Gladiatrix

XVIII

Eirianwen left after some hours, though Lysandra entreated her to stay. She had the strangest sensation in her heart, unfelt before. It was as if there was now a physical need within her to have the Silurian close by her. But Eirianwen would not be moved and, with soft words and kisses, she left her alone.

Lysandra lay back on her bunk, forearm across her forehead, her body still tingling with remembered passion. Never before had she felt such abandonment, such lust. It was unseemly to act with such wantonness, but she was suddenly aware of why people so craved the sexual act. She smiled wryly as she realised that it was certainly preferable to self-pleasuring.

The door to the cell swung open with abruptness, and Lysandra looked around sharply, hoping against hope that Eirianwen had returned but was keenly disappointed when her Hellene companions struggled in. They were, despite her admonishments, a little the worse for drink, but at least none were wildly in the clutches of Dionysus.

‘I’m telling you,’ Penelope enthused as she entered. ‘It was like a baby’s arm holding an apple.’

‘Spare me the details.’ Thebe waved her away, but Penelope would not be stayed.

‘Massive.’ She sighed happily. ‘Big balls on him like a bullock, big muscles. A real man.’

‘What was his name?’ Danae wanted to know.

‘What’s in a name?’ Penelope shrugged and made her way to her cot. ‘I was only interested in one thing and I got it. Had me moaning like the lowest whore in an instant.’ She glanced over at Lysandra who had sat up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Did we wake you?’

‘No.’ Lysandra found that even this ribald commentary could not disturb her languid mood. ‘I was awake. You found what you were looking for, I take it.’

‘Too right.’ Penelope peeled off her tunic and scrambled under her blanket. ‘I’m telling you, Lysandra, the man was a stallion.

There was nothing he didn’t do! I feel like I’ve given birth to a pony, you know what I mean?’

Lysandra shrugged and smiled. ‘No, but I’ll take your word for it.’

‘You look as if you’re in remarkably good spirits yourself,’

Thebe observed as she too got into her bed. ‘Have you been drinking?’ She indicated the carafe left by Eirianwen.

Lysandra flushed, knowing all to well her happy disposition had nothing whatsoever to do with wine. ‘No, not really. Just a cup to help me sleep.’

There was no more conversation, as the women lay back to slumber. As each waited for Morpheus to claim her, they spared a thought for the coming of the morning.

None were afraid.

They were awoken at dawn by Catuvolcos. He was in his customary good spirits, bantering with all the women, but his gaze fell often to Lysandra and softened as it did so. Seeing his eyes upon her, she grinned slightly. He bade the women leave the cell to prepare for the games and made to speak to her as she passed him.

‘You look fit,’ he said. ‘And ready.’

‘That I am, friend,’ she said, and moved on. She hoped her emphasis on this last would dissuade him from caring too much.

She must let him know where he stood in her affections. He was merely a friend; her heart had only room for Eirianwen.

With quiet efficiency, the women were moved to the under-ground corridors that lead to the arena. The bustle of slaves was all about them, and they were anonymous amidst the hubbub.

Lysandra made her way to the Gate of Life to observe the arena. As the women were accorded inferior status, they had no part in the inaugural ceremony; it was considered enough that they had been paraded once. The male fighters however, were marching around the circumference of the arena to the cheers of the adoring masses. Behind each man, slaves bore his weapons and armour and a placard bearing his name, his fighting style and arena tally. As each gladiator passed by the dignitaries’ box, a burly slave with a large horn to amplify his voice bellowed out the words on the placard — the great majority of the audience could neither read nor write. Much was made by the betting fraternity of this segment of the spectacle, those with a canny eye seeking any weakness in a fighter’s gait.

There was a great buzz as it was announced that Sextus Julius Frontinus, the governor of all Asia Minor, was present. The man himself rose from the dignitaries’ box close by the sands to acknowledge his applause. Lysandra thought that his acclamation was enthusiastic enough to be real. Evidently, the governor was a popular man.

‘A butcher,’ Eirianwen’s voice sounded in her ear.

Lysandra turned, her face lighting in a smile. ‘Eirianwen.’ She tasted the name on her lips. ‘You have no love for Frontinus, I take it?’

Surreptitiously, Eirianwen’s hand reached out and touched Lysandra’s waist. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He is the conqueror and enslaver of the Silures. I hate him.’

