Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

  There had been a time, before the ludus, when everything had been so clear. Then, she had been made slave, but her Spartan superiority had allowed her to triumph and serve her goddess in even the most trying of circumstances. To meet Eirianwen in such a place had assured her that it must have been in Athene’s plan. She had been happy: for the first time in her life, she had known the joy of true companionship.

  And now it had been stripped cruelly away. It was not the Spartan credo to lament one’s losses. Lysandra could hear her own voice mocking her, admonishing Danae that one should not weep for fallen comrades. Only now did she understand what it was to care.

  She lifted her arm, examining the chain that secured her to the wall. It would be so easy to wrap it around her neck and let it squeeze till the pain went away. Let Hecate, goddess of suicides, embrace her and bear her to the kingdom of Hades. Far better that than facing life alone.

  She thrust the chain away, bitter frustration welling up within her. That she chose to die was testament that she must live on.

  The Spartan way demanded such sacrifice.

  XXXI

  This, Balbus, decided, was the life.

  Certainly, he himself lived in the manner of a cultured and wealthy man, but the opulence of Frontinus’s house was exquisite; all was perfection. And that he, Lucius Balbus, sat at the governor’s table was evidence of the New Man Made Good. In the modern world, hard work and diligence could bring a man to great heights.

  Fat Aeschylus was there as well, basking in the success of the games that his money had paid for. Well, more power to him, Balbus thought. Should his campaign for election to aedile be successful, the Greek would not forget that it was Balbus who made his show a success. He raised his cup to the corpulent demagogue who responded in kind.

  ‘Your troupe has gained renown, Lucius Balbus.’ Aeschylus smiled at the lanista. ‘A most impressive show. You have brought the women’s game to new heights.’

  Balbus nodded gracefully at the compliment and returned with one of his own. ‘There would have been no stage for my gladiatrices had you not provided the arena, good Aeschylus.’

  ‘So what now for you, lanista?’ the Greek asked.

  Balbus shrugged. ‘The loss of Britannica is costly. She was a great favourite with the crowd. But my new girl, Achillia, is proving to be most popular.’

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ Frontinus broke in enthusiastically. ‘An excellent fighter and she is delightful company.’

  Balbus smiled in acquiescence. Evidently, Lysandra had made an impression on the governor. ‘I hope to build on her popularity in the future. She is a rare find and I think she can surpass Sorina and Eirianwen in the esteem of the people. For one thing, she is not a barbarian.’ This small comment produced a polite scattering of laughter from the notables.

  ‘I agree.’ Frontinus set his drink down. ‘But I think that a better vehicle can be found for Achillia than the norm. Whist the one-to-one battles are entertaining, the mob is ever fickle. I think we — and I include the noble Aeschylus — can come up with a spectacle that they shall marvel at even in Rome. Thus, I have a proposition for you, Balbus.’

  ‘Oh?’ Balbus suddenly felt as though he were a mouse under the gaze of two hungry cobras. The problem with being entertained by the height of society, he thought to himself, meant that they could make demands that it would be impolitic to refuse.

  ‘Thanks to your ludus,’ Frontinus said, ‘the women’s game has enjoyed a surge in popularity. Your fighters have elevated these combats from mere sideshow to something worth getting excited about. But as I have said, the mob is capricious. It is my intention, therefore, to provide an event as yet unheard of.’ He paused, the natural politician, allowing anticipation to build. ‘A gregatim composed solely of women.’

  Balbus was relieved. The gregatim, the combats involving teams of gladiators, were little different to the single combats, save for the mortality rate. However, with his recent windfall, this was something he could wear. ‘In that, noble governor, I can facili-tate you,’ he glanced surreptitiously at Aeschylus, ‘with no need for other contractors.’ Truth be told, Balbus was still stung by the Greek’s idea to use schools other than his own for the last spectacle. ‘I do have over a hundred women, after all.’

  Frontinus flicked a glance towards Aeschylus before continuing. ‘I am talking on a grand scale, Balbus. A true battle, on such a scale that people will talk of it in the same breath as they speak of the naumachia of the Divine Claudius.’

