Lysandra’s eyes fixed the deep blue of Eirianwen’s. ‘You will,’ she insisted. ‘Trying has nothing to do with it. I have known her only a short time, Eirianwen, but well enough to realise that she will not spare her hand in this. If you have a chance, take it. You must cut her down without compunction.’
Eirianwen’s smile was dazzling. ‘You think to make yourself a trainer, Lysandra?’
Lysandra tweaked Eirianwen’s nose, making her laugh, and the heavy mood was broken for an instant. ‘Doubtless I’d be better than the imbeciles we have to work with at the moment.’ She stepped back, and eyed her handiwork. ‘I don’t think I’ve missed a spot,’ she nodded satisfied. ‘Are you sure you do not want to wear even a subligaculum? They have not insisted that you fight naked.’ Eirianwen opened her mouth to speak but Lysandra raised her hand. ‘I assume it is ‘the way of the Tribes’?’
‘Yes. One of us will go to the underworld as we came to this world. Also, we fight as equals in this manner. No blow will be deflected by armour. We fight, blade to blade, flesh to flesh.’
‘A pity it is not a contest of form.’ Lysandra forced herself to smile, though her heart was pounding with apprehension. But it would not do to show Eirianwen that she was nervous; she must project a solid image of unwavering confidence.
‘What do you mean?’ Eirianwen began to flex her shoulders and neck, loosening the muscles.
‘If this were being judged on your looks,’ she extrapolated, realising that the subtleties of Latin were beyond the Silurian,
‘you would certainly have the advantage over that leathery old bag.’
‘You’re being rude,’ Eirianwen said, but her eyes were bright.
‘Don’t worry about me, Lysandra. I’ll fight hard and, if the gods will it, I shall win.’
Lysandra nodded; there was truth in that.
It was deafening.
Lysandra had thought the cheers in her own bouts loud, but the cacophony that greeted the two barbarian gladiatrices as they stepped onto the sands was like nothing she had ever heard. It was greater than a simple roar, it was a constant, unending reverberation that seemed to stem from the very soul of those who watched. Lysandra gripped the bars to the Gate of Life, feeling them vibrate under her fingers.
Her eyes were drawn to Sorina. The older woman’s naked body was brown and tough, her muscles defined and hard beneath the skin, whereas Eirianwen had a more womanly look to her.
Sorina, like Lysandra herself, was angular and solid but Eirianwen was possessed of gentle curves. This was mere appearance, for beneath the deceptively soft surface, the Silurian was as hard as iron.
They faced each other, raising their blades in salute. Through the din Lysandra heard the high-pitched voice of the editor, Fat Aeschylus, giving the order for the battle to begin.
But neither woman moved. For indeterminable moments they stood like two statues, images forever poised to strike a blow that was never to land. The crowd quietened, as if becoming aware of the solemnity of the occasion. Sweat beaded on the bodies of both gladiatrices, their shoulders rising and falling as they slowed their breathing, letting nervous energy transform to controlled aggression.
‘Fight!’ Aeschylus’ voice piped out again, irate at the delay, but the women yet remained still. Harenarii, slaves charged with forcing unwilling gladiators to fight, began to move in, clutching red-hot irons in gloved fists. Though silent, the minds of twenty thousand watchers willing the two to close was a palpable thing, hanging heavy over the dead calm sands of the arena floor.
Sunlight caught in Lysandra’s eye and it was a moment before she realised that it was the reflected glint from Sorina’s blade as it screamed towards Eirianwen. The sound of her sword deflecting the attack broke the overflowing dam and, once again, the arena became awash with maddened dissonance.
‘Aren’t your friends fighting today?’ Doris and Catuvolcos were sitting in the brothel’s small garden. She was eating an apple he had brought for her.
‘Yes.’ Catuvolcos turned his head in the direction of the arena.
The screaming of the crowd could clearly be heard. ‘That roar is for them now.’
‘Shouldn’t you be there, watching?’