Lysandra nodded, not sure what to say. She could understand her resentment, of course, but how else were barbarians supposed to be civilised unless by the sword? Certainly, they would not willingly embrace the enlightened path. In war, there were always victims of circumstance but this was for the greater good. Even as the thought came to mind, Lysandra’s faith in it was shaken. Somehow, it seemed wrong to her that Eirianwen had been enslaved. She was a barbarian yet there was much beauty in her. ‘Forget about him,’ she offered, for the want of anything constructive to say. ‘Concentrate on your match. You must be safe.’

Eirianwen smiled her beautiful smile. ‘Oh, my match will not be for some days yet, but all will be well. Britannica is a fearsome warrior.’ She referred to herself by her arena name.

Lysandra laughed. ‘Britannica has competition. Achillia the Spartan will be more famous.’

‘Achillia the Spartan is soft underneath her armour,’ Eirianwen said, and winked. ‘I know all her vulnerable parts.’

Lysandra desperately wanted to kiss her then, but held back, aware that there were too many eyes about. She saw Eirianwen wanted it too, but they stepped apart. ‘Good luck, Eirianwen.’

‘And to you.’ Eirianwen paused. ‘Spartan.’ With that she turned away, and was gone.

Lysandra watched her until she was lost in the crowd before turning her attention back to the arena where elaborate, forest-themed scenery was being set up.

‘You scratched your itch then.’ Sorina’s tone was scathing.

The more experienced gladiatrices had gathered together in a large cell. Well used to the arena itinerary, they had long since lost the desire to watch all the proceedings. Eirianwen looked up from tying her sandals, and nodded.

‘Indeed. But I think the itch will not go away.’

‘Pah!’ Sorina spat. ‘She is a Greek, and they are worse than Romans. I will not have one of the tribe consorting with those animals. Use her body, druid’s daughter, but that must be as far as it goes.’

Eirianwen got to her feet, her blue eyes blazing. ‘You might be chieftain in this place, Sorina, but you do not own me.’

‘No,’ Sorina said. ‘I do not. Balbus does, and he is from the same type as her who you now are so eager to pleasure.’

‘Your hatred has made you bitter. I take my joy where I can find it, and I find joy in Lysandra.’

‘Oh, Lysandra, is it? Not Spartan. Not Greek.’ Sorina shook her head in disgust. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’

Eirianwen burned with the desire to lash out at the older woman but tribal custom forbade it; Sorina was the chieftain and her word was law. She shook her head and sat down, her attention fixed on her sandals.

‘I hope she dies,’ Sorina said. ‘Then perhaps you will remember where your true loyalties lie.’ She stalked out without another word.

Lysandra was joined in her watching by Hildreth.

‘Hello, Lysandra, how are you today?’ The German spoke their ritual greeting.

‘I am well, Hildreth, how are you?’

‘I am well,’ Hildreth responded gravely, her eyes turning to the sands. A bizarre tableau was being played out, as a dozen or more horsewomen plunged through the staged forest scenery.

‘What is this?’

‘Criminal executions,’ Lysandra said. ‘Those women on horses are hunting men in the ‘forest’. It is an unusual turn for the games, I think.’

‘How so?’

‘Usually, there are wild beast hunts followed by criminal executions. It seems as though the editor has decided to mix the two.

By all accounts, Hildreth, these games in which we make our first marks are special and unusual.’

‘They are excellent riders,’ the German noted.

‘They are from Thessaly. It is in the north of Hellas. The people there are noted for their horsemanship.’

Hildreth grunted appreciatively as one of the Thessalian women speared a hapless youth to encouraging applause from the thick-ening crowd. ‘You are ready for your fight?’ she asked, her eyes not moving from the arena.

‘Of course.’ Lysandra’s reply was haughty. Hildreth’s consistent arrogance about their first encounter was becoming insufferable.

That she had fought badly was one thing, but that Hildreth was acting as if she were somehow superior was patently outrageous.

She turned her attention back to the drama being played out in the forest.

One of the Thessalian horsewomen had been taken down by a group of the ‘prey’ and the men were extracting a grisly revenge on her prone form, hacking into her with her own sword. The woman howled for aid and was derided by the crowd. With a final slash, however, one of the condemned chopped the rider’s head from her neck cutting her cries short.

The prisoners exulted, but their joy was short-lived as other mounted warriors, alerted by their now fallen comrade, galloped into view.

