Gladiatrix

XLI

‘An excellent solution,’ Frontinus said, saluting Balbus with his wine goblet.

Balbus inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘I thank you, Your Excellence. Business partners they may be, but the lanista knew that he could not overstep the boundaries between them.

‘The other lanista was not put out by your suggestion?’

‘No, sir, he was not.’ Balbus smiled. ‘Positively enthusiastic in fact. Yes, I gain his purse for this spectacle, but he stood to lose much more in facing my troupe. It would have been a fiasco.’

‘But you also stand to lose out, is that not so? If your best are killed by each other?’ Frontinus’s gaze was hard.

‘That is true,’ Balbus acquiesced. ‘But it is my hope that they will fight well enough to gain the missio from you.’

The governor fixed him with a withering stare. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that our plans for the future will influence my vote in this matter.’

Balbus flushed. This had been precisely his hope. However, he cleared his throat and steeled himself. ‘All business is risk,’ he said.

‘I have a reputation to maintain and cannot deprive the loyal spectators, and yourself, of the entertainment they desire. There are many good fighters in my school, sir. If I lose some, it is the will of the gods. I am shocked that you think I’d expect you to be anything other than honest in your voting,’ he added.

This seemed to placate the governor. ‘I should hope not. Who is Lysandra to fight?’

Balbus spread his hands. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered truthfully.

‘I am an honest man, my lord. The lots will be drawn and she will fight whom the gods decree.’

‘She will win,’ Frontinus declared confidently. ‘How does her ‘army’ progress?’

‘Well, sir. She is training her coterie at the moment, and I am having the ludus expanded to house our new ‘recruits’. Once her own women are sufficiently trained, she will have a chain of command, as she calls it. Her women will pass the skills on to our new slaves.’

‘Just like a real army.’ Frontinus beamed.

‘She is taking it all very seriously,’ Balbus said. ‘There is good news on the market, too. Falco, my promoter, has been working hard. Many lanista’s have bought into your excellent idea, so there will be no shortage of women for the grand battle.’

‘A bloodbath.’ Frontinus nodded. ‘The Emperor will love it.’

‘As will the populace. I salute you, sir. The idea was genius.’

‘My thanks, lanista. I hope you will stay with me for the entertainments.’

‘I would be honoured.’ Balbus smiled, silently praying that all would go well that afternoon. The spectre of Lysandra lying dead on the sand haunted him.

No one had spoken since Stick’s announcement. The Hellene women kept their gazes fixed to the floor. Thebe had helped prepare Lysandra; she was to fight again as the Thraex — the Thracian — nude save for her loincloth. Every effort was going into placating the crowd and, though she had been scheduled to fight in heavy armour, it was decided that the sight of her naked flesh would salve the rancour of the mob. Thebe, they learned, was to fight as the retiaria, again unclothed bar the subligaculum.

They oiled one another in silence, each avoiding the gaze of the other. This task complete, there was little to do but sit and wait. They could hear above that the crowd had quietened down, meaning that the criminal bouts had come to an end. It would be their turn soon.

Lysandra had been shocked initially. The thought of turning her blade on her friends was anathema to her. It was not the Spartan way to slay one’s allies. But it was not the Spartan way to lose a battle, either. She could not, she knew, stay her hand or hold back. She was sure this had occurred to the other women, but just as quickly would have been dismissed. Lysandra pressed her lips into a thin line, recalling her admonishment to Eirianwen not to stay her hand before the bout with Sorina. She cursed herself silently; it would not do to think of her now, lest she wished to join her in Hades. Part of her may have once wanted to do so, but to go willingly to her death would cheapen her in Eirianwen’s eyes if they were to meet on the other side of the Styx.

She glanced around at the others. Despite their growing closeness, the camaraderie gained both in the ludus and in their military training they were going through, each of them wanted to live. And the only way to ensure survival was to see your opponent dead.

Your enemy, Lysandra corrected herself. The woman she faced on the sands would be her enemy. Enemies could expect no mercy, no quarter. If she must cut Danae down, or kill Thebe, then she would do it.

‘Lysandra!’

She looked up to see the large form of Catuvolcos framed in the doorway. His face was grim as he looked at her. She got to her feet swiftly. The psyche was a weapon also. If she were to fight another Hellene woman, they would see that she was prepared.

