Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

  ‘Yes, the hemp.’ Nastasen’s voice became wistful for just a moment. ‘Though I am free of its grip, I can find no regret in my heart for taking her.’ He smiled, showing his teeth. ‘I was her first.’

  Sorina forced herself to grin in response. ‘There is justice in that,’ she murmured. ‘But what do you think?’

  ‘I think that you will be cheated of your chance, Amazon. I will not stay my hand when I face her.’

  ‘You take her too lightly, Nastasen. I can help you. Like her, I am lighter and quicker than you. And,’ she added, ‘no less skilled than she. We women fight another way to a man. The mind,’ she tapped her head, ‘works differently.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me why you want to help. Surely you want the chance to kill her yourself?’

  Sorina shrugged. ‘Dead is dead is dead, Nastasen. Though I burn to transfix her with my blade, I somehow see the beauty of her being impaled on your sword.’ She nearly grimaced at the play on words, but it was not lost to Nastasen who laughed. ‘And besides,’ she went on, ‘there is no queue of people lining up to train with you.’

  ‘That’s true.’ The giant glanced about. He placed his hands on his hips, as though he were sizing her up. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Yes.

  I think we can help each other.’

  Sorina grinned ferociously. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I think we can.’

  It took only a single glance for the activities to cause Lysandra’s bile to rise. At Catuvolcos’s insistence, they had crossed the arena’s training compound to watch Nastasen at his work. In truth, she was more alarmed by the prospect of seeing the Nubian warrior again than she liked to admit, even to herself. As they walked, she found her stomach knotting up, her heart beating hard in her chest. She told herself she was being absurd, yet the panicked feeling would not subside.

  Not, that was, till she saw Sorina duelling with him. That she had offered herself as training partner to Nastasen was akin to spitting in Lysandra’s face. More than that, she was playing up to him, sharing the odd laugh and joke as they sparred. Lysandra sat down heavily on a bench, her chin in her hands, refusing to simply turn tail and walk away. That would have been beneath her.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Catuvolcos murmured.

  ‘Do you not?’ Lysandra scowled at him, her ire coming to the fore. ‘She does this to insult me, that is all. There is no limit to the woman’s ignominy, Catuvolcos. She speaks of honour.’ She shook her head. ‘Where then is the honour of helping him? Does it honour Eirianwen that she trains with the man that raped me?

  No,’ she answered herself. ‘Of course it does not. She is a foolish woman if she thinks this will have some sort of adverse effect on me. Nastasen is merely a stepping-stone to her, Catuvolcos, that is all. A training tool on which I shall hone myself, ready for when I face that old whore in the arena. Besides,’ Lysandra sniffed. ‘It is not as if training against a man is even her idea. We thought of it.’

  ‘Then don’t let it bother you,’ Catuvolcos offered. ‘Instead, watch him for weaknesses that you can exploit.’

  It was as if Nastasen had heard Catuvolcos speak, for at that moment, he launched an attack on Sorina that was as furious as it was efficient. Using his bulk and strength to maximum effect, he disarmed her and slammed his wooden sword into her gut, sending her to her knees.

  ‘That man is strong.’ Catuvolcos had not realised he had spoken the thought aloud until Lysandra glared at him. ‘Well,’ he said a little defensively, ‘he is.’

  ‘That is as maybe,’ she snapped. ‘But you are strong enough yourself to be useful in preparing for him.’

  ‘I’m honoured you think so.’

  ‘I have seen enough,’ she said shortly and rose to her feet, daring Catuvolcos to protest. He did not, and she stalked away.

  He watched the lithe figure storm off and sighed. He realised that the rivalry between Lysandra and Sorina had changed them both. As he turned his eyes back to the training area, he considered that it was the older woman who had let her ambition overtake all reason. That the two were trying to get the upper hand mentally before their bout was a power play so obvious that it was almost laughable. Yet, for Sorina to train with Nastasen was low. It was beneath the Clan Chief, and Catuvolcos decided that he would speak to her about it.

  Lysandra fumed all the way to the arena’s small bathing facility.

  Varia had spotted her striding to the squat building and had come along in tow.

