Sword of the Gladiatrix

by Faith L Justice

  A clanging bell and insistent shouts warned her that the time had come. She donned her yellow breast band, her matching yellow loin cloth fringed with blue tassels, and her thick leather belt studded with brass. Afra ducked out of her cell, joining the men of her ludus for the trek to the arena. Many gave the horned sign to ward off evil as she walked by, but she ignored them.

  Afra remembered little of the trek to the amphitheater: flashes of color, cheers from the crowd. Some called her name, one woman boldly tossed her a transparent veil weighted with a coin. Afra plucked it from the air, sniffed at the scent of roses, tucked it in her belt and nodded. The woman, a red-head with crooked teeth, smiled and blew her a kiss. The men grumbled next to her, but she didn’t hear what they said.

  At last they paraded through the plaza, redolent with the smell of cooked food and sweating bodies, and into the bowels of the amphitheater. Fighters from different schools were placed in different holding rooms at the arena to prevent any riot or mischief. Afra took her usual seat on a bench in the corner in the back. No man challenged her for the place.

  Sextus Licinius Murena stepped through the door and surveyed his fighters. All quieted.

  “You are the best fighters in the best ludus in Campania. Do me and the Emperor honor today and I will double your winnings. Fail me and I’ll have you killed even if the crowd cries, ‘missio.’ These are a special gift for today’s games to honor our emperor.” Caepio, their lanista, handed out beautiful blue-dyed capes with a snarling wolf embroidered in gold on the back. “Wear them with pride.”

  The room erupted in a roar as the men shouted, spurring each other on to greater feats.

  Afra looked at the wolf, wondering if it was a bad omen. She shrugged. She’d be fighting neither wolf nor cat, but a human today. She prayed again it wouldn’t be Cinnia. Murena caught her eye before he left, giving her the briefest of smiles.

  “Alright, you sons of whores, it’s time for the parade. Look pretty for the crowd.” Caepio lined them up from least prestigious—Afra—to most popular—an ugly ex-soldier who wasn’t the biggest man in the pack, but wickedly skilled with his gladius. The masseuse made a lucrative trade off his sweat and oil scrapings. They trooped out of the holding room onto a series of chariots, preceded by slaves carrying statues of Mars and Hercules, followed by slaves carrying their weapons and armor.

  They entered the arena through the Gate of Life to the roar of the crowd. Over twenty thousand people stood cheering as the gladiators progressed around the perimeter and exited their chariots before the Imperial box. Afra scoured the arena for a glimpse of Cinnia, finally spotting her among the red-caped gladiators from Capua, following behind her own companions. The final entrants were caped in vivid green.

  All the gladiators assembled before the Imperial Box. The narrator announced. “All hail Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, Pontifex Maximus, Pater Patriae, four times Consul and nine times Imperator; and his noble wife Poppaea Sabina Augusta. The Emperor gives these games, in the name of Mars and Hercules Victus, to the good people of Pompeii in this, his eighth year of rule.”

  The crowd shouted, stamping their feet on the stone floor to create a rolling wall of sound that washed over the gladiators, the emperor, and his guests. Afra thought the noise might deafen her. She searched the box for the face of the man who commanded these games, the man who entertained his people with spectacles of death.

  Nero rose to acknowledge the crowd. He was a slight man of medium height, with a broad face; his golden hair arranged in elaborate rows of curls. A woman of startling beauty stood by his side, staring out over the crowd. She looked bored, until Nero whispered something in her ear, then she laughed. Afra spotted Murena in the box next to the Emperor’s. The crowd chanted, “Nero! Nero! Long life!” for several minutes until the trumpets blared. They gave a final shout and took their seats.

  In the relative quiet, the narrator gave a signal. The gladiators extended their right hands and intoned, “We who are about to die salute you.”

  Nero nodded his acceptance. The crowd roared again.

  “And now for the lots!” The narrator shouted. Usually the second class male fighters drew lots to determine who they would fight, but today it was the women. The men on display were all champions; paired earlier in the week according to their skills and the opportunity for most the exciting performance.

