Roma Victrix

by Russell Whitfield

  The crowd erupted in a spontaneous round of cheering as Pyrrha ended on this highly theatrical and utterly functionless stance. Illeana found herself joining in – clearly, nerves were going to be the least of Pyrrha’s problems. Her dance was both impressive and highly dangerous: the display must have leached some confidence from the impressive-looking Audacia, but if Pyrrha had slipped or dropped a sword, the result would have reversed itself ten-fold. If things went well, Illeana would have to speak to her about it. If things went well: the Roman found herself whispering a silent prayer to Fortuna.

  Vigilo called the fighters together, holding the vine staff out to separate them. Pyrrha rose into the classical guard of the dimachaeria as Audacia dropped back into her own stance. The audience began to clap – slowly at first but increasing in speed with each retort till reaching thunderous crescendo that filled the arena. Almost lost was the lanista’s call.

  ‘Pugnate!’

  At once, Pyrrha leapt into the attack, trying to spear her foe straight in the face with the first blow, but Audacia was experienced enough to parry the attack and in doing so open the dimachaeria guard. Her short sword licked out, seeking the flesh of Pyrrha’s belly only to be blocked. They disengaged, circling each other, shuffling backwards and forwards, both fighters looking for an angle of attack.

  It was Audacia who moved first, stepping in and executing a horizontal cut to Pyrrha’s ribs. Illeana rose to her feet, screaming for Pyrrha to see the move for what it was; but Pyrrha did not have her experience. The young fighter’s sword blocked the cut just as Audacia rammed the hard metal of her buckler into Pyrrha’s face.

  Illeana’s hands flew to her mouth as she imagined she could almost hear the dull ring of the blow landing.

  Pyrrha staggered back, blood sheeting down her cheek from a cut somewhere high on the side of her head. At least, Illeana thought, she had turned her face aside, but the blow was a telling one.

  Pyrrha’s legs were not strong as the thraex rushed into the attack, sensing an early victory. The onslaught came as it must as Audacia rained blow after blow down on the weakened tiro, using both sword and shield as weapons. Pyrrha’s responses were stiff and clumsy as she fell back in desperate retreat.

  The crowd, encouraged by first blood, roared on the home fighter, screaming for the kill. They roared again as the gladiatrices’ blades locked, Audacia’s diagonal cut blocked by Pyrrha ; but the Capuan’s strength was greater and she pushed hard. Forcing the issue, her blade scraped upwards and came free, cutting into Pyrrha’s collar-bone. So near the bone, the flesh parted easily and the sands drank more Roman blood. With a strength that must have been born of desperation, Pyrrha shoved the bigger woman away and scampered back. Illeana knew she was trying to buy time to clear her head.

  The cut on her chest was nothing: it was the near knockout first blow that was troubling her.

  Audacia had a decision to make: she could continue to press and try to overwhelm her opponent or she could stay back and pick her attacks, eating the younger fighter a morsel at a time, hoping that the damage already done would be telling. Illeana would have opted for the former: Audacia did not.

  It was here that the hard hours of conditioning and training came to the fore. The endless miles run on the steps of the Flavian, the days spent toiling to exhaustion on the palaestra, thousands upon thousands of strikes to the wooden pallus would all now come into play.

  Given a few moments respite, Illeana could see the strength returning to Pyrrha’s legs. The crowd could see it too and urged on their champion: it was, Illeana realised, so much easier to be an expert when you were safe in the audience. These things were harder to see on the sands, but Audacia realised soon enough when the spring suddenly returned to Pyrrha’s step and she, in a display of cheek, spun her swords again. Despite their preference for the local girl, the crowd appreciated this piece of grandstanding and applauded politely.

  Pyrrha’s footwork became more assured as she opted to advance on Audacia using the circle-step, which allowed a fighter to move in and out with speed and power and added the advantage of a firm base. Her blades lashed out in a straight, three-strike combination, but these were deflected by the Capuan who then came back with a cut of her own. Pyrrha leapt back, wary now of the devastating shield punch. Both women stalked each other, but this let-up in the intense action soon caused the spectators to show their displeasure.

