Her iron met the wood of the hoplomacha’s shield and Penelope redoubled her efforts, hoping to draw the other woman into a slogging match, sure she could overcome her. It was at this moment that the pain faded and the long months of training began to pay dividends. She found herself in a place so pure it was almost blissful: she was at one with her blade; her mind, body and soul in perfect harmony with the combat, revelling in the furious exchange of blows, seeing the moves of her foe before they had been executed. She realised then what Lysandra had felt: that there was a liberty to be found in battle. The exultation, the surging power in her veins made her feel as though she were the War Goddess herself. Now she could see the gaps in Draca’s defence and she exploited them, her blade biting into the other woman’s shoulder as the Syrian sought to strike back. The mob roared her on, delighted with the recovery from her initial error.
Penelope was relentless. She churned forwards, hammering blow after blow onto Draca’s shield, forcing her back. With each hit she knew she was sapping the energy of her opponent; the shields were heavy and, under this repeated assault, she knew the slighter woman would tire quicker than she. Inwardly, she thanked Stick, Nastasen and Titus for the relentless regimen they had forced her to go through. She was possessed of a strength that she never knew she could attain, muscles responding again and again, with no burning fatigue.
Draca’s ripostes were becoming slower and less frequent as she backed up under the furious assault. Penelope redoubled her efforts, sensing that the other woman was almost spent. She slammed her shield into the Syrian’s, knocking her off balance.
For the merest instant, Draca’s guard was down — and Penelope struck. She lunged forward, her blade screaming towards the throat of the hoplomacha.
Draca dropped low, ramming her sword into Penelope’s abdomen with savage ferocity. Penelope stiffened and wailed in agony as the iron invaded her flesh, slicing upwards into her vitals.
Louder than the roar of the crowd, she could hear the Syrian’s triumphant yell of victory. Blood sprayed from the wound, drenching both fighters and she screamed again as Draca twisted the blade, feeling it grate on her ribs. Only then, at the white-hot peak of her agony, did the easterner drag her weapon free, leaving Penelope free to collapse, clutching desperately at the wound. She rolled into a foetal position, retching into the steely confines of the helmet, aware only of pain.
After indeterminate moments, rough hands grasped her and dragged her from the ground. In a final moment of brief lucidity, Penelope realised that she had been given the missio.
It was unseemly to show emotion. One must remain implacable at all times, for it was a weakness to show too much concern for another. This was the Spartan way: though camaraderie and love were to be expected between fellow warriors, when the gods decreed that it was a comrade’s time to pass, the hour must be met with solemn dignity. But to see Penelope moan and cry on the surgeon’s pallet was a trial Lysandra had never gone through before. Penelope’s legs kicked in response to her pain and so much blood flowed from her that it covered the pallet and dripped to the floor.
Danae knelt by Penelope’s side, holding her hand, whispering meaningless things to her as the surgeon tried desperately to staunch the flow of blood. There was always a bonus for arena doctors should they save the life of an expensive arena slave but, after a brief struggle, he gave up. He looked up at Lysandra, and shook his head slowly.
‘Have you no opiate?’ she demanded. Whilst the examination had been going on, she could understand why the man had not given her friend a drug for the pain. Such things could complicate medical procedures, but now it would not do to have Penelope go to the Styx crying like a baby.
‘Of course,’ he said resignedly. ‘But I am not supposed to give it to those that are going to pass. It is expensive, and if my master found out he would have me whipped.’
‘I understand,’ Lysandra said. ‘But this cannot be.’ She indicated Penelope who had begun to shake uncontrollably, her eyes rolling in her head, her mind eroded by pain. ‘Where is it?’ Lysandra stepped forward.
‘Just there.’ The surgeon turned, indicating a shelf that held medicines and salves. He was about to speak again when Lysandra lashed out, her fist exploding into his jaw. The surgeon dropped like a stone and lay crumpled on the floor. Calmly, she stepped over him and retrieved a small pot. She sniffed the contents and was satisfied.
‘What are you doing?’ Danae was stunned at this sudden violence from Lysandra.
