“It has to be Afra! And the cubs.” Cinnia leaned over and kissed Julia on the lips. Her friend’s eyes flew wide. “What luck! No one else could do such a thing!”
Afra’s alive! Blessings on you, Mother Isis!
Cinnia danced around the small room then stopped. “What happened after the arena?”
“The editor sent her to his ludus outside Pompeii.” Julia folded her arms over her breast band. “Personally, I don’t see why the crowd cried ‘Missio.’ Such a powerful sorceress should be put to death.”
“Julia!” Cinnia gave a sharp glance at the woman. “There was no magic. Afra trained those cats—they’re called cheetahs—from infancy. They would die for her.” She took Julia’s hands in hers. “Afra is a woman, like you, and the gods made her for me.”
“We should go.” Julia withdrew her hands and rose.
The other woman’s coldness couldn’t spoil Cinnia’s high spirits. Afra’s alive!
They strode down the peristyle, past the men assembled in the practice area, doing morning exercises with their heavy wooden swords. The men rarely missed an opportunity to hoot and taunt the women, but Silo and Barba made it clear they were not to be touched. Besides the men had other ways to satisfy themselves. Cinnia frequently saw prostitutes delivered to the male barracks. Once she saw a well-dressed woman wrapped in an expensive cloak escorted to a special room outfitted with a large soft bed.
Cinnia bit her thumb at one gladiator who shouted a particularly rude comment and lengthened her stride.
Gerta occupied the women’s practice room, hacking at the wooden stake. When they entered, she stopped, wiped the sweat from her brow and smiled. Over the past months the massive German had become friendlier. Julia tried to help her with the language. Cinnia suspected she understood nearly everything, but she spoke little. Portia was late, but she probably wouldn’t be punished. Cinnia had seen coins pass between her and Barba.
Their trainer, sorting equipment in a corner, looked up. “Full kit today, including helmets.”
The three women groaned in unison. It was high summer and, though early morning, sweat already soaked Cinnia’s breast band. The room, cut off from the breezes outside, would soon become stifling. Barba claimed it helped prepare them for the heat of the arena.
Julia picked up the blunted trident, lead-weighted net, and shoulder guard of the retiaria. The lightly-armed gladiator style suited her quick feet. In the ring she’d have a sharp knife to cut away her net if her opponent caught it, but that wasn’t allowed in practice.
Gerta hefted the full-sized rectangular shield, greaves, arm guard, and stifling helmet of the secutor. Heavily armored, the secutor style was good for defense, but the helmet enclosed the whole head; the tiny eye holes allowed limited vision.
Cinnia took up the smaller rectangular shield, curved sword, and crested helmet of the Thracian. Greaves for both legs and articulated full right arm guard, gave the Thracian style gladiator more protection than the retiaria and more flexibility than the secutor. The faceplate on the helmet had grills that allowed good forward vision. That left Portia’s myrmilla equipment; similar to Cinnia’s, but with a full-sized shield, short straight gladius, leather arm guard, and one greave.
The women helped each other tie on the quilted material that protected their legs and arms; buckled on the greaves and guards. They were nearly finished when Portia showed up.
“I see our princess deigned to join us this morning.” Barba stalked over to the auburn-haired woman. “An extra hour of practice for being late.”
Portia sputtered, “How dare…”
Barba back-handed her across the face. “You took an oath, like these others, but you had a choice. This is not a game! A bigger room and better food is one thing. Training is another. You train or you die. Now get your equipment.”
Portia scowled, wiping blood from her nose, but donned her equipment without further complaint.
They stood in a line, helmets at their feet, while Barba inspected them, tugging on a knot here, tightening a buckle there.
“You’ll have to do.” He sighed. “We’re contracted for the Apollo games in Nuceria. That’s a week away. You’ll fight as tirones with other women from another ludus. I expect you all to come back.”
Cinnia nodded. Tirones—new recruit—was the most dangerous level. The crowds wanted sport and skill. The awkward fights of the tirones usually resulted in death for the loser. Barba explained this is where the lanista took the most losses. Once a gladiator reached the highest level of primus palus, it was rare the crowd asked for death, although the loser might die of the wounds he—or she—sustained in the fight.
