Sword of the Gladiatrix

by Faith L Justice

  “Rome expands like a desert storm, gobbling up all the lands on their borders. They fill our northern horizon and menace us with destruction.” The queen leaned back into her cushions, frowning. “If they see any benefit to adding our land to theirs, they will crush us.”

  “Can we not defend ourselves? Frighten them with a show of strength? The Romans in the garrisons on the border are few. I heard of rebellion on their other frontiers.”

  “Kashta and others would like to think so, but…” The queen shook her head and sipped her wine. “What the Romans want, the Romans get—eventually. Even your namesake struck only a temporary blow. She destroyed a garrison and took the bronze head of Augustus as a trophy, but the Romans returned in force and destroyed her capital Napata. We must offer neither defiance nor thought of treasure.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments until the queen lifted her head and said with a bitter smile, “We must convince them Kush has nothing that cannot be gotten easier elsewhere.”

  Afra saw the sense in the queen’s instincts. She had seen the discipline of the soldiers on the border and listened carefully to the stories of conquest they boasted of. It rankled her soul to offer no resistance, but she trusted the queen understood the extent of the Roman threat. Afra was a hunter. She recognized the predator in the Roman attitude, but had no way to gauge the larger danger to her country. That task lay with the Qore and Kandake, who had other spies among the Romans and traders.

  “The Romans wish to continue south. You are right. They seek the source of our riches under the guise of this quest to find the source of our Mother River.” The queen handed Afra a leather bag filled with clinking coins. “You know the lands to the south best. Take the Romans through the most desolate wastes to the Great Swamp. Your task is not only to guide the men, but also guide their thoughts away from conquest. This is a subtle task. Do you think you can do it?”

  “I will do my utmost.”

  “That is all I ask.” The queen smiled. “I will plant one or two others in the expedition with the same message. If you succeed, there will be a greater reward.”

  “Thank you, Kandake.” Afra bowed deeply.

  On her way out of the palace she hefted the bag of coins. Yes, she would soon have enough to pay back her step-sister’s bride price and take her away from Piye. Asata, my gentle love…sister with the voice of a song bird. She winced at the memory of the last time they had met: Asata sobbing in her arms, eye swollen shut, lips bruised. When I return.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Roman Province of Britannia, 60 CE

  CINNIA KEPT A FIRELESS VIGIL on a ridge above the Roman army camped on the shore across from the Sacred Isle of the Druids—what the Romans called Mona. She breathed into her cupped hands to warm them. Why were they here? She thought the new Roman Governor Paulinus fought the rebel Silures in the hills to the southwest. Besides, it was late fall, time for warriors to retire to their winter quarters. Her people, the Iceni, were allies of Rome. She should be able to walk up to the camp and ask questions, but something told her to hide. If the Romans were on the march, no one was safe, much less a young native woman. She had heard stories…

  Her empty stomach distracted her thoughts. Cinnia was nearly out of journey bread. She’d eaten the last of the dried meat two days ago. She had planned to be on the Sacred Isle by now, feasting with her father. Her brother’s wife had given birth to a healthy son—her father’s first grandchild and she brought the news. But that was just an excuse for her to visit her father after a long absence.

  Father. She could almost feel his strong arms lifting her up, see his crooked smile and green eyes sparkling with humor, smell the wood smoke in his hair. She shook off the dream state and concentrated on the Romans. She couldn’t afford to be stumbled over, but sometimes the waking dreams were hard to disperse. She did not want to wander in that other world too long. Her brother showed no aptitude—in spite of springing from a long line of druids and bards—for other world walking. But perhaps his son would…in time.

  Since her mother had died of a fever seven years ago, her father had taken Cinnia on most of his wanderings. She learned the songs, folk lore, and minor rituals at his knee. Her heart rejoiced in the roaming bardic life, but she knew her fate was to be married. Her tall form and curly blond hair attracted attention when they travelled. When Cinnia turned sixteen last year, her father left her with her brother and his wife and came to Mona to complete his Druidic training.

