The Defiant

by Lesley Livingston

  “What in Hades are you doing, you lunatic?” I shouted from where I was perched on top of that very same mast.

  A silly question. It was obvious what he was doing. But for a moment, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Kitchen slave that he was, I’d seen Leander day after day in the little yard by the stables, chopping firewood for the cooks to feed the small army of gladiatrices that lived at the Ludus. His sun-browned arms were taut with long muscles, and he was very good at chopping.

  I just didn’t know why he was chopping down our mast.

  The mast shuddered with each bite of the blade, and the deck was littered with splintered chunks of wood. All ships, I knew, carried axes on deck in case a mast was damaged in a storm and had to be cut loose—so I knew how Leander had come by the thing—but that certainly wasn’t the case here.

  Another roar went up from Cleopatra’s barge and gave me my answer. A group of partygoers stood at the rail, madly urging Leander on with each stroke of the axe, frantically trading wagers. Someone, I suspected, had paid Leander to even the odds in favor of the Amazona side.

  I could hardly believe he thought a few coins were worth the hell I would unleash when I got my hands on him. But in that moment, there was nothing for me to do but hope the mast would withstand Leander’s woodsmanship long enough for me to rescue Tanis.

  I edged out over the yardarm, placing my feet in the sailors’ footropes as carefully as haste would allow. Below me, I could see Tanis’s face had turned almost purple. So had her left foot, where the rope bit into her flesh. After what seemed an eternity, I reached the rope where the line was caught in the rigging and frantically sawed through the tough hairy fibers. Sweat ran in streams down my face and back, into my eyes, and between my fingers, making the knife hilt slick.

  The mast was beginning to sway perilously.

  I paused for a moment to draw my wooden blades from their scabbards and lob them at Leander’s head. The second one glanced off his ear, and he yelped and dropped the axe. It spun across the deck and he scrambled after it, yelling curses at me. Another chorus of shouts—half cheering, half jeers—sounded from the barge crowd as I turned back to working feverishly on the rope.

  “Tanis!” I shouted. “Be ready!”

  She twisted and writhed, staring up at me with fear in her eyes. The distance she would fall wouldn’t kill her. Unless she landed on her head or broke her neck . . . I shoved the thought from my mind. If I didn’t cut her loose—and soon—the falling mast would probably kill her anyway.

  The last rope strand finally parted, and I watched her throw her arms up around her head, curling inward as she fell. I winced as she hit the planking with a hard thud, but she rolled and was up on her hands and knees a moment later. She’d be fine.

  Now I was the one in trouble. Down below, I could see some of the fighting had spilled back over onto our ship. But in the din of battle, all of my friends were far too occupied to notice my predicament.

  The entire rigging was becoming dangerously unstable with each hewing stroke. Leander was nothing if not industrious, but thankfully the axe he wielded was a dull old thing, and that alone gave me the opportunity to do something incredibly stupid. The sail beneath me shivered, and the yardarm tipped drunkenly. I didn’t have time to shimmy back to the ladder and climb down, and if I fell when the mast toppled, I would most likely hit the deck and break every bone in my body. My options were limited.

  The yardarm wobbled and one end swung out over the open water . . .

  As fast as I could, I unbuckled one side of my breastplate and threw it to the deck, narrowly missing Leander again and making him back off. Then I heaved myself up into a crouch on top of the yardarm. The wood beam was straight and about as wide as the yoke pole on a chariot, if a little longer . . .

  The single act that had made me famous in the ring was a chariot maneuver called the Morrigan’s Flight—running the length of the yoke pole between two racing ponies, balancing, and running back . . .

  I could do this.

  The rigging shuddered and began to drift-fall toward the other ship.

  I heard the panicked screams of the girls below as they watched it go.

  And I ran.

  Like an acrobat, arms wide, feet curving around the pole to grip with each fleeting step, I held my breath and ran the length of the spar and—as the mast finally toppled—I leaped out over the water in a swan dive, just like I used to do back home from the cliffs above the River Dwr. The world went from bright sunlight to chill darkness in a moment as I hit the water with a splash.

