Sword of the Gladiatrix

by Faith L Justice

  His face went pale. “Escaped slaves are crucified. You don’t want that death.” He ran his hand through his dark hair. “I promised you a chance to buy your freedom. I stand by that. I need money to see the procurator. No procurator, no contract. No contract, no money. No money, no freedom. It’s an investment.”

  “It’s my life.”

  “Your life is mine. Trust me and you’ll get it back. Fuck me over and you’ll die in chains or nailed to a cross.”

  She sat, back rigid, one hand clasped tight on her bow, the other on her amulet, so as not to throttle him. She took several deep breaths to calm herself. The wood warmed under her hand. Mother Isis, give me strength for the trials ahead. I am a stranger in this land. Give me wisdom and guide my actions.

  “Lucius Marcius!” the clerk cried.

  She tamped down her emotions as they entered a smaller room lit by oil lamps. A man of medium build, with the dark complexion and hooked nose of the eastern provinces, sat at a table piled with scrolls. Animal skins covered the floor. Afra recognized the distinctive pattern of a zebra hide, but not the dark brown furry pelt with a dog-like head and a mouth full of sharp teeth. Horns of many types, including rhino and elephant tusks, adorned the walls.

  “Procurator.” Marcius made a deep bow.

  “Sub-procurator in charge of venatorii and beastiarii.”

  Marcius made the slightest of hesitations before resuming his upright posture. “Just the man I wanted to see!” He smiled. The sub-procurator did not smile back.

  “Your business?”

  “I have a superb venatore.” Marcius indicated Afra. “She’s a dead shot with a bow. Can hit anything moving within arrow range.”

  “She?”

  “I understand our August Emperor is interested in seeing females in the games.” A thin line of perspiration formed on Marcius’ upper lip.

  The sub-procurator raised an eyebrow. “What kind of bow? What distance?”

  Afra presented her bow and held it out for the sub-procurator’s inspection. Her stomach clenched as he ran a finger over the fine finish.

  “I’ve seen such bows among the Scythians north of the Black Sea—long range weapons, accurate, but they take a lot of strength to master.” He eyed her well-muscled arms. “Show me.”

  She bent the bow almost double to string it, pulled the string back to her ear and let it go with a twang.

  The sub-procurator grunted.

  “Let Afra demonstrate her skill on a target, Excellency.”

  “Tomorrow, second hour, at the stadium on the Campus Martius.”

  “Thank you, Excellency.” Marcius bowed low, backing toward the door. “I guarantee you will be pleased.”

  “Tell the clerk what you require.” The man flicked his fingers as if shooing a fly and turned back to his scroll to make a note.

  ***

  THEY ARRIVED EARLY to the appointment the next day and found Afra was not the only one to perform. The rabbity clerk who had taken Marcius’ silver the day before gave them a pottery scrap with a number written on it. “You’re number five.” The clerk made a note and nodded toward the entrance. “Through there. Wait with the others until you’re called.”

  They walked through a tunnel lit with torches in sconces. A boy waved them into a room next to the exit on the sands of the amphitheater. A dozen men in various stages of agitation lounged on benches or paced around the room.

  Marcius drew her to a corner. “Ready?”

  Afra wiped a sweating hand on his yellow tunic. “Yes.”

  “Do as we discussed. The fancier the better. Remember, these are not only demonstrations of skill, but entertainment for the people of Rome and glorification of our gods and the Emperor.”

  She nodded and swallowed. Afra wasn’t nervous about her skills, but the “fancy” part bothered her. She had never performed for an audience and her fate rested on her ability to entertain the sub-procurator and win the contract for Marcius.

  Afra sat on a bench, eyes closed, breathing deeply, picturing the arrows flying to their targets, feeling her muscles stretch, pull, and relax. Four times the boy came to the door and called out a number. Four times a man or group of men rose and followed him out the door. When the boy called “five,” Marcius touched her shoulder. “It’s time.”

