Sword of the Gladiatrix

by Faith L Justice

  She left the sacred grove of her people for the reed-covered bank of a mighty river, so wide the other side disappeared in the mist. A huge animal, all gray bumps and tiny ears, floated a short way from shore. It opened its enormous mouth to bellow, exposing large stumps of ivory teeth. Cinnia had seen painted pictures of the river horses, but the real animal was terrifying. She would never swim in that river!

  A misshapen dwarf played the haunting melody to a baby in a reed basket. The child laughed and shook a rattle of metal…a sistrum, Afra had called it.

  Afra! Pain twisted Cinnia’s gut and she sobbed.

  “How came you here, Daughter?” A voice more beautiful than any music lightened Cinnia’s heart.

  She turned to see the figure of a woman, shorter than she. A brilliant light blurred her features. She wore her dark hair in many braids, gathered with ribbons on both sides of her face. Her sheer linen dress showed her breasts, swollen with milk, and wide hips, made for childbirth.

  “I don’t know.” Cinnia thought hard. “I needed rest, comfort.”

  “Many do,” the woman sighed. “You are so unkind to one another in the world. My husband preached love and was slain for it. You are welcome to stay as long as you need.” They glided toward the laughing child.

  The dwarf stopped playing and bowed to the woman. “My Lady.”

  The child was a naked boy. His chubby fists waved in the air as he laughed, but his eyes were old and wise. The woman picked up the child, sat on a stone, unpinned her tunic at the shoulder, and put him to her breast. She sighed with satisfaction.

  The tableau triggered a memory. “Are you Isis?”

  “Some name me so.” She smiled down at her son, her beaded braids falling around her face. “I’ve had many names through the ages. I am Mother.”

  “Your son?”

  “The Light, destined to save the world from evil. He has, he does, he will. Time has no meaning here.”

  “How long have I been gone?”

  She shrugged. “As long as you needed to be.”

  “Must I go back?”

  “Only if you want to.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes. Mother switched the baby to the other breast.

  “Why can’t I see your face?”

  “Love is a powerful force. It blinds some and opens the eyes of others. It can bring great joy and terrible sorrow. Some use it to bind, others to free.”

  Cinnia’s thoughts turned to Afra; her bravery, her wisdom, her kindness, her strength, her beauty. What was the nature of their love? A few moments of physical pleasure? No, much more. There was a tie, a connection beyond the physical, given by the gods. They were meant to be together.

  “I must go.” Cinnia stood up.

  “Are you sure?” Mother reached up and touched her cheek. “Pain waits for you.”

  “Pain is an old friend and not to be feared.”

  Mother smiled.

  Cinnia headed away from the river.

  “Daughter!”

  She looked over her shoulder. Mother stood much taller. The child had grown to a beautiful young man.

  “Tell Afra, when you see her, that her Mother brings Love and Light to the world.”

  The two figures blazed so brightly, Cinnia had to cover her eyes.

  When she opened them it was dark. She saw nothing, but she heard the cubs whimpering with hunger in their pen.

  She groaned.

  Pain throbbed in her bruised back and wrenched shoulders. Her hands and feet tingled and cramped. She tried to spit out the wad of filthy cloth gagging her mouth but it was bound around her head.

  All she could do was wait and think about her dream.

  I’ll see Afra again!

  ***

  WITH THE DAWN CAME A CACOPHONY of sounds. The stable hands fed and harnessed the animals for the day’s work. The stench of animal manure and urine filled the stable. The mules brayed and balked, the men cursed; but eventually they left. Cinnia heard a couple of boys joking down the aisle as they mucked out the stalls.

  “Where’s that dangerous barbarian you’re supposed to be watching?”

  “In the last stall.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “Nah. That Greek woman would have my ball sack for a purse.”

  “What’s one look? We won’t get close.”

  “Mebbe, but just one.”

  Cinnia heard footsteps and rolled onto her stomach, hiding her face.

  “That’s it? Not much.” A pause. “Nice ass, though.”