‘I’d rather be with you.’ Catuvolcos said. It was partially true, but there was more to it than that. He could not bring himself to watch Eirianwen and Sorina at each other’s throats. It may be the Law, but there was an inherent wrongness in this fight. Whatever happened, whoever died, the other would never be the same. The victrix, he knew, would lose part of herself when the other’s soul fled the body. When one fell, part of the other would die with her.
‘Does your owner mind you being away?’ Doris interrupted his reverie, causing him to look up sharply. ‘You seem to be out over-much for a slave, that’s all.’
How very civilised, Catuvolcos thought bitterly. She was a prostitute, who made her living from the groaning pleasures of strange men, yet she saw fit to bring up the matter of his own bondage. His face darkened with anger for a moment, but Doris seemed to have no idea that she had said insulting words. In fact, the look on her pretty, painted face was almost one of concern.
He took a deep breath and was about to reply but Doris spoke first.
‘It’s just that I know you like me for who I am, and…’ she paused, ‘not for what I do. I wouldn’t want you to be out without permission and get into trouble over me.’
‘I am allowed out,’ he said, feeling somehow relieved at the reason for her question. ‘My lanista is good like that. He treats us with respect even if we do belong to him. It is a better lot than many slaves have.’
‘Well, I am glad he is good like that.’ Smiling, she tucked her knees under her chin. ‘I love it when you come to visit. I feel like you are rescuing me for a few hours. Silly, isn’t it? Soon, the games will be over and you will be gone.’
‘Yes, but my ludus is only a few days from here. I will come to see you as often as I can,’ Catuvolcos said it in a rush and realised that he meant every word.
‘I don’t mind if you don’t,’ Doris said seriously. ‘But do not promise me you will, if you don’t mean to keep your word. I would hate that.’
‘On my honour.’ Catuvolcos put his hand on his heart. ‘I swear that I will visit you as often as I can.’
‘Catuvolcos,’ Doris almost squeaked. ‘That’s… wonderful!’ In a rush of silk and perfume, she was upon him, her arms about his neck. ‘No one has ever treated me so well.’
The big man stroked her hair, wanting to kiss her but unsure if she would take his action as an affront. So much of their friendship was based on his restraint. He wanted more but would not take it. She had been through much, and he knew her well enough to realise that her sometimes brassy front was mere armour for a girl who lived a hard life in hard circumstances.
So when her lips sought his, it was a surprise.
Lysandra’s heart was in her mouth as she watched, her knuckles bone-white on the bars.
The blades of Eirianwen and Sorina whirled in their deathly dance, meeting again and again, their song as discordant as it was violent. The length of the swords made the short thrust impossible, so the contest was fought in the truly barbarian style. Huge sweeping cuts and arcing blows were countered by blocks so solid they caused sparks to fly.
Eirianwen attacked in force suddenly, the sword cutting downwards to Sorina’s head, but the older woman met the assault and parried again as the Silurian’s blade swung round, seeking to slice her head from her neck. Again, Eirianwen pressed in, a furious speed and intensity in her attacks. She slashed at the Clan Chief ’s head but Sorina ducked low, her sword licking out. The crowd gasped as Eirianwen’s blood flew brightly and she stumbled back, reaching for the wound in her belly.
Sorina roared, battle rage clearly upon her, and charged in, battering Eirianwen back, using her sword as a bludgeon, knowing that with the blood loss, so the strength leeched from the body.
Eirianwen was forced down to one knee and only
barely managed to deflect a blow that would have opened her skull. For a moment, the two women’s blades locked together, the Amazon seeking to drive her foe into the ground.
Lysandra screamed and it seemed to her that Eirianwen heard, for she surged upwards, forcing the older woman back and away her own sword hissed down diagonally, slicing across Sorina’s chest. The cut was not deep enough to finish her, but it bled profusely, staining the Amazon’s sweat-slick skin with blood. The crowd went into paroxysms of excitement as the two fighters, bloodied and hurt, closed in, their faces set in pale determination.
The contest continued at a furious pace, neither woman giving ground despite their wounds. They stood in full reach of each other’s blades, trusting more on their skill than avoidance. Again, Sorina hit home, this time cutting across the heavy flesh of Eirianwen’s left breast. The crowd hissed as blood sluiced from the wound, drenching her torso. She cried out in pain and Sorina struck out once more but her blow was parried. Eirianwen used her momentum to follow through, the pommel of her sword hilt smashing into Sorina’s face.