Lysandra was shocked as the men were dispatched like so many animals; it offended her that they were scarcely given a fighting chance. No matter what their transgressions, it seemed barbaric in the extreme to butcher them so. Perhaps, at times, Sorina’s view of Rome was not so awry.

‘Don’t fight shit again!’ Hildreth said, interrupting her thoughts.

‘It is for real out there,’ she added as another of the unfortunate prey in the forest was skewered.

‘I will not, of that I can assure you,’ Lysandra replied tersely.

She spun on her heel and left Hildreth to her watching.

Lysandra returned to find the Hellene women. They sat in silence, each lost in thought. She thought to say some encouraging words but held her tongue. Perhaps they needed this time to reflect, to steel themselves for the coming trials. With little else to do, Lysandra sat, and her mind turned to Eirianwen. She shook her head, irritated with herself. She too had to focus on her combat.

It was not the Spartan way to err towards distraction. Despite her feelings for the tribeswoman, she must cast her from her mind. She once again considered that she was blessed: Hellene by birth, Spartan by the grace of the Gods as the saying went.

Only a Spartan could have such control of her emotions, she knew. It was what made them superior to all others.

Stick emerged from the gloom of the catacombs, his ugly face twisted in a grin. In his hand he carried a bucket of oil. ‘It’s almost time,’ he said. ‘The executions are about to finish.’ This pronouncement caused a stir among the women. ‘You had better start to get ready.’

‘Who is to fight first?’ Thebe wanted to know. There was a crack in her voice that Lysandra recognised as the beginning of fear.

‘Why, our Spartan, of course,’ Stick said. He set down the oil and left with a small wave.

Lysandra smiled tightly, and pulled her tunic away, tossing it to Danae. The Spartan rolled her head, loosening the muscles in her neck, casting all thought from her mind. Victory lay in preparedness, in training. The mind must be given over to reaction, not thought. Thus, she performed her callisthenics without being aware of her routine. Her body began to sweat and her muscles relaxed — she felt no tension as she worked, her mind clear and prepared.

She stooped and took a handful of the oil Stick had left them and slicked it through her hair, scraping the raven locks back severely. As if by unspoken order, Thebe approached and tied back her hair. The Corinthian took some oil, and began to work it into the scarred muscles of Lysandra’s back, whilst Danae came forward and, kneeling, began to apply the unguent to her legs and torso. As the two worked on her, Lysandra found that the application of the oil was somehow cathartic. It was as if with each pass of her companion’s hands she was less Lysandra and more Achillia, that the unguent was somehow an armour that protected her true self from the arena fighter that was Achillia.

Danae and Thebe stepped back admiring their handiwork, nodding appreciatively at Lysandra’s body gleaming slightly in the torchlight. Clad only in the subligaculum loincloth, her pale skin gave her the appearance of a marble statue.

‘You are as ready as you’ll ever be,’ Danae said.

Lysandra stepped forward and, flanked by Thebe and Danae, made her way towards the Gate of Life.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Thebe whispered as they walked. ‘All will be well.’

‘Do not be absurd,’ Lysandra murmured. ‘Spartans fear nothing.’

‘Well, I’m afraid.’ Thebe was waspish. ‘How can you be so calm?’

Lysandra glanced at her. ‘Because I know I am going to win.’

They stopped by the entrance to the Gate, and looked out upon the crowd. It was mid morning and the arena was not yet full, but there was throng enough to make a massive noise.

‘It is sort of exciting,’ Danae said, ignoring Thebe’s baleful look.

A fat, balding man puffed his way onto the sands, and began motioning for silence. He raised the horn to his mouth, and began to shout. ‘The first of today’s combats is upon us!’ he bellowed and was instantly drowned out by the crowd. It took some time, but eventually they quieted. ‘The gladiatrices to fight for your pleasure today come from great warrior lands. Far to the north, beyond the land of the barbarian Britons is Caledonia, a place where they eat the flesh of babies and worship evil gods!’

This was greeted with a chorus of boos and hisses. Evidently, the editor was casting Lysandra’s foe in the role of villain. ‘Great Governor Frontinus, gathered notables and people of Halicarnassus, I bring you Albina of Caledonia!’

At his words, the Gate opposite Lysandra’s own swung open, and a huge woman stepped out. She was freakishly tall, her skin whiter than winter snow; on this canvass she was painted in weird blue designs, spirals and arcane symbols that crawled all over body.