  “Look at those scars. Definitely from swords. And those bruises! She fought four armed guards yesterday and almost got away. I could barely gag her all trussed up like that.”

  “I thought it was two guards.”

  “Nah, it was at least three…”

  “You, boy!” Clio’s voice cut through the chatter. “She still there?”

  “Y-Yes, mistress!”

  “Here’s your coin, now go away.”

  Cinnia rolled to her side, pulled her knees to her chest, rolled again, and levered herself into a kneeling position. Clio stood clean and dressed in her finest clothes, left arm in a sling; next to a tall muscular man. His bald head gleamed and a gold earring flashed in the light.

  He looked Cinnia over. “Hard to tell what you got in there.”

  “She’s a Briton. Fought in the wars and sold as a slave. My husband, may his shade suffer the torments of the damned, gave her gladiator training. Now she’s too dangerous for me to handle.”

  The bald man frowned at the curse and gave the horned warding sign, out of Clio’s sight. He approached Cinnia with caution. “Does she understand Roman?”

  “When she wants to.”

  “Stand up.”

  Cinnia mumbled into her gag. He pulled the binding down. She spat out the sodden cloth. “Can’t,” she croaked. “Feet bound.”

  The bald man took a knife out of his belt, cut the bindings, and easily lifted her to her feet. She swayed. It felt like standing on hot knives as feeling slowly returned to her feet.

  “Careful, she’s a tricky one.”

  “She’s not going anywhere soon. She can barely stand, much less run. Those bindings were tight.” He rubbed his jaw. “Gladiator training, you say? What kind?”

  “Just the basics. Marcius had the fever-brained idea to match her with another female slave and do exhibitions. Entertainment only. I thought she could earn more money on her back.”

  Cinnia glared at Clio with loathing.

  “She’d be wasted as a whore.”

  “Are you interested or not? Your master said you could make the deal. If not, I’ve got other possibilities.”

  “I’ll give you two hundred-fifty denarii for her.”

  “Two hundred-fifty! A male is worth five hundred! How could cheat a poor widow so?”

  He raised his hand to stop the tirade. “A widow who curses her dead husband’s shade doesn’t deserve the title. It’s a fair price. Take it or leave it.”

  Clio shut her mouth and glared at both of them. “Done. Give me the money. I’ll give you the paper. I want her out of my sight.”

  The bald man pulled a pouch from his tunic and counted out ten gold coins.

  One of the cubs gave a piercing scream. Cinnia turned to Clio. “What of them?”

  “None of your business, bitch.”

  “But Afra…”

  “Afra will be executed by the end of the week.”

  “No…” Tell Afra when you see her…

  Clio smiled and left with her coins.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  TWO DAYS LATER, Afra came before the magistrate, a gray-haired man with a stern face and upright posture. He sat at one end of the basilica on a wooden chair with no back, but low arms; scribes took notes as he settled cases. Most were property disputes, with occasional petty theft. The property owners were represented by lawyers who presented their clients’ cases. As the morning wore on and nothing much happened, the crowd thinned. Finally, th
e scribe called Afra’s case.

  She could barely walk. Blood crusted her face and the front of her tunic. She couldn’t see out of one swollen eye.

  The scribe announced. “Marcia Afra, a freed woman from Kush, is charged with assaulting a citizen with intent to kill.”

  The surprised crowd settled. This was why they hung around the law courts.

  “What do you say in your defense?”

  Afra straightened, wincing from the bruises, and mumbled through swollen lips, “I did not intend to kill Clio. She was mad, a danger to herself and others. I had to subdue her. I left her tied up and returned to release her.”

  “Liar! She tried to kill me!” Clio called from the crowd.

  The crowd laughed. Afra’s blood rose. She took a deep breath. Responding with anger was how she had come to this pass.

  “The city guards will testify.” The magistrate motioned to the two men who brought her in. “Is this the woman you apprehended in the stable two days ago?”

  The taller one stepped forward. “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell your story.”