The Amazon fell over backwards, hitting the sand heavily. But Eirianwen could not press her advantage. Her own wounds were taking their toll, and in a moment Sorina had recovered and rolled to her feet. Her nose was shattered, sheeting her mouth and chin in thick, purplish globules.
Slower now, they came together again. Stroke met counter-stroke, all thought of skill and technique fled. All that mattered was to beat the other into exhaustion. Time and time again their blades met flesh but both lacked the power to land a killing blow.
Lysandra could not bear to watch, but neither could she tear her eyes away from the awful scene as the two hacked at each other. Each time Sorina struck home, she felt the blow as keenly as did Eirianwen, each time the Amazon cried out in pain, the fierce exultation was her own.
Drunkenly, the tribeswomen tottered towards one another, barely distinguishable, so coated were they with blood and arena filth. As they came together, Sorina’s sword dipped imperceptibly, her years seemingly catching up with her, and it was then Eirianwen struck. Her sword hammered down on the older woman’s blade, knocking it from her hands. She lunged in, her weapon spearing straight for the Amazon’s throat.
Sorina twisted aside, her arms clamping onto Eirianwen’s wrists, and she spun about, now in control of the blade. For a moment, they struggled, then the Amazon stiffened and pushed with the last of her strength.
Eirianwen’s cry was loud as her own blade was rammed into her stomach, exploding from her back in a bloody mist. Sorina stepped back, her face a hideous mask of horror as the Silurian lurched away, fingers scrabbling desperately to pull the cold metal from her body. Her mouth worked, but no sound came forth as her ruined innards forced bile into her throat. It dribbled obscenely down her face as she fell to her knees and rolled slowly onto her side.
She lifted her head in the direction of the Gate of Life, her hand reaching imploringly to Lysandra.
Lysandra wailed insanely and hurled herself at the gates, trying to smash the iron with her own body, desperate to be with Eirianwen. But through tear-blurred eyes, she saw Eirianwen’s arm fall and her head loll to one side, and knew that she was gone.
Howling with grief, Lysandra felt many hands upon her, pulling her back. Spittle slavered about her mouth as she struggled against them, screaming incoherently. Something heavy slammed into her head, but she did not relent, surging away from her captors as she crashed into the Gates once more.
Again, she was struck, and again, until finally the darkness took her.
XXX
Lucius Balbus hummed tunelessly as a slave went through the complex process of adjusting the lanista’s toga. Despite the permanent loss of Eirianwen, the profit that he had made from her demise was enormous. Somewhat worrying was the current state of Sorina: the Amazon had sustained serious injury in the battle, and now lay close to death in the surgery.
But it was still worth the payoff. With the money from the games as a whole and his cut of the betting he could buy more quality slaves to replenish his stock. Experienced slaves at that.
And of course, there was Lysandra: Stick had informed him that there had been some trouble with her when Eirianwen fell.
Apparently, the two women were intimate and the Spartan had taken her death badly. That sort of thing was impossible to control, he mused, as the slave applied a sweet-smelling pomade to the sheer white cloth of the toga. It would not do to meet Frontinus smelling of the fuller’s piss.
Deprived of the company of men, the women inevitably fell to relationships with their own sex. Other lanista’s were much harsher on their stock, banning any kind of liaisons, but Balbus was prepared to endure the difficulties that a freer ludus gave rise to in return for the emotionally stable fighter. It was all about compromise in the business.
Lysandra was young and would get over Eirianwen’s death — of that he was certain. And, with the right touch from Falco, she could be promoted to attain phenomenal adulation from the masses. With Frontinus’s endorsement, the women’s event was attracting more attention from the public, and that meant more money for hard-working lanistas like himself. The crowd, then, would need a heroine.
Lysandra, he decided, would be that heroine. All it would take would be a few more matches against quality opposition and she would gain some renown and critical experience. It was all he could do to refrain from dancing with glee all the way to his litter.