Her chest was so corded with muscle that her breasts were non-existent, and thick ridges stood out on her stomach. Her head was shaved bald, giving her an even more hellish aspect. The Caledonian was truly an awesome sight, towering like a colossus as she derided the abuse the crowd hurled.

‘What do you think?’ Danae said after some moments of stunned silence.

‘I think I shall need a bigger sword,’ Lysandra muttered, taken aback at the sheer size of the woman despite herself.

‘And her opponent,’ the fat man was shouting, ‘from the great warrior state of Sparta,’ he gestured theatrically. ‘I give you Achillia!’

The Gate of Life drew open but Lysandra remained inside. It was Achillia who stepped out before the crowd.

To the sound of the trumpets, Lysandra marched towards the centre of the arena, as did the massive Caledonian. She could hear the odd dirty comment at the sight of her near naked body, but this she ignored. That women were made to fight in near nudity was all part of the show and she knew it.

She faced Albina as slaves rushed out, handing the two women buckler and sword. The Caledonian grinned at Lysandra, revealing a savage array of teeth that had been sharpened to carnivorous points. Lysandra cocked an eyebrow at this, her own mouth twisting in a sneer.

The two turned and saluted the governor, who acknowledged them with a nod of his head. This done, they whirled about to face each other. The Caledonian dropped into a fighting crouch.

Lysandra remained standing erect. She stretched her neck from left to right and spun her sword twice in her hand, drawing appreciative whistles from the watching mob. Only then did she take an on guard position.

‘I’ll kill you,’ Albina growled, her voice hideously distorted by her sharpened teeth.

‘The contest is not won on foul stench and ill-looks. Were that the case, you undoubtedly have the advantage. As it is, I shall carve you to ribbons, you barbarian bitch.’ With that Lysandra stalked forward, her face an implacable mask.

Albina did not rush in as Lysandra’s first opponent had done.

She was no novice and she would not be provoked by harsh words. She allowed herself to be tracked, content to mirror Lysandra’s movements, cutting off her angle of attack.

They circled for some moments, neither willing to commit to the strike. Lysandra could hear the mob becoming restless, shouting for some action. Let them, she thought. They are not fighting a Colossus made female.

Suddenly, without sound or warning, Albina lunged in with a quickness belying her enormous size. Her short sword hissed like a viper as it cut the air, and instinctively Lysandra raised her shield to intercept the blow.

It was like punching a wall of marble, so powerful was the Caledonian’s strike. Gritting her teeth, Lysandra hit back, feeling her own blade clatter off the barbarian’s shield.

‘You are weak!’ Albina snarled and attacked anew, driving Lysandra back with a flurry of blows. The Caledonian’s greater height gave her an advantage in length of stride and her forward momentum ate up the ground between the two combatants, bringing her ever closer to Lysandra. The powerful northerner rained blows down on her, but she was able to fend them off with her parmula. Albina stepped in as Lysandra struck back and the two women locked together, sword on shield.

Lysandra felt her muscles bunch as Albina forced her downwards, straining against the inexorable force of the Caledonian giant. Albina’s eyes bulged as she pushed, cords of iron-hard sinew standing out on her pale flesh. Lysandra butted her head forward, trying to catch Albina unawares, but the savage warrior was too canny. She lifted her chin, allowing Lysandra’s forehead to slap harmlessly against her chest. She was now blinded by a wall of flesh, her face sliding over the oiled, muscled torso of her enemy.

Suddenly, pain tore through her shoulder as she felt Albina’s sharpened fangs sink into her. Blood burst from the wound, dripping wetly down her back and chest.

Agony lanced through her body, but the pain gave Lysandra strength and she surged back, shoving the heavier woman away.

She scuttled backwards and Albina laughed, a harsh guttural sound. Her sharp teeth were stained pink with Lysandra’s blood and thick, scarlet fluid hung from her chin in glutinous strands.

The crowd screamed, excited at the sight of first blood, and Albina spat out a whitish clump of Spartan flesh.

It was a sickening sight, but Lysandra ignored it, calling on her training, learnt both in the agoge and the ludus. Ignore the pain.

The mind is stronger than pain.

Her face emotionless, she advanced on her grinning opponent, refusing to allow herself to become angered. In fury lay defeat; she would win through superior tactics and skill. Her blade flashed in the sunlight as she attacked, causing the Caledonian to lose her sneer and focus on the task at hand. Albina struck back and Lysandra let her come on, waiting, waiting, judging the correct moment to strike. She lowered her buckler a fraction and the northerner seized the opportunity, stepping in to cut her head from her body.