  They exited onto the oval stadium floor. Tiers of wooden seats rose around them separated from the sand by a decorated wall. The sub-procurator and a small crowd of spectators sat in the prime seats opposite the Imperial box. A stationary leather target with a crude drawing of a deer on it stood at the far end. A small circle behind the shoulder marked the best kill spot.

  Marcius approached the spectators, bowed, and announced in a booming voice, “I present to you, Afra—from the land of Kush—what the Egyptians of yore called ‘The Land of the Bow.’ She will first demonstrate her strength and accuracy from a distance.”

  A driver with a two-horse chariot drove Afra to the opposite end of the stadium. She stepped down from the chariot and studied the target. The sun’s heat already radiated off the sand making the image waver and dance, but there was no breeze. She drew out three arrows, took aim, and shot one after the other. They all clustered inside the small circle for good “kills.” A slave ran onto the sand to take the target to the sub-procurator. There were a few smiles at her prowess.

  “Now Afra will demonstrate her celebrated skills as a huntress!”

  She took out lighter arrows and jumped into the cab of the chariot. The driver zigzagged across the stadium as a slave opened a cage of doves. A flock of five burst into flight over head, but plummeted to the ground one-by-one, as her arrows found their marks. Again the watchers smiled and nodded, but the sub-procurator’s face remained impassive. Her skills were not enough. Afra’s heart thudded—one more chance.

  “For her final feat…”

  A scream cut across Marcius’ voice. A massive black bull raced from the shadows of the far gates dragging a young man tangled in a rope attached to the bull’s halter. A bull? She was supposed to hunt a gazelle!

  The animal stopped, swaying its head, blinking from the bright sun. The tangled man took advantage of the bull’s temporary halt to saw at the rope knotted round his arm with a knife.

  The chariot jolted as the horses reared and plunged, providing a new target for the enraged animal. The man screamed again as the bull bolted towards them, dragging him through the sand.

  “Control your horses!” Afra shouted as the chariot lurched again. She reached into her quiver—only a handful of the light arrows left—nothing that would bring down a bull.

  “To the left!” As the chariot passed the charging bull, she sent her remaining arrows into its neck and flanks. This annoyed the animal and blood started to drip from its muzzle.

  Something glittered in the sand. “Leave me!” She shouted, jumped from the chariot, rolled in the dirt and came up with the tangled man’s knife. He had stopped screaming; hanging limply from the rope, bouncing behind the bull. The animal seemed to notice the weight for the first time and turned toward the body.

  With a cry, Afra raced toward the bull’s side, slashed its flank, and vaulted over its back. The bull turned to where she had been.

  Afra cut at the rope, nearly parting it before the animal turned her way. With a final swipe the rope dropped free.

  She ran in front of the bull, luring it away from the injured man. At a distance, she turned and stood as the bull charged. Her breath came in ragged gasps as sweat poured down her flanks. Her vision narrowed to the charging animal.

  Within seconds of being spitted on a shiny black horn, Afra leaped aside and scored a deep cut on the bull’s neck.

  The bull, deprived of its target, shook its head, blood flying. It turned and charged again and again.

  At each pass, Afra scored another cut before leaping away. But her leaps became shorter and her legs felt more leaden. She needed to end this while she had the strength. She faced the animal again.

 
Foamy sweat mixed with the blood on bull’s black hide. It stood on unsteady splayed legs, tongue lolling. They both gasped for air.

  Afra’s nerves tingled as she bounced on the balls of her feet. She heard nothing but her heart beating and breath panting. The dust from the sand coated her mouth and throat. She spit, took the knife between clenched teeth, and settled with hands free, ready for the next charge.

  The bull seemed to regain its energy and charged with all its weight behind a furious assault.

  Afra leaped to the side and grabbed the bull’s horns as it passed. She dug in her heels throwing all her weight to the side, bringing the bull to a standstill, neck twisted. The bull went to its knees.

  She sliced the animal’s throat and ululated a feral scream. Blood gushed as the bull fell to its side, legs twitching.

  Afra stood, panting. Sticky blood drenched Marcius’ tunic and matted her short hair.

  It was only then she heard the roar of the sparse, watching crowd. She walked to the sub-procurator’s box and bowed low to the chants of “Afra! Afra!” Marcius stood aside beaming.