  They wanted more – they always wanted more, especially from female fighters. They would appreciate a Latrunculi match between two gladiators, but women were expected to bare all and give all.

  But it was apparent to Illeana that Pyrrha and Audacia were evenly matched, despite the bigger woman’s early success. Now they attacked each other in sporadic mêlées that seemed designed only to feel each other out and not do any real damage. ‘Come on, Pyrrha!’ Illeana called, wary that, should things go against her, the missio would not be granted after such a tepid affair.

  As though she heard her, Pyrrha rolled her shoulders and began to move, this time lightly on her feet, making the choice to sacrifice solidity for speed. She made to attack but it was merely a feint, causing Audacia to react. Pyrrha, however, made no attempt to follow up, content to merely make the other woman move. Clearly annoyed, the Capuan launched a thrust of her own and this time Pyrrha reacted, spinning away and cutting out at Audacia’s extended arm. The crowd hissed as the sharp iron tip of Pyrrha’s weapon sliced into their gladiatrix’s bicep making crimson fly in bright droplets.

  ‘Good,’ Illeana clapped her hands. ‘Good!’ The wound would be painful and – more importantly – debilitating: it would slow Audacia down and continue to worsen as the bout went on. Audacia knew it too and she cried out in defiance and laid in, cutting and hacking at her elusive enemy in fury. The sound of iron against iron rang out and then Pyrrha spun away once more, ducking low and dragging her blade across Audacia’s ribs. The Capuan yelped in pain but, as Pyrrha whirled past, she swung her blade, nicking the soft flesh of the Roman’s shoulder. It was hard to see from where she was standing, but Illeana did not think she had hit the critical tendons. She was proven right as Pyrrha showed no signs of severe hurt.

  Both fighters redoubled their efforts now, skin slick with sweat, oil and blood, their legs caked in arena sand. The crowd roared encouragement as the women tore into each other with fury. Illeana had seen it before – she had been there herself. No one, no matter how fit or strong, could fight at length without a break. The constant movement, the pain, the inner rush of blood, all conspired to sap energy from the body and instinct drove one on to finish before all strength had fled. In a drawn out contest such as this had become, it was all about will and conditioning. Pyrrha had trained hard but Audacia had the bigger frame, the stronger constitution – she could not know if Audacia had put in all the hours that she needed to.

  But this was legendary Capua, and they did not half-train their fighters here.

  Audacia was using her shield well, jabbing it out like a boxer to both confuse and create a barrier from behind which she could strike. Pyrrha was burning more energy, moving fast, trying to cut in at angles. The Capuan surged in and Pyrrha back-stepped frantically, fending off the bigger woman. A gap opened between them and then she did something that, in all her years in the arena, Illeana had never seen.

  Time seemed to slow before her eyes as Pyrrha ran – ran – forward.

  She launched herself into the air, blades poised.

  It was madness.

  It was suicidal.

  It had never been seen before.

  Like the mob, Audacia seemed to be stunned by the move for that split instant before the blow landed. Pyrrha came down like the war goddess herself, blade first, hacking the weapon into the flesh that joined the neck to the shoulder. Blood spewed from the wound and Audacia’s keening wail of agony could be heard even above the roar of the spectators. Locked together, both gladiatrices toppled to the ground in a spray of blood and sand.

  Py
rrha rolled away and scrambled behind Audacia, gripping her stricken foe by the hair and placing her sword at the other woman’s throat. All eyes in the arena now turned to the editor’s box. As sponsor of the games it would be he who ultimately decided the fate of the defeated Audacia, but as everyone knew, he would be swayed by the will of the mob. After all, like most editors he had made the heavy investment in putting on a spectacle to curry political favour with the citizens: it made no sense to antagonise them by turning his thumb on a fighter who they deemed had performed well.

  Audacia raised her blood-covered hand imploring the crowd for the missio and they voiced their support for mercy. She had fought well. Illeana, if she was being dispassionate, would go so far as to think she had been unlucky not to win. The editor was inclined to agree as he adopted a down-mouthed expression of magnanimity and pulled his thumb into his waist, indicating the sheathing of a sword – and deliverance for Audacia.

