The last night was upon them. It had come abruptly, a sudden end to all the preparations that had dominated their lives for so long.
Lysandra put down her swords and watched Sorina as she laid a last, huge blow into the suspended sandbag. Across the training area their eyes met. In that moment, time seemed to stop. For they knew that come the following eve, one of them would lie dead. It was a comfort to both of them.
LIV
‘Are you sure?’ Thebe eyed Lysandra critically. ‘It’s so beautiful, though.’
‘I am sure.’ The two women, accompanied by Varia, were in Lysandra’s cell. Above them, they could hear the rhythmic thrum of the crowd, the muted howls of the mob.
‘It’s never bothered you before.’
‘This is different,’ Lysandra snapped.
Thebe shrugged. ‘Very well then.’ She took hold of Lysandra’s hair, and with bronze scissors, cut a huge hank of it away. The raven tress fell to the floor, where it was gathered by Varia. ‘I’ll make it short,’ she said. ‘But you aren’t going out there bald, Lysandra.’
‘Short is good enough,’ the Spartan muttered. ‘Just get on with it.’
‘You are ready for this, Sorina.’ Teuta gently massaged the muscles on the Amazon’s shoulders, keeping them loose. ‘All your life, you have been a warrior, from swaddling to saddle, to this place here. You have always been the best, Clan Chief. That you hate your enemy honours the gods; that your enemy is Lysandra is nothing. She is just another body, another victim to your blade.
You will strike her down.’
‘I am sure of it,’ Sorina murmured.
Trajanus applauded politely as a Carian gladiatrix dispatched her foe on command. He turned to Frontinus. ‘I must say, Governor, that I am impressed. These games have been a delightful elucidation. It is my opinion, that, whilst these women that you so espouse are a titillating addition, they lack the strength and skill of proper gladiators.’
Frontinus shrugged, and his response was somewhat lofty. ‘The mob seems to enjoy both equally.’ He gestured to the sea of faces about them. ‘Do you not think?’
Trajanus nodded disdainfully. ‘I cannot help but agree. But it must be said that these performing women you have here are indeed superior to anything we have in Rome.’ The time for hedging and veiled competition was over. ‘I think the Emperor will be well pleased with next year’s spectacle if it comes anywhere close to this one. I shall tell him this is so,’ he said with finality.
Frontinus winked. ‘You’ve yet to see our best,’ he said. ‘But I thank you.’
Trajanus motioned for Diocles to pour for them. ‘Think nothing of it, my friend,’ he said. With that, he turned his eyes back to the sands.
Lysandra was alone. She had Thebe oil her, and sent both her and Varia away. Before long, she would be under the eyes of the multitudes, but for now she needed solitude. She glanced at the small statuette of Athene above her bunk. The unmoving ivory features seemed to be fixed in an enigmatic half-smile.
‘Be with me tonight,’ she whispered.
She ran a hand ruefully through her shorn hair. In Hellas it was the mark of mourning and she realised that, if she was victorious, she would mourn. For if Sorina fell, there would be no cause for which to fight. She would have proven, beyond all doubt that she was superior. That she was Spartan. That she was the best.
But thereafter? There would always be others like her, she realised. Always another who wished to prove that she could beat the best. In the end, she knew that when Sorina fell, she herself would become her.
Gladiatrix Prima. The one to defeat.
To be in this place was her destiny, as Telemachus had said.
Thinking of the Athenian priest made her smile. She wondered briefly if he was out there, amidst the ravening mob, come to watch her in this greatest of trials. Somehow, she knew that he was.
Sorina regarded herself in the bronze mirror. There was no mark of age upon her. Clad only in the subligaculum, she saw her breasts were prouder and firmer than they had been in years. Muscles stood out on her stomach, chiselled as if she were a Roman statue.
She too was alone with her thoughts. She felt the weight that had burdened her since Eirianwen’s death lift. The curse of the Morrigan, that the beautiful Druid’s daughter predicted so long ago, had passed. Looking back, she realised that she had indeed become maddened with hatred. Obsessed with it. It had set her apart, branded her indelibly. But now she felt that the madness had gone.
