“That black bitch is as tough as old sandal leather. She moves like a cat. She’s taller, has a longer reach, but you’re heavier and your sword is longer. You’ll also be better armored, but don’t go shield to shield. The weight of her shield will push you back. The only weakness I spotted was she tends to feint to the left. Watch for it.”
“What of Julia?”
“What?”
“What of her body? Did she have enough money on account for a burial?”
“We can claim her body after the games, if we want. If not, it will be tossed away with the noxii and dead beasts. I think she had enough for a burial, but no tombstone.”
“She had no family but us. I have plenty on account. Claim her body. I’ll pay for the marker. Make sure it has her name, age, fighting style, and number of wins. She’d like that. If I die, burn my body. Bury the ashes under an oak tree.”
“Cinnia, it isn’t good to dwell on death right before a fight.”
“When better to think of death?” A smile curved her lips, but her heart was heavy with loss. Julia, that bright spirit, would walk the earth no more, her blue eyes never again see the sun. The shock of her upcoming fight with Afra, had driven all thoughts of Julia from her mind till now. When she died in the arena with Afra, none of them would be properly mourned.
“None of us escape death, but you have a little control over your life. Get out there. Fight for it!” Barba hissed between clinched teeth. “You’re good. Better than the male tirones. Have some pride, girl!”
Cinnia fought back the darkness.
The faint shouts of, “He’s had it!” came through the walls. Another fighter met his fate.
She straightened her shoulders. She had to be sharp if she and Afra were to survive.
***
“SORRY, AFRA. Silo wouldn’t hear of you two meeting alone before the match. He suspected mischief.” Murena led Afra and her entourage to the armoring room.
“Thanks for trying.”
“Fortuna bless you.” He clasped her hand. “I must get back to my box.”
She ducked through the low door.
Cinnia stood in a far corner.
They gazed at each other across the room as their dressers put on fresh quilted padding and cleaned armor. No helmets; no swords. They picked up their shields.
Their lanistae, trainers, and dressing slaves surrounded them, so they couldn’t touch.
They progressed to the Gate of Life. The trumpet sounded. The narrator called out, “Afra of Pompeii!”
Caepio handed her the gladius.
Afra stepped onto the cooling sand. The raking couldn’t remove the smell of death. The velarium was furled and the shadows deepened in the corners. She strode across the arena, sword and shield held high, to stand in front of the Imperial box. The crowd exploded.
“Afra! Afra! Afra!”
Another trumpet blast.
“Britannia of Capua!”
Another round of chanting. Fewer people shouted for Cinnia, but just as enthusiastically as for her. Afra caught the faint cries of the odds makers. She was favored, but not by much.
Cinnia joined her in front of the box.
“Remember our pact, my love,” Afra said as they bowed to Nero and his wife. “Fight your best. If one dies, so does the other.”
They took their places. The arena quieted. The narrator announced, “Begin!” The summa rudis lifted his wooden wand.
A rush of energy flooded Afra’s limbs. They circled.
Fighting without helmets made it both easier and harder. Easier because they could watch each other’s eyes for next moves; harder to face a lover across the shield and see every flicker of pain and weariness.
Afra feinted left. Cinnia parried.
Cinnia moved right and thrust her shield. Afra jabbed at her legs.
The moves felt familiar.
Cinnia grinned.
They fell into the routine they learned from Paetus: thrust, parry, whirl, and dance away; stumble, slip, drop the shield a hair, recover. Variations they made up on the spot.
But the swords were sharp and both drew blood. They had to, the crowd wanted it. The wounds weren’t deep, but would be draining. Their lives dripped slowly into the sand.
After several minutes of furious action, they both stood panting. The summa rudis dropped his wooden rod between them, a trumpet sounded and they stepped back. Afra leaned on her shield. Cinnia hunched, hands on knees, blowing like a hippo.
The crowd quieted except for bets shouted back and forth.
The summa rudis signaled the fight to resume.
They parried and thrust for several more steps then Cinnia stumbled for real. Afra knocked her shield aside and sent it spinning across the sand. Cinnia crouched in a defensive position.