‘He is a decent man,’ Lysandra said as she returned to the pallet. ‘It would not be fair of us to allow him to be whipped for breaking the rules. In this manner, he can merely tell the truth.’
‘But you will be whipped for hitting him!’
Lysandra pressed her lips into a thin line as she poured the glutinous liquid down Penelope’s throat. ‘I think the pain I shall bear will be somewhat less than hers.’
They waited for the drug to take effect and, slowly, Penelope’s agonised spasms began to abate. As the pain receded behind the veil of the opiate, Penelope began to speak. Her words were strange, as if she were a child, and Lysandra thought perhaps that she was reliving events from her youth. It was appalling to watch.
Only that morning, Penelope had been among them, laughing, joking and telling her ribald tales. Now she was just a quivering chunk of meat, breathing her last in a drug-induced stupor. It was a sobering thought.
Danae was weeping copiously, her head resting on Penelope’s hand as she held it.
They waited in silence, hoping that Penelope would regain some lucidity, that they could tell her that she was not dying alone. But it was not to be. It seemed as if she drifted off to sleep, but her chest had ceased to rise and fall.
‘It is over.’ Lysandra’s voice was harsh.
Danae looked up, her face haggard. ‘Poor Penelope,’ she cried.
Lysandra nodded. Inside she felt a terrible sense of sadness at her friend’s passing, but she knew that this must not be revealed.
Spartans never wept for the slain. With force of will, she closed off that part of herself that cared, hardening her heart. It was strange but, in some ways, she felt somewhat less than human as she did this. ‘Come, Danae. We must go now.’
‘How can you be so heartless? Our friend is dead!’
‘Yes, but that is what she was here for, Danae.’ Lysandra tried to be gentle, but the strain of the moment caused her to snap.
‘That is what we are all here for. That could be you or me. Do you think the comrades of the woman you killed felt any less grief than you do now? Sooner or later this was going to happen to one of us. I blame myself that I have not prepared you to bear this grief.’ Danae was struck speechless for a moment by this last comment.
‘As if it is for you to prepare us for such things, Lysandra,’ she spat. ‘You are no different to us, despite what you might think.
You are not our leader. You are merely an arrogant bitch who likes the sound of her own voice too much for my liking. For anyone’s liking.’
‘Danae…’
The Athenian pressed her hands to her ears. ‘Shut up, just shut up!’ she screamed. ‘I can’t stand to hear your voice any more.’
She scrambled to her feet and ran from the surgery in tears.
Lysandra watched her go. She knew that Danae was merely lashing out in her grief. Anyone else would have taken her words to heart, but Lysandra was pleased that she was above such things. Now was the time that the Hellene women would need her leadership most. It occurred to her that this more personable, caring side of her nature had been brought out by Eirianwen.
She leant over the corpse that had been Penelope and whispered a prayer for the dead. She did not know if the gods would accept her words but this was a duty she felt she must fulfil. She had no coin for Charon, and hoped that he would understand this, allowing Penelope to pass over the Styx to Elysium.
That was all she could do.
XXII
Lysand
ra decided that there was no time like the present to console the Hellene women. Certainly, they would all be upset at Penelope’s demise but it was her opinion that Danae’s histrionics would only make the situation worse. Now was a time for cool heads and calm voices, not for funeral wailing.
That Penelope was gone was tragic, but a warrior must not only be prepared to meet death but walk with him as a constant companion. The reasoning may have sounded hollow even in her own mind but it was her duty to convey strength to the others.
She made her way through the warren of tunnels beneath the arena, back towards the Hellene women’s cell. On her way, she spied Sorina and her entourage walking purposefully to the Gate of Life. The aging barbarian was not clad for battle and Lysandra paused, interested to see which one of the more experienced fighters from Balbus’s ludus would take to the sands. As they passed her by, her throat caught as she saw Eirianwen among them.
She was totally naked, her body coated in the same strange bluish paint that Albina had used, and her normally lustrous hair was sticking out from her head at all angles. Eirianwen stared straight ahead, her eyes not deviating from the woman in front of her. Lysandra was about to call out but stilled her voice. She did not want to break her love’s concentration before a bout.
Her love.