  “Well done!” The sub-procurator smiled, at last. “Marcius, you have a contract for the Emperor’s upcoming games in the spring. See my clerk as you leave.”

  Afra bowed again and retrieved her bow from the chariot driver. The horses snorted and stamped at the smell of blood. The bull handler lay still in the sand at the far end of the amphitheater.

  ***

  “YOU DID WHAT?” Clio screamed and aimed a blow at Marcius’ head. He ducked, catching her wrist.

  For once Afra shared Clio’s sentiments. She could easily gut Marcius and damn the consequences.

  He shook the bulging money pouch. “Afra is the foot in the door. So I promised additional acts and got a larger contract. Using the guaranteed contract as collateral gives me cash to find the others. We have six months.”

  Afra clenched her fists and prayed for patience. She didn’t understand the complicated arrangements with the moneylender, but knew the consequences if Marcius couldn’t pay.

  Clio seemed skeptical as well. “Where will you find these other acts? You’re not the only agent in Rome.”

  “We’ll move to Pompeii. The Emperor closed the amphitheater there a couple of years ago as punishment after a riot that killed several people. They have cheap housing and training facilities. We’ll be ready by spring for the Emperor’s games.” Marcius pulled Clio into an embrace. “Care to dance for the Emperor, my love?”

  Clio snorted, but a calculating look came over her face.

  Afra tried, but couldn’t dismiss the cold gripping her stomach or the bile in her mouth.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “THE NEXT BUILDING ON THE LEFT,” Marcius said.

  Afra nodded. They stopped in front of a well-built brick building, taking up half the block just inside the walls of Pompeii. Marcius had heard there might be a bargain or two to be had. Besides, it was an excuse to get away from Clio’s carping. After a month, she wasn’t happy in Pompeii, thinking it a poor backwater compared to Alexandria or Rome. Afra much preferred the slower pace of the smaller city. Today was overcast and the sea breezes held the nip of winter. She pulled her cloak tighter against a chill wind.

  Over the door hung a sign which Afra could not read, but recognized the picture of a sword and trident as one of the many slave markets catering to the gladiator trade. Although the arena was closed, there were many gladiator schools in the area and slave merchants flocked to sell their wares in the public auctions.

  They passed into the dim atrium.

  “Welcome to our humble establishment!” A rumpled man with a balding head and the quick dark eyes of a bird greeted them. His glance quickly passed over Afra. He focused his attention on Marcius, taking him by the elbow, escorting him to a room to the left of the atrium, prattling of the weather, and complaining of his heavy tax burden. Afra noted the crude murals of gladiator battles and the occasional graffito scratched into the walls. Not one of the more prosperous establishments.

  “Please, noble sir, have some wine.” A boy of about ten, dressed in a thread-bare red tunic much too big for him, brought a pitcher and two goblets on a wooden tray.

  “What are you in the market for today, my good man?”

  Marcius took a gulp and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. “I train novelty acts for the games. Do you have any dwarves or hunchbacks?”

  The slaver’s face fell. “Not at this time.”

  “Singers, dancers, acrobats?”

  “I’m expecting several Greek performers next month.”

  Marcius pulled at his lower lip, frowning. “Any bowmen or charioteers?”

  “I recently received a boatload of slaves from Britannia. They are renowned for their charioteers. Take a seat and I will show them to you.” He ushered them onto a wooden bench, polished and hollowed from the many rumps it had accommodated.

  The boy refilled Marcius’ goblet and stood in the corner with the pitcher.

  “What do you think, Afra?”

  She shrugged. “He seems as honest as any other.”

  Marcius spluttered his wine and laughed. “Meaning he would cheat me blind at the first opportunity?” He rubbed his close-shaven jaw. “I agree. He will have little to show us.”

  “He talked of Britannia. Is the land far?”

  “I know little about it. Caesar invaded the island north of Gaul and the Divine Emperor Claudius claimed to pacify it a generation or so ago. The legions have been fighting with the native tribes ever since.”