Afra threw her shield away. “It’s too heavy. Slows me down.”
The crowd screamed its approval.
Cinnia laughed, and wiped at a tendril of hair plastered to her forehead.
Sword on sword, they were an even match. Afra thrilled at the artistry. Evidently the crowd did, too. The dull roar seeped into her mind as they matched step to step and thrust to thrust. The iron swords sang through the air, sending shuddering vibrations down her arms with every clash.
Inevitably, thirst distracted her mind; fatigue slowed her movements. She spat dust, licked dry lips. She could walk for hours in the desert—with water—but this furious, demanding action drained her reserves. Her lungs seared and muscles ached.
Cinnia was in no better shape.
The summa rudis called another halt.
The women swayed in their spots. How much longer can we fight? The crowds watched in silence. Afra could hear Cinnia’s raspy gasps for breath, echoing her own fight to take in enough life-giving air.
When their breathing calmed, the fight resumed for the third time. Cinnia, with a sudden burst of energy, struck several times with her deadly curved sica, driving Afra back.
Afra dug deep for the strength to parry. She pushed back locking their swords hilt to hilt between their straining bodies.
They both pushed, digging their feet into the sand, panting face to face, a static tableau.
A trumpet sounded. The summa rudis separated them again. They fell back gasping for breath, sweat and blood streaming down their arms and legs. They had to have fought for well over half an hour—longer than any fight she had to endure or witness. She shook out her burning muscles; licked salty sweat from her upper lip—glad for the moisture. Afra wasn’t sure she could raise her sword for another round.
Cinnia’s eyes grew round and she turned her head to the stands. It was only then that Afra heard the crowd chanting “stans missus”—a draw!
Nero was on his feet looking over the crowd. He called over the narrator. A trumpet called for attention.
The narrator bellowed, “Our esteemed and beloved Emperor Nero has declared the contest a draw! Both Afra of Pompeii and Britannia of Capua win the victor’s frond!”
The crowd shouted its approval.
“In addition, our most generous Emperor awards both the wooden sword!”
Afra stood dazed by the noise and the news. The wooden sword! Freedom! Life for them both! Mother Isis be praised.
Afra approached the wooden steps with renewed vigor. She wanted to hug Cinnia, but did no more than clasp her hand, raising it, trembling, over their heads as they ascended to where Nero and his empress sat. She bowed her head as she and Cinnia fell to her knees.
“Wonderful fighting. Never saw anything like it. It’s inspired me to write a poem.” Nero handed them both a victory frond and a wooden sword. He straightened and declaimed:
“Afra and Britannia fought in equal strife;
Long time in level balance hung their life;
At last the struggle found an issue fair,
And equal victory and defeat they share.
To both were freedom and the palm assigned;
Such recompense did skill and valor find.
�
��Not a bad effort, don’t you think?” Nero turned to his audience in the box. Everyone nodded, smiled and exclaimed on the excellence of the emperor’s efforts for several minutes.
Afra began to wonder how long they would be required to kneel while the emperor basked in glory. She heard some darker tones to the wider audience waiting for the final ceremony, hinting at some impatience
“Most wondrous, my love, a magnificent effort worthy of a victor’s palm as well.” Poppaea Sabina Augusta rose, kissed her husband on the brow. “When we go to Greece you must enter it in the competition.”
He turned back to the kneeling women. “Get up! Get up! You have to take your turn around the arena.”
They both rose, murmuring thanks, eyes averted.
“You’re free by my grace, but I expect you both to work for me. I’ll be stocking my imperial gladiator school with more women. I want you to train them. My steward will be in touch. Here are your winnings.” Nero handed each a heavy purse.
Afra heard the words, but couldn’t take in their import. She bowed again and retreated down the steps with Cinnia.
They raised their wooden swords and victory fronds aloft, weariness forgotten.
“Afra! Britannia! Afra! Britannia!”
Afra thought her heart would burst with love and relief as they processed around the arena to the shouts of Romans. They made one last bow and exited through the Gate of Life, hands clasped and smiling into each other’s eyes.
EPILOG
THE GODS MUST BE LAUGHING.