  “We apprehended an escaped slave in the city and returned her to her mistress, a citizen named Clio. This woman,” he pointed at Afra, “arrived shortly after we did. The two women argued. This great black one here, tried to strangle the other one, but we brought her down before she could.”

  “So say you?”

  The red-faced one nodded. Both stepped back.

  “I didn’t touch Clio when I returned. Those two beat me down without cause.”

  “This case is clear,” the magistrate said. “We have the testimony of two city guards against the word of an ex-slave.”

  “A woman freed by a Roman citizen and therefore a citizen!” Afra cried.

  The crowd rustled in anticipation of the sentence.

  “The punishment for attacking a citizen of Rome—by another citizen or non-citizen—is death in the arena. Take her away.”

  Afra swayed. She heard Clio’s high-pitched hysterical laughter ring out over the crowd.

  ***

  THIS TIME, they threw Afra into a high-walled, outdoor pen with a dozen other prisoners. Iron chains hobbled her feet but her wrists were free. She twisted the braided-hair bracelet, now blackened with dirt. Stay strong!

  The first thing Afra noticed was the absence of healthy men. There were two other women: a middle-aged matron dressed better than anyone else and an old crone, who by her muttering and rocking had lost her wits. The old woman jogged a memory, but Afra couldn’t place her. These two occupied a spot closest to the gate. The men ranged from a crippled boy sitting next to the women, to a blind ex-soldier proudly wearing his legion insignia, to an older man with a scholar’s beard and ink-stained hands. A few looked up at her entrance, most sat in the dust with heads bowed.

  Afra shuffled over to the women and the boy. The matron looked her over with a critical eye. “I can’t do anything about the eyes, but I do have cloth bindings that might help with the ribs.”

  “Just want to rest.” She indicated a spot in the sun next to the matron.

  The woman nodded. Afra sat down.

  “Need water?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman rummaged in a leather pack for a clay cup, rose, and fetched water from a barrel set in the middle of the pen.

  “One thing they do provide enough of, water. Food’s scarce. No blankets. The toilet pit is in that corner.” The matron settled beside Afra. “You’ll smell it soon as the sun hits it. I’m Bassa, this is Corva, and the boy is Celer.”

  Afra sipped the stale water. “Thanks. I’m Afra.”

  Bassa snorted at the obviousness of it. “What’s your real name?”

  “Amanirenas.” It felt strange saying it aloud after all these months.

  “Afra it is.” Bassa closed her eyes and leaned back. The sun climbed over the wall bringing welcome warmth. “Did you do it?”

  “Not what I was convicted of.”

  “A philosopher?” Bassa laughed and pointed to the bearded scholar. “You should talk to Priscus. He insulted the wrong person with his poems one time, too many. He’s here because the guards found a valuable gold plate in his room belonging to that powerful man. Poor Celer stole a shred of meat from his master to feed his pregnant sister. Most here are murderers and thieves. A few, like you and Priscus, claim innocence.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  Afra’s swollen face almost made it into a smile. “What awful deed did you do?”

  “Poisoned my pig of a second husband. When my daughter began to bleed, he started sniffing around her. She came to me in tears one day, after he trapped her in the garden and fondled her breasts. I knew it was a matter of time, so I sent her to my brother, and visited an herb seller.” She patted the old woman on the arm. “Unfortunately, Corva is losing her wits. She gave me something that gave him fits rather than heart trouble. He foamed at the mouth. His oldest son became suspicious. They tortured my maid…the rest...” She spread her hands wide indicating her fate. “I tried to kill myself with a knife, but wasn’t fast enough.”

  “An herb seller? Her?” Afra nodded toward the witless old woman.

  “Corva had a small shop in the street next to the Temple of Isis.”

  Afra took a closer look at Corva. “I thought I recognized her. She helped me once.”

  “You’re lucky you’re alive.”

  “She seemed fine.”

  Bassa shrugged. Corva continued to mutter. Celer whimpered.

  Afra dropped into a doze.