  ‘Get a massage table ready,’ Lysandra barked at her. She tossed her soiled tunic at the girl before plunging into the heated pool.

  She swam with strong strokes, slicing through the water as if this exercise would somehow purge her of the anger she felt. She was being ridiculous, she told herself. Despite her claim to Catuvolcos, the sight of Sorina and Nastasen had unsettled her.

  They were, she realised, her nemeses made flesh: one black, the other white; one male, one female; one the taker of her virginity the other the taker of her love.

  She climbed out of the pool, lifting her hands above her head so that Varia could dry her off. It was almost inevitable that the two people she hated most would unite against her.

  She said as much to Varia when her massage had begun.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they do.’ Varia said sagaciously. ‘You will defeat Nastasen, and then Sorina. You are the best.’

  ‘And that is how it must be.’ Lysandra fairly undulated as the Roman girl’s skilled fingers kneaded the tension from her. ‘I must face Nastasen, Varia, I must.’

  ‘Why don’t we just have him executed for…’ she trailed off.

  ‘For what he did.’

  ‘We?’ Lysandra arched an eyebrow, quietly amused at the girl.

  Varia remained silent, working her way down her legs. ‘I do not want him executed, Varia. I want my revenge. Athene will be at my side and I shall defeat him. But more than this: when I win, it will strike a blow of terror into Sorina’s heart. And…’ She paused, wondering if she should reveal her innermost thoughts to the girl. It was shameful, but she suddenly felt the need to confide in someone. ‘And,’ she said at length, ‘it is more important that I will know.’

  ‘Turn over,’ Varia said. She applied the unguent to Lysandra’s thighs and continued. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am not sure that I can win against Sorina,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Despite it all, I am not as confident as I should be. We have much to fight for and, though I am certain of my skills, I know that her will to win is as strong as my own. I am the younger, the stronger, but she is the Gladiatrix Prima. Never defeated. Her experience may tell.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Varia chided. ‘She’s all used up. You will win.’

  ‘The point is,’ Lysandra ignored Varia’s blind optimism, ‘that if I defeat Nastasen, I will have no doubt in my mind that I will go on to beat her. It is necessary that I face him for this reason above all. He is my catalyst. To win against him is the ultimate prize, Varia. After that Sorina will be a mere formality. In here.’

  She tapped her head.

  ‘I don’t know why you are making such a fuss.’ Varia shrugged.

  ‘He’s as good as dead, Lysandra. There has never been a gladiatrix like you. You are the best that there has ever been.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lysandra responded, more from habit than real conviction. ‘I am being foolish.’ The words, however, were imbued with a confidence she did not feel.

  LI

  ‘What you are doing is wrong,’ Catuvolcos said, wiping the foam from his mouth.

  ‘No, what you are doing is wrong,’ Sorina bristled.

  ‘Training with her.’

  ‘She will need help to face Nastasen,’ Catuvolcos said earnestly.

  ‘Only I am anywhere near as strong as he.’

  ‘This is true, but in aiding her, you could hasten my defeat.

  You are making her stronger and faster — this is the result of training against a man’s strength. S
o it is your actions that forced me to train with Nastasen. I must have all the advantages she has if I am to kill her.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He handed her the beer sack. ‘But that isn’t the real reason, is it? You’re training with him to unsettle her.’

  ‘That too,’ Sorina said. ‘And why not? She is trying her mind games with me. She will learn that I am long enough in the tooth not to be affected by this sort of thing. I think her game has been turned about.’

  Catuvolcos did not reply to that. ‘You could find other men to train with?’ he protested. ‘There are plenty of gladiators who would help you.’

  ‘I know. But it will be Nastasen, for those reasons we spoke of.’

  ‘He raped her, Sorina. You lose honour in what you do.’

  Sorina fixed him with her chestnut-coloured eyes. ‘Honour, Catuvolcos? It has died in this place. It died with Eirianwen.

  Perhaps it died when I was made a slave. Honour will be satisfied when Lysandra is dead and Eirianwen is avenged. That is all that matters.’

  ‘You think Eirianwen would approve of this, Sorina?’ Catuvolcos did not hide his exasperation. ‘Like it or not, she loved Lysandra!’

