Lysandra, crouching before her enemy, stabbed downwards with her sword, the blade cutting cleanly through the top of Albina’s foot, shearing through bone and gristle, to pin the screaming gladiatrix to the sand. Lysandra heard the dull thud as Albina cast her weapon aside, trying with both hand to dislodge the blade that had transfixed her. Lysandra lurched unsteadily to her feet, holding her hand to her injured shoulder. Around her she could hear the crowd screaming at the sight of her. Albina had ceased her struggle, and instead raised her finger, imploring for the missio. Lysandra stooped, and grasped the barbarian’s fallen sword, her eyes flicking to the governor’s box.
The mob howled with glee, their hands cutting downwards in the motion for the kill. The editor had set them against the Caledonian from the start and they were eager for the sight of her blood. That she had fought well was of consequence. Sextus Julius Frontinus was evidently a man of the people; he would not disappoint them. Grimly, he turned his thumb, this one gesture signalling the end of a life.
Lysandra moved behind her vanquished opponent. She felt no remorse. If she had not been victorious, the barbarian would have spared her no such thought. Holding Albina’s own weapon in both hands, she brought it savagely downwards, spearing the back of the massive Caledonian’s neck, severing her spine from her brain. Lysandra twisted the blade twice as her foe’s blood gouted, drenching her subligaculum and belly. She heaved and dragged the crimsoned iron free. Like a felled oak, Albina toppled forward and smashed into the earth. The sand around her darkened with blood and shit, as her body defecated in the spasms of death.
For a moment, Lysandra stared, stunned at her action. But then, the adulation of the crowd washed over her in rapturous waves. She heard her own voice scream in triumph as she raised her arms skywards, brandishing the dripping sword above her head. Her eyes swept around the stadium, falling upon the statues of the pantheon. She pointed her bloody blade at the statue of Minerva, the Roman Athene, letting all know in whose name she fought.
This show of piety after such ferocity caused an eruption in the stands and, as Lysandra marched back to the Gate of Life, the masses chanted the name ‘ Achillia, Achillia ’ over and over.
It was the sweetest music she had ever heard.
XIX
The Hellene women were dancing about and screaming with joy as Lysandra returned. Danae embraced her enthusiastically, heedless of her wounds.
‘You did it, you did it!’ she shouted, spinning Lysandra about.
‘Well fought, Lysandra!’This from Penelope. Other such encouragements followed and Lysandra was caught in the euphoric flush of victory. She did not feel the pain in her wounds, nor did fatigue weigh at her limbs. Rather, she felt more alive than ever before. Success was heady wine, an addictive narcotic which she knew she must taste again.
‘All right, all right, break it up.’ Stick appeared, interrupting the women. ‘Get yourself to the surgeon,’ he told Lysandra. ‘No telling what diseases that Caledonian has. Had,’ he corrected himself. ‘And the rest of you,’ he brandished his vine staff, ‘get back away from here!’ Throwing a few half-hearted jibes at Stick, the women began to disperse and make their way to their cell.
Stick watched as they departed, his eyes fixing on the lash-scarred back of the Spartan. ‘Lysandra!’ he called out. She stopped and turned back. ‘You fought well.’
Lysandra gave him a rare smile. ‘Thank you, Stick. I know.’
The Parthian looked down for a moment, seeming to come to a decision. ‘Listen,’ he said, approaching her. ‘I’ll make no secret of it, I urged Balbus to send you to the blocks. But I was mistaken, I think. I know you are talented. But curb your arrogance. It rubs people the wrong way. And more, you’ve made an enemy in Nastasen and he gets crazy at times.’ Stick whirled his finger at his temple.
Lysandra cocked an eyebrow. ‘Nastasen is the one who needs to be careful, Stick. If he touches me again, I will kill him.’
Stick sighed. ‘You are still a slave. Remember that.’
‘Am I?’ Lysandra jerked her chin at the Gate of Life, from where the chanting of her arena name could still be heard. She spoke no more but turned on her heel and made off.
Lysandra did not spend long in the infirmary; the surgeons were well skilled and well practised. A bitter- smelling, stinging unguent was applied to her wounds, which were bound swiftly. After a brief instruction to keep the wounds clean, she was given a small pot of the stuff and told to apply it three times a day. Thereafter, she might as well have ceased to exist as far as her jaded carer was concerned.
On her way back to the Hellene cell, she encountered Hildreth clanking her way towards the Gate of Life. The tall German was clad as secutorix, heavily armoured with helm and shield.
‘You fought shit again,’ Hildreth commented as she saw Lysandra.
‘But at least you won. You should watch me now, you will learn how a true warrior fights.’
Lysandra felt a brief rush of anger. If Stick was going to give speeches about encroaching arrogance, he would do well to direct his comments to the barbarian. She was not about to let Hildreth ruin her good mood, however, so she bit down a catty response, settling for giving the German an expression that was half grin; half sneer. She doubted if the thick-skinned warrior would even notice.
The women in the Hellene cell were still chattering about Lysandra’s victory as she entered.
‘What was it like?’ Penelope wanted to know.
Lysandra sat on her bunk. She thought before responding, but the truth was undeniable. ‘It was good,’ she said simply. ‘Of course, I was not afraid before the combat. A little tense perhaps,’ she acknowledged. ‘But when you are out there…’ she trailed off, reliving the battle in her mind. ‘I have never felt so exhilarated. It was as if I had finally found a purpose. I will tell you this…’ — she met the gazes of her companions in turn, ‘you have nothing to fear.’
‘You enjoyed it?’Thebe seemed both incredulous and disgusted.
‘Yes,’ Lysandra admitted. ‘I did.’
Further conversation was curtailed as an arena slave appeared in their doorway. He referred to a scroll he was carrying. ‘Is there a Heraclea in here?’
All eyes turned to Thebe, who had won the argument to use the august name. ‘That would be me,’ she said, raising her hand.
The slave nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why they can’t keep these rosters in some sort of order. I’ve been running about all over the place looking for you. It’s more complicated today, because there are many schools here. You know what it’s like. Each show has to be bigger and better than the last. Not that anyone ever thinks about the organisation that goes into this whole spectacle.’
‘You were looking for Heraclea,’ Thebe broke in as the man paused for breath.
‘Oh,’ he was evidently disappointed that his captive audience was not willing to listen to more of his problems. ‘You must prepare,’ he said. ‘You are to fight next.’
‘Thanks,’ Thebe said shortly. She glanced over at Lysandra who grinned at her. ‘Well then,’ the Corinthian murmured. ‘Let’s be about it.’
It was only once the combat had begun that Lysandra truly understood why the gladiatorial games were such a huge and compulsive phenomenon to people all over Rome’s Empire. It was utterly thrilling to watch two people fight when the stakes were highest. The excitement was, of course, different when one was not participating in the battle, yet it was no less compelling — perhaps even more so. Now she realised why people supported certain fighters, following their careers to the point of obsession.
Though she saw herself as reserved by nature, Lysandra found herself screaming encouragement and advice to Thebe along with the others. She parried each cut, winced at every near miss and yelled at each hit that Thebe made.
Thebe was fighting as a Thraex, matched against a thin Egyptian retiaria, armed with net and trident. It was a contest of speed, both women lightly armed and able to skip over the sands, unhampered by heavy armour and encumbering helm. The contest was disputed with furious rapidity, the women’s limbs blurring as each fought to mark the other.