  ***

  THAT EVENING, the guards opened the gate and slaves carried in an iron pot filled with a noxious stew and a basket of bread, stale enough to break teeth if not soaked in water or the rancid stew. Most of the prisoners were a sorry lot and acted more like animals than people, when the food arrived. Priscus led the blind soldier to the pot and ensured he got a portion. Bassa and her charges didn’t join the fray. Afra raised an eyebrow.

  “My daughter brings me food. I share with Corva and Celer. Sorry there’s not enough for you.”

  Afra shrugged and winced as her ribs moved.

  “I can help with that.” Bassa rummaged in her bottomless leather satchel. She pulled out a length of cloth. “My daughter packed everything she thought I’d need…and more.” She ripped the cloth with her teeth. “My first husband was kicked in the ribs by a mule. I had to do this for him after every bath. Let me bind you up, you’ll breathe easier.”

  Afra raised her tunic, so Bassa could wind the lengths tightly around her chest. It did relieve the pressure. “Thanks.”

  Afra shuffled off to get her portion. She thought she saw a rat tail in the mix and almost gagged, but forced herself to eat the vile stuff to keep up her strength. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to live, but did it anyway.

  The gate opened for the slaves to remove the pot. A senior officer in the guard strode in. “Listen up, noxii! Our beloved Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, in light of Pompeii’s recent hardship, has generously lifted the restrictions on gladiator games. The esteemed Sextus Licinius Murena will be standing for aedile in the next election and will be editor of games to be held in two weeks’ time.” He gave a vicious smile. “Prepare to die.”

  He marched out of the pen. The guards shoved the gate shut on the muttering, wails, and moans of the condemned.

  “The arena! Why don’t they slit our throats or chop off our heads like civilized people?” Bassa paled. “I had hoped because the arena was closed several years ago after the riot, they would send us to the mines.”

  “I trained with a gladiator. Will they let us fight?”

  “Not us. Able-bodied noxii sometimes fight each other to the death. We’ll probably be fed to the beasts.” Bassa sat, head in hands. “If I had only been faster with that knife.”

  Two weeks. Afra leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Stay strong Cinnia. Everything changes.

  CHAPTER
TWENTY

  Gladiator ludus, outside Capua

  CINNIA DIDN’T REMEMBER MUCH about the exhausting two-day march to the ludus—the gladiator school—at Capua. Calvus, the bald man, added her to a string of twenty slaves he had culled from the prisons and slave markets. They trudged in a single line, chained neck-to-neck, hand-to-hand, up the paved Roman road. Occasionally the smell of new-turned earth or budding olive trees penetrated her fog and she looked out at the slaves toiling in the fields. They had to stand aside for the occasional Imperial courier on horseback or fast-trotting mule chaise.

  Cinnia, the sole woman, got no special treatment during the day. When the line took a break they all drank stale water from the same leather flasks and squatted over the same trench to relieve themselves. They all ate a small hard loaf of bread and crumb of cheese at the end of the day. Calvus and the five guards ate little better, having a bit more food and a little sour wine.

  Calvus did stake her away from the men at night and gave her a light blanket against the spring chill. The other prisoners huddled together for warmth. Cinnia’s fear that Calvus might want to lie with her, faded when he chose the youngest, prettiest male slave to share his bed roll. When one of the guards grabbed her ass, she shouted. Calvus whipped him and ordered that no one touch her. She didn’t know why he showed her such a kindness.

  “There it is!” One of the guards pointed to a timber and stone fortress, sitting high on a bluff, well outside the Capua city walls. The sun glinted off the ubiquitous red tiles the Romans used for roofs. “That’s the ludus. Hot food tonight.” He poked a prisoner in the ribs with his spear butt and laughed. “At least for me.”

  Cinnia stifled a groan. It looked like a steep climb up the front of the bluff. Her empty stomach protested, her lower back ached from Clio’s kicks, but she clung to her dream, “When you see Afra again…” Life at the ludus had to better than this dreary trek. She might even hear something of Afra’s fate.

  She stumbled up the steep slope, through heavy wooden gates, as the sun sat red above the sea to the west. The walls enclosed a patchwork brick and stone building built around a large central training area.