She stood over the prone form, her eyes flicking to the governor’s box. Frontinus’s response was instant and a short thrust sent Epona into her death spasm.
Boos and catcalls erupted from the watching crowd. Usually, Sorina would have expected to soak up applause. She had never suffered a reaction like this before and she moved quickly to the Gate of Life, insults ringing in her ears.
‘Call that a fight?’ one outraged spectator screamed. ‘It was a joke. Why don’t you fight someone who can defend herself?’
‘She ain’t got it no more,’ came another shout. ‘She’s too old.’
‘They’re giving her easy matches. Achillia would take the Amazon, I reckon.’
Sorina stopped, her brown eyes sweeping the crowd, searching for her accuser. She spotted him, a skinny, unwashed fellow sporting a yellow tunic. She growled and leapt towards the stalls, bashing her sword on the bars that separated fighter from audience. Many spectators yelped and leapt away, falling over themselves at this sudden, violent reaction.
‘Get yourself in here, you little bastard,’ Sorina screamed. ‘Achillia is nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing!’ She was going to say more, but the arena attendants rushed over and tackled her, bearing her to the sand. She did not struggle as they disarmed her and dragged her to the tunnel.
The jeers rang loud and long.
Balbus blanched at the crowd’s reaction. After such a spectacular showing in Aeschylus’s games he had wanted to prove that this was merely the beginning. But the truth was inescapable: the other lanista’s could not provide women of quality to match his own or else were reluctant to send their best fighters against his. Gladiatrices cost money, and there seemed to be a wide-spread belief that to face a woman from Balbus’s ludus was to invite death — hardly a sensible proposition for any man of business.
That Sorina’s popularity appeared to be on the wane was only of slight concern to him. She had served him well but her time was coming to an end. She was getting old and he now had Lysandra. Fortuna had indeed smiled on him when the arrogant young Spartan had come his way. For a long time, he had viewed Eirianwen as the natural successor to the old lioness. But it was Lysandra now who carried all his hopes.
Sorina was, he decided, becoming a spent force. Not her fault that the opposition had been poor; not her fault that the crowd reacted badly. But he had a reputation to think of and it was a problem that he would have to address.
More pressing, however, was the fact that Lysandra was due to fight a woman from the same ludus that had produced Sorina’s opponent. Given that the Spartan’s reputation was growing, it was apparent to Balbus that the lanista would not send out one of his best to probable death at the hands of the rising star of Halicarnassus. He called Stick to him and bade the Parthian contact the opposition school’s owner. He had a plan. Of course he did. That was why he was successful. He rubbed his hands together gleefully, pleased with his own invention.
‘No problem.’ Danae flexed her neck as she returned from the arena. After Sorina’s bout, the Athenian had put on a good display against her own opponent. With the previous fight in mind, she had gauged her opposition well and not gone all out to finish her. Rather, she eked out the battle, allowing the other woman a sniff at victory before sending her to Hades with a blow to the head.
‘You fought well,’ Lysandra acknowledged, unlacing her manica.
‘Too easy,’ Danae said. ‘I had to carry the bitch.’
‘True enough,’ Thebe broke in. She had not fought yet that day and was in good spirits. Their opposition looked easy and that meant in all probability that they would come out of the spectacle alive.
‘That is the result of your training,’ Lysandra reminded them.
‘You are learning the Spartan ways and this is an improvement over anything you have been taught thus far.’
Danae refrained from comment but Thebe winked at her when Lysandra was not looking.
‘How are you feeling?’ Stick sauntered into the Hellene women’s cell.
‘I am quite well, and ready for my bout,’ Lysandra informed him, tossing Danae’s manica at him.
‘Not you.’ Stick snagged the piece from the air, and tossed it back immediately. ‘Danae.’
‘I’m fine, Stick,’ she replied. ‘The bout was easy.’
‘Good.’ Stick gave her his buck-toothed grin. ‘You are fighting again.’
Danae was taken aback. ‘Why?’ she said. Though her bout had gone smoothly no one wished to risk her life twice in the same day.
‘The crowd is getting restless. This other ludus is in the shit because they’ve brought novices and thrown them in against you lot. Anyone with an eye for the fight could see that you carried that useless trollop all the way through. It wasn’t as bad as Sorina’s showing, but…’ he trailed off.
‘When?’ This from Lysandra.
‘Later,’ Stick said. ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’m just going to come out with it. Frontinus has decreed that the other school is voided from the games. That means it’s just our ludus providing the fighters from now on.’
There was a collective gasp from the Hellene women. Almost instinctively, Danae took a step away from Lysandra. They all knew what this meant. If the lots came out badly, the two could end up facing each other.
‘The governor has rescinded some pardons due to be given to the local criminals,’ Stick went on. ‘He’s having them fight each other now, by way of an apology to the spectators for the shit they’ve seen so far. This is while we work out the new schedule.’
The women looked helplessly at each other, even Lysandra seemed taken aback.
‘These things happen,’ Stick said shortly. ‘I expect you to be professional about it.’
‘But, Stick…’ Thebe broke in.
‘No buts. There’s nothing we can do.’ He hesitated for a moment.
‘I’m sorry.’ The shock was that the women could see he meant it. He said no more — just turned on his heel and left.
The silence was heavy in his wake.
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 sufficient
ly 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 figh
t. 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.
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