The thought came unbidden but she realised the truth of it. She was gripped with anxiety at the thought of Eirianwen entering the arena. What if she were hurt, or worse? Certainly, it was an ill-omened day; they had lost Penelope, and Lysandra feared that Eirianwen would share the same fate. She must watch the combat and pray for her safe deliverance. She could not bear the thought of having to await the outcome, even though she would not be welcome in the stalls with Sorina’s people.
She waited for them to pass her by and had decided to follow on at a discreet distance, when she realised that she should go to her friends. The Hellene women needed her now, but she was torn: her heart told her to follow Eirianwen, to see her safe home; her duty, her responsibility, lay with the Hellenes. Biting her lip in frustration, she hesitated. Perhaps, she told herself, she should wait before seeing the Hellene women. Emotions would still be running high and she should speak when they were calm. That might be the more prudent option — then she could both watch Eirianwen’s bout and fulfil her duty.
‘No,’ she said aloud. That was a dereliction. The feelings that urged her to be near Eirianwen were of no consequence. Eirianwen was strong. She had not survived thus far by luck alone and perhaps she would be insulted if she knew Lysandra had been worried over her. After all, she had shown no such concern when Lysandra had fought her own bout.
Lysandra watched the little entourage till they were swallowed by the crowd and gloom of the tunnel before turning about to stride purposefully back towards the gaol.
Nastasen looked up, squinting at the light that flooded into his prison. He still ached from the beating he had taken but his fury had burned much of the hurt away.
‘Hello, Nasta.’ Stick’s ugly face greeted him with a grin. ‘Are we calm today?’
‘Just get me out of here.’
‘Balbus should be mightily fucked off with you.’ Stick sauntered in, keys jingling. ‘I know I was. But you’re lucky that these games are such a huge event and that he has much to worry about.’
Nastasen nodded his thanks as Stick freed him from his bonds.
‘What about the Spartan bitch?’
‘You just forget about her,’ Stick admonished, waving a finger in his face. ‘She’ll take a lashing for insubordination and that will be that.’
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s more than enough.’ Stick retorted. ‘It’s not her fault that you’ve taken a dislike to her. Besides, she won her bout and looked good doing it. Balbus isn’t going to sell her after that display so you’d better get used to having her around the ludus.
And,’ he went on as they left the cell, ‘you put this whole thing behind you. You don’t like her, ignore her.’
‘She has offended my honour.’ Nastasen would not be molli-fied. Inwardly he burned with the desire to have the girl punished in the most humiliating of ways.
‘And you think trying to shove your fingers in her cunnus isn’t offending her honour?’ Stick gave one of his neighing laughs.
‘You know how uptight she is.’
‘You do that to the novices all the time.’
‘Only to the ones I know will take it without causing a fuss.’
Stick grumbled. ‘You’re the second person to mention me doing that. Is everyone around here getting soft all of a sudden?’ Nastasen did not respond to that. ‘Look,’ Stick said after a moment. ‘It’s better for everyone if you just stay away from her.’
Nastasen regarded the little man. He could not let Lysandra go unpunished for drawing his blood, for daring to strike him.
She was a woman and such an insult could not be borne. But he was no fool. Revenge would be his, but he must play the crocodile for now, waiting calmly beneath the surface to strike when none expected it. He forced a smile. ‘You’re right, Stick,’ he said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘I’m being foolish.’
‘Yes, you are.’ Stick responded with his buck-toothed grin showing that he considered that matter closed. ‘Now then -
Eirianwen is just about to fight. Let’s go and see our woad-painted savage in action.’
Lysandra could hear the roar of the crowd as she entered the cell. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she tried to cast thoughts of Eirianwen from her mind. She must focus on the task at hand.
The women were sitting about the cell, a pervasive air of gloom hanging about them like a shroud. Danae was sobbing incon-solably, rocking back and forth in the arms of Thebe. The Corinthian glanced up at Lysandra as she entered but made no comment.
She drew herself up and took a deep breath. ‘I can see that you are all aware that Penelope has…’ she groped for the right words, before deciding that laconic was best, ‘… died.’ At this, Danae wailed and began crying aloud. Lysandra glowered, but pressed on. ‘That this happened is unfortunate. But not altogether unexpected.’