  When I surfaced again, sputtering, it was to see the rail lined with Achillea fighters, all peering down at me in astonishment.

  “What in Hel’s name was that lunatic trying to prove?” Elka shouted over the roaring of the spectators, gesticulating at the chaos caused by the fallen mast.

  “Never mind!” I shouted back. “Grab their flag!”

  I could see where the Amazona flag had been left unattended at the bow of the other ship when the gladiatrices scattered.

  “The flag!”

  Maybe I was a bit single-minded in my desire to win, but I was suddenly feeling awfully motivated to thwart the ambitions of whoever had given Leander his purse of coins. Elka looked at me like I was crazy, but she spun and was already running for the banner before the Amazona team knew what she was doing. She hurdled the space between the boats, hailed Meriel as she swept up the flag on its pole and threw it like it was her spear, back over to our side for Meriel to catch. Shouts of outrage and cries of victory burst forth from the Queen of Aegypt’s barge as I scaled the rope ladder thrown down to me and staggered over to where Tanis still lay sprawled on the deck.

  “Come on,” I said, and held out a hand to help her stand.

  She hobbled with me to the bow of our ship, and, in full view of the elite entourage across the waves, together we threw up our fists in triumph. A cacophony of cheers rolled like thunder across the water, and I felt a bit ridiculous, even as my chest was heaving with exertion and I felt myself grinning madly. We’d been play-acting. Not fighting. This was not what being a gladiatrix was about. Not what I had traded my freedom to achieve.

  And yet, it was . . . something. Something just a little bit extraordinary.

  It was fun.

  II

  THE MERRIMENT WAS contagious. Well, among the Achillea crew, at any rate. The Amazona girls were uniformly sullen. It seemed they took things very seriously in their ludus. Of course, when I thought about who owned the Ludus Amazona, that wasn’t at all surprising. Defeat, I didn’t doubt, bore consequences in Pontius Aquila’s academy.

  I might have felt a twinge of sympathy for them but, to be honest, in that moment, I couldn’t have cared less. My friends and I were victorious, and that was all that mattered.

  Over on the queen’s barge, the spectators lobbed sheaves of flowers out over the water. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Elka grinning past me at Ajani. Then suddenly—and for the third time that afternoon—I found myself plunging over the side of the boat and into the water below.

  I surfaced in time to see Damya, our fearsome Phoenician fighter, pick Elka up and heave her over the side. Then Meriel. Then Damya leaped over the side herself, warbling a joyful war cry and sending up an enormous splash. Others followed until the waters of Lake Sabatinus began to resemble the mosaics on the bathhouse wall of the ludus, replete with frolicking nymphs.

  “Victrix!” One young patrician shouted at me from the deck of the barge, leaning far out over the water with a jewel-set goblet sloshing over with drink. “A cup for your bravery!”

  I swam beneath his outstretched arm and reached for the cup, but he yanked it out of my grasp and leaned further out over me, a lascivious grin on his face.

  “Uh!” he said, licking his lips. “After a kiss for your beauty!”

  “Beauty doesn’t win ba
ttles, sir.” I smiled up at him sweetly. “But strong legs and a fearless heart can overcome a wobbling mast-pole.” With that, I snatched the cup from his hands and drank the wine in one gulp.

  His grin froze on his face, and his friends howled with drunken laughter.

  I swam back toward the rest of the girls, and the expression on Elka’s face told me she’d heard the exchange. My actual stunt with the wobbling mast-pole, she apparently found far less amusing.

  “You know, you could have been killed when that sail fell,” she said.

  I shook the wet hair back off my face and nodded. “I know,” I said. “But Tanis probably would have been, if I hadn’t helped her.”

  Ajani swam up to tread water in front of us. “That’s the kind of help that gets you hauled out of the arena facedown by hooks,” she said. “Elka’s right. You could have let her fend for herself.”

