by Lydia Pax
“As are you.”
“And you’re going to fight. Probably to the death.”
“As have you. And there you stand. Perhaps you could show me how you did it.”
He shrugged at that. “We all die someday. In this life, we are all set upon a sea of chance with no oars or sails. In the arena, at least you can change the direction of the waves a little bit.”
“That’s a small comfort, Doctore.”
It was also something like what her father would say when he spoke of the arena.
“All comforts are small in this place.” He smiled. “We take them where we can.”
He turned away from the cell and leaned against her bars. It would be a simple thing to grab him by the neck and bang his head against the bars. Maybe until he was dead. It would be simple also to grab him and kiss him through the metal. Lick at the hard features of his back. Bite down on his shoulders. A hot debate raged in her head about which she would prefer.
“Training will only get harder from here on out,” he said. “You won’t smile forever.”
“I welcome you to make me stop, Doctore.”
He walked away then. Seconds passed, and then he returned.
“Your arm hurts, doesn’t it? Your wrist. On your right hand.”
She was surprised. “Yes. How did you know that?”
“Stop trying to stab the post. The idea isn’t to stab wood, little flame. You want the point to touch, but that’s all. A thrust is about follow through. You can’t follow through on wood. Back up a little.”
That made perfect sense to her. She knew that something had been wrong.
“Thank you, Lucius. I will do that.”
He nodded and mumbled something, walking away.
“Doctore!” he called in correction, once he was safely down the hall.
Chapter 15
They had one month—four weeks—before the first munus games where the fights were to be held. Lucius knew it was not enough time to teach a woman how to fight. He didn’t have an eternity, after all.
So, his goal became not to embarrass his reputation as a teacher. The women would know how to hold a sword. They would know how to swing it. They would know how to defend themselves. Anything more complicated than all of that was likely too much for their minds.
They could not handle the gore of the arena, the hot sprays of blood, the fevered pace of combat. Oh, sure, they could watch from the stands—but then so could children. It wasn’t as if children were out in the arena fighting.
Women were known not to be able to handle quite as much when it came to true action, like the sort found in trading, crafting, and soldiering. This was why the Empire was run by men, after all. A woman’s place was the home.
But if women were placed in his arena, in the amphitheater of Puteoli where he had forged his legend, then by the gods he was going to make them look like they hadn’t just fallen from the sky that day.
Every day, he trained them in the basics.
Attack; block; evade. Again, again, again.
Their footwork improved steadily. He walked by them, trying to knock them down, continued until he could not do it. Their muscles toned quickly. Arms grew muscles that had barely been there. Their torsos became hard and flat.
The work was constant and the diet only enough to keep them moving and strong.
At night, Lucius tried and failed to stem the tide of his drinking. If he had a single drink, he then had more than he should have. If he had nothing, as he tried many times, he drove himself up the wall and snapped at his compatriots until the time that wine passed his lips again.
It was either be miserable and sober or miserable and drunk.
What deeds had he committed to purchase such a terrible binary in his life?
He tried to shut out the terror he felt at his lack of control. He focused on training the girls instead.
No one sat with him at meal time anymore. Conall was angry with him, and Septus and Flamma sat with Conall. Fine. To Tartarus with them.
He focused on training the girls instead.
He thought often of the happy, strange flutter that Gwenn filled his chest with when he passed by her as she trained and sparred. Certainly, the steady toning that the training offered had not been lost on her—and her exquisite form was not lost on him.
Other girls had started smiling in the same way that she smiled. Ros and Kav, especially. But Sabiana too.
Sabiana and Gwenn sparred every day when they could. They were his first volunteers for every drill.
At first, it seemed that their sparring had been driven with antagonism. But lately their smiles for one another no longer shone through gritted teeth. They laughed and stood together, trading jokes.
Something about Gwenn was infectious. Her mood. All that optimism.
Optimism in this place. It was unnatural. Lucius felt it growing in his chest like a fungus in a cave, emitting a soft, eerie glow.
It made him think of all sorts of things, that optimism. Maybe there was a future for him. Maybe there was something real between him and Gwenn—something true and desperate and hot in just the same ways that his body kept urging him were real.
He focused on training the girls instead.
The basics were a good root for the foundation of any fighter. But gladiators were expected to have some flash to their fighting. They had to spin and jump, dive and roll. There were great flourishes to a fight, majestic leaps and heroic gestures that would drive a crowd wild.
He avoided the flash because he thought the girls would get them killed.
But, there was part of that flash that could not be avoided. A tradition as old as the games themselves, or close enough. Every gladiatrix under his command had to have a style.
Tomorrow, he would have to give them that style. A wrong choice for a fighter could mean their deaths.
It could mean Gwenn might die.
And try as he might, with that possibility floating out before him, he could focus on nothing else.
Chapter 16
“Ros.”
She stepped forward on the sands. Lucius pointed to the nearby pile he had made, made of old training weapons not quite fit for the service of the men in the ludus. It was the best he could do; anything quality was either being used or had been sold by Porcia.
“You’re small, but you’re fast. Hoplamachus.”
“Thank you, Doctore.”
