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.
XLII
Danae, kitted and ready for her second bout of the day, nodded to Lysandra as she came through the Gate. ‘You’re all right?’
Lysandra mumbled something in response but Danae did not really hear her; her mind was fixed on her bout, and she scarcely noticed the Spartan stumble down the tunnel towards the surgeon.
She swallowed, forcing her breathing to slow. Like many of the other girls, she had compelled herself to become hardened to the arena. Long gone was the young wife from Athens; she was a killer now.
Steeling herself, she stepped on to the sands, hearing the Gate of Life slam shut behind her. The crowd were still buoyant after Lysandra and Hildreth’s brutal display and were delighted that another combat followed so quick
ly. Any misgivings they might have had about the earlier mismatch seemed to have been forgotten and they cheered Danae enthusiastically.
An arena attendant walked up to her and handed her a gladius, which she raised in salute to Frontinus and then to the crowd.
The largely expatriate Hellene audience stamped when they heard her announced as ‘Theseis’ — like ‘Achillia’, she was one of their own.
‘And her opponent,’ the announcer screamed, trying to make himself heard over the din, ‘the fearsome warrior from the savage steppes of the north…’
Danae’s heart beat faster.
‘She has fought once today, but did not impress. Now, she will redeem her honour, proving her status on the body of this woman. Citizens, I give you Amazona!’
The Gate opposite Danae’s own clanked open with menacing slowness, revealing the lithe form of the Dacian. She too was clad as the secutorix, and the crowd gave voice to their enthusiasm at this favourite of bouts; two heavily armed opponents were liable to engage in a bloody slogging match.
Danae set her teeth, fighting down a roiling fury within. She had once been a beauty, but the Amazon had taken that away from her, casually, carelessly even, in a brawl.
Now she had a chance to even the score.
She had seen Sorina fight and knew she could match her.
In addition, the Amazon was older than she and, weighed down by the heavy panoply, Danae reasoned that she could wear her out.
Gripping the gladius tightly in her fist, she advanced on Sorina, her face beneath the helmet drawn tight in a battle grimace.
Sorina matched her stride for stride and the two women met dead centre of the arena, each raining a hail of blows upon the other. Shield met sword and sword hammered off lacquered wood with furious swiftness. There was no taking the measure here. Each woman was determined to kill the other in the short order.
Their shields crunched together as both combatants punched forward at the same time. Locked together they spiralled in a circle, each trying to thrust over the other’s protective barrier.
Danae grunted with the effort of holding the Amazon at bay, sweat bursting out on her back. Snarling, she shoved as hard as she could and forced the older woman back. Sorina stumbled and Danae swung out, her blade clanging from the Dacian’s helmet.
She heard Sorina curse and felt a burning surge of elation.
Thus encouraged she ploughed in, her sword raised. But the Amazon moved swiftly, changing her angle, her own blade flicking out like a viper’s tongue. She caught Danae on the thigh with a low thrust, the sword raking up flesh towards her hip. Danae gasped and struck back, but her blade merely met the wood of Sorina’s shield.
Even as she tried to break away, the Amazon’s blade stuck her again, this time in the side and blood oozed from her bare torso.
The crowd booed and hissed: they wanted the Hellene to win but ‘Amazona’ seemed to have the upper hand.
Buoyed by the encouragement of the mob, Danae ignored the pain and moved forward once more, determined to cut the elusive Sorina down. As she lunged with the gladius, the Amazon spun away, her own weapon arcing out. Danae cried out as she felt the iron bite into the back of her shoulder as Sorina moved past her. She whirled about and only raised her shield at the last moment to deflect what would have been the killing blow.
It was becoming intolerably hot in the heavy helmet and Danae wished she had a respite to tear the thing off, but Sorina pressed her hard now and she back-stepped, taking blow after blow on her scutum. She realised with despair that she had not yet struck home herself. She must counter. Hurling herself forward, she attacked, but again the Amazon’s shield was there and, too slow, Danae tried to withdraw her arm.
The pain of the cut to her forearm burnt through her, and she heard Sorina’s laughter, muffled by the helm she wore.
Lysandra slid off the surgeon’s bench, somewhat gingerly.
‘You’ll be all right,’ the man told her. ‘I’ve added honey to the bindings to hold back infection. Just…’
‘Make sure the bindings are changed regularly and the honey is fresh,’ Lysandra cut him off.
‘Yes,’ the surgeon said; if he was offended by her abrupt manner he did not show it. ‘Your tunic.’ He passed her garment and then assisted her into it.
‘My thanks.’ Lysandra nodded briefly and made her way into the catacombs, towards the Gate of Life. The crowd was somewhat muted, but isolated shouts told her that Danae’s combat was still in progress. She shoved her way to the front of the usual gaggle of warriors, eager to see Danae at work. But her eyes widened in horror at the sight she beheld.