I prepared to die in the arena today, by my lover’s hand, or my own. Instead, I lay here in Cinnia’s arms, her sweet face turned to mine in peaceful sleep. We have money and freedom, but do we have choice?
The Roman Emperor holds our lives in his hands. We could live in luxury and security, training others to risk their lives as we have. Murena believes that is an honorable thing to do. But he is a Roman, rich from my effort, and the favor of the Emperor.
We could run to the ends of the earth beyond the reach of Rome. I would like to see Cinnia’s northern land of rivers and misty forests, but to get beyond the legions we would have to travel even further north. Is that part of the journey Isis saw for me, or is this sunny land my fate?
We could go south. Perhaps my Kandake would take me back into her service if I paid a blood price for Asata and her child.
But would Cinnia’s tribe—or mine—accept us? At least the Romans do not scorn us for our love.
I have heard rumors of a tribe of women warriors in the East who live on the banks of a vast sea beyond the Roman one. Perhaps we should search in that direction.
We will decide tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.
Whatever we do, we do it together. We are goddess-blessed; promised to each other. We will not be separated again.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
WHENEVER I PITCHED THIS BOOK as my “lesbian gladiator novel,” I encountered raised eyebrows and skeptical snorts. The first question everyone asked: “Were there really lesbian gladiators?” My answer: “Of course!” We know there were female gladiators fighting in arenas for a couple of centuries, although far fewer than men. Some had to be lesbian.
What really surprised people was the fact of female gladiators. They rarely appear in popular culture. Despite the popularity of Xena Warrior Princess and the myths of the Amazons, they don’t come to mind in the media-soaked imaginings of brutal, bloody, gladiatorial games. Women warriors? Maybe. Women gladiators? No. Yet they are there in classical literature, art, grave markers, and archaeology. All you have to do is look.
One organizer in Ostia brags on his tombstone that he was the first person to put women in the arena as fighters. Tacitus in his Annals not only tells of Boudica, but also mentions that Emperor Nero regularly had female gladiators in his shows. Suetonius tells us in his Life of Domitian that the Emperor once staged a performance at night where women fought either other women or dwarves by torchlight. These women fighters weren’t all captives, slaves, or from the lower classes. Tacitus says, “Many distinguished women and senators were disgraced in the arena.” Juvenal in his Satires mocks women from the senatorial class who chose to join the gladiatorial ranks: “…and look how their little heads strain under such weighty helmets and how thick bandages of coarse bark support their knees.”
This book was inspired by a stone relief found in Halicarnassus (modern Bodrum, Turkey) showing two women equipped as gladiators and fighting without helmets (which may be represented on the ground). The Greek inscription says Amazon and Achillia (obviously stage names) fought bravely to an honorable draw. The relief is dated to the first or second century AD and can be found in the British Museum. I had my ending. I just needed to figure out who my characters were and how they got there.
One of the non-fiction authors I consulted felt Nero encouraged the expansion of women in the games, so I looked closely at his reign and found two remarkable events that happened, in the same timeframe, at opposite ends of the Empire: the expedition to Kush and the British revolt. Both involved cultures where women were valued as more equal partners in life and government than in Rome, and both had powerful queens who defied Roman power—one in battle, one with guile. These cultures could provide plausibly strong (both in body and character) women protagonists. Afra and Cinnia were born. Now to send them on their journey
Although most of my characters are fictional, I placed them at historical events and researched those events and cultures to the best of my ability. I included as much detail from recent archaeology in Kush, Britain, Portus (Rome’s seaport), and Pompeii as seemed necessary to enhance the story. Kush is the Egyptian name for the land along the Nile from the first to sixth cataracts (roughly equivalent to modern Sudan). The Romans and Greeks called it Ethiopia. Kush is referred to frequently in Egyptian literature as a source of gold, ivory, timber, and other exotic trade. Egypt occasionally conquered and lost parts of Kush over the millennia only to have Kush conquer Egypt about 760 BC and hold it until 623 BC. I named most of my fictional Kushite characters after Kushite pharaohs and their consorts.