  Afra held her breath and prayed. The narrator announced the first pair, the second. He pulled out two markers. “Afra, of Pompeii, fights as myrmilla against Amazonia, of Capua, a secutor.” She let out her breath with a long sigh. Thanks to Fortuna. Not today. She wouldn’t have to fight Cinnia. The narrator announced, “Britannia, of Capua, fights as a Thracian with Atalanta, of Capua, a retiaria.”

  The gladiators bowed and trooped out the Gate of Life back to their holding rooms. They wouldn’t be back until the midafternoon. Afra tried to catch Cinnia’s eye, but now she was ahead of her in the pack. She disappeared behind a door.

  ***

  CINNIA WAS STRICKEN. She didn’t have to fight Afra, but she was paired with Julia who fought under the name Atalanta, swift of foot. Before, they had always fought against women from another ludus. In her anxiety over her possible match with Afra, she hadn’t thought about fighting one of her companions. Relief struggled with remorse and fear. Afra would fight the immense Gerta as Amazonia, no easy win.

  She took several deep breaths. They had several hours before the women fought. She needed to be calm, focused, or she would be the one carried out on the death cart.

  Julia approached and sat beside her. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

  “As am I.” Cinnia bowed her head briefly. “I will give no quarter.”

  “I understand. We will both fight to win.”

  “As we should.”

  “Why couldn’t it have been Portia?” Julia looked across the room at the haughty Roman woman. “I’d have gladly speared her liver.”

  Cinnia smiled; clasping Julia’s extended arm. “The Mother’s blessings on us both.”

  Julia stood and retreated to another bench. Three male champions played dice in a corner. Another took a nap. Cinnia didn’t know how anyone could sleep their last possible hours away.

  She closed her eyes to make it easier to see Julia’s moves in her mind. Barba had them practice against each other frequently, so they would know the weaknesses and strengths of the various fighting styles. But it also made them aware of their own particular strengths and weaknesses. Julia was quick. She could dance out of her sight, send her spinning, but her net work lacked finesse. She tossed the net at a person like she would toss it at the practice stake, not allowing for movement. If she did catch you, her trident was deadly. Cinnia pictured the best defensive and offensive moves, seeing herself in her mind execute each one perfectly.

  The sounds of the crowd echoed faintly through the stone of the arena. Cinnia listened to keep track of the program: laughter for the mock entertainers, cries of fear and delight for the beast hunt, roars of approval as the noxii fought each other to death. At mid-day, slaves brought water and offered food, but few ate. The air wafting in held the stench of warm bodies, rotting meat, and a hint of the perfume sprayed in the stands to keep the smell from being unendurable. When the water organ struck up a lively tune, Barba walked through the door with the dressing slaves carrying the women’s armor.

  Cinnia’s dresser wrapped quilted fabric around her legs, securing it with greaves tied at the back of her calves. A roll of the fabric provided a cushion on the top of her bare feet for the greaves to rest. This was the fanciest equipment she had worn. The greaves sported silver embossed figures of Victory on one and Nemesis on the other. A Medusa head decorated the knee guards. Next he tied quilted fabric onto her right arm and attached an articulated arm guard that protected her from shoulder to wrist. A narrow leather strap attached at the shoulder, reached across her chest, under her left arm and across her back to hold the guard in place. She put her
helmet under her arm. The high crest of alternate stiff black and white horse hairs tickled a bit and she readjusted it. She carried her small square shield. Cinnia’s stomach clenched and she fought down nausea.

  “It’s time. Do our ludus honor.”

  She narrowed her focus to Barba and his words, shutting out all other sounds. At his direction, she trooped out the door and stood at the gate, waiting for the narrator to announce her name. Julia stood beside her, black hair plaited, tightly pinned to her head; a colored wool band tied around her head kept the sweat from her eyes. She wore quilted fabric to protect her legs and left arm; a short shoulder guard strapped to her left shoulder was her only armor. The lead-weighted net was tied to her protected arm. Their edged weapons would be given to them in the arena, after they had been tested for sharpness.