Ros picked up a spear and a small shield, about the width of a head. Testing their weight with a good shake, she stepped back in line.
Lucius continued down the line. “Kav.”
It was hot outside. The day’s work had not yet begun, and they all sweat. Lucius’s own sweat was tainted with alcohol. He grew tired of the smell of himself.
Kav waited. “You are small also, but not so fast. Murmillo.”
As her sister, she picked up her designated weapons—a wooden sword and shield—and returned to her place in line. He continued listing the names of the other fighters. Callia, Asoll, Rhinea, and so on. By his own design, he had chosen only three styles to teach.
The hoplamachus relied on speed and skill over brute force. The name was derived from the Greek Hoplite, and like most Roman gladiator styles, it was modeled after their former enemy.
A hoplamachus wore a small shield and a dagger in one hand, but their real weapon was the spear. Long and sharp, it was designed to keep enemies at bay while the hoplamachus used their superior maneuverability to find an opening in their opponent’s defense. They wore less armor so that they could move faster.
The murmillo was, in many ways, the opposite of the hoplamachus. The murmillo was the gladiatorial representation of the roman infantryman. As such, it was always a favorite with the crowd. Heavily armored, with a large shield and gladius for a blade, the murmillo relied on strength and endurance to win the day.
Both of these styles were relatively easy to teach. Lucius had witnessed them for so long, and had been in the ludus for so
many years, that he knew all their techniques as well as he knew the difference between Egyptian and Roman wine just by the smell.
He had five murmillo and five hoplamachus. That left two—Gwenn and Sabiana—to be retiarii like him.
They were the standouts of his bunch, and both the loveliest of the bunch, besides. It made sense for them to fight without a helmet. Sabiana took up her training weapons without question, like the rest of them. They had begun to trust him as a doctore, though he could see some fear in their eyes still.
He knew the cause of the fear, though he would not admit it out loud. They could smell his drink on him. No woman in Rome was so stupid as to blindly trust a drunk man in charge of her.
“I will fight murmillo,” said Gwenn.
She smiled as ever. It threatened to tear him in half if he let it. All he wanted to do was hold her, take her, kiss her. Just seeing that smile, even hungover as he was, was enough to make that funny glow in his heart grow ever more vibrant.
“No,” he said. “Retarius for you. So says the Doctore.”
“I will fight murmillo,” said Gwenn. “I think it better. The net is not for me.”
“Oh no? What if I gave you a demonstration?”
She raised an eyebrow and gestured with her hands, as if to indicate, “these are your sands, or so you say.”
The desire to show off in front of this woman now was strong indeed. All the gladiatrices yelled out, encouraging him to show them.
“Come on, Doctore!”
“Let’s see it, Orion!”
He grabbed a trident and a net from off the sands. Nervousness flitted through his heart, and he pushed it away. He’d done this a thousand times. He’d killed two men at the brink of his own death with this very maneuver. He could do it now in front of this crowd of women. In front of Gwenn.
Deep breaths. A center of calm in a world of chaos. He broke off in a run and let his net fly at one of the posts ahead of him. At the same time, he leapt forward into a dive, spinning. The second that the net hit the post, his trident flung from his hands in a mighty throw. In his mind’s eye, he could see the trident land as he threw it. Smacking against the post so hard that it thrummed from the impact.
In reality, the trident flew well past the post and into the wall overhead, nearly clearing it. It banged harmlessly down, twisting and turning to the ground below. Lucius had landed in the sand awkwardly, feeling his bad arm throb with pain.
Stupid. Why did he have to go out of his way to be stupid?
“I see,” said Gwenn. “So you’re saying as a retarius, I can more easily kill the crowd? Is that allowed?”
The laughter of the gathered women—of Gwenn—shook him to his core.
Chapter 17
Gwenn knew she had stepped too far with smarting off at Lucius, but she hadn’t been able to resist. He had seemed so cocksure and ready, and failed so miserably.
It was funny. That was where funny came from.
It’s also where sadness comes from, she thought. Look at his face.
His body was still half-covered in sand as he pointed to the murmillo equipment. “Grab what you want. Meet me in the sands in thirty seconds.”
Almost she questioned him. Then, she shrugged and smiled. “Yes, Doctore.”
“All of you watch,” said Lucius. “Watch, and I will show you what a retarius can do.”
The women formed a circle. Gwenn picked up a large basket-woven shield, heavy and rustling, and then a thick, short training sword.
This was the equipment of the men, not reformed at any time for the use of a woman. She liked that. She would be as strong as any of them.
The strength of her body, after living so long as an abused slave, was a wonder to her. All muscles growing in tone and size.
No doubt a champion like Lucius was used to women throwing themselves at him. She had lived in Rome long enough to hear what a gladiator’s type was. All of them soft, perfumed like whores, pampered, and easy, with legs spread wide like eagle’s wings. She would never lower herself to such a level—and so he would never truly be interested in her.
The thought made her want to hit him as hard as she could.
In the sands, Lucius stood at the ready. There was a moment where she had to remember not to ogle at his muscles, flexing and re-flexing as he positioned himself in the sand. Broad pectorals tightened, thick thigh muscles pulsing with readiness.