  Burrowing under a pile of oak leaves, and wrapped in her faded green and brown checked cloak, Cinnia watched the Romans patrolling the shore; no craft was in sight except their heavily guarded flat-bottomed boats. The currents were treacherous in the strait even when the tide was out, providing further protection to the Druid sanctuary. She could see campfires across the narrow stretch of water. Druids? Bards? Warriors? She debated trying to make her way across the water and joining her people. She was strong and, like most Iceni, perfectly capable of defending herself. But she was not of the warrior class. She carried but a single weapon, a knife with a carved bone hilt—a gift from her father—used for cutting meat and other camp tasks. Cinnia could do nothing but watch and wait. Maybe the Romans would move on. Surely if they did attack, her gods would protect their most holy site.

  By dusk, Cinnia had tired of watching the Romans. They scurried like ants around the tidy camp, hiding behind a protective ditch and palisade. Inside were neat rows of tents and fires providing hot food. Her stomach growled. Cinnia pulled out the last of her journey bread and moistened it with water. She drank sparingly, not wanting to leave her vantage point to relieve herself. She burrowed further under the leaves for warmth, plumped her pack and fell into a fitful sleep.

  ***

  CINNIA WOKE TO A GREAT DIN from across the straits and crawled to her observation point. Clouds rolled across the skies; dark and threatening rain. Wind whipped white caps on the water as the tide receded. The harsh sound of the carnyx, the tribal war horn, drifted across the water. She couldn’t hear the shouts of individual warriors as they clashed their swords against their shields, but they came to her as a dull roar. The white forms of naked women danced among the warriors, shrieking and brandishing torches, spurring the men to greater frenzy. Behind them she saw a rank of white-robed druids raising their hands and casting curses on the Romans.

  Fear squeezed Cinnia’s chest; her heart shuddered and her breath came in gasps. Surely her gods would protect the sacred isle. She squinted, trying desperately to spy her father, but the distance was too great. She looked at the lowering skies and prayed. “May Andrasta honor our sacrifices and give strength and victory to our people.” She cut her thumb with the knife and allowed a few drops to fall to the roots of the sacred oak. “Keep Father safe, please?”

  The Romans seemed to ignore the people on the island and concentrate on their tasks. When the tide ebbed, the infantry marched to the boats, filled them in an orderly fashion and cast off. A huge flotilla rowed toward the island. The cavalry mounted their horses and urged them into the surf to wade and swim the brief distance.

  Cinnia stifled a cheer when a boat capsized and the heavily armored Romans sank like stones. Another, then another boat overturned in the currents. The treacherous water swept away some horses and their riders.

  The Roman losses seemed to spur the warriors on the island. Several two-wheeled war chariots careened across the open field between the water and the massed tribes. Warriors ran along the poles between two ponies brandishing their spears at the approaching enemy, while others drove the wicker fighting platforms.

  Cinnia rose to sprint down to the shore, as the last of the Romans shoved off and the first made landing on the Sacred Isle.

  The shouting charioteers surged toward the first Roman boats. Cinnia heard a sharp twang and whistling sound as Roman archers loosed a cloud of arrows from the incoming boats. Immediately the cries of the chariot warriors turned into sounds of pain and fear. Several teams went down, entan
gling others. The Romans formed up and threw a flight of deadly spears at the surge of warriors following the chariots. The pila caught in the warriors’ shields, bent and entangled them making the shields difficult to maneuver, if not useless.

  The tribes milled in confusion, then charged again, but it was too late. The Romans locked their large shields together, pushing the struggling warriors back and stabbing with their short swords. They moved on, leaving the dead for the ravens that already began to flock to the killing field.

  “Father,” Cinnia whimpered, tears flowing down her face.

  ***

  TWO DAYS LATER, Cinnia crept out of her hiding place and walked slowly to a fen north of the abandoned Roman camp. She had watched as the fires died down on the island and the Romans returned to the mainland with their booty. No captives. No slaves. Her heart and body chilled, Cinnia pulled a round leather coracle from a reed blind. Cold water seeped into her leather boots and soaked her wool trousers. Long before she reached the other shore, smoke from burning trees and the sickly sweet stench of roasting human flesh stung her nose. She beached her coracle and walked through the carnage.