Lysandra’s foot lashed out, hammering straight up between Albina’s legs, smashing satisfyingly into the barbarian’s pubic bone, causing her to cry out. Elated, Lysandra pounced, her blade cutting downwards. Albina hastily raised her buckler, catching Lysandra’s iron, but the deflection was glancing and the sword bit into her upper arm, causing bright droplets of blood to fly. Albina tried to stab her sword into Lysandra’s side, but her shield was there. The blow was still sickeningly powerful, the force of it knocking her off balance. Intertwined, the two women crashed to the sand, rolling over and over, each trying to gain the advantage.

Both gladiatrices scrabbled to gain a grip on the other, but their oil-slicked bodies would not allow purchase. As they writhed against each other, Lysandra felt her hold on her shield break and it was lost to her as they fought on. With a desperate effort, she scrambled on top of her foe, her blade spinning round in a dagger-like grip. She caught Albina’s sword arm with her left hand, now free of the buckler, and made to ram her sword into Albina’s chest; but the Caledonian, seeing her danger thrust her shield arm straight up before Lysandra could strike, the hide of the buckler slamming into her face with a stunning force.

Dazed, Lysandra fell back, regaining only enough of her facul-ties to roll away. The titanic Albina got to her feet, her huge chest heaving. Both women were bloodied and sand mired, the grit of the arena floor clinging to their bodies. The barbarian came in, and a furious flurry of blows was exchanged, Lysandra’s sword moving like lightning to deflect both blade and buckler, which was at once weapon and defence.

She was fast, but could not avoid a horizontal slash, and the tip of Albina’s sword sliced across her belly. She hissed in pain, but no respite was afforded her. Albina’s buckler swung round, catching her in the side of the head, slamming her from her feet.

Blood pounded in her ears as she crashed to the sand. White spots exploded before her eyes, and the world tilted crazily. Through the haze she saw Albina walking in, her sword raised for the killing blow.

No! It could not end thus.

Lysandra surged upwards, rolling towards the onrushing Albina.

The move caught the Caledonian off guard, but even so, she was fast enough to bring her shield down to protect her exposed stomach. Too late she realised Lysandra’s gambit.

Lysandra, crouching before her enemy, stabbed downwards with her sword, the blade cutting cleanly through the top of Albina’s foot, shearing through bone and gristle, to pin the screaming gladiatrix to the sand. Lysandra heard the dull thud as Albina cast her weapon aside, trying with both hand to dislodge the blade that had transfixed her. Lysandra lurched unsteadily to her feet, holding her hand to her injured shoulder. Around her she could hear the crowd screaming at the sight of her. Albina had ceased her struggle, and instead raised her finger, imploring for the missio. Lysandra stooped, and grasped the barbarian’s fallen sword, her eyes flicking to the governor’s box.

The mob howled with glee, their hands cutting downwards in the motion for the kill. The editor had set them against the Caledonian from the start and they were eager for the sight of her blood. That she had fought well was of consequence. Sextus Julius Frontinus was evidently a man of the people; he would not disappoint them. Grimly, he turned his thumb, this one gesture signalling the end of a life.

Lysandra moved behind her vanquished opponent. She felt no remorse. If she had not been victorious, the barbarian would have spared her no such thought. Holding Albina’s own weapon in both hands, she brought it savagely downwards, spearing the back of the massive Caledonian’s neck, severing her spine from her brain. Lysandra twisted the blade twice as her foe’s blood gouted, drenching her subligaculum and belly. She heaved and dragged the crimsoned iron free. Like a felled oak, Albina toppled forward and smashed into the earth. The sand around her darkened with blood and shit, as her body defecated in the spasms of death.

For a moment, Lysandra stared, stunned at her action. But then, the adulation of the crowd washed over her in rapturous waves. She heard her own voice scream in triumph as she raised her arms skywards, brandishing the dripping sword above her head. Her eyes swept around the stadium, falling upon the statues of the pantheon. She pointed her bloody blade at the statue of Minerva, the Roman Athene, letting all know in whose name she fought.

This show of piety after such ferocity caused an eruption in the stands and, as Lysandra marched back to the Gate of Life, the masses chanted the name ‘ Achillia, Achillia ’ over and over.

It was the sweetest music she had ever heard.