“Begin,” said Lucius.
He started on the offensive, stabbing quickly with the trident. Gwenn, a little off-guard, barely got her shield up in time. The training trident might not have been able to kill her outright, but there was nothing about being stabbed with a wooden point that was pleasant.
Gwenn circled and advanced, circled and advanced. The trident meant that Lucius had the reach. The sword was heavy in her hand, but not so heavy she couldn’t land a good thrust. She attempted to do so, but he blocked with the trident. The clack of the weapons reverberated across the walls.
Her blood felt heated, fighting with this man. She’d heard it said that hate was the flip side of love. That both were just strong emotions using every piece of information about a person to build the emotions even more.
If that was true, how far away from fighting was loving?
Every sensation arrived slow, as if passengers disembarking from a wagon. The sun poured heat from above. A large bird flew overhead, cawing for a mate.
Gwenn fought in the sands.
She continued to thrust, and he either dodged or parried. It was maddening how quick he was. She began to lose her composure, trying harder and harder to hit him, and for her trouble he spun around one such attack and smacked her across the back with his trident.
“For your impatience, you would have three slashes,” he said simply. “All along your back. The blood makes the crowd wild. Over time, it will weaken you. Less will flow now to your limbs and your head. Thinking is harder. Meanwhile, your opponent can smell the blood. The copper in it. Memories of other fights return to him quicker. He becomes a better fighter.”
The shield she had felt heavier by the moment. She hoisted it up and rushed forward, hoping to catch him as he spoke. Again, he simply dodged and raked the trident down her side.
“Now your side is bleeding. Your reaction time is halved. All your decisions no longer have the luxury of being good. They must be perfect, or you will die. If you are impatient again, you will lose.”
A small roar of frustration died in her throat. Better not to let him hear that. She hoisted her shield up again and changed her tactic. The shield offered good defense. She would use it and wait. Lucius rolled and spun this way and that, trying to move around her steady blocking. But if she was still and upright, he could not move around her.
He thrust only with the trident—had not even begun with the net in his hands, yet.
He should have been swinging the net, she realized suddenly. That was the whole idea of the net—to catch her in it. But his arm wasn’t good enough for the constant movement. It was probably injured, given his maneuver with the post earlier.
That was an opening. It was an opening and she ought to take it.
He thrust at her with the trident and she knocked it back with her shield, then hammered down with the sword. It put him off-balance, just slightly. She went after his hurt arm, now, guiding her attacks to his side. He blocked with the trident or dodged, but she had the advantage now. She drove with it, pushing him further to the side, trying to corner him against the edge of the circle.
The taste of victory was in her mouth. She was moments away, and she knew it.
And then he swung his net up with his “bad” arm, catching her torso and head. He swung around her and then used the net as a handle to toss her through the sand. She stumbled upward to find his trident pressed against her face.
“Dead. For impatience.” He let her stand. Above her, with the sun behind him, he looked as some vengeful, angry god. “You fight as retarius.”
&nb
sp; Chapter 18
Lucius put the women in sparring pairs and then asked Septus to look after them for a few minutes while he retreated to the toilet.
After walking to the toilets, though, he took the long way around the cell blocks, against the wall, and climbed a small side staircase up the hill to the medicae’s office. All the while, his bad arm throbbed. He thought the bone would burst from the socket.
All of the men who had come to him had seen or participated in gladiator fights already. They had a reference point for fighting as a retarius. None of these women did. And, seeing as how he was forbidden from training them with the men, there was no real way to show them up close if he could not perform the maneuvers himself.
The trick with the net at the end of his sparring match with Gwenn was just that—a trick. It wouldn’t fool a trained fighter most of the time, and it wouldn’t fool Gwenn again.
How could he train her as a retarius with only one arm?
How was he supposed to train her at all when all he wanted to do was take her under him and kiss her madly?
The hoplamachus and murmillo required both arms, of course. But Lucius could maneuver a shield easily enough. It would drain his arm, but it wouldn’t hurt it. A retarius fought with two arms, though. On a good day, Lucius felt as though he had about an arm and a half.
Inside the medicae’s office, Nyx treated a semi-conscious novice who had passed out from heat stroke. His lips were blistered. Nyx was a short woman, wide of stature, with thick gray hair that slipped down to her waist in a massive tangle. Porcia had made a number of horrible decisions since taking over as the lanista, but hiring Nyx had not been one of them.
Unlike many of the servants at the ludus, she was a freedwoman, not a slave. She came to the Italian peninsula many years ago from Gaul after her last husband had died, searching for purpose. He had been a medici, and Nyx had worked with him for more than thirty years, making her more knowledgeable than almost any other medical practitioner in the city of Puteoli.
Behind Nyx was Chloe, still the medicae’s assistant. Her eyes flashed with hope at seeing Lucius—she was ever the ready audience for his fighting stories. She was a good young woman, smart and capable at her job. Her complexion was darkened from the sun and from her Greek heritage. Like many things in Rome, educated slaves were often imports, and the best educated slaves came from Greece.