Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

  His reddish eyebrows furrowed as he peered at her. ‘You are all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she snapped, the lie making the response harsher than she intended. ‘I have already told you so.’

  Catuvolcos handed her a tunic. ‘You didn’t do this?’

  Lysandra’s eyes blazed as she prepared to launch into a tirade against the trainer, but she held her tongue. She suddenly realised how the situation must look. ‘No, I did not.’ She forced her temper in. ‘Though I can imagine that it is thought that I did.’

  ‘Balbus assumed so. I spoke in your defence, though,’ he added.

  ‘As well you might. Such a barbarity is beneath me, Catuvolcos.

  I would not stoop to murder in the dark. My bout with the Nubian meant too much to me to end it by assassination…’ she stopped suddenly, her face flushing red.

  ‘Lysandra…’

  ‘That bitch!’ The hissed exclamation was laced with rage and hatred. ‘That conniving, gutless bitch!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Catuvolcos’s voice bounced around the walls of the bathhouse.

  ‘Sorina,’ Lysandra raged, beginning to pace up and down. ‘It all makes sense. She knew how much this bout meant to me. She knew it! Damn that woman. Damn her to Hades!’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It is all so clear! This is why she trained with him, Catuvolcos, do you not see? She did so to gain his trust, so that she might approach him with ease! She has robbed me of my revenge.’ Tears welled up in her eyes. Furious, she wiped them away, her cheeks burning. That she recognised Sorina had played her own mind game against her did not lessen the ploy’s success. How could she have known? ‘I’m going to have this out with her!’ she stormed, making to move past Catuvolcos, but he pushed her back. ‘Get out of my way!’ she demanded. ‘Or I will move you myself.’

  ‘Lysandra!’ He used the trainer’s voice, the voice of instruction and, for a moment, it gave her pause. Years of ingrained obedience did their work. ‘Think about what you are doing. If you go and confront her now, awry and with tears on your face, she will know she has gotten to you! Think, girl!’ He smacked his palm to the side of his head. ‘Will you let her win so easily?’

  ‘But Nastasen was mine, my tool to beat her,’ Lysandra almost wailed.

  ‘And she has taken it from you, as well she might!’ Catuvolcos face reddened. ‘You began the mind games with her and she has proven herself to be too canny for you. She is, by her own mouth, long in the tooth, Lysandra, and you are still a girl — to her,’ he amended quickly. ‘You are the one that speaks of tactics and cleverness in battle, are you not? Do you think it is good strategy to show your enemy that she has gained an advantage? That her ploy has worked?’

  ‘No, but this is different.’ Lysandra sniffed, and wiped her nose.

  ‘It is no different!’ he stormed. ‘No different. Why am I telling you this? You know these things. By confronting her now, you hand her advantage. Show her that her ploy has no effect on you.

  Besides…’ He calmed somewhat. ‘You didn’t need Nastasen to defeat her, Lysandra. You have the beating of her, and she knows it.’

  ‘I am not sure. I thought that if I beat Nastasen, then I could easily defeat her. I am not sure that I can match her, Catuvolcos.

  I have told this only to Varia. Nastasen’s death meant everything to me. Not only for what he did to me… but for what seeing me kill him would do to her. I needed to show her…’ Lysandra trailed off. ‘She is Gladiatrix Prima. I am afraid to lose.’

  Catuvolcos blinked, seemingly shocked by her admission. ‘Look,’ he said heavily. ‘I know that your fight with Nastasen meant a lot to you. For many reasons. But they are gone now. He is dead, and he died hard, Lysandra. Believe me — I saw the body. Sorina may be driven by hatred of you, but she has no love for any violator of women. She cut him up badly — worse than you would have done, in fact. He went to his gods in agony.’

  Lysandra compressed her lips for a moment. ‘He was mine to kill,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Perhaps so. But Sorina has taken that from you to hurt you.

  She is shrewd, and she knew of your need to face him, to prove yourself. She knew that if… when… you beat him, your mind would be sound to face her. So she took your certainty from you. But what does that tell you?’

  ‘It tells me that she has outthought me. This is what I feared.’