Only the hate remained. She would allow it to burn within her this one last day. Till Lysandra had fallen. Then she would let go of it and have her peace. This, she knew, would be her last battle, even if she had to maim herself to escape the arena. Balbus would have no say in it. Choice, at last, would be hers.
‘It’s time.’
She glanced up, to see the blocky form of Titus in her doorway.
‘Centurion!’ A smile sprang to her lips, unbidden. ‘I thought you were at the ludus.’
‘I was,’ he said. ‘But I could not miss this, Sorina. Much has been said and done these past months. I came to wish you luck.
Both of you,’ he added. ‘The best will win, and that is all you should want and hope for.’
‘Then I shall win.’ She got to her feet. ‘Let us go.’
Lysandra moved towards the light. Around her, the bustle in the passageways ceased as she passed by. Her friends were there, as were Balbus, Stick and Catuvolcos. The Gaul, she noted, had brought Doris with him. By them stood Telemachus, come to see her as she knew he would. She wondered why they had all come to her side of the arena, when she felt movement close by her.
Titus emerged from the gloom, flanked by Sorina. Like herself, the Dacian was nude save for the loincloth, her body oiled and gleaming in the torch light. She tensed, but the older woman made no aggressive move, her eyes blank and focused.
Titus steered Sorina to Lysandra’s side, and pointed her in the direction of the Gate of Life. ‘This,’ he said, placing his hands their shoulders, ‘is as it should be. Luck to you both.’ He shoved gently, and both women moved forward, their feet in step.
The tunnel vibrated with the roar of the crowd, so familiar to them both, yet this time so different. As one they moved towards the light, the vestiges of Lysandra and Sorina falling away from them. The gate cranked open, bathing them in the cacophony of an expectant mob. The beast ranged around them, ravenous for the feast that was to come.
As they stepped in to the light, the mob howled with lust at the sight of them. Lysandra and Sorina remained within — it was just Amazona and Achillia now.
LV
Lysandra had never heard them so loud. The sound was deafening, washing over the sands like Poseidon’s tempest, shaking the teeth in her skull. A herinarri rushed up and placed the two swords in her hands. Across from her, another did the same for Sorina. The two women raised their weapons and the crowd screamed in a vicious frenzy.
Lysandra spun her swords twice, and stretched her neck from side to side before dropping into her fighting stance, the left blade held out at an angle, the right drawn back to guard her body.
Sorina responded in kind, her lead sword held out, the right held at an angle above her head.
The noise of the crowd faded, till Lysandra was aware only of the sound of her breath, the beating of her heart, and even the soft hiss of the wind upon the sands. She clenched her toes, feeling the grains bunch beneath them, and breathed out sharply through her nose. This done, she stepped forward towards her enemy.
Sorina did not circle, nor did she step back. Her step matched Lysandra’s; as they came into range of each other’s weapons, they paused, their eyes meeting over the dully gleaming iron. For a heartbeat they stared thus.
With a cry, Lysandra attacked.
Her blades flashed out, screaming towards Sorina, but the older woman blocked and countered, her iron seeking Lysandra’s flesh; Lysandra intercepted, and the duel continued, swords shining in the torchlight.
There was no respite, the combat unceasing. Strike after strike was met and countered, each woman striving to outmatch the other. Sweat broke out over Lysandra’s body, mingling with the oil as she lashed out at Sorina. But the older woman moved impossibly fast, her swords always answering her own. Sorina pushed back, wrenching initiative from Lysandra, her blades swirling in an iron tide of fury.
Sorina spun about and Lysandra struck forward, but she had not counted on the Amazon’s ruse; the spin was not to cut, but to kick and Sorina’s trailing leg smashed into Lysandra’s side knocking her off balance. The crowd screamed a mixture of delight and dismay as she stumbled. Like a tigress, Sorina raked in, her blades slicing down. Lysandra was forced to roll away, coating her sweat slick body in sand.