  “Britannia, Thracian and Atalanta, retiaria!” the narrator bellowed. They stepped onto the gold-colored sand, made their way to the front of the Imperial box, bowed, and received their weapons: Julia’s trident and sharp belt knife, Cinnia’s deadly curved sica. Their summa rudis led them to the left, positioning them with space between them and the other fighters. The crowd sounds retreated. Cinnia watched Julia as she unwound her net, positioned her trident. The retiaria was no longer her friend. Julia would kill her, if she could.

  The trumpets sounded. The narrator cried. “At the order of our most esteemed and beloved Emperor, the women will fight without helmets!”

  Cinnia had heard that the emperor sometimes ordered changes in the equipment on his whim. Once the men lost their shields; another time they fought blindfolded. But the lack of a helmet was to her advantage. Cinnia’s helmet was protection against swords, but more hindrance than help against the lightly armed retiaria; it blocked her peripheral vision.

  She saw fear flicker in Julia’s eyes. With clear vision, Julia’s fast feet were not as much of an advantage. Cinnia tossed her helmet to the perimeter. Slaves raced around picking up the discarded equipment.

  The trumpets sounded again.

  Their summa rudis put his wooden stick between them.

  The women took up their stances.

  “Begin!”

  The rod rose.

  Julia began her dance. She feinted with the trident. Cinnia stepped away.

  Julia whirled her net. Cinnia waited to the last moment and slipped to the side, blocking a couple of the lead weights with her shield. She jabbed at Julia’s exposed side.

  Julia danced away and whipped her net back. Cinnia pursued, before she could get her net redeployed. Julia defended herself with the trident.

  They circled each other, heat shimmered from the sand.

  Cinnia stopped with her back to the lowering sun, forcing Julia to squint. She rushed the retiaria again. Julia retreated and flicked the net at Cinnia’s legs, almost taking her down.

  Cinnia recovered, barely escaping another jab with the trident, by twisting to the right. She ducked under the net, rolling in the sand to come up on Julia’s unprotected left. She slashed, but missed.

  Both women gasped for breath.

  The summa rudis brought down the wooden rod to give both a chance to recover. Cinnia hear the crowd shouting, “Atalanta!” and “Britannia!”

  The rod went up. The women started their deadly dance anew. After several minutes, Cinnia finally saw her chance. Julia moved to her left, whirling her net. When she released it, Cinnia stepped back, caught it with her shield, and yanked.

  Julia staggered, but pulled out her belt knife to cut herself free of the net.

  Cinnia rushed in, abandoning her entangled shield, slashing at Julia’s exposed shoulder. She scored a deep cut. Julia’s trident wobbled as blood flowed.

  Cinnia saw shock in Julia’s eyes and fell back, feigning a twisted knee.

  Julia recognized Cinnia’s hesitation, shook her head, and cried, “No quarter, my friend.”

  The blood pulsed from Julia’s shoulder. With each beat of her heart, she weakened. With a last effort Julia danced to the left, jabbed at Cinnia’s legs with her trident, and whirled away, slashing at her face with the small knife.

  Cinnia ducked and stabbed. Julia seemed to jump into the sword’s path, impaling herself through the stomach. Cinnia let go and stepped back, her face a rigid mask, while her gut clenched and roiled.

  A trumpet blasted and the crowd shouted, “Got her! She’s had it!”

  The summa rudis waved Cinnia back.

  Julia went to her knees, right hand clutching the sword, left extended for mercy. Before the Emperor could ask the crowd’s wishes, Julia toppled, blood soaking the sand.

  An official dressed as Charon, ferryman to the land of the dead, turned her over and checked her pulse. Her beautiful blue eyes filmed in death. He shook his head at the summa rudis, and slit her throat to make sure she was dead.

  Cinnia’s knees nearly gave way. The feeling that fired her during battle, ebbed, leaving ashes and fatigue. The fact of killing Julia—her friend—had yet to register. The crowd chanted, “Britannia! Britannia!” She lifted her bloody fists into the air to cheers and cries of “well done!”