To hesitate might show her to be unwilling. The first battle was already won, she told herself. But in this victory, she could not help but feel cheapened despite herself.

Lysandra bade Catuvolcos leave her when she exited the cell.

She wanted to take the long walk to the Gates alone. She did not wish to know whom she faced, and feared that the Gaul would call another woman from the Hellene cell. She could not afford to think of her foe as anything but that. To name her would be to make her human.

The bustle of the arena workers seemed to fade as she walked, trying to calm her mind, to stay focused. She must win, she told herself. So much rested with her. The army, the Hellene women, would be lost without her. She prayed that it would be Sorina she had drawn, that she might unleash her hatred on her enemy.

Lysandra stopped by the Gates, and closed her eyes. She breathed out through her nose and stepped onto the sands, raising her arms as Achillia once more — prepared to fight.

The crowd roared in acknowledgement of her salute and began to chant her name. They knew that Achillia would not fail them, that she would elevate the spectacle to something magnificent.

Lysandra stopped in the middle of the arena. The Gates opposite clanked open and her opponent stepped out onto the sands.

At the sight of her, the crowd went berserk. They knew that this would be a battle of equals from which only one would walk away.

Sorina was furious. Furious with the mob, furious with herself for not thinking as she fought. Even the Greek, Danae, had known to carry her weaker opponent, whereas she, Sorina, the famous Amazona, had rushed in to deny the crowd their entertainment.

But most of all, she was furious with Lysandra. Her hatred for the Greek seethed in her heart, burning hot. The words of the yellow-clad man in the crowd haunted her. The Spartan had replaced her in the hearts of the populace and, though she despised the mob, this hurt. It was a blow to her honour, her esteem. Lysandra was nothing. An arrogant girl-child with well-learned tricks. Not a true warrior.

When she learned that the agenda for the spectacle had changed, her heart leapt. It was as if the gods were smiling on her at last.

Here was a chance to fight the Greek bitch, offered to her so soon. She had gone to her cell and prayed, prayed with all her heart that her name was drawn with Lysandra’s.

Her mind swam with images of her enemy’s death at her blade, so strong that she felt a flood of heat in her loins. She could see herself, drenched in Spartan blood, hacking the pale body to pieces as the crowd screamed her on. Lysandra’s eyes alight with fear and pain, pissing herself in her death throes. Her own body shuddering in ecstasy as her iron blade drove deep into her hated foe.

She wanted her death so much, it had become an insatiable hunger. Never in all her life had she felt such hatred. Not even towards the Romans who had taken her freedom, and spilled much Dacian blood. Just one chance, she begged silently. Please, gods, just one chance to face her. She’d gladly die to send Lysandra to Helle first, safe in the knowledge that the arrogant bitch knew that she was the better woman.

The door to her cell opened.

‘Sorina.’ Stick’s ugly face was grim. ‘You had better start getting ready.’

She looked up at him, her eyes glazed and pleading. ‘Who am I to fight?’

The mob had begun to stamp its feet in appreciation of the match. Here was something worth cheering about. Frontinus tried to appear aloof and disinterested, but could not resist shifting on his couch as Lysandra’s opponent strode towards her. It was a match that promised everything. The other held the great scutum of the murmillo, her arms and shoulders heavily armoured with manica and plate. Aside from this, she wore only a short leather kilt, and the crowd screamed their appreciation. They were both magnificent specimens of womanhood, tall and beautiful, their charms exposed to the slavering spectators. Sex and death — there was no greater narcotic to sate them. And Frontinus was providing both in abundance.

Lysandra narrowed her eyes as her opponent stepped up.

‘Hello, Lysandra, how are you today?’ Hildreth’s smile was cold.

‘I am well, Hildreth,’ she responded to their once friendly ritual. ‘How are you?’

‘I am well,’ the German said. ‘I am sorry that you will die. I like you.’

Lysandra hesitated, memories flooding back to her. She recalled her first journey to the ludus: Hildreth’s kindness as she had shared her bread; the German girl’s laughter as she had shouted out the unfamiliar Latin words Lysandra had taught her; her own amusement at the German’s hairy body before she had been shorn like a civilised woman.

And their fight.

The speed and strength of the tribeswoman, the ease with which she had defeated her. For a moment, Lysandra felt her mouth go dry and her stomach knot. Hildreth nodded, reading the look in her eyes, and her smile turned to a sneer.