Cinnia trained harder, staying for Portia’s extra punishment hour to practice. She needed to survive these games.
***
CINNIA DRAGGED HER ACHING BODY to the baths. She sniffed at the heavy musk of male sweat lingering in the rooms. Portia had a servant to tend her needs. There was no sign of Gerta, but Julia scraped the last of the oil from her body with a curved strigil. Cinnia found this Roman practice of cleansing by rubbing oil over the body and scraping off the oil, sweat, and dirt strange. The Romans knew about soap from the Gauls, but preferred their own ways. Cinnia had to admit it left her skin baby soft and sweet-smelling. Plus, the masseuses did a brisk business selling the scrapings of champion gladiators. Evidently, rich Roman women used it as an aphrodisiac. Did they drink it or rub it on their bodies? Cinnia wrinkled her nose at the thought of either and gave a slight shudder.
Julia looked up, smiling. “Tired?”
“I barely have the strength to lift a cup of water.” Cinnia groaned and sat down next to her. The cool stone felt good on her bare bottom. “I swear by the triple goddess that my hair aches.”
Julia pushed her onto her stomach. “The massage slaves have left for the afternoon rest, but I know a few of their tricks.”
Cinnia moaned with pleasure as Julia rubbed in the oil and kneaded her knotted shoulders.
“Better?”
“Much!” Cinnia sat up and began scraping the oil from her limbs. The brass strigil pulled at the few hairs left on her legs. “Ouch.”
The barbers had removed all the hair from under her arms and the bush between her legs in a painful process of tweezing and pulling out the hairs. The strigil served the same purpose for her legs.
Cinnia grumbled, “Why do the Romans hate body hair?”
“If you haven’t noticed, it gets hot in this part of the world.” Julia fanned herself with her hands. “Besides bugs like to live in hair.” She wrinkled her mouth in distaste.
Cinnia scratched her shorn pubic area. “It’s as itchy without hair as with bugs.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “Let’s bathe.”
They skipped the hot room, having sweated enough, and went for the cold plunge. Cinnia relaxed on the edge of the tiny, but deep, pool. Most people came from the steam room and walked into the water up to their necks, then came right out. Cinnia liked to linger a bit. In this heat, it wasn’t cold enough to raise gooseflesh. The cool water refreshed her.
Julia seemed to like it less. She quickly moved onto the warm pool. During the winter, fires heated the water as it moved through the pipes, but during the summer, the water sat in a stone tank outside the walls, warmed by the sun. This pool wasn’t big enough to swim in, like the public baths in Pompeii.
Cinnia found Julia floating in the warm pool, on her back, eyes closed, smiling. Her hair floated loose like a dark cloud around her head and shoulders. Cinnia’s breath caught in her chest at the sight of Julia’s small mounded breasts. Heat built in her groin—a feeling she hadn’t had since she and Afra made love, how many months ago? The thought that her body betrayed her brought unwanted color to her cheeks. She had seen Julia naked every day for months, why today, did Julia’s body call to her own?
Julia’s eyes opened in a lazy, half-lidded way, showing flashes of blue.
Cinnia jumped into the pool, splashing her friend, trying
to cover her own insistent feelings.
“I thought you were too tired to lift a cup.” Julia stood, laughter echoing off the stone walls. Water streamed from her hair down her breasts and belly. She splashed back and dove underwater to pull Cinnia off her feet.
Cinnia went under, spluttering.
They both came up grinning.
Julia grabbed Cinnia by her braid. She thought she was in for another dunking, when Julia pulled her close and kissed her fiercely.
Cinnia’s lips parted as Julia’s tongue probed. Cinnia tasted echoes of honeyed wine.
Julia pulled her closer. Cinnia reached round and cupped Julia’s tight buttocks, grinding her hips between the other woman’s legs.
Julia moaned.
With a sob, Cinnia pushed her away. “I can’t!”