  “I could have. But I decided not to.” I grinned, unwilling to let their scolding mute my good mood. “And that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

  “What?” Elka asked.

  “The right to decide for ourselves!” I splashed a handful of water at her. “As soon as Achillea receives the deed to the ludus from Caesar, we’re free!”

  “You’re not, little fox,” Elka reminded me. “That was the idiotic deal you made.”

  “Shush. Be kind,” Ajani admonished. “I for one am glad of her idiocy.”

  “See?” I said. “And at least I’m more free than I was. More free than they are.” I nodded at the Amazona boat deck, where our adversaries still stood, sulky and defeated. “And I intend to make the most of that.”

  We paddled languidly back and forth in front of the pleasure barge for a while longer. The revelers poured down wine and tossed sweets to us, and Sorcha indulged the revelry for longer than I thought she would. Finally, with a signal blast from a conch shell, we made our way back to the ludus shore. The naumachia certainly hadn’t gone as planned, but it had managed to fulfill its purpose of entertaining a barge-load of high-society butterflies.

  The sun was westering as we neared the shore where the ludus gates stood open. The girls from the Ludus Amazona had already been herded like goats through the gates and out of sight by their guards—an ever-present contingent of grim, glowering brutes in black armor and helmets. The Amazona girls were to remain quartered in a newly built barracks wing as our “guests” for the next several days, and there would be a series of “friendly, collegial” competitions. The prospect had prompted equal amounts of groaning and glee from the Achillea girls. In the meantime, we were allowed the rare treat of a cookout on the beach that night—food, drink, and just that little extra bit of freedom that was a taste of things to come for the ludus.

  As we set out rugs and cushions on the sand, I looked back over the water to see the shadow-black silhouetted figure of Thalestris—the academy’s primus pilus, the Lanista’s right hand—far in the distance. She stood balanced on a reed skiff holding a fishing spear poised above her head, ready to strike. In the days leading up to Cleopatra’s naumachia, the fight mistress, who boasted of being a real Amazon, had made no secret of her disdain for the spectacle—something she regarded as useless frivolity and an insulting waste of the carefully honed and nurtured gladiatorial talents of her charges.

  Sorcha had known full well Thalestris wouldn’t be able to keep her sharp tongue sheathed in the presence of a bunch of lolling elites, and so she’d been given leave to spend the day fishing. As far away from the spectacle as she could paddle. I watched her spear pierce the surface of the water with the swiftness of a striking serpent.

  Thalestris was not someone I would ever want to rouse to anger.

  • • •

  Night fell and we sat on the beach, warming away the lake chill with the flames of crackling bonfires and mugs of beer out of barrels rescued from the disaster of Leander’s supply skiff, brought ashore as rightful booty from our “conquest.” It was better stuff than any of us had ever tasted—better even than the foamy dark brew I used to drink in my kingly father’s feast hall back home in Durovernum—and we relished it.

  Leander, himself, did not receive the same outpouring of good cheer.

  “It’s a peace offering!” he squeaked, hiding behind the wicker basket he carried as if it were a legionnaire’s shield. He probably should have announced his presence before stepping out of the shadows beyond the circle of firelight. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for the poor lad.

  “Peace offering?” Ajani purred at him like a cat with a cornered mouse. She considered Tanis her archery protégé and was less than impressed that she’d been imperiled by Leander’s stunt.

  “Ajani . . . pretty—no, no . . . beautiful—beautiful Ajani,” Leander stammered, dark eyes huge and liquid, like a puppy begging for scraps. “I was only trying to help you win glory!”

  I laughed out loud and almost choked on my mouthful of beer. “Help?”

  He glanced over at me, and his stance shifted back to the cocksure attitude I was used to from him. “Yes, domina!” he said, grinning. “Without me, you wouldn’t have had the opportunity for such a spectacular leap—such heroism! I was so happy to help.”

  I marveled at his brashness.

  Meriel rolled her eyes. “You’re an idiot,” she said.

