GIRL GLADIATOR

by Graeme Farmer

  As some sailors fished him out of the water, another man walked up and said, “My name is Publius. You’re a vicious little monkey, aren’t you? I would like to offer you a job.”

  So it was with this troupe of entertainers that I travelled from Britain to Rome. My job was to use my fighting skills in a mock-combat act with the clowns.

  Sharn had paid attention to all the twists and turns of the extraordinary tale but could not contain his impatience any longer. “But, Fritha, where did you learn to write?”

  Fritha dragged some bread through the olive oil, put it in her mouth and chewed it, as she continued inscribing her awkward Latin into the wax.

  I made friends with an old cripple called Titus. He had smashed his legs falling from a tightrope, and now he handled business for Publius.

  After I had helped the other women cook the meal I would sit down with Titus and he would teach me to read and write. By the time we approached Rome, I had read every scroll Titus carried with him and all at once the circus seemed silly. I asked Titus to break the bad news to Publius.

  “What are you going to do for money?” Publius asked.

  I was hoping you would help me get some work, I wrote.

  “I have a friend here called Axis. He provides spectacles for rich Romans to goggle at during their feasts.”

  Publius introduced me to Axis. Axis was reluctant to take me on until he saw me go through my paces with one of his fighters. He whistled, impressed. “I’ve never seen fighting like this in my life. It’s like you can read your opponent’s mind.”

  It was Axis who said I should fight as a male – I would be taken more seriously that way, and he could negotiate a higher fee. He also said that my greatest weapon was surprise – and he suggested a trick to build on that. On my right wrist, I wore a leather binding covered in steel studs which I kept out of sight under my sleeves. Publius said my opponents would be lulled into a false sense of security.

  CHAPTER 30

  JEALOUS GODS

  Sharn stared at Fritha incredulously as evening settled on the room. Fritha, his Fritha, the skinny girl from Cirig, had done all of this. No wonder the lines on her face were deeper.

  That night as Fritha lay sleeping, she twitched and whimpered. Sharn wondered what bad memory was gnawing at her. He gazed at the scar just above her breast where the arrow had left a raised welt of white in the purple-black swirl of her tattoos; and another, a much fresher one, on her arm.

  Then he began to worry at the dangerous way she made her living. She was a gladiator after all, so how many times could she fight and come home in one piece? Fritha muttered again and jerked her head quickly to one side, as if dodging a blow, but she did not wake.

  The next morning, Sharn knew exactly what he wanted to do. He grabbed Fritha by the hand and bustled her out into the street. She gave him a questioning look but he just led her on quickly to a shop he had passed numerous times – and whenever he did he thought of Fritha, because he would often see young lovers entering the store to buy mementoes for each other. The goldsmith was just opening up as Sharn dragged Fritha into the shop.

  “We would like to buy some jewellery,” Sharn said.

  “You’ve come to the right place, young man,” the goldsmith said rubbing his hands. “Is it for your girlfriend?”

  Sharn nodded and turned to Fritha. “Just tell me what you like best?”

  The goldsmith opened a strong room with a huge key and pushed open the studded steel door. Fritha leaned over and gave Sharn a wet kiss on the cheek as the goldsmith brought out trays of rings and brooches and bracelets and torques, lining them up on the counter.

  Fritha shot Sharn a shy smile and an enquiring look. Sharn guessed what she was asking.

  “Choose anything – except anything with diamonds maybe,” Sharn corrected himself.

  “Are you after something for that pretty neck of yours? This is a very fine necklace with matching earrings – look!” The goldsmith draped the silver chain with an amethyst pendant around Fritha’s neck and held a much smaller amethyst stone against her ear; then he positioned a piece of polished brass for Fritha to admire herself. But something had caught Fritha’s eye. She reached out towards a tray which held ten or a dozen bracelets and bangles. Her fingers fastened on a gold bracelet. She picked it up and showed it to Sharn.

  “Is this what you want?”