Julia stumbled and sat down in the water. She came up gasping and choking.
“I’m so sorry.” Cinnia offered her hand. “I never meant for this to happen.”
“What?” Julia pulled herself up. “Almost drowning me?”
“No.” Cinnia dropped Julia’s hand, standing, arms outstretched. “This. Us. I love another.”
“Afra.”
Cinnia nodded.
Julia pulled her eyebrows together in a frown. “She may be alive…or not. If alive, do you think she would deny you the comfort of my friendship?”
“This…coupling…is more than friendship.”
“I say it is less.” Julia touched Cinnia’s shoulder; ran her hands lightly down her arm. “This is release, taking pleasure in each other’s bodies. Friendship is much more.”
Cinnia’s skin thrilled to her touch, but she stepped away. “One or both of us may die in a week. We may face each other in the arena someday.”
“All the more reason for us to take pleasure now.” Julia followed. “We don’t know what tomorrow will bring.”
Cinnia had no retort. Julia spoke truth, but did that make it right? If she took pleasure with Julia, did she betray Afra?
“Come, Cinnia.” Julia stepped out of the water. “I know a place we can be together…and dry.”
Cinnia took her hand and followed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“MOTHER ISIS, GIVE ME PROTECTION. Hercules, give me strength,” Cinnia prayed. She had become fond of the heavily muscled, bearded god that many of the male gladiators honored. The people of Nuceria paraded his statue as Hercules Victor, along with Apollo’s, during the games’ opening parade of the gladiators. She reached out with the others to touch the painted wooden statue as it passed, hoping for good luck in the arena.
Now she stood with the other women, fully equipped, helmets under their arms, ready to go onto the sands at Nuceria. Her opponent from the other ludus, chosen by lot, fought as a myrmilla. She stood half a hand shorter than Cinnia and several pounds lighter; sweat gathered on her brow and trickled between her breasts. Cinnia felt a momentary stab of pity for the smaller woman then forced it away. She didn’t want to underestimate her opponent. The myrmilla would fight to win and kill her if she could.
Trumpets blared and the narrator announced, “A special exhibition of female gladiators to honor the people of Nuceria from the esteemed editor of the games.”
They marched out to stand before the editor’s box and shouted the traditional greeting, “We who are about to die salute you!”
The crowd roared. The narrator announced the match ups and the pairs took up their spots around the amphitheater. Each pair had a summa rudis—a man armed with a stout wooden rod to call fouls, breaks, and beat any reluctant fighter.
The early afternoon sun shimmered off the sand. The velarium of close-woven white wool, pulled over masts at the top of the amphitheater, shaded the spectators in the stands. Cinnia’s feet were well-calloused from months of bare-foot practice, otherwise she would have hopped from foot to foot on the hot sands. She sent grateful praise to Barba for his insistence on practice in full gear in their overheated room.
The two women saluted one another and took their stances.
The narrator, the crowd, the music, all faded into the background as Cinnia narrowed her focus to one thing: her opponent.
The summa rudis lifted his rod, signaling the beginning of the fight. The two women circled each other looking for weaknesses. Cinnia thought she had stamina and agility on her side. She was more lightly armed and larger. The myrmilla made a sudden jab with her gladius. Cinnia blocked it with her smaller shield, and parried. The two traded thrusts and feints for several minutes, doing an intricate dance on the hot sand. Cinnia knew the better the show; the more likely they were to survive.
After several minutes, Cinnia’s mouth clogged with dust; thirst nagged her. They exchanged several more blows. Her heavy breath filled her helmet with moist air. Sweat soaked the wool band she wore across her forehead under her helmet. She could sense the myrmilla beginning to tire. The heavy shield dropped a trifle lower, the other woman was a half-beat slower to parry. Their helmets obscured their faces, so Cinnia couldn’t see her opponent’s eyes. Did they show fear? Anger? Resignation?
Her opponent’s shield slumped. Cinnia thrust over the edge with her curved blade, scoring a deep wound on the woman’s unprotected shoulder.