  Desolation and death.

  Cinnia couldn’t take in the enormity of it all.

  Everyone dead. Men, women, children, animals. All dead.

  She staggered through the sacred oak grove. Every tree lay toppled to the ground, killed by Roman axes. Burned bodies, with arms outstretched, as if to protect the trees, dotted the grove like grisly flowers.

  Feeling like she walked in a dream, Cinnia approached the druid village. Smoking piles of naked bodies guarded the gate. Cinnia held her cloak over her nose and tried to breathe through her mouth, the smell of shit from voided bowels, vied with the stench of decay. She had seen people die of sickness and wounds, but never in such numbers. She doubled over and retched until her throat burned and her stomach ached with its emptiness. She sat, head in hands, not wanting to find her father among the dead, unable to erase the visions of butchery from her mind.

  She heard others on the path and panicked. Had the Romans returned? She ducked behind a tumbled stone wall and peered out. A small group of men, with the same shocked look on their faces as on hers, stared gape-mouthed at the destruction. A tall man, with the sunburned look of a farmer led them. Cinnia dried her tears, wiped the snot from her face, and stepped onto the path.

  The farmer looked her over. “We came over from the mainland. You have kin here?”

  She nodded.

  “So do I.” He looked around at the devastation, jaw set; anger smoldering in his eyes. “May Taranis eat the bloody Romans’ balls and crows peck out their eyes.”

  Cinnia barely heard the curses.

  Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow she would be angry. Today she just felt empty.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kush, south of Meroe

  THE WEATHER WAS HOT AND DRY on the plain leading south, so the pre-dawn coolness felt good as Afra surveyed the Roman camp. The soldiers began to stir as the sky reddened in the east. A Roman trumpet sounded and they tumbled from their tents, grumbling and farting. After twenty days traveling, she admired their discipline. The Roman troops shouldered their heavy packs, marched at least fifteen miles a day and built a defensible camp at night. Over and over, they built to the same design, pitched their eight-man tents in the same order and ate the same food. She wondered if they ever tired of it.

  Afra’s own nightly assignment was near the temporary southern gate with a delegation of Roman traders. One, Lucius Marcius, emerged from his tent and fed dried mule dung to the cooling embers of his own fire. The meager flames flickered, casting his eyes in shadow.

  “You would do better putting it out,” she told him. “We move soon.”

  Marcius drew in a sharp breath. “Mercury’s balls, Afra, you gave me a start!” He surveyed the dying fire, kicked dirt over the coals, and mumbled. “I hate breaking my fast with cold barley. You can bet that fancy-assed general is eating warm bread and cheese.”

  She smiled. Asina most likely breakfasted on cold roast meat from the gazelle she shot yesterday. Afra supplied the general’s table for a bonus. She left the grumbling trader to prepare her own pack for the day.

  ***

  MARCIUS CAUGHT UP WITH HER LATE in the day. Huffing a little at her pace, he scratched the salt from his three-day’s growth of beard. “I’ve never been in a land that robs your very skin of moisture. In Rome and Alexandria, at least, the sweat rolls off. How do you live here?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Who does? I’ve seen tracks at the watering holes.”

  “Nomads. They travel from oasis to oasis with a few goats and cattle.”

  Marcius glanced at Afra from under a furrowed brow. “We’ve seen little on this trek but sand and scorpions. It almost seems as if you lead us through the worst land.”

  She shrugged. “You’ve traveled down Mother Nile. What did you see beyond the shores?”

  “Desert.”

  “What makes you think anything would be different in Kush? We cannot travel by the river. It twists and turns and has many cataracts. This is a shorter trail.”

  Marcius gave her a sharp look. “We’re upland. In my experience, when you gain height the weather cools. Besides, I’ve seen the gold, ivory, animals, and slaves flowing from your land.”

  “Through, not from. Kush is merely a place on the road from beyond to beyond.” She waved along the horizon. “Ships from the East come to our shores. Caravans trek to Mother Nile beyond the cataracts.”