  Balbus nearly choked on his wine. ‘But governor! Claudius’s naval battle had over nineteen thousand convicts…’ he trailed off, aware that governor and soon to be aedile were serious. He cleared his throat. ‘Exactly what sort of numbers are we talking, Excellency?’

  Frontinus gave a dismissive wave. ‘Not that many, of course.

  But let me first tell you what I have in mind. Domitian will be visiting the province the year after next. This visit coincides with the fifth anniversary of his ascension to the purple… and his birthday. I have it on good authority that our Emperor too enjoys watching female combatants and I can see no better way of thanking him for the honour of his presence than by staging this grandest of events for his entertainment.’ Frontinus leant forwards, evidently enthused. ‘Your Achillia gave me this idea.

  You know the girl is well versed in military tactics, due to her youth in the Spartan agoge.’

  Balbus nodded, silently thanking the priest Telemachus for enlightening him all those months ago.

  ‘She is perfect to lead an army of female warriors, Balbus. My plan is to recreate the mythical battle between the Athenians and the Amazons. On the one side, Achillia with her Greeks, the other, a barbarian horde! Think of it, Balbus. We could take the games out of the arena, and make an arena of the landscape instead — just as old Claudius did.’

  The idea had merit, Balbus conceded to himself, and it was not unprecedented. But the cost of such a venture was too prohibitive to be practical. He said as much to the governor.

  Frontinus was not to be dissuaded, however.

  ‘Money is not an object to art,’ he said. ‘We, Aeschylus and I, can aid you in the purchasing and upkeep of the slaves. It will be up to you to ensure they are trained and ready to fight when the Emperor comes. It will make you the owner of the largest troupe in the Empire. At least for a time.’

  Of course, Balbus thought. At the end of the slaughter, there would be few left alive. Leaving Balbus with a much expanded but empty ludus. ‘I am honoured you think me capable of this task. If I may be so bold, I can see two problems. Firstly, Achillia must continue to fight. Her reputation must be such that the people will want to see her head such an army. In this there is risk — she may, after all, be killed. Secondly, and I dislike admitting it, but it is true: no one ludus could support so many slaves.

  Indeed, if we were to place two rival ‘armies’ in close proximity, the likelihood is that the war would begin not of our volition.

  And then we would have a problem.’

  Frontinus nodded. ‘If Achillia is killed, we shall continue regardless — the crowd loves blood. But you could be right on your second point. What would you suggest?’

  Balbus gritted his teeth. ‘I would suggest splitting the contract, Excellency. Another ludus could handle your ‘Amazons’, whilst I set about finding and training your Greeks.’ It hurt to kiss half the deal away, but the overheads after the event could ruin him.

  ‘What sort of numbers are we talking, governor?’

  Frontinus’s smile was wolfish. ‘Five thousand. On each side.’

  Balbus forced himself not to baulk. ‘I can promise nothing at this stage, my Lord,’ he said. ‘I shall endeavour to find such a number, but the cost will be massive. And it is a matter of time, also. We have but two years to arrange such a thing — not long when we consider all that must be done. Also, I will not disgrace you, myself, or the Emperor by providing less than adequate stock for this spectacle.’ He was a profe
ssional and he had standards. It would not do to send half-dead criminals from the mines — the cheapest source of flesh on the market — onto the sands of the arena; he had a reputation to uphold. ‘Finding the right calibre of gladiatrix will not be quick, or easy. But I shall do my best.’

  ‘I have every faith in you, good Balbus.’ Though the governor smiled, the lanista realised that failure in this undertaking would not be acceptable.

  Stick, Catuvolcos noted, was well past mellow as the evening wore on. Glancing ruefully at his beer, he realised that he was not far behind him. They staggered past the tables that had been arrayed for the surviving fighters, stopping to spread a few words here and there. Nastasen had declined to join them. The Nubian had met up with his coterie from the other ludi and they sat apart, filling their lungs with smoke from their cones of hemp.

  Stick paused at the Greek women’s table. ‘Well done, you fierce bitches.’ Despite the absence of Lysandra, they seemed to be in good spirits. He sat on the edge of the table and swilled his beer.

  ‘I have to be honest,’ he told them. ‘I didn’t think you sluts had it in you. But, you’ve made it through your first games — no small thanks to me.’