  The slaver returned with a bull-like man pulling a line of eight men shackled hand and foot. They were tall and naked, with the light coloring of the northern tribes. They might once have been strong warriors, but now their muscles were slack and bellies hollow. All had scars and scabby wounds. Afra shuddered. Their eyes were dulled with hunger, but one or two mustered a sneer of defiance. They had little energy for anything else. But for Marcius, that could have been her fate.

  “These are fit only for the mines.” Marcius frowned. “You’ve wasted my time.” He rose to go.

  “Please wait. I have one other you should see. A girl. Emperor Nero is fascinated with female gladiators.”

  Afra’s interest piqued. Marcius had mentioned that northern women often fought alongside their men. He settled onto the bench, mumbling, “Fine. I will see this girl.”

  The bull-man herded the starving Britons out the door followed by the slave merchant.

  He returned shortly with a girl in her late teens. She was naked and shackled as the men, but better fed. The cold raised goose flesh on her limbs. The irons seemed unnecessary. Her eyes were blank, face slack. Afra noted the well-muscled arms, the right larger than the left, and a scar on her temple leading up into curly hair dark with dirt and sweat. When the girl flinched from the hands of the slave merchant, a similar revulsion rippled across Afra’s skin. Something about the Briton called out to her, touched her secret self.

  Marcius spat on the floor. “Her mind is gone. She’s not even fit for the brothels.”

  “Buy her.” Afra said in a low tone.

  “What?” He turned to her.

  “Buy her and I will cure her mind.”

  “Afra, this girl is beyond even you.”

  “Buy her. She can’t be worth much.” Afra’s stomach clenched. She looked again at the girl and something broken inside her soul shifted. Is this what Asata would have become? Could she have cured her? Can she cure this one? She looked back at Marcius. “Trust me.”

  He looked skeptical.

  “Will you not make a fortune with the cubs? I’ll do the same with her.”

  “You’ve certainly done well with the cheetahs.” Marcius searched Afra’s face, his eyes calculating. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things.”

  He turned to bargain with the slave merchant.

  Afra approached the girl and looked deep into her eyes—an unusual shade of light brown flecked with g
old and green. A shadow crossed the girl’s face before she looked vaguely off into the distance.

  “Yes,” Afra said in her own musical language. “You are there, somewhere beyond the pain.” She put a hand to the woman’s cheek and brushed back a lock of hair. “Are you a gift from my Lady Isis, sent to lighten my heart?”

  ***

  AFRA SETTLED THE BRITON on a pallet of straw in the stables where she lodged. The clean smell of hay mixed with the comforting smell of horse sweat. “You will be safe here.”

  She raised a wooden beaker of wine, sweetened with honey and mixed with sleeping herbs, to the girl’s lips. “Drink this. Sleep. Dream. Find yourself.” The Briton drank the brew as long as Afra held it to her lips. After half the cup, her eyelids drooped and she leaned onto Afra’s shoulder.

  Afra laid her on the pallet, covering her with a light cloak. She crushed mint to sweeten the air. Afra sat by the sleeping girl, singing a soothing song from her homeland until a wave of pain choked off her tune. The empty place in her soul, previously filled with Asata, had grown smaller with time; the pain dulled, but occasionally something brought it back sharp and poignant—the scent of sandalwood, a particular song, a fading dream of soft skin caressing hers.

  She heard growling in the next stall and rose to check on her other charges. The pair of cheetah cubs hissed and rolled with each other, squabbling over a fresh scrap of pigskin. She leaned over the half wall and picked up each by the scruff of its neck, grunting at their increased weight. “Mari, Cari, sisters should not fight. They should cooperate; help each other in the hunt.”

  She put them in the straw by her heels. “Come.” She walked out of the stall. The cubs followed, knowing this behavior always resulted in food. Afra scooped cooked grain from a small crock and mixed it with sheep’s blood and marrow from the local butcher. The rats were harder to find after a month in one place. She’d have to lay traps farther out.

  Marcius entered as she groomed the cubs with a comb and a scrap of soft leather. “How’s the other one?” He poked his chin towards the back of the stables.