  Lysandra sat heavily on a stone bench, resting her forehead in her hands. ‘I am younger and stronger than she; I am the superior fighter. Yet she knows many tricks, many strategies. More than my years have given me.’

  ‘It tells you that?’ Catuvolcos sat beside her and rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘It does not tell me so, Lysandra. It tells me that she is the one who is afraid of you.’ She saw him smile sadly as she looked up. ‘She is driven to this because she knows that when you face each other you will not stop until she is dead. In the arena, there is always a chance, a chance for the missio, a chance that you will come out alive. In this bout, there is no hope of that. One of you will die and she believes it will be her.’

  ‘I am not convinced,’ Lysandra said, but inside there was a stirring of hope.

  ‘I am. Look, Lysa, she was once my friend. But this war between the two of you has driven her mad. She spat on the ground between us, you know. We are ended as kin. I told her she is dead to me and has been so for a long time.’

  ‘She is as unsettled as I?’

  ‘More so. For though you cannot take away her experience and her skill, she has lost her focus on what is real and what is not. She has driven herself mad. Too many years in the arena, too many years as a slave, and,’ he paused looking straight into Lysandra’s eyes, ‘Eirianwen’s death weighs heavy upon her soul.’

  ‘And mine,’ she broke in bitterly. ‘She took her from me, Catuvolcos.’

  ‘Aye, that is true. But in the killing she died too. Put your hatred aside for a moment and you will see it as plainly as I do.

  Clear as daylight. You two are from different worlds, Lysandra.

  What you of the middle sea seek to build is an aberration to Sorina. Order and straight roads, walls of stone — these are not things of the Tribes. To Sorina these things are evil. You, with your Hellenic ways, represent everything that she hates. When Eirianwen gave her heart to you, she turned her face from the Tribe. Sorina loved her fiercely, but to see her with you…’ He stopped suddenly, and Lysandra realised that the memories must be as bitter to him as they were to her. ‘Can you not see that, to her way of thinking, she thrust a blade into the guts of her own daughter, Lysa? Can you not imagine what it did to her?

  To the Tribes, to be a kinslayer is the worst thing. Yet, this she did, for she feared that your love would corrupt Eirianwen, and then spread amongst the rest of us… we barbarians,’ he said, no rancour in his voice. ‘It pushed her over the edge,’ he went on.

  ‘I was too blinded by other things at that time to see it happening, and when I did it was too late. I tell you these things, not because I betray her, but because death will be a release for her. She was Clan Chief, an owner of horses, a great woman. And what is she now? A murderess. A slave, with her hopes broken, her sister-daughter dead by her own hand…’ He trailed off, lapsing into silence for long moments. When he spoke again his voice was quiet and sombre. ‘She is afraid of you, Lysandra. She is afraid to die, but her life is over. Face her in the arena. Give her release.’

  Lysandra let the words wash over her in a gentle tide. She closed her eyes, reflecting upon them. She could not, as Catuvolcos had urged, put aside her hatred for Sorina. Too many things had happened, too many to simply forgive. ‘I must think,’ she said, her voice raw. Abruptly, she got to her feet and strode from the bathhouse, walking towards the arena. It was quiet and still, the only sound the soft hiss of the wind stirring the sand.

  In her mind’s eye, she could see the ravening mob screaming as their favourites fought and died on the self-same
sand beneath her feet. She recalled her first bout, against the Gaulish woman with the straw-coloured hair. Her journey to Balbus’s ludus with Hildreth and the Germans and the warrior woman’s kindness to her in those first days. But Hildreth was dead now — she glanced to the centre of the arena — killed in this very place with her own blade. Here too, Penelope had fallen, her vitals pierced; was it not she and Danae who were with the ribald fisher girl at the last? And Danae herself, gentle, kind Danae, killed by Sorina, killed to spite Lysandra.

  Lysandra squatted down, her black hair hanging about her face.

  And Eirianwen. Beautiful Eirianwen, her love. She felt tears spring hot to her eyes, her throat aching. She looked up, seeing through a blurred veil, Eirianwen, her hand reaching out to her, covered in blood. Lysandra looked down at her own hands, so recently drenched scarlet. The vision caused a lurch in her heart, a heart she tried to turn to stone.

  It could have all been so different. If not for Sorina’s hatred.