  ‘We’re so grateful, Stick,’ Thebe said, the drunken grin on her face somewhat belying her mockery. ‘What would we do without you?’

  ‘You’d be dead,’ Stick exclaimed. ‘But you live! You are true warriors now.’

  The women were silent at that. Stick was not given to making compliments, and to have gained his respect, however perverse it might be, meant something.

  ‘How did you come to be here,’ Thebe ventured after a moment.

  ‘In Asia Minor?’ Stick belched mightily. ‘I was a soldier in the Parthian army. I trekked across the whole stinking Empire — wore out more boots than I can count. We marched all the way to Armenia, which you uneducated trollops will not know is the buffer between the Empire of the Romans and the Empire of Parthia. Well, I’d had enough of soldiering, taking the shit that the clueless officers dealt out to more capable men such as myself.

  So I skipped across the border, looking to make a new life, and…’ he trailed off, his ugly face twisting in a self-mocking grin. ‘I was captured as a Parthian spy and sold into slavery. I call that shit luck.’

  The women fell about laughing at Stick’s story. It was truly unfortunate, but the Parthian bore it with such a sense of irony, it could not fail to be humorous.

  ‘Don’t think because we’re talking now that I’ll go easy on you when we get back to the ludus,’ Stick admonished, sliding onto the bench. ‘But you’re veterans now and you won’t get the same treatment as the new girls. You’ve earned that much, at least.’

  Catuvolcos also sat, enjoying the easy banter. As they poured more drinks for themselves he decided that he would visit Lysandra shortly.

  After a cup or two.

  Lysandra squinted at the torchlight, gritting her teeth against the high-pitched scream of the opening cell door. She found that she did not care if they had come to release her or not.

  ‘Well, well, well.’

  She stiffened at the sound of Nastasen’s voice. The trainer entered the cell, flanked by three other men who were unfamiliar to her. The Nubian placed his torch in a holder on the wall as his men regarded her. The light from the naked flame shone weirdly on Nastasen’s ebon skin, and, despite herself, Lysandra felt a twinge of fear in her gut. She swallowed. ‘Have you come to release me?’

  ‘Have we come to release you?’ Nastasen mimicked, his voice a high falsetto. He kicked the door shut with his heel and his compatriots laughed.

  Lysandra got to her feet and met his gaze levelly. ‘If you have no purpose here, then leave me, Nastasen,’ she said with a sternness she did not feel.

  The trainer came close to her and she saw that his eyes were shining with a strange madness, the pupils impossibly large. His fist lashed out, crashing straight into the side of her head.

  Though she tried to raise an arm to block the blow, the chains she wore restrained her and the full power of the punch smashed her to the ground. The men were suddenly around her, kicking her savagely and repeatedly. She curled into a foetal position, trying to protect herself, but the blows were too many and too fast.

  Dazed, blood pouring from her head, she was dragged to her feet. Lysandra opened her mouth to scream for help but Nastasen punched her hard in the stomach, knocking the wind from her.

  His rough hand gripped her tunic and tore it over her head and his friends laughed at her nakedness. Fear gave her strength and her foot lashed out, catching him in the midriff. Nastasen staggered back as one of his compatriots locked his arm around her neck, choking her.

  ‘Turn her over.’ Nastasen’s voice was thick with lust and fury.

  Lysandra struggled, but the strength of the men was too great.

  Annoyed at her actions, one of them cracked her head into the stone wall and stars swam sickeningly before her eyes. She felt fingers pulling at the flesh of her buttocks and between her legs, invading her cruelly. She screamed then, and the men laughed.

  ‘Better shut her up,’ one said.

  ‘Use this.’

  There was a moment of shuffling, then one of the men pinched her nose; after some time, forced to gasp for air, she opened her mouth, and the man shoved a cloth into it. It tasted foul with sweat.

  ‘Look at that,’ Nastasen crooned, spreading her buttocks wide.

  ‘All nice and pink. And tight. Really tight.’

  She felt him position himself behind her, steadying himself.

  Then came a wave of agony as he rammed himself into her. She screamed into the cloth, the cords of her neck standing out.