Sorina growled triumphantly and pressed on. Furious, Lysandra rushed in to meet her and the song of iron on iron rang loud as the two women cut at each other. Locked in combat they circled, blows landing closer and closer to their mark. Lysandra stepped in, crowding her opponent. Thinking quickly, she collapsed her guard, striking out with her elbow, catching Sorina with a glancing blow.
It was enough and as the Amazon blinked in shock, Lysandra’s blade slashed across her chest, opening a bloody wound beneath her breasts.
She felt a hot surge of elation at the sight of Sorina’s blood and cut across again, this time slicing her across the stomach.
Sorina staggered back, a look of stunned pain etched on her features. She had her! Lysandra moved in to finish the tottering Amazon, raising her blades to end, once and for all, the enmity between them.
It was then that Sorina struck. Even as Lysandra moved, she realised that the canny Dacian’s plight was a ruse, but was powerless to stop the sword that sought her. It was all she could do to twist frantically away, letting the blade that would have gutted her carve a bloody seam in her ribs. She felt the stinging pain as cut met sweat, followed by the searing burn as the true extent of the injury was registered in her mind.
There is no pain, she told herself. Discipline is stronger than pain.
The two women eyed each other, shoulders lifting in exertion.
At an unspoken agreement, they stepped together once again, their blood running freely. The staccato song of metal against metal rang loud in their ears, accompanied by their grunts of effort and the now distant cadence of the mob. In this blur of aggression, hits were struck, minor yet strength-sapping cuts that threatened to exhaust them both. Scored in blood and filthy sand, they strove on, their hatred for each other and their will to win pushing them beyond all limits of endurance.
Sorina’s blades spun in dual attack and, though Lysandra deflected one of them, she hissed in pain as the second bit into her left shoulder, spraying blood across her face, into her hair.
Gritting her teeth savagely, Sorina tried to saw her weapon into the bone, her chestnut-coloured eyes burning with fury. Sick with agony, Lysandra felt her knees giving way. She dropped the sword on her injured side and grasped Sorina, throwing her weight into her.
They crashed to the sands, rolling on top of each other.
Somewhere in the tangle their swords were knocked from their hands, skittering away as each sought to hold her opponent and deny her the advantage. Bereft of weaponry, they rained blows upon each other, smashing the flesh of their hated enemy. Surging, Lysandra heaved the older woman away and they both rose to their feet, each taking up the unarmed stance. Lysandra saw spots in front of her eyes as exhaustion did its insidious work upon her; but in her heart, she knew that Sorina was as tired as she.
If she could not cut her down, she would beat her to death with her fists.
But it was Sorina who struck first, a long, looping overhand blow that crashed into Lysandra’s cheekbone with the force of a hammer, splitting her skin. Furious, she hit back, slamming her palm into the old warrior’s nose. Sorina gagged as bone and cartilage shattered under the force, cloying red fluid exploding across her face. Fists raised, Lysandra drove in but, in her haste, she did not see Sorina’s striking foot. The blow caught her in the lower stomach, and she doubled over in time for her head to meet the hard bone of the Amazon’s knee.
Light exploded before her eyes as the strike slammed into her forehead. Her vision tilted upwards, the lean image of Sorina, then the blur of the crowd, and finally the night blue of the sky as she crashed onto her back. Almost vomiting from pain, she saw the blurred form of Sorina rushing to finish her but, with a last desperate effort, she raised her own leg, catching her foe in the pit of the stomach. Grasping Sorina’s shoulders, she heaved, and the older woman’s rush continued on, propelled over Lysandra by this wrestler’s move.
Sorina skidded across the sand, leaving a bloody mire in her wake as Lysandra rolled, trying to rise. She found that her left side was blind, her eye swollen shut by the Dacian’s earlier blow.
Heaving, she scrambled to her feet but her knees gave in and she fell forward, exhaustion seeping through her. She screamed at herself to get up, but her body would not obey.
Sorina had rolled onto her front, arms straining to lift her face from the sand. With titanic effort she struggled to a kneeling position, her body trembling from fatigue. Lysandra saw that the Dacian’s legs could not carry her; gritting her teeth, she crawled towards her.