It was akin to a slap around the face. Lysandra blinked, and straightened her back. Distantly, she heard an arena attendant shout ‘ Pugnate!’ the order to fight. At once the German dropped into a fighting crouch, but Lysandra remained erect. She stretched her neck from side to side and spun her sword twice, this piece of show fast becoming her signature and the crowd hooted in appreciation. But more, she had shown Hildreth that she did not fear her.

Hildreth snarled, but Lysandra’s casual disdain had not proven enough to make her rush in. Whilst Hildreth believed herself to be the superior fighter, she was not so foolish as to think her task would be an easy one.

Hildreth raised her sword, pointing it over the top of the scutum at Lysandra, who responded by finally assuming a fighting stance, her own small buckler angled to deflect a thrust from the German.

The redhead scuttled to one side, trying to create an angle of attack, but Lysandra matched her movement to cut off this avenue.

Though the crowd had been derisive of such posturing in the earlier bouts, they now watched with rapt attention. Both fighters were known to them, both rising to the top of their game, and the winner of this bout would be on the path to greatness.

Connoisseurs and casual observers alike realised that when the battle was finally joined, it promised to be spectacular.

Then Lysandra attacked and they roared for her.

Her blade lashed out and was greeted by Hildreth’s own iron, the retort loud and clear. Hildreth struck back at once, not allowing Lysandra to take the initiative, but her own strike was deflected on the Thracian shield. Lysandra danced away, making Hildreth come on to her. The German had the protective advantage of armour, but this and the heavy scutum would weigh a fighter down. This was the fascination, the contrast that the mob craved.

Hildreth was strong. She waded in, her sword arm lashing out, seeking to bludgeon her way through Lysandra’s guard. Lysandra parried and hit back but the scutum was a formidable obstacle, time and again slamming her short sword aside. Hildreth stepped in and there was a furious exchange of blows, iron meeting iron with disjointed rapidity. The German rammed out her shield, turning it from a defence into a weapon of attack. It crashed into Lysandra’s chest, knocking the breath from her and smashing her to the ground.

The crowd screamed as Lysandra fell back, rising as one to their feet.

Hildreth rushed in, hoping to finish the fight quickly, but Lysandra rolled onto one knee, bringing her buckler to bear just as the redhead’s sword sought her neck. Again, Hildreth punched forward with the shield, seeking to force her to the ground once again. Lysandra lunged forwards, shoving Hildreth away, confounding her with the sudden movement.

Hildreth stumbled and the slight respite allowed Lysandra to surge upwards and launch an assault of her own. The tribeswoman was off-balance but she weaved away from the onslaught, wielding the shield with efficiency. Lysandra pressed in and a looping, overhand lunge got past the German’s guard, crunching into her armoured shoulder. Though the tough leather afforded some protection, it could stop a direct thrust, and Hildreth cried out as blood burst from the wound.

Enraged, she struck back furiously, but the two women were now locked together and the German was unable to get sufficient leverage to strike with her long blade. Thinking quickly, she smashed Lysandra on the side of the head with the pommel of the weapon, stunning her.

Freed from the clinch as Lysandra spun away, Hildreth swung out, the tip of her sword slicing a bloody cut down her opponent’s back. The crowd roared in delight as the scarlet fluid sprayed up, catching the sunlight in glistening droplets.

Lysandra shouted out, more from frustration than pain, as she twisted back to face Hildreth. The German girl’s face was flushed; her blood up, her face twisted into a snarl. The wound she had inflicted acted as a spur and she attacked with a maniacal fury.

Lysandra kept her at bay, using blade and shield to defend herself against the onslaught; but now she could see that the German’s breasts, slicked with sweat, begin to heave with exertion. Soon, she told herself, soon.

She led her on, trying to coax a mistake, leaving her own parries desperately late. A dangerous game, but she prayed that the tribeswoman would not see her ruse through her battle fury.

If Hildreth thought she were tiring, she would redouble her efforts to finish her. Again and again, their blades met; Lysandra mist-imed a parry, and this time Hildreth’s weapon struck true, cutting deep into her side. Lysandra gasped as she felt cold iron grate sickeningly against her ribs, and flailed wildly with her sword to keep Hildreth at bay.

Hildreth leapt back, content to allow the respite; her eyes flicked to the gash in Lysandra’s side. Blood coursed from the cut, dribbling wetly down her thigh. Such a wound was a slow kill. In time, the blood would drain away, and with it her strength. Exhaustion would follow, making the finish that much easier.