  ‘And I loved her,’ Sorina flared. ‘She was like my own daughter, Catuvolcos, and a part of me died with her. You cannot know how I feel. I struck the blow, but her blood is not on my hands.

  Lysandra…’ The name dripped with a hatred Catuvolcos found chilling. ‘Lysandra. It is always her. Before she came we were at least happy, if happiness can be found in such a place. You and I were close yet — and let us not lie to one another — our friendship is not what it once was. Eirianwen was alive. All was as it should be. Even Nastasen,’ she threw up her hands. ‘For years he had been at the ludus. Never had he laid a hand on any of us.

  He was cruel for sure, but he was no rapist. But Lysandra drove him to it. She is a witch. She brings death and hatred where she walks. She beguiles with her false austerity then wantonly displays her body, claiming it is natural to be so. But we know how she snared you. Balbus panders to her whims and even Stick, of all people, has a place in his heart for her. He likes her. And Stick likes no one. There is magic in what she does, Catuvolcos, and none of it good. I will kill her for the better of all.’

  ‘You’re insane in hatred, woman. You will not beat her, for you hate too much. It has clouded your mind…’

  Sorina surged upwards, her face close to his. ‘Don’t say that!’ she screamed. ‘Don’t say it, Catuvolcos. I will destroy her, I will cut her down. I will bathe in her blood!’

  Despite himself, Catuvolcos took a step back at the maniacal fervour in Sorina’s eyes. Saddened, he turned away.

  ‘Catuvolcos.’ Halting, he looked back. Slowly, deliberately, Sorina spat on the ground between them. ‘Go to her, then. We are finished, you and I.’

  ‘We were finished a long time ago,’ he said softly. ‘Sorina is dead. She, like honour, died with Eirianwen, and I only see it now. She has not seen it herself.’

  ‘And Catuvolcos is dead to Sorina.’ She did not wait for a response but stalked off, burning with fury.

  Attalus yawned. The Macedonian was weary, and yet his guard duty had only just begun. It was, he thought, a good job, and he was lucky to work for Balbus. The pay was decent, the job safe.

  Certainly safer than taking the Legionary’s oath, more secure than patrolling the streets as one of the urbanae, which in its turn offered its own dangers. However, there were some parts of the job that were less than savoury. He glanced at the cell door, knowing that the giant, Nastasen, slept within. An evil bastard, Attalus thought. Admittedly, that Lysandra was a stroppy one but nobody deserved what the Nubian had dished out. Guarding the door alone, so close to the giant savage gave Attalus the chills.

  Lysandra was becoming quite the love of the crowds, the Macedonian mused. He recalled that it was he who had spoken to her first and she had mocked his accented Latin. He should have known even back then that she was something different from the rest. If any mere woman could defeat a strong man, it was Lysandra. She had bigger balls than most of the guards, that was certain.

  He chuckled at that, but then was unable even to cry out as strong hands gripped his head and, with appalling suddenness, the wall loomed up in his eyes. There was sickening pain as his skull crunched into the unyielding stone. He tried to struggle but again his head was smacked into the wall. Attalus felt his legs go, and then there was nothingness.

  Nastasen blinked into wakefulness as the torchlight from the catacombs fell upon him. ‘What’s going on?’ he mumbled, brushing the sleep from his eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, swinging his legs from the cot, his face splitting into a grin.

  ‘Come to keep me warm?’

  The sword thrust took him straight in the chest. He cried out in shock and pain as the fire of agony engulfed him. Huge gouts of blood erupted from the wound and he slumped back on the cot, a stunned expression of horror on his face. Holding up his hands, he called for help but the entreaty became a scream as the gladius whistled downwards, biting into his meaty forearm.

  Again the weapon fell, cutting his face, blow after blow raining upon him, butchering him where he lay.

  Nastasen shrieked frantically for help, his strength gone. The walls of the cell were coated in his blood, the stink of his shit rising from between his legs. The skin of his arms hung about in bloody tatters as the attacker stepped in.

  ‘Why?’ he whispered, blood bubbling on his thick lips.