  Marcius blew dust from his nostrils and wiped his nose on this sleeve.

  “What business do you have with Rome—this expedition?” she asked.

  “I’m a hunter.”

  Afra snorted her disbelief.

  “It’s true! I work for an association in Alexandria scouting for wild animals for the games.”

  As she thought, a trader, not a true hunter. “Games?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Blood sport. The Roman people like to watch skilled hunters and fighters. We buy wild animals and send them to Rome to be hunted in the arenas.”

  “What sport in watching?” Killing animals for defense, sacrifice, food, or testing personal skills seemed reasonable. But killing for the entertainment of others?

  “It depends on the venatore—the beast hunter—and how good a show he puts on.” Marcius pulled a water skin from his belt and took a swallow. “How long will this trek take?”

  Afra shrugged. “As long as the general wants. He says he’s looking for the source of the Nile.”

  Marcius kept a placid face. His demeanor might not betray the true nature of this expedition, but his questions did—exploitation and possibly conquest. She pointed her spear toward the rugged terrain ahead. “Maybe another ten or fifteen days.”

  Marcius winced as he put a foot wrong on a stone and twisted his ankle. “Gods blasted shithole of a country…” He muttered to himself as he fell behind her long strides.

  ***

  THE EXPEDITION CAME DOWN from the dry highlands to travel along a tributary of the Nile. The light sandy soil supported scrubby grassland and silted the river, giving it the name “White Nile.”

  Afra squatted next to Marcius at a campfire on the edge of the encampment. A lion coughed in the brush, a deep “hunh hunh” sound.

  Marcius raised his head. “Anything other than lions around here?”

  “Cheetahs, gazelles, giraffes.” She ran her hand over her stubbled head. Like many, she shaved her head to avoid pests and lessen the heat. Her hair was starting to grow back. “Further on, elephants, birds, crocodiles.”

  “It’s a long trek to bring them back.” Marcius frowned. “Most would die.”

  “Egypt has crocodiles and hippos; Libya, many lions. Less work.”

  The lion coughed again. Afra stared into the blackness beyond the fire. “Don’t leave the camp. Piss in the sand or take a torch.”

  “I’ve been in the wild before,” Marcius mutt
ered.

  She rolled herself in her cloak and settled for sleep, back to the fire and spear in hand.

  ***

  THE NEXT DAY they reached the Great Swamp. From horizon to horizon lay a drowned land, punctuated with grassy hammocks and tangled plants. The Romans pitched a soggy camp and Afra went out to procure the general’s dinner. Flocks of ducks, geese, storks, and sacred ibis blackened the sky at any noise. She unslung her bow and pulled several small arrows from a leather quiver.

  At the sound of mud sucking at feet, she turned around. Marcius stood, hands on hips, frowning at the horizon. “Any way around this?”

  “I’ve walked for many days in both directions and never came to the end.” She swatted a mosquito from her arm.

  A leopard cried in the distance and a flock of saddlebill storks rose with a thunder of wings. Afra swung around, took aim and shot one arrow after another in rapid succession. For every arrow, a bird fell from the sky.

  “Well done, Afra. I’ve seldom seen such skill with a bow.” Marcius rubbed his hands and smacked his lips. “Fresh meat for dinner. A treat after days of journey bread and beans. I’ll help you gather them.”

  “Stay back.” She slung her bow and hefted her spear to test the ground on her way. Afra heard Marcius blundering after her and called out, “Walk in my steps!”

  Too late.

  “Afra, help!” The Roman sunk to his knees and struggled in a sink hole.

  “Don’t move!” She rushed back to the edge of the quicksand. Marcius stood, several feet away, white surrounding his dark eyes, sinking to his hips.

  “Struggle makes it worse. Here.” She tossed her spear toward Marcius.

  He grabbed it, the fear on his face momentarily changing to puzzlement. He struggled and sank deeper. “Help me!”

  “Idiot! Don’t move. The sand will suck you down. Slowly…put the spear on the surface, lie back on to it. You will float.”