  If not for her own selfishness. She could have prevented Eirianwen’s death, by denying herself the warm comfort of her embrace. She, in her need, was as responsible for Eirianwen’s fall as was Sorina who struck the blow. She could have, should have turned away but had been ruled by her heart. All the years in the agoge, all the discipline, all the training. All for naught, for she could not save the one thing she had come to love.

  ‘Weeping for your black man?’ A shadow fell across her, the cracked, hated voice at once recognisable as Sorina’s. ‘I killed him, you know. Killed him as I will kill you.’

  Lysandra wiped the tears from her eyes, and rose slowly. She found it strange that she felt no shame in showing the older woman that she suffered.

  ‘What’s the matter, girl?’ Sorina sneered at her. ‘Has it all gotten too much for you? Your little game has failed, Spartan. And you are more the fool for thinking that you could play it with me.

  I have seen your like before, and will see many more after your passing. You are nothing. I look forward to butchering you as I butchered him.’

  Lysandra shook her head. ‘You think it matters, Sorina? You think it matters to me that you killed him? It did, but no longer.

  He was but a stepping-stone between us. I thought to prove to you that I was the better woman by slaying him in the arena.

  You sought to stop that from happening and have succeeded.

  What now remains between us? Eirianwen is gone. Nastasen is gone. It is just you and I. Here,’ she gestured to the arena all about them, ‘here is where you were made, and I was cast. There is little of the priestess that came to this place two years ago.

  There is nothing of the Clan Chief left in you, old woman. What are we then but two gladiatrices, two who must fight to the death?’

  ‘You are afraid and seek to distract me with soft words,’ Sorina hissed. ‘Nothing will stop me from bathing in your blood, Spartan whore, nothing — for what you have brought me to, I will kill you.’

  ‘I did not bring you to anything, Sorina. We, both of us, brought ourselves. And because of it, Eirianwen is dead. I can never forgive you, though I share some of the guilt. But you struck her down. And for that killing, that alone, you will die by my hand.’

  There was nothing else to say. They stood for a few moments, staring at each other. Lysandra felt empty. For despite all the guilt, all the mistakes, all the losses, she found that there was no understanding in her, no forgiveness. She saw before her a broken woman, twisted and hateful. And in that moment, the desire to strike her down burned hot in her breast.

  She broke the stare and turned away, feeling the wrathful gaze of Sorina searing her spine. It would, she knew, be over soon.

  One way or the other.

  LIII

  ‘An unforeseeable accident?’ Frontinus bristled, his watery eyes boring into Balbus, who shifted from foot to foot under the gaze.

  ‘As I said, sir, I could not have foreseen it.’ The lanista had thought it prudent to bring the news of Nastasen’s demise to Frontinus straight away. There was, he reasoned, little point in delaying matters.

  ‘A most convenient turn of events.’ This from the Spaniard, Trajanus. Balbus thought of those from the Iberian peninsular as little more than barbarians, but this one at least carried himself like a Roman, his Latin faultless. Balbus supposed that he was of Roman parentage. ‘I knew that this woman of yours, this Spartan, would stand no chance against a male warrior,’ Trajanus continued in a pedantic tone. ‘I would suggest that perhaps someone has realised the folly of their idealism and has circumvented any losses they may have had a-betting.’ At this, he cast a sidelong glance towards Frontinus, and Balbus noted the old man’s scowl.

  The lanista cleared his throat. ‘No, my lord, that is not the case, I can assure you. It is my belief that the killing was a personal matter, between slaves.’ He took on just the right look of resigned regret. Better to side with Frontinus who would remain in Halicarnassus long after the Spaniard had departed. ‘The bout between Achillia and Nastasen was not yet public knowledge. If any side bets have occurred, they could only have been between yourselves, as no one else knew the bout was scheduled.’