  Fritha didn’t even have to think about it. She nodded as she slipped it on and held it up for Sharn to see. Sharn had a closer look at it. It was a fine choice. The gold was inlaid with a delicate pattern of chased silver, an interlocking leaf motif.

  “A splendid piece – but expensive,” the goldsmith said shaking his head mournfully. Sharn knew what was coming – the long process of haggling where the merchant would claim Fritha’s great taste had driven her to choose the most expensive item in the shop – and Sharn would pretend to lose his temper and go cold on the whole deal. But the goldsmith must have taken a liking to them because after a mere five minutes bargaining Sharn and Fritha walked out content, Fritha almost tripping on the shop step so enthralled was she by her new treasure.

  All that day, Fritha would hold the bracelet up to the light so the different coloured metals would glint in the sun, then she would lean over and kiss Sharn.

  “It’s an unbroken circle – like our life together,” Sharn whispered. Tears of joy gathered in Fritha’s eyes and she pressed Sharn’s hand to her forehead as she had done all those nights ago in Britain.

  But the gift was not universally well received. When Seth learnt that Sharn had squandered all the money he had been saving for books he chewed Sharn’s ear off. “Once a peasant always a peasant!” he thundered.

  That night as they lay in bed Fritha couldn’t take her eyes off the bracelet. She went to sleep with it right in front of her nose so she would see it as soon as she woke in the morning. But once again Sharn found it hard to stop thinking about the perilous way Fritha made her living and it was not until the early hours that he slipped into a restless sleep dreaming of Fritha lying on the ground bleeding to death.

  At breakfast, Sharn explained his misgivings, but he trailed off as Fritha’s frown became deeper and deeper. She fiddled with the gold and silver bracelet. Finally, she put her spoon down and snatched up the stylus. “You must not tell me what to do. Is that why you bought me this present – to soften me up?”

  “Don’t be stupid! It’s because I’ve lost you once – I couldn’t stand losing you again.”

  His concern made his voice crack. Fritha bit her lip and wavered.

  “Please, Fritha. Seth says you can stay here for as long as you like rent free. You don’t have to fight.”

  She looked at him tenderly, as the rattle of carts and the cries of hawkers filtered into the room. She sighed and began to write.

  I have a bout tonight and I do not want to let Axis down. Maybe after this, we’ll see.

  Waves of relief washed over Sharn. This is what true love is, he thought – you ask for something and your lover grants it. “Thank you, Fritha. Everything is perfect between us,” he said.

  Fritha quickly wrote in the wax. Don’t say such things. The gods will be jealous.

  And perhaps they were.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE PAST CREEPS BACK

  Sharn knew there was something wrong as soon as he heard Fritha’s step on the path. Her tread usually so light and swift was heavy tonight. He flung the door open to reveal her standing there stooped, as if carrying a big weight.

  “Are you hurt?” Sharn said as he stepped forward and ran his hands over her body, looking for signs of blood. He stared into her eyes and was alarmed at what he saw there … or rather what he didn’t see, because they were empty, like the first time they had met.

  “What’s the matter, Fritha?” But she just brushed past him, shuffled inside and slumped down at the table.

  “What happened?” he asked, pushing the wax tablet and stylus towards her, but she gave no s
ign that she had even heard the question. She was so knotted up in her own thoughts.

  But then she began gasping for air as if someone was choking her, and she grabbed the stylus and scribbled in the wax so carelessly Sharn wondered whether he read it correctly. He must pay!

  “Who must pay?” Sharn frowned. “Who do you mean, Fritha?”

  But she just shook her head from side to side, like a crazed animal. And then without warning she stood bolt upright.

  Sharn did not know what to do or what to say so he just reached out, grabbed her and held her close, but he almost let her go again because her body was hard and sharp, like a sack full of swords. And now her eyes were no longer empty – thunderclouds of rage boiled in them. Sharn led her to the bed and pressed her down onto it, stretching out next to her.