The summa rudis dropped his rod between them, giving the myrmilla a chance to recover, but she bled heavily. Cinnia took the brief rest to slow and deepen her breathing.
The rod came up. The myrmilla rushed Cinnia. It was a desperate move to bowl her over with the heavy shield before the wounded woman became too weak to hold it. Cinnia stepped to the side and sliced the woman’s exposed flank, a fatal wound. The myrmilla cried out, falling to her knees. She dropped her shield and sword, clutched her side, head bowed, unable to raise her arm in the traditional gesture to ask for mercy.
The summa rudis lowered his rod, to back Cinnia off. He turned to the editor. Only then, did Cinnia notice they were the last pair to finish. The crowd cried, “Perit—she’s finished,” and the editor gave the sign for death. The summa rudis motioned Cinnia forward.
“Do your duty,” the woman whispered and lifted her head.
Cinnia raised her sword and brought it down swiftly, piercing the breast and heart as she had been taught…a clean death blow.
The crowd roared its approval.
Cinnia looked around the arena. All four of the women from her ludus survived as victors. One of the losers also stood, spared, but two other bodies littered the sand.
“Victors approach the editor!” the narrator of the games called.
Cinnia doffed her helmet and approached, with Julia on her left, Portia and Gerta on her right. A quick glance showed that Julia seemed unharmed, but blood dripped down Gerta’s leg from a shallow wound.
The editor, a handsome middle-age man, launched into a speech. Cinnia lost the thread of it as fatigue, heat, and thirst sapped her strength. The crowd hissed and whistled as the speech grew longer. A hard-faced matron wearing an elaborate blond wig sat in the box with the editor. She tugged discreetly on his tunic and he brought his speech to a close by presenting each of them with a victory frond and a small purse.
The cheers of the crowd lifted Cinnia’s spirits as they circled the arena and left through the Gate of Life. She…and Julia…had survived.
In the cell under the stands where they disarmed, Cinnia sought a corner and threw up.
“Are you all right?” Julia put a hand on her back. It was warm, comforting, but not the hand she wanted.
“I’m fine. Just the heat.” Cinnia took a gulp of water, swished it around her mouth, and spat it out.
She reached for the talisman of Isis usually hanging on her breast and grasped air. Of course, she couldn’t wear it in the arena, but she missed its slight weight.
Afra, where are you?
***
AFRA STRIPPED OFF HER GREAVES and blood-spattered padding. Not her own blood. Not this time.
How long before I’m the one dragged out in the death cart. Six month
s, four fights and three dead.
The woman today had been a good fighter, a retiaria with the pitiless black eyes of a deadly snake. She reminded Afra of Clio. She had nearly caught Afra in her net, but…Afra shrugged…not today.
Slaves took the gear away to be cleaned. She sat on a wooden bench, shoulders drooping, hands dangling between her knees.
“Good work in there, Afra. Here are your winnings. I’ll have Caepio add these to your account.” Sextus Licinius Murena handed her a bag of coins. “As I predicted, the crowd likes you and are generous. You’re exotic, skilled, and know how to put on a show. I’ve seen your name and form drawn on the walls outside the arena. An enterprising young man is selling a figure of you.” He tossed her a small fired clay figure. The only resemblance to her was the little knobs all over her head representing her hair.
“I don’t do this for the money or the crowd.” She respected Murena. He did right by her. But she did not have the easy confiding relationship with the patrician magistrate as with the plebian Marcius. She rarely saw him except before and after the games.
“For what? The good name of the ludus? Your honor?”
“As you wish.” Afra kept her face blank. He would never understand her need to survive and escape. The Roman aristocracy put much store on their honor and good names.
His lips pursed in puzzlement, but he didn’t pursue the discussion. “Too bad you’re the last female from your cohort. The new lot doesn’t give you much competition.”
“Caepio has me training with the men now. I grow stronger fighting them.”
“Any…uh…problems?”
“Only when I beat one of them. They sulk.”
“Good, but I meant do any of the men try to get in your bed?” Murena frowned. “I’ll let it be known that anyone who touches you will be sent to the mines.”
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