  ‘Because I must win,’ came the response. The gladius swung again, catching him on the side of the neck, spraying blood and ichor into the air. The severed head clattered across the floor, Nastasen’s final expression one of open-mouthed horror.

  ‘… And because you are a pig.’

  The room was awash with blood. Despite the chill of the early morning, flies had, with their unerring sense for such things, found their way into the cell and had already begun feasting upon Nastasen’s corpse.

  ‘Jupiter’s sake!’ Balbus hissed, running a hand over his thin-ning hair. ‘What a mess.’ Despite the fact that he was well used to the sight of blood, the carnage that had taken place in the cell was sickening. Nastasen’s body had been butchered with barbaric ferocity.

  ‘He had it coming,’ Stick said, crouching by the mutilated corpse. ‘It’s not like anyone is going to be weeping at his loss.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Stick.’ Balbus was more resigned than annoyed. ‘We can’t have this sort of thing.’

  ‘Who do you think did it?’ asked Catuvolcos.

  Stick turned about and got to his feet. Unflappable as ever, the scrawny Parthian spat on the floor. ‘Look at the state of him!

  It doesn’t take Archimedes to work it out. Obviously our Spartan decided to end her bout with the bastard ahead of schedule.’

  ‘Lysandra wouldn’t do such a thing!’ Catuvolcos protested.

  ‘No?’ Balbus broke in. ‘We all know what he did to her. Gods on Olympus, if anyone deserved to die in such a way, it was Nastasen.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ Catuvolcos said thoughtfully. ‘If Lysandra was going to do away with him, she would not act in such a frenzied way. You know what she’s like,’ he went on. ‘She would have just stuck her blade in him and left.’

  ‘Who knows how she thinks,’ Balbus muttered. ‘Of course, Attalus doesn’t remember a thing. One moment he was watching the door, the next,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘he was out like a candle. I should have him whipped for dereliction of duty, but I can’t help but think we are well rid of Nastasen.’ That was the truth, he thought to himself. Though he had given in to Lysandra’s wishes, he could not help but be relieved that the fight she wanted so desperately could not now take place. Despite her assurances, in his heart he believed that she would have been hard pressed to match the black giant.

  He turned to the guards who were lurking in the corridor beyond. ‘Clean this shit up and have it burned. You two.’ He indicate
d Stick and Catuvolcos, ‘We must at least question Lysandra.

  I cannot have her thinking she can just murder someone and get away with it. Bad for discipline,’ he added.

  In the early hours, Lysandra had finally fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep. Her slumber was broken when the door to her cell crashed open. Furious, she snapped into full wakefulness, her eyes focusing on the shocked faces of Stick, Catuvolcos and Balbus, all crammed into her doorway.

  ‘What is the meaning of this!’ she shouted. ‘Am I an animal to be gawped at while sleeping?’ She broke off. ‘Why am I all wet?’ Even as she spoke, Lysandra lifted up her arms, which to her felt damp and tacky.

  They were slick with blood. Stunned, her eyes lowered to see her blanket soaked crimson. And there, staring at her, its tongue horribly swollen and protruding was the severed head of Nastasen.

  Horrified, she screamed and leapt from the bed, throwing herself as far away from the ghastly trophy as the confines of the cell would allow. The head rolled obscenely from the cot, its strange wiry hair tangling about it.

  Lysandra screamed again, her eyes wide with terror.

  ‘Get her out of here!’ Balbus shouted.

  Catuvolcos rushed forwards and shepherded the blood-mired gladiatrix from the room.

  LII

  Lysandra was sickened. That she was used to killing, accustomed to the sight of a body falling at her feet, could not have prepared her for the shock of seeing the disembodied head staring at her, almost accusing. That she had reacted so in public also galled her. She should have shown more control, she berated herself, but the queasy feeling in her gut would not abate, nor would the shaking of her bloody hands.

  Catuvolcos had been the soul of concern, leading her to the bathhouse where he sluiced her down with warm water from the pool.

  ‘I am quite fine, Catuvolcos,’ she told him. ‘You are being a mother hen. It was merely a shock that is all.’