Kushite queens, traditionally, were powerful rulers in their own right. They appear in stone carvings smiting their enemies, and in literature defeating a Roman force. Strabo (in his Geography, Vol. II, Book XVII) reports that in 24 BC, a one-eyed warrior queen named Candace (a corruption of Kandake, the Kushite title for their queens) “invaded the Thebaïs, and attacked the garrison, consisting of three cohorts, near Syene; surprised and took Syene, Elephantina, and Philae, by a sudden inroad; enslaved the inhabitants, and threw down the statues of Caesar.” The bronze head from a statue of Augustus was recently excavated from beneath the doorway of a temple in Meroe and is thought to be from this attack. A great stela from south of Meroe commemorates the ruler Amanirenas and her military activities against the Romans. Since she ruled in late first century BC, the timing is right for Amanirenas to be Strabo’s warrior queen—and provide a suitable name for my main character, Afra.
Nero sent at least one expedition to Kush possibly in AD 61 or 62 and possibly a second in 66 or 67. Both Pliny and Seneca write of an expedition but with conflicting details. Pliny says the group met a queen, their purpose was to assess whether Kush was worth the effort of invading, and that they surveyed the land south to a drowned land (believed to be the Great Sudd swamp of modern Southern Sudan, approximately 600 miles south of Meroe). Seneca writes the group met a king, they were on a scientific mission to find the source of the Nile, and they surveyed the land south to a great swamp on the White Nile (again the Great Sudd). Some historians believe this means there were two expeditions; others don’t. For the purposes of my story, I’ve combined the two narratives and pushed back the time to AD 60 (since the exact dates are unknown): the Romans meet a royal couple and survey the land under the pretense of “science/exploration,” but with the intent of invasion. Afra saves Marcius’ life in the Great Swamp and their journey begins.
The British revolt of
AD 60-61 was another exercise in choosing between contradictory primary sources. Since I first heard of Boudica, I’ve been fascinated by her tragic story: wronged queen, vengeful mother, freedom fighter for her people, warrior queen who came this close to throwing the mighty Roman Empire off the island of Britain. I was excited about using her story in my book. Over the years, I had collected books and articles about Boudica—many useful and some fanciful. However, once I got into the research I discovered how little we know about Boudica the woman and leader. There are no proven coins linking Boudica or her husband to the Iceni people (or any Celtic tribe). Although the archaeology is rich with detail on the people living in the three towns likely destroyed by the rebellious tribes, again there is nothing directly linking a female ruler named Boudica to the destruction. We’re not even sure of her name. In the same way Pliny thought the Kushite title Kandake was a name, Boudica meaning “Victoria” or “Victory” might be a title rather than the name of the woman who lead the British rebellion.
Our sole sources for the story are three classical pieces written years after the events, by two men with their own political agendas. Two of those sources are by Tacitus, who wrote after Boudica’s death, but within living memory. His two accounts contain contradictory and different details. In Agricola (the earlier book), “the whole island rose under the leadership of Boudica, a lady of royal descent—for Britain makes no distinction of sex in their leaders.” He mentions she rules the Brigantes tribe. In the Annals (written later) she rules the Iceni and enlists the help of the Trinovantes tribe. Tacitus adds the details of her husband Prasutagus’ death and Roman-style will, Boudica’s flogging, and the rape of her daughters to this later narrative. These details—not included in his earlier version—are our sole source for the modern popular story of Boudica.
Cassius Dio wrote one hundred-fifty years after Boudica’s death, and his Roman History contains details not in Tacitus’ accounts, including our only narrative on Claudius’ invasion of Britain in AD 43 and the recall of loans, in Nero’s time, that Claudius gave to the British nobles, which might have stirred up resentment. Dio’s account is similar to Tacitus’ earlier Agricola version: the whole island rises in rebellion under Boudica; there is no mention of the Iceni or Trinovantes, or the assault on Boudica or her daughters. Dio provides a physical description of Boudica, a lot of gruesome details on the barbarity of the Britons toward their Roman captives, and long inspirational speeches that Boudica and the Roman generals give to their armies—all of which we can accept only with a large helping of salt.
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