  “Listen to me. No matter what this is we can fix it – the two of us.”

  Fritha lay there like a dead thing. “If it is Rome, we’ll go back to Britain,” Sharn added. He leaned up on one elbow and brushed her hair from her forehead, but she ignored him, staring glassily upwards. “Just tell me what’s going on.” But she turned her face away. Sharn held her tight and whispered calming things.

  Eventually, Fritha’s breathing became more even, her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep. Sharn started to doze himself as he reflected, not for the first time, how little he truly knew Fritha, even after Bredan had filled in some of the gaps in his knowledge. She was like a forest creature who had blundered into the house by mistake. He finally drifted off, with the street noise petering out as the last of the shopkeepers put up their shutters.

  Fritha was only feigning sleep. She waited for Sharn’s body to grow slack and when she was sure he was out to it, she lifted his arm from her and laid it on the covers. As she slipped from the bed, she looked back and felt a sudden stab of doubt. She wanted to be lying beside him again, and pretend this evening had never happened. But it had, and Fritha knew she would find no peace until she had set things right. She gave Sharn one last lingering look, and crept out into the main room.

  She felt behind the big storage crock next to the oven and found her knife in its sheath. She picked it up and pushed it into her girdle. Then she lifted a loose flagstone and retrieved a leather bag full of coins.

  The streets belonged to the few late-night revellers stumbling home. A buttery moon seemed temporarily stranded on the top of the Coliseum, as Fritha flitted quickly past the sleeping houses. Arriving outside Axis’s dwelling, she hammered on the gate.

  A bleary-eye servant eventually opened up. Before he could start telling her off about the lateness of the hour, Fritha slipped by him and ran inside.

  She burst into Axis’s room to find him sprawled on the bed, a bowl of wine in his hand, listening to a youth play the lyre. The servant arrived hotfoot behind Fritha and tried to bundle her out, apologising to Axis for the intrusion. But Axis was intrigued.

  “Leave her be!”

  The servant fell back and Fritha indicated by signs that she wanted something to write with.

  “Get her a wax tablet!” he ordered. The servant scuttled off. “So what brings you here, my little gladiator?” Axis asked with some amusement.

  The lyre player seized the opportunity to run from the room, throwing a circumspect look at Fritha and almost colliding with the servant on his way back with the writing instruments.

  “You better stay, Cimba. I don’t read too well these days – going blind.” In fact Axis had never learnt to read and was sensitive about it.

  Fritha wrote something quickly on the wax tablet. I need to get into Casca Suetonius’s house. The servant read the message to his master.

  “Casca, the tribune?” Axis queried.

  She nodded.

  Axis whistled. “Why?”

  Fritha scribbled something else on the tablet. Get me in tonight and you can have this. She threw the bag of gold coins on the bed.

  Axis grunted, “I don’t want your money. I’ll help you because you are brave … too brave for your own good.”

  Something was surfacing in Axis’s mind, as he surveyed the girl, her slight body thrumming with tension. Casca had been a tribune in Britain for some years and Axis heard from returning soldiers how cruelly he had treated the natives.

  “Tell me, Fritha, are you fixing to kill Casca?”

  She stared back at him impassively.

  Axis heaved his bulk from the bed and crossed the room to stand in front of her. He reached forward and pulled back the folds of her shift to reveal the knife.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Axis smiled, and touched her cheek. “That boy, he’ll miss you.” His eyes dropped to the bracelet Sharn had just given her and he nodded. “Oh, yes, he’ll miss you all right.”

  She winced and made an impatient gesture. She wanted to get on with things, before her second thoughts grew.

  “Come with me!” Axis was surprisingly sprightly when he could smell a fight.

  They moved quickly down the empty streets, eventually arriving outside a tumbledown dwelling. Fritha frowned – this couldn’t be Casca’s compound. Axis drummed on the door with his big fist. After a while, a villainous looking character opened up and the two men shook hands in a special way, talking in slang so thick Fritha could not follow it. After Axis had finished explaining their business, the stranger threw a glance at Fritha and said something dismissive. Axis said something back. The only word Fritha could make out was pescator; and the stranger again looked at Fritha, this time with respect.