The Athenian was bleeding from a dozen wounds, stumbling about the sands as if drunk. Lysandra at once recognised the hated form of Sorina as Danae’s tormentor.
The Dacian banged Danae’s sword contemptuously aside and cut her again. The crowd hissed, half enjoying this prolonged display, yet disappointed the Hellene girl was on the receiving end.
Danae’s body was a mass of gore. Though bleeding profusely she seemed game to fight back: driven on, Lysandra assumed, by her hatred of the woman who had scarred her.
‘Fall!’ Lysandra shouted, willing her friend to drop so that she might receive the missio. But it was as if Sorina had heard her cry. The Amazon turned towards the Gate of Life and cast her helmet to one side.
Her eyes met those of Lysandra’s. The Amazon smiled and gave a slight, mocking half-shrug. Then she turned back to Danae and beckoned her on. Danae struggled forward, at last discarding her shield, determined to win or die.
Sorina parried the attack with ease and dropped low, plunging her sword into Danae’s belly. The Athenian stiffened as the weapon sliced into her vitals, blood and viscera bursting from her gut, spattering the howling barbarian. Sorina dragged her blade free, leaving Danae to topple forward, to twitch helplessly on the sands as her lifeblood spread out beneath her.
As the crowd applauded politely at the artful kill, Sorina raised her sword, and then pointed the dripping weapon at Lysandra in a mockery of the Spartan’s own salute to her goddess. Laughing, she acknowledged Frontinus and took time to spit on the still form of Danae, before turning on her heel and exiting the arena.
Furious, Lysandra slammed her palms into the iron gate. Rage all but consumed her and it took all the self-control she could muster not to rush into the arena and attack Sorina. Hatred boiled in her blood. First her love, now her friend.
Sorina would die. Not in some illegal tussle at the ludus. No, she would send her to her gods a ruined piece of flesh under the eyes of the screaming mob.
‘Wonderful, wonderful!’ Frontinus had heartily enjoyed the bout.
Balbus smiled through his disappointment — another trained fighter was down and the cost was mounting.
‘Tell me, lanista,’ Frontinus asked. ‘Who did Amazona challenge at the end of the bout? She seemed to point at the Gate of Life.’
Balbus considered lying as he had once before but again decided against it. It was just not worth being found out. ‘Lysandra,’ he said miserably. ‘They hate each other. Theseis — the woman who fell just now — was one of Lysandra’s friends and confidants. As you know, Amazona killed Britannica. There was some talk that she was Lysandra’s lover. There is much bad blood between them.’
‘An opportunity for us, no?’ Frontinus grinned wolfishly.
‘I think not, Excellency,’ Balbus hedged. Lysandra was good but still inexperienced. Though she waxed and Sorina waned, there was a conflict and rivalry that he wished to nurture. Only when she was in her prime did he want her to face the Dacian.
‘I don’t think Lysandra could win against Amazona,’ he said. ‘All our efforts towards the grand battle would be for nought.’
Frontinus considered that. ‘Perhaps you are right. But I am not convinced. I think Lysandra would beat her, this…’ he paused and grinned, ‘this nemesis of hers. But, you are the expert.’
Balbus shook his head. ‘No, my lord, your eye
is as keen as mine,’ he said, not above a little flattery to smooth ruffled feathers.
Frontinus’s glance however, told him that the governor knew he was being sycophantic. Well, Balbus thought, what did he expect?
With patricians, one could never win. ‘But, perhaps because I spend more time with both women than you…’ he added. ‘And can see their development continually… Performances in the arena are never as telling as the day-to-day training. Anyone can have an off-day, as you saw with Amazona earlier. Though she won, her performance was poor. No entertainment.’ He summed up with distaste.
‘True,’ Frontinus agreed. ‘But she did redeem herself just now.
Consummate skill.’ He nodded appreciatively. ‘She took Theseis apart with ease yet strung it out so that the mob could have their fill of blood. A true professional in the end, Balbus.’
‘One tries to endow them with virtue,’ the lanista said modestly and trying to smother any hint of irony.
‘Very well,’ Frontinus said. ‘We shall keep them apart. For now.’
Balbus inclined his head, hiding his expression; inside he was somewhat perturbed. Frontinus, and indeed Aeschylus, had pumped money into the ludus but he was already discovering that it came at a high rate of interest. Balbus was used to making his own decisions about who fought whom and when. The same rules applied here as anywhere, he thought bitterly. Money bought influence, and Frontinus now had influence in the decisions of the school. The thought made the wine taste sour on his tongue.
XLIII
The games went on. Because of her wound, Lysandra could not participate but she watched with growing concern over her women. She found herself analysing their performances more and more and had taken to noting down strengths and weaknesses that these might be corrected on return to the ludus.
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