  Pyrrha released her opponent and raised her swords to some applause. These were not the ecstatic shouts of a satisfied throng: after all, it was their champion who had fallen, but the Capuan mob was erudite enough to appreciate a good fighter when they saw one.

  The young tiro waited for a moment before making her painful way back towards the Gate of Life.

  XXIV

  Lysandra’s senses swum as her feet pounded on the hard earth, calves burning as she plunged on up the hill towards the setting sun. Her heart thudded in her chest as she ran, sweat drenching her body and soaking through her tunic. The ground rose steeper, causing her to stumble and scrabble upwards, dust and lose stones forming clouds of dust about her, settling on her skin.

  She slipped, and slid back several feet. Gasping, she forced herself onwards, her rhythm broken. At the summit, Cappa called out to her in encouragement, urging her not to give in. Far behind, Murco laboured after her, too weary even to curse.

  ‘Come on, lass – come on!’ Cappa jumped up and down on the spot like an excited child, beckoning her.

  Gritting her teeth, Lysandra dug deep and kept going. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her, but she refused to stop running. To walk now would be to admit defeat – and that she could not allow.

  She screamed, willing herself to go on, her tortured body nearly spent. The ground rose steeper still, forcing her to grab at shrubs and rocks to save herself from falling, but every agonising pace brought her nearer to her goal. One final push and she would be there.

  The world began to judder each time her feet impacted with the earth, tilting crazily with abrupt suddenness as the ground rushed up to meet her. She struggled to her knees, trying to rise again, but could not, bile rushing to her throat and exploding out of her mouth. She puked until the dry retching began signalling the beginning of the end.

  She was dimly aware of Cappa’s hand on her back, his calming voice telling her she’d be all right. She rolled over and sat on her bottom.

  ‘Here,’ he said, tipping water into her mouth. ‘Rinse and spit.

  And don’t drink the rest down too fast.’

  ‘Merciful Athene!’ Lysandra gasped in frustration. ‘I was so close.’

  ‘Early days yet,’ Cappa consoled her. ‘And if you feel bad…’ he jerked his chin down the hill. ‘Look at poor Murco.’

  The other bodyguard was staggering up towards them so slowly it looked as though as he was moving under water. Eventually, he reached them, collapsing in a heap, chest heaving. ‘Not… paying…me… enough… for… this… shit…’ he managed, beckoning frantically for the water sack.

  ‘I told you. You do not have to run with me,’ Lysandra patted his back as he drank. ‘Either of you. Just wait along the route.’

  ‘We’re paid to guard you,’ Cappa replied. ‘Can’t do that if we’re too far away to help you if anything happens.’

  ‘She’s a gladiatrix, you idiot!’ Murco gasped, handing the sack back to Lysandra. ‘You think she can’t handle herself ? I’m not doing this again – no offence,’ he offered to Lysandra.

  ‘I’ll run with you tomorrow,’ Cappa smirked. ‘Again. Your trouble, Murco, is that you drink too much wine. I’m still as fit as I was twenty years ago.’

  ‘That’s not what you said last time it was your turn. You complained all night about your aches, pains and blisters.’

  ‘Have you two finished?’ Lysandra cut them off before it degen-erated into another round of bickering. Both Romans bickered like old crones and she was not in the mood to listen. She got to her feet. ‘Time to get back to the cabin. Come on, Murco,’ she offered him a hand up. ‘Up you get, old man.’

  The trio made their way back to their temporary home as the sun began to sink. Lysandra was furious at her abject failure to reach the summit. Too many years of booze-soaked inactivity had taken a greater toll than she had anticipated. To be a gladiatrix required a greater level of fitness than that of even the doughtiest Spartan warrior. Lysandra reckoned that she could not have out-fought one of the Three Hundred but she would wager her entire fortune that she would have been able to outrun any of them in her prime.

  In her prime.

  She should be in her prime now. She was the right age to reach her psychical peak. The old strength of body and will was still there.

  It would come, she told herself.

  It would come.