Lysandra bit her lip. Hildreth had beaten her before and was winning again. The tribeswoman’s war experience was telling; she seemed to read her strategies with ease. True, she was bleeding and tiring herself, but her wound was nothing compared to that which she herself bore. She straightened up and stretched her neck from side to side, spinning her blade twice. The crowd their approval roared at her flamboyant defiance; Hildreth’s eyes, she noted, widened in surprise.

Lysandra knew that it would take more than bravado to carry her through. She saw Hildreth square her shoulders and advance, her defence high. Yet she noted that the scutum trembled in the German’s grip as if it were gaining weight as the fight wore on.

She waited, gauging the distance between them.

Then, as Hildreth stepped to close the gap, Lysandra herself skipped forward, her foot lashing out in a classic pankration kick, hammering into the wall of the tribeswoman’s shield. Hildreth screamed in agony, the scutum falling from nerveless fingers. Lysandra stopped short, wondering what the cause of her opponent’s distress was. Hildreth back-pedalled and, as she did so, Lysandra could see her shoulder bone horribly distended. The kick had dislocated it, rendering her arm useless.

Their eyes met, and Lysandra could read the pain and frustration there. Hildreth was finished. Lysandra shook her head.

This was not the way.

She tossed her own shield aside, sending it skittering across the sand and moved slowly away. The mob howled their approval, stamping their feet rhythmically in appreciation at this sporting act.

Hildreth tottered to the wall of the arena, oblivious to the enthusiastic spectators reaching down to try to touch her. Lysandra watched her grit her teeth, and then slam herself into the unyielding stone. She fancied that she could hear the grind of cartilage as Hildreth popped her joint back into place and winced involuntarily.

The tribeswoman collapsed, sobbing as waves of agony flared through her; Lysandra kept away, pressing her hand into the wound at her side, trying to stem the flow of blood. She felt light-headed and crouched down on the sand, her breath coming in short gasps. Time seemed to slow down then. She could hear her heartbeat, pounding as if in time to the feet of the stamping mob.

The sky darkened for a moment and she looked up; it was Hildreth’s shadow falling across her. The German’s face was pale and pinched with pain, her eyes glazed with exhaustion. Her arm, though back in place, still hung at her side. The agony had to be almost unbearable. Lysandra set her jaw and stood.

Hildreth nodded. No words were needed between them.

Both women raised their blades, coming at each other right side on. Lysandra knew that she must strike now, for she felt herself close to fainting. Hildreth must have sensed her weakness; with a shout, she attacked. Frantically, Lysandra lifted her blade and parried; she hit back, but in turn her sword was battered away. They fought mechanically now: each cut met by a parry; each thrust turned aside.

Lysandra was becoming desperate; she was spent and she knew it. Hildreth was like a rock before her, refusing to give way. There was time neither for thought nor tactics; it was simply a question of who was the stronger. She surged towards the German, cutting with the last of her strength. Their blades met again and again, the exchange seemed faster than any before.

Lysandra struck low, and encountered only soft resistance.

Hildreth gagged and both women looked down to see the blade embedded in her stomach to the hilt, her blood coursing out over Lysandra’s hand and wrist. The German staggered against Lysandra and her weight bore them both to the sand.

‘Hildreth!’ Lysandra gasped as the German rolled on to her back, her blue eyes looking skyward. She held the tribeswoman’s hand, tightly, as if by her own strength she could keep her from Hades’ grip. ‘Hildreth, I am sorry.’ Her voice cracked and tears sprung to her eyes. ‘I meant only to wound.’ Despite her earlier thoughts, it was only at that moment she realised that she spoke the truth. She trailed off as Hildreth’s eyes focused up on her.

‘You didn’t fight shit,’ she said, coughing blood as she spoke.

She tried to smile, the gesture made obscene by the blood that stained her teeth. Her body spasmed, and she cried out in pain.

For a moment Hildreth struggled, but then she became still, her hand suddenly relaxing in Lysandra’s grip. The warrior woman’s brave soul had fled.

Lysandra staggered to her feet, pressing her hand to her side to staunch the flow of blood. The noise from the stands was deafening, the crowd screaming her name, chanting it as if in prayer. She raised a fist in salute and, on unsteady legs, made her way to the Gate of Life.