  “A beneficial idiot.” He nodded and held out the basket again, lifting the lid. Inside, there were six plump lake trout, gleaming and gutted, ready for the fire. Also several loaves of bread, and a wheel of cheese wrapped in cloth.

  My mouth watered at the sight.

  Elka glared at him. “Where did you get all this?” she asked. “And how much trouble are you going to get us in by bringing it here?”

  “No trouble at all!” Leander’s grin widened. “The trout are from Thalestris—the noise from the naumachia drove all the fishes to her end of the lake, and she caught more than we can use in the kitchen. I offered to take them off Cook’s hands.”

  Damya snorted. “You pilfered them.”

  “No! Cook gave them to me fairly,” he protested. Then he shrugged and smiled slyly. “Now, the bread and cheese . . .”

  Ajani cuffed him across the top of his head, ruffling his dark hair, and let the matter drop. It was hard to stay mad at Leander for any length of time. Meriel plucked the basket from his hands and went to work setting the fish on the fire to cook. The night settled down around us, stars winking and waves whispering in the darkness, and the mood was as light as the breeze off the lake. I felt almost like I was home, back in Durovernum. With my friends . . .

  “Hey, Fallon!” Elka hailed me from behind the mound of food piled on her platter. “Come eat. You have to build up your strength if you’re going to keep leaping about like a Minoan acrobat.”

  Damya grinned. “Maybe we should find her a bull to vault in the arena.”

  “At least until that decurion of hers gets back from the wars!” Lydia said.

  “I’ll stick with chariot horses, thanks,” I said, ignoring her lewd cackle.

  I took the platter Antonia offered me, balanced deftly on the bronze-and-leather sheath that encased the stump of her left forearm. It had taken us all a bit of getting used to—the fact that she was missing her hand, severed at the wrist in a practice bout accident—but Antonia had decided early on that it wasn’t going to impede her. That had gone a long way toward the rest of us accepting it. Indeed, since the mishap, once it had become apparent that Antonia was no longer in danger of dying from her injury, she seemed to have grown beyond the bounds of what had once been a pronounced shyness.

  With Neferet—the girl who’d not only been the one responsible for the amputation but who’d dedicated herself wholly, fiercely, to nursing her back to health—Antonia had made impressive progress. I saw Neferet smile at her and suspected that her heart might have been just as instrumental as her healing hands during An
tonia’s convalescence.

  “Where did Thalestris learn to fish like that?” Meriel wondered through a mouthful of trout.

  “She grew up on an island,” Leander said.

  “An island?”

  He nodded, pouring more beer. “Mm-hm . . . that’s what I heard her say.”

  I frowned. Even after more than a year spent living near the very heart of the Roman Republic, I was still a bit hazy on the concept of geography. But I’d seen maps, been told how to read them, and had a basic understanding of who came from where. And I knew enough to know that Scythia—the place where the so-called Amazons came from—wasn’t an island.

  When I said so, Leander shrugged but stuck to his tale.

  “He’s right,” Gratia grumbled into her cup of wine as she washed down a mouthful of fish. “Thalestris is as Amazon as my arse.”

  We turned as one to blink at her in the gathering darkness. She raised her head and blinked back. A bit blearily.

  “Amazon,” Gratia said again, loud enough so that the rest of us could all hear her above the crackling of the logs and drawing out the word with a sneer. “My arse.”

  Elka snorted in amusement. “It will be,” she agreed. “On latrine duty for all eternity, if she hears you talk like that.”

  “What?” Lydia asked, clearly not understanding. “She is. An Amazon, I mean. So was her sister. Right?”

  That had always been my understanding. My sister’s very first fight—the first ever female gladiatorial bout—had been fought between her and a warrior named Orithyia. Thalestris’s sister. Sorcha had triumphed in the arena. And Orithyia . . . had died. I’d secretly marveled at how Thalestris had been able to overcome that loss to serve as Sorcha’s primus pilus, but I supposed the code of the Amazon sisterhood transcended bonds of blood. And that first fight had been immortalized in the names of the two original gladiatrix academies: Achillea and Amazona.