  Axis turned to Fritha. “Julius is one of Casca’s gardeners. He will let you in.”

  “I can get you inside the perimeter and past the guards, but then you’re on your own. The only window which is not barred is tiny. You may be thin enough to slip through it … or maybe not.” Julius shrugged.

  Now that Julius was close, Fritha could see the same scars and nicks all over his head and hands and arms that Axis had, indicating that he too had spent a lifetime in the arena.

  “Julius, ask your wife for a little flask of olive oil,” Axis said.

  When Julius finally exited his house, the three of them forged off through the night, heading for the patrician side of town where the rich people lived. The houses were getting grander, the marble finer, the gardens bigger and the walls higher.

  They arrived outside a stout wooden door set in a stone wall topped with spikes. Julius indicated that they were to stay put and keep quiet. Fritha looked up at the stars sparkling serenely in the inky sky, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other, eager to get on with her mission. Julius held up his hand and made a low shushing noise. It was clear now why he had forced them to wait. Two voices were approaching on the other side of the wall, and the clink of weapons and the scuffle of armoured leather announced that they were soldiers.

  Julius waited till the patrolling sentries passed by and then opened the door with a key.

  “Casca must have a lot of enemies – to guard himself so well,” Axis remarked.

  Julius nodded. “The man’s a pig. Everybody hates him.”

  Axis handed Fritha the small flask of oil. “It will help you slip through the window.” He turned to Julius. “And what is her best chance of getting out?”

  “She won’t be getting out, Axis, you know that.”

  “You were always a pessimist, Julius. Tell her, just in case.”

  “Head towards the kitchens. They back onto the wall which rises straight from the river. It’s a long drop, and hopefully there won’t be any barges tied up.”

  Axis suddenly reached out and hugged Fritha. “Run brave, little one … and strike sure.”

  Fritha nodded at Axis in farewell and slipped through the door. She heard the lock go behind her, and stood stock-still staring at the palatial house. When she had got her bearings, she ran across the beautifully kept garden, banks of flowers on either side making the night heavy with their perfume.

  The tiny window was exactly where Julius said it would be on
the second storey. Fritha’s heart sank – it was smaller than she expected. She got the flask of oil and rubbed it on her shoulders and clothing.

  There was a thick creeper snaking all over the wall of the house. She shinned up its gnarled branches and arrived at the sill – and not a moment too soon, as she heard the two soldiers passing by down below talking about who was favourite in a chariot race at the Circus Maximus the next day.

  Fritha tried to squeeze through the window but wriggle as she might, she could not manoeuvre herself in. She dropped one shoulder, then the other, but the casement was just too small, until one of her feet waving around outside found a branch of the creeper. Pushing sharply back, she popped through.

  She dropped onto a pile of baskets which broke her fall, but made a terrible clatter. She lay there dazed, waiting for someone to burst through the door and challenge her … but nobody did.

  She picked herself up and steeled herself to open the door. What lay on the other side? She almost cursed Sharn. She had never suffered from nerves until she met him – and found something to live for. She took a deep breath and eased the door open, and sighed with relief as the house remained quiet – nobody had been alerted by her entrance. Maybe the noise she had made wasn’t loud at all – it just seemed so because she was so tense.

  Fritha stole along the hall past the atrium at the centre of the house. Suddenly her heart leapt into her mouth as she saw a motionless figure observing her from an alcove. She froze and laid her hand on her knife, but the figure remained even more immobile than her – which wasn’t difficult since it was made of marble. Fritha shook her head at the Roman’s passion for statues, as she glided towards the bedchambers. She counted off the doorways, as she crept over the mosaic floor, silent as a cat. Julius had said Casca slept in the third chamber along from the atrium. She located this door in the gloom.