, averting her eyes. She had seen her image a thousand times, her statues adorned the
Deiopolis
, her name invoked in daily prayer.

Athene, Goddess of Wisdom and War; child of Zeus, the God-King.

She spoke again. ‘Rise, Lysandra, daughter of Arion and Kassandra.

Look upon me. I come to offer you a choice.'

Lysandra swallowed and got to her feet. She stared at the goddess, unable to speak, such was the presence radiating from her, intoxi-cating in its power.

Athene gestured for her to come away from the silent ferryman.

She was quiet for a few moments as Lysandra walked with her, as if in a dream.

‘Lysandra, you stand in the netherworld between life and death.

The Morae ordained that this day would be your last. There lays the River Styx,' she swept her arm, ‘and beyond, the Realm of Hades.'

‘Yes, my Lady.' It was all she could think to say.

‘The path for you in death is to Elysium. Your life deeds have earned you the right to enter Paradise and share ambrosia with your forefathers. You have ever been my handmaiden and I love you as once I loved Odysseus.' She glanced at her. ‘And, like those heroes of old, you have been headstrong and errant. I punished you for this and you bore my judgement with a fortitude that honours you.'

‘My lady honours me with her gracious words.' Lysandra felt foolish. How was a mortal woman supposed to converse with a goddess?

‘How indeed,' Athene's mouth turned up slightly. ‘It is customary to obey. But what I ask of you now is not a command, for it is forbidden for me to make it so. I risk the wrath of my father as I stand before you. So I ask of you: will you serve me once again, Lysandra of Sparta?'

Lysandra made to reply but the goddess cut her off.

‘I mentioned a choice. You can return to the world from whence you came or you can take your place in Elysium.' She stopped, turned towards her and placed her hand on Lysandra's arm. The touch was somehow warm and cool at the same time, and it made the skin on Lysandra's biceps tingle.

Athene's magnificent grey eyes bored into hers, making her head swim. ‘If you choose to return to the mortal world, I can promise you three things: firstly, that what remains of your life will be one of hardship, pain and loss; second, that you will raise your shield in defence of your homeland; and third, that the name of Lysandra will be lost to the sands of history – but that of Achillia will be known many thousands of years hence, when everything Rome has built is naught but ruin and men have themselves become as gods.

So, Lysandra of Sparta. Life or death?

‘Choose.'

Roma Victrix is a work of fiction and should be read as such, though, where possible, I've tried to weave in real people and events into the story.

Sextus Julius Frontinus, Quintus Vibius Crispus, Tettius Iulianus, Decabalus, the unfortunate Cornelius Fuscus and of course Domitian are all historical figures.

We know that at least one legion, the Fifth Alaudae, was totally destroyed in Fuscus's invasion of Dacia. What we don't know precisely is what happened to the others. The consensus is that Fuscus took five legions across the Danube. Were all five destroyed? Probably not. But the Dacian defeat was certainly a bitter pill for the Romans to swallow.

Domitian is an interesting character. Like many emperors, he starts off well enough but succumbs to paranoia toward the latter part of his reign. Though he didn't have much time for the Senate, the army liked him well enough and his twelve years weren't a bad innings for a Roman Emperor in the first century.

Suetonius says that he:
presented many extravagant entertainments in
the Colosseum and the Circus. Besides the usual two-horse chariot races, he
staged a couple of battles, one for infantry, the other for cavalry; a sea-fight
in the amphitheatre; wild-beast hunts; gladiatorial shows by torchlight in which
women as well as men took part.

That the women fought
by torchlight
suggests late afternoon/evening – the time of the main events. So Domitian, as sponsor, was giving female gladiators top billing.

Lysandra was inspired by the Halicarnassus frieze of ‘Amazona and Achillia', but these names are all we have. Aesalon Nocturna – the Midnight Falcon – is fictional and some astute readers might have spotted the homage to David Gemell, the late master of the fighting fantasy genre. A celebrated
gladiatrix prima
of Rome could have arisen in the reigns of Domitian or Nero, who also liked the gladiatrix shows.

There are some excellent histories of the gladiator and one,
Gladiatrix
, by Amy Zoll, is devoted to the female warriors of the arena. I heartily recommend it, as well as one by Philip Matyszak called
Gladiator: The Roman Fighter's (Unofficial) Manual
.

I really hope you enjoyed Roma Victrix and would like to thank you for reading.

Russell Whitfield, April 2011

A novel has one person's name on the jacket, but the truth is most writers have a team behind them, and so my heartfelt thanks go out to the following:

The guys and girls at www.unrv.com whose knowledge of the Roman Empire is second to none and whose support of
Gladiatrix
and
Roma Victrix
has been unflagging; Robin Carter, Dave Slaney, Andy Canty and Isabel Picornel, whose characters, written in their honour, have all been brutally killed; Vilmarys Collado and the sisters at www.bookreadertimes.com; Tara Chevrestt – a brilliant, talented writer and a good friend; Paul Browne, for lending me all the kit (that I didn't nick!); Graeme Moore, who came up with the name for Kleandrias and has always been a source of encouragement; Jason Frost of www.russosbooks.com my friend from across the pond who has gone above and beyond the call in promoting
Gladiatrix
; the members of the www.legendreaders.com forum – especially Philippa and Ana.

Tony Riches and Ben Kane – one of the great things about this book business is that you get to meet people you really admire as writers.

They continue to inspire me.

Frances Arnold, eagle-eyed proofreader and Ian Binnie, typesetter at Ellipsis; Catherine Martin and Jeroen de Lange who advised on Latin usage and grammar; Lee Metcalf for producing the excellent promo video (thanks, Lee – you're a legend); Lisa Sullivan and the team at Blacksheep who've ensured that Lysandra always enters bookshops well clad; Alistair Leslie and Greg Goodale of www.gregveit.com for the brilliant promotional artwork.