‘I don’t think now is the time for this sort of thing,’ Thebe said, her comment greeted by affirmative mutterings from the others.
‘I disagree,’ Lysandra told her. ‘This is precisely the time. In retreating into sadness, we do Penelope no honour,’ — she made a slashing motion with her hand — ‘none at all. We debase her with our grief and,’ she scowled at Danae, ‘our wailing. All of you have turned your thoughts to the possibility of death. You saw Penelope fall and you think: ‘that could be me’. Indeed, it could. But if you fear death and go to fight with that fear in your hearts, you will surely follow her. The superior fighter does not fear Hades. The Lord of the Dead is our constant companion whilst we play this game. Show him no fear, and he will not rush to take you. Cower from him and you will surely die.’
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Danae sobbed. ‘You survived. Poor Penelope…’
‘Stop your whining!’ Lysandra’s voice was harsh. ‘You think that it will do any good? Do any of you?’ She glared at the women. ‘We are fighting for our lives as are our enemies. Do not think of them as merely opponents. They are the enemy. Hold the memory of Penelope close if you will, but do not grieve for her. Turn your emotion to hatred. Hate those that killed her; picture her foe, standing over her, laughing at the agonies of our friend. Keep that in mind when you face your enemy. And make sure you send the bitch screaming to Tartarus.’
The women nodded, harsh masks descending over their faces.
It was a subtle change but the look in their eyes hardened somewhat and Lysandra could tell they were reliving Penelope’s death throes, turning their sadness to cold anger. Thoughts of grief were being forged into those of revenge and hatred for the women of the other schools. Her eyes met Danae’s. Like the others, her tears had ceased. Lysandra nodded in satisfaction and left the cell.
As soon as sh
e was out of the Hellene women’s sight she made haste back to the arena and the Gate of Life. Above her, she could still hear the crowd howling encouragement to the fighters on the sands. At least, she thought, Eirianwen still lived.
Lysandra squirmed her way through the press of fighters gathered around the gate to watch the match. Her height afforded her a good view of the arena and her eyes widened as she saw Eirianwen. She was drenched in blood and Lysandra’s hand flew to her mouth before she realised the blood was not hers.
Eirianwen wielded a one-handed axe with which she was hacking viciously into her hapless opponent, causing chunks of displaced flesh to fly. Even above the cheers, and the terrible screams of Eirianwen’s adversary, Lysandra could hear the wet crunch of the iron axe-head crunching through bone and gristle.
The stricken woman fell to her knees, bleeding from a dozen mortal wounds, her left arm nearly hanging off at the shoulder.
Without even acknowledging Governor Frontinus, the beautiful Silurian grasped her foe by the hair and dragged her head back, exposing the throat. She raised her axe, punching the air in time to the mob’s chant of ‘ Jugula! Jugula! ’ drawing out the moment, eking out their pleasure. Only when she had them worked into a fever pitch did she bring the axe down, slicing her opponent’s head from her shoulders with a single blow.
The crowd erupted as Eirianwen held her grisly trophy aloft.
She was a terrible sight, naked, her hair awry, coated in blood and gore from her victim. She walked across the sands, coming close to the barrier that separated the spectators from the combat area. The mob stilled as she regarded the section before her.
Holding the severed head by the hair, she whirled it several times above her before casting it like a hammer into the poorer upper tiers. A fight erupted at once for possession of the awful prize.
Eirianwen saluted Frontinus nonchalantly before sauntering back to the Gate of Life.
Lysandra watched her approaching, at once relieved and appalled.
This was a side to Eirianwen that she had only glimpsed when the Silurian had spoken of her past — but now she had revealed of her true nature, the savage come to the fore. She herself had taken pleasure in killing her enemy and had drunk in the adulation of the crowd as though it were a heady wine. But Eirianwen had plainly butchered her opponent, making her suffer before she released her to merciful death. That, Lysandra thought, was truly barbaric. However, she reasoned, Eirianwen was indeed from a savage tribe and could not be held accountable for her lack of restraint.
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