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 Achillia 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.’
Balbus shrugged. ‘You are free now. What does it matter?’
Lysandra raised herself up slowly. She opened her mouth to explain but found she had no words. How could Balbus feel what she had felt? How could he know that freedom was empty without Sorina’s death? Without