  Trajanus sniffed disdainfully, his air that of a man who had been fleeced. ‘You’ve apprehended the killer?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no,’ Balbus lied quickly. ‘There were many who had cause to despise Nastasen and, truth be known, no one will speak out. I know that there are methods of extracting information but so many slaves could have done this. Then again, it could have been a guard… an arena employee…’ he trailed off. ‘I simply cannot know who did this.’ He paused, spreading his hands. ‘I am sorry if this sordid affair has disrupted any honourable wager between you. I assure you that nothing underhand has gone on and you may of course investigate the murder if you wish.’ He kept his face neutral, hoping that his bluff would not be called. To offer them the chance to look into the matter would, he hoped, dissuade them. He felt his sphincter twitch as Trajanus made to speak, but Frontinus opened his mouth first.

  ‘No need for that, good Balbus,’ he said. ‘I know well that you are an honourable man. I realise that your offer is made in good spirit, but I feel that it is rather beneath men of our rank to go scrabbling for details in the death of mere slaves.’

  Balbus could have kissed him for that. Even if Trajanus now wished to delve he could not, without revealing himself as the lesser, pettier man. ‘Of course, sir. Foolish of me to offer but, as you say, it was in good faith. Despite all our precautions these things do happen, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes, quite.’ Frontinus waved a dismissive hand. With much bowing, Balbus retreated, thoroughly relieved. Again, he could not help but think that this game was getting too much for him.

  A younger man may well have enjoyed the trials, the risks, the highs and the lows. But for him there was merely the sense of relief, mingled with an almost overwhelming tiredness.

  The games wore on, their passing lost to Lysandra. The Carian countryside blurred as she ran, her mind fixed only on putting one foot in front of the other. Fitness, stamina, strength, discipline and skill; these were her watchwords. Each day came and went, obscure in their similarity. Mile upon mile passed beneath her feet, countless cuts and thrusts with the rudis as she sparred.

  She felt herself growing stronger, her muscles tightening under the punishing regimen. There were no longer women good enough to face her, so she was forced to bribe the male gladiators with her savings in order to train.

  For Lysandra, there was nothing but pain, sweat and toil.

  And Sorina.

  ‘Come on, Sorina, pull!’ Teuta urged as the Amazon hauled herself up on the chin bar, the tanned arms bulging. ‘Legs!’ she shouted, and was well pleased as Sorina lifted her legs with seeming effortlessness. ‘Thirty leg-raises! Go!’

  Silently, the Gladiatrix Prima complied.

  Lysandra’s wooden swords blurred as she attacked the wiry Ethiopian. The man was fast, moving quickly to evad
e her blows and counter with those of his own. But even as they moved, his features shifted, becoming those of Sorina’s. With a scream, Lysandra weaved in, her swords a spider’s web of violence. She did not even see which of her blows had struck him, knocking him senseless.

  Sorina also found that no woman could match her in training.

  Circling her adversary, her face was fierce and feral, her movements fluid and, if the swords were real, deadly. Her lithe opponent was good.

  But not good enough. Deftly, she stepped inside the man’s guard and scissored her swords at his throat.

  ‘Get me another one,’ she snapped at the watching Teuta.

  ‘Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight…’ Thebe counted out the repetitions as Lysandra performed her push-ups. Alongside them, the little slave, Varia, gamely attempted to keep up. ‘Ninety-nine, one hundred! Good, Lysandra, good.’

  Her body drenched in sweat, arms trembling, Lysandra gritted her teeth. ‘Fifty more,’ she hissed.

  The sandbag shook and bled grit as Sorina pummelled it, her fists smacking into the canvas sacking with hot venom. Each blow sent a juddering satisfaction thorough her body, as she pictured the coldly beautiful face of the Spartan pulping under her fists.

  The men watching guffawed with glee as the big German gladiator crashed to the ground, spitting blood. Lysandra stood over him, her shoulders heaving with exertion. Furious, the German surged to his feet, swinging angry blows at the agile Spartan.

  Where she could not evade, Lysandra parried. Where she could not parry she struck back.

  Her foot lashed out, catching the warrior straight between the legs. Clutching himself, the man collapsed to his knees, then on to his side as his compatriots jeered.

  Lysandra glanced at them and allowed herself a rare smile.

  The months passed, each day as before, both women honing themselves to their peak. In her youth, Sorina had felt herself strong; but with Lysandra to drive her on, her body reached levels she did not think herself capable of. For her part, Lysandra, even with all the training of the agoge, knew that she too was at her best. Never before had she been as skilled.