  ‘How do you like that, you fucking bitch?’ Nastasen bore her to the filthy floor, thrusting with all his weight. ‘You’ve been asking for it,’ he grunted, taking pleasure from her pain. ‘You deserve it!’

  Tears came to her eyes, hot and salty, as he continued and she screamed again, shaking her head, begging for the ordeal to be over.

  ‘You deserve it!’ Nastasen gasped again. ‘You…’ He trailed off, lost in his pleasure.

  Lysandra felt him quicken his pace, his breathing becoming ragged before he collapsed on top of her, sated for now. Moments later, he pulled himself out, and climbed to his feet. She began to shake and he aimed a kick into her ribs. ‘She loved it!’ he chuckled. ‘Who’s next?’

  ‘I’m next,’ the one who had choked her said. ‘But turn her round and lift her head up. I want her to see my face while I fuck her.’

  Lysandra closed her eyes as she felt the next force his way into her flesh. She was lost in a sea of torment, her most intimate parts open for the abuse and pleasure of the Nubian and his gang. All manner of depravities were visited on her, acts that were designed to humiliate as well as cause pain, and all the while they mocked. When the three had at last spent their first issue they resumed beating her, letting their ardour rise again at the sight of her suffering.

  Then it began again.

  XXXII

  ‘Wake up, Gaul!’ Catuvolcos looked about blearily.

  Hildreth, was pulling him off the table where he had slumped. ‘You can’t pass out!’ Hildreth herself was flushed red from excess, her breath reeking of beer and garlic.

  Catuvolcos recoiled, and was sick down himself.

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ Hildreth observed.

  ‘Lysandra,’ Catuvolcos mumbled.

  ‘She’s locked up, idiot.’

  ‘No, we must let her out,’ Catuvolcos announced with all the conviction of the truly inebriated. ‘It is not fair that we should enjoy ourselves whilst she is in chains.’ He got to his feet, and overbalanced, falling onto his rear. He looked up, and began to laugh.

  Hildreth shook her head, offering him a hand up. ‘Come on, I will help you then. You won’t get there on your own, I think.’

  Supporting each other, the two weaved towards the catacombs, sniggering.

  ‘S
hussh…’ Catuvolcos put a finger to his lips as they walked through the tunnels, their mirth echoing off the walls. Trying to cease their hilarity only made it worse and the two leant against the wall, shoulders shuddering with repressed mirth.

  ‘No, stop.’ Hildreth waved her hands, tears running down her face. ‘It hurts.’ She slid down the wall, clutching her stomach.

  ‘Help!’

  Catuvolcos doubled up at her antics. For a time the two were incapable of even moving, both close to hysterics. ‘The thing is,’ he gasped, ‘I don’t know what we are laughing at.’

  ‘Your face,’ Hildreth exclaimed. ‘Shussh,’ she imitated him. ‘Was so funny.’ She rolled to her knees, and climbed up, using the wall to support herself. The two staggered on, and made their way to Lysandra’s cell. Grinning, Catuvolcos opened the door.

  Lysandra lay naked on the ground, her body illuminated by the light of a dying torch. From head to foot, she was a mass of bruises and lacerations, blood oozing from a cut on her head.

  ‘Gods!’ Catuvolcos rushed to her side, knelt by her.

  ‘Is she alive?’ Hildreth was stunned by the sight.

  He placed a hand to Lysandra’s neck. ‘Yes. But barely. Get help.’

  He fumbled with the locks on the Spartan’s chains now cursing his drunkenness. He looked around, to see Hildreth still standing in the doorway, her expression horrified. ‘Go!’ he roared, but Hildreth was pointing at an area of the floor. Where Catuvolcos had moved Lysandra, the true extent of her injuries was apparent.

  The floor beneath her lower body was stained with her blood.

  ‘Don’t tell me this!’ Balbus put his face into his hands. Sunlight fell across his face and made him wince. The hour was early and he had over-indulged in the governor’s hospitality. Stick and Catuvolcos looked like two corpses standing before himself and Titus. ‘Who did it?’ The lanista resisted the urge to curse.

  ‘We don’t know.’ Stick shrugged. ‘It could have been anyone.