  The next morning, Murco awoke her before dawn as she had requested. Each day, before her training she went to the less-than-opulent Temple of Athene to make an offering and pray that Varia would return home to the Deiopolis in safety. The truth of it was that the headstrong youth had probably returned long since but still, she worried, and an offering would not hurt matters.

  She led in the pure white lamb, waving a greeting to the old priest who was busy sweeping the floor. He seemed as ancient as the building he guarded, all white-beard and scraggly hair. She had been coming for over two weeks now and she guessed he had become accustomed to her visits; at first, the old man had been genuinely put out at someone suddenly appearing to disrupt his indolent harmony, but he had come to realise that Lysandra knew her way around a temple and was thus not a threat to the lassitude of his semi-retirement.

  It was peaceful here. Quiet. Lysandra used the place to centre herself even as she drew the sacrificial blade across the throat of the lamb, cutting deeply so she severed its larynx, thus allowing no sound to escape the beast. It thrashed pathetically on the altar, its hot blood coursing all over her hands as she whispered her prayers, beseeching the goddess to give her the strength of will she had once possessed. She let the animal bleed out, seeking answers to unknown questions in the crimson liquid.

  Her ritual finished, she rinsed her hands in the altar bowl and turned to leave. But for the first time, the caretaker spoke to her.

  ‘See you again tomorrow, girl?’ he said in strangely accented Hellenic.

  She smiled at him. ‘Yes. Tomorrow.’‘

  He said nothing more but went back to his work, whistling a broken tune. Yet the exchange, as brief as it was, left her feeling strangely lifted and light of spirit. And she was eager to begin the trials of the day.

  ‘Fifteen… sixteen… seventeen…’ Cappa counted as Lysandra pulled herself up on the chin bar. She alternated, first lifting her chin above the bar and then placing the back of her neck against it on the next repetition. It was excruciating, but it worked different muscles and built up endurance. ‘No pain!’ had become the mantra of the little household and each time Lysandra began to fail, Cappa, Murco or both invoked it. Now as she went into the forties, they switched roles: Cappa counting, Murco exhorting.

  ‘Forty-three…’

  ‘No pain!’

  ‘Forty-four…’

  ‘No pain!’

  And so it went on.

  Both men knew what they were about when it came to training.

  They had been Praetorians, well used to putting their subordinates through their paces and they now called upon that experience to aid Lysandra. Though they sparred wi
th wooden swords on occasion, this was not specialised gladiatorial preparation: that would come in the ludus. All this was designed to make her stronger, tougher and faster.

  And as the days wore on, she began to love the toil and sweat once again.

  ‘That hill still has the beating of you,’ Cappa told her one afternoon as she worked on the wooden pallus, training her eye to strike at vulnerable spots on her “opponent.” ‘You need to be stronger.’

  ‘I will be,’ Lysandra replied, launching a furious attack on the pallus. The weight of the practice sword – the rudis – felt good in her hand.

  ‘We’ll get you there.’ Mucro said, emerging from the house, a harness in his hands. ‘This used to be a punishment in the Guard.

  But for you, it’s good training.’

  Lysandra paused in her work. ‘What are you going to do?’ she raised an eyebrow. ‘Beat me with that?’

  Murco laughed. ‘No – everyone knows that is a national pastime in Sparta. Come with me.’

  The two bodyguards led her away from the house and to the foot of the hill. Here an unyoked chariot awaited them. ‘You are not serious,’ Lysandra protested, knowing already that they were.

  ‘Stop complaining or I’ll start making horse jokes,’ Murco tossed the harness to her. ‘It’s been altered, padded and all the rest. Get it on you.’

  Lysandra did as she was told, adjusting the leather straps so they were snug on her shoulders and waist.

  ‘Good,’ Cappa said, fitting the trailing end of the harness to the two-wheeler. Grinning he stepped on board, soon followed by Murco. They were enjoying themselves immensely by now, Murco even having remembered to bring a small flask of wine and two cups.

  ‘Cappa, my friend,’ he handed his companion a drink. ‘Time for a trip around the Paestum countryside. Lysandra, if you please.’