Penelope’s tongue was dry as she licked parched lips. Despite her usually bombastic demeanour, she was nervous. And with good reason, she told herself as she advanced towards Draca: only a fool would be complacent when entering combat.
She made herself recall one of the first lessons at the ludus, when Catuvolcos had had them charge straw dummies. This, she reasoned, would be a similar exercise. She tensed and lunged forwards, her sturdy legs working at speed, eating up the ground between them. The Syrian, however, was no mannequin, and set herself to receive the charge. The mob screamed in delight as the women collided, their shields crashing together with thunderous report. Penelope’s sword flashed down, only to career off the edge of Draca’s hoplon shield. The eastern woman grunted and struck back, catching her stocky foe with a glancing blow to the side of the head. Though the metal absorbed the strike, Penelope’s ears rang from the ferocity of the blow. She gritted her teeth and butted her shield forward, trying to overpower the lighter woman.
Draca was cunning; instead of trying to match force with force, she angled her body away from Penelope’s shove, causing her to overbalance. She stumbled forward, and Draca’s blade lashed out, scoring a bloody line down her opponent’s back. The crowd shouted with glee at the sight of first blood. Penelope cried out as the pain flashed through her but swung her sword about as she passed, trying to keep Draca away. She turned, sweat pouring down her face in the furnace of her enclosed helmet, whirling around in time to see the Syrian coming at her again. A sudden fury possessed her and, screaming a war cry, she hurled herself forwards.
Her iron met the wood of the hoplomacha’s shield and Penelope redoubled her efforts, hoping to draw the other woman into a slogging match, sure she could overcome her. It was at this moment that the pain faded and the long months of training began to pay dividends. She found herself in a place so pure it was almost blissful: she was at one with her blade; her mind, body and soul in perfect harmony with the combat, revelling in the furious exchange of blows, seeing the moves of her foe before they had been executed. She realised then what Lysandra had felt: that there was a liberty to be found in battle. The exultation, the surging power in her veins made her feel as though she were the War Goddess herself. Now she could see the gaps in Draca’s defence and she exploited them, her blade biting into the other woman’s shoulder as the Syrian sought to strike back. The mob roared her on, delighted with the recovery from her initial error.
Penelope was relentless. She churned forwards, hammering blow after blow onto Draca’s shield, forcing her back. With each hit she knew she was sapping the energy of her opponent; the shields were heavy and, under this repeated assault, she knew the slighter woman would tire quicker than she. Inwardly, she thanked Stick, Nastasen and Titus for the relentless regimen they had forced her to go through. She was possessed of a strength that she never knew she could attain, muscles responding again and again, with no burning fatigue.
Draca’s ripostes were becoming slower and less frequent as she backed up under the furious assault. Penelope redoubled her efforts, sensing that the other woman was almost spent. She slammed her shield into the Syrian’s, knocking her off balance.
For the merest instant, Draca’s guard was down — and Penelope struck. She lunged forward, her blade screaming towards the throat of the hoplomacha.
Draca dropped low, ramming her sword into Penelope’s abdomen with savage ferocity. Penelope stiffened and wailed in agony as the iron invaded her flesh, slicing upwards into her vitals.
Louder than the roar of the crowd, she could hear the Syrian’s triumphant yell of victory. Blood sprayed from the wound, drenching