Catuvolcos stood over the still form of Sorina. The surgeon, a small, fussy-looking man who sported a fading black eye, was applying a stinking unguent to the grievous wounds the Amazon had sustained. Her face was pale, the lines about her eyes seeming more pronounced.
‘Will she live?’ Catuvolcos found his voice to be too loud in the stillness of the surgery.
The surgeon looked up from his work. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
From his expression, Catuvolcos knew that he had bitten down a harsher response to the too often-asked question. ‘She is not young,’ the surgeon added, ‘but she is strong and tough. None of these wounds are mortal by themselves… but you can see for yourself the state of her.’
Catuvolcos gazed at the near lifeless form of his friend, tears in his eyes. He prayed that she would live so that some sense, some meaning could come from her struggle with Eirianwen.
The gods, he hoped, would not be so cruel as to take them both.
‘I have work to do.’ The surgeon’s voice cut into his thoughts.
‘If you want to wait, wait outside, but I won’t know much till the morning. You should go to the banquet. Have a few drinks.’
It was good advice, Catuvolcos reasoned. There was nothing he could do here, and the oblivion of the beer cup was a better prospect than sitting around this place of blood and death. He nodded his thanks to the surgeon, and made his way back to the gaol.
The atmosphere in the compound was charged with relief.
The games were over and those who remained basked in the knowledge that sweet life was theirs. As was the tradition, a revel had been arranged for those warriors who had survived.
It would be held later that night on the very sands on which they had fought and always followed the usual stages of drunkenness. Celebration at life would be followed by melancholy for lost comrades, and all would finally be overtaken by unconsciousness. This was wise policy on the part of the lanistas: the day following the revel the fighters would be too ill to cause any trouble when they were loaded back into their carts for the journey home.
Catuvolcos wondered if Lysandra would be present. Stick had recounted to him how she had reacted to Eirianwen’s death and that he had imprisoned her. There was an injustice in that, he thought. It was in no small part due to Lysandra’s successes that Balbus and his troupe had gained a reputation in the games. To keep her under lock and key whilst all others were free — at least for the night — was unfair.
Though Stick had promised to check up on her and let her out
when ‘the serious drinking got underway’, Catuvolcos resolved that he would undertake the task himself. For one thing, Stick’s thirst for alcohol far outweighed his tolerance and he was likely to forget; for another, he wanted a chance to mend bridges with Lysandra. He had treated her harshly through no fault of her own and, whatever faults he had, Catuvolcos prided himself on his honesty. He had been wrong, and he would tell her so.
Lysandra stared into the darkness of her cell, aware only of her pain. It went far beyond anything physical she had ever suffered; the agonising grief raked her soul, allowing no respite in its merciless torture. Never in her life, she now knew, had she cried until this day. Her throat was raw from sobbing, her cheeks brittle and taut with the salt of her tears. Visions of Eirianwen haunted her, tormenting her with images of her love. Forever frozen in her mind’s eye was the sight of the beautiful Silurian reaching out for help in her last moment. And she could not save her.
Lysandra held her face in her hands, her chains clattering as her body shuddered with misery. It was not right: she should have faced Sorina, not Eirianwen. If she had fought, then no tie of kin or clan would have stayed her hand. Sorina would lie dead and all that she and Eirianwen hoped for would have come to pass.
Now, hope was dust. Her heart had been torn from her breast and there was no reason to carry on. Athene did not speak to her and Lysandra knew that she had angered the goddess with her love for a barbarian. There could be no other answer.
She tried to invoke the discipline that had been ingrained since childhood to stave off the dreadful emptiness that was within her, but she could not. There was nothing. Nothing besides the loss of Eirianwen.
Outside the cell, she could hear the gladiatrices laughing and chatting and, in that moment, she wanted to die. In death, the hurt would end; in death there would be no knowing. Love was too cruel, too much for anyone to bear if it went awry. She understood that now and the knowledge had changed her. How could life go on without love? There was no point. To honour Athene? To serve Balbus? It was all so utterly meaningless.
Gladiatrix Page 24