  For the first time she became aware of the rest of the fighters. All but Afra and Gerta were done. Five bodies littered the arena floor, one defeated woman held out her hand. The crowd cried, “Missio!”

  Afra stalked Gerta like a cat would a lumbering beast; quick strikes, fast footwork. The lack of the all-encompassing helmet, with its limited vision, gave the secutor an advantage in this match. They both had large oblong shields and short stabbing swords—the gladius—of the Roman legionnaires; but Gerta was better armored with greaves and articulated arm shield. Afra fought with quilted padding on legs and sword arm, plus one greave on her left leg.

  But the big woman was rapidly tiring. She stumbled. Afra scored her thigh. A twist and Gerta’s shield went spinning. Two more moves and Gerta was on the ground with her hand in the air. Reprieve.

  Cinnia expelled the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. It was over. They both survived.

  The narrator announced the winners. They approached the Imperial box, after handing over their bloody weapons. Cinnia stood next to Afra, brushing her hand. A thrill shot up her arm. A temporary set of wooden steps was moved into place. The winners climbed, to be greeted at the top with the palm frond of victory and acclamation from the crowd.

  Nero smiled at them, “Good sport! Wonderful moves! You’ve been trained well. I’ll be recruiting many more women into the imperial gladiator school.”

  They trooped down the steps and progressed around the arena waving their victory fronds at the crowd. Afra was clearly a local favorite. The crowd chanted her name, but there was also a large portion shouting “Britannia!” They finished in front of the Imperial box and bowed.

  The trumpet blasted.

  Cinnia looked forward to stealing a glance as they left, maybe a kiss in the darkness of the passage. Afra seemed to have a little influence with her Roman master. Maybe she could talk him into buying her. They could be together again.

  The narrator announced, “Our beloved Emperor Nero has decided to add a special pair to the champions this afternoon.”

  The crowd quieted.

  “Afra and Britannia will fight after the male champions!”

  No! Cinnia’s mind went numb.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “WHAT IS THIS TRICKERY?” Afra towered over Murena, hands clenched, jaw set. “I fought once today!”

  The guard on the door stepped forward, but the Roman motioned him back.

  “Sit, Afra.” He brushed his hand through his hair in a weary gesture. “Have some water.”

  A slave thrust a goblet into Afra’s hands. She drank it down.

  “The Emperor can do as he pleases with his own games. At least you have time to recover before you fight again. The champions will take at least two hours fighting one pair at time.”

  “No one else has to fight twice.”

  “One of our esteemed e
mperors had a victorious gladiator fight a second time—right after he won. When he took that match, as well, the emperor ordered a third fight. He lost that one, but the emperor gave him a magnificent funeral.”

  “Kind of him,” Afra mumbled.

  “You fought well.” He jingled a heavy purse. “I and many others made a lot of money betting on you.”

  “Money! Is that what this is about?”

  “Some.” He shrugged. “Women gladiators are a novelty. People didn’t think you could fight at all, much less put on as good a show as the men. The crowd recognizes skill. That’s why they shouted your name.”

  “Why Cinnia?”

  “She was the second favorite. Nero loves a show. He writes his own poetry and music, performs in public, much to the people’s delight and the noble’s chagrin. He is attuned to the audience and saw the interest that you two generated in the crowd. He needs the people, because the Senate is a constant threat.”

  Afra dropped her head into her hands, weary to the bone. Every time she thought she spied a track through the Roman thicket, it disappeared in thorns. She had experience with the intricacies of a court, the jostling for place, but the vast and intricate Roman politics eluded her.

  She looked up at Murena. “May I beg a favor?”

  “If I can.”

  “I want to see Cinnia before we fight.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, have a massage, drink water, eat a little if you can; but not much. Rest.”

  ***

  CINNIA CHAFED UNDER THE MASSEUSE’S HANDS. Why? She had done her best. Killed a friend for the howling jackals. Why did the emperor demand she fight her lover, as well? The black mist swirled at the edge of her mind.

  The sting of a leather strap across her shoulders brought her back. “Are you listening to me?” Barba glared at her.

  She sat up rubbing her shoulder. “I am now.”