It was bestial; on hands and knees, they struggled to meet each other, colliding like pillars of a falling temple. Skill was lost to them now. Lysandra hit out, snapping Sorina’s head back, who responded in kind. Blow was traded for blow, will alone keeping them conscious. Leaning against each other, their hands found each other’s throats. As their eyes met, slowly, inexorably, they both began to apply pressure, each seeking to see the spark of life die in the other’s eyes before she too gave in to death.
Trajanus was on his feet, screaming his encouragement to the fighters. It was most un-Roman, but he could not help himself.
He was awed by their skill, their courage. When their weapons were lost to them, he thought the bout over but, to his astonishment, these women sought to batter each other to death. He had never seen the like. He had witnessed many gladiatorial contests, but never had he seen such vehemence, such will to win.
As they crawled to each other, he was already moving. Grasping the oaken box from by his seat, he rushed from the place of honour towards the sands.
Lysandra could see Sorina’s eyes glazing, even as her own brain screamed for lack of oxygen. Her own strength was almost gone, but just a few more moments, and the Amazon would die.
Eirianwen would be avenged.
Strong hands grasped her shoulders, dragging her away even as Sorina was pulled from her grasp. Howling and clawing with the last of their energies, the women sought to free themselves from the hands that held them, but to no avail.
‘No!’ Lysandra screamed. ‘No!’
Trajanus stepped between the two battered women, held firmly by the harenarii. The crowd had lapsed into silence at this unprecedented act.
‘Raise them up,’ he said quietly to the arena attendants. Then, he raised his voice, the solid timbre echoing throughout the arena:
‘People of Halicarnassus! I am Marcus Ulpinus Trajanus, Senator of Rome, advisor and friend to the Divine Emperor. Hear me well. Much is spoken of the great Flavian Amphitheatre and the spectacles staged there. I have been there. I have seen them with my own two eyes. But I tell you all, before the gods, never before have I witnessed such a display. Never before have I been so honoured to see a battle such as this. You have shared this honour with me.’ He paused, and regarded the exhausted combatants.
‘These two… women… have provided such a fight that will echo throughout the ages.’ He opened the oaken box and drew forth two palm leaves, forged of solid gold. ‘To the victrix goes the palm leaf,’ he shouted, pressing the metal to their numbed fingers. ‘They have done enough,’ he continued. ‘As they have honoured us, so it is in my power to honour them. I, Marcus Ulpinus Trajanus, Senator of Rome, do grant Amazona and A
chillia their freedom. May they take a wooden sword from this place, never to fight again if they so choose it.’
The mob screamed its assent and then began chanting the Senator’s name. Leaning close to the battered warriors, Trajanus shook his head. ‘I have never seen anything like it,’ he whispered.
‘May the gods go with you both.’
The gladiatrices were lead away.
But this time, it was to their own Gates.
LVI
They had all come to see her as she lay on the surgeon’s palate: Catuvolcos and Doris, Thebe, Stick and Titus, Telemachus and, of course, the adoring Varia.
Lysandra mumbled her thanks, aware only of her own pain and the bitter taste of failure. Despite it all, all the training, all the preparation, all the desire, she had failed. Sorina lived.
The gift of Trajanus was a hollow one; for though she was now nominally free, she knew that in her heart she could never be so. Not whilst Sorina lived. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes when her visitors had left. In the silent darkness of the surgery, she wept. Wept for her failure.
‘Lysandra.’
It was Balbus. He hovered by the door for a few moments before sitting by her side.
‘Lucius Balbus,’ she acknowledged.
‘What you did today…’ He trailed off, looking at his hands, thumb working over thumb. ‘What you and Sorina did has never been seen before. Not here. Not in Rome. Did you know that they are going to make a frieze of your fight? Amazona and Achillia, immortalised forever in stone. What a thing.’ He shook his head. ‘This has never been done for women before,’ he added, ‘nor do I think it will happen again. You two are the best that there will ever be.’
Lysandra tried to compress her lips but the pain merely caused her to grimace. ‘I failed. I was not good enough to kill her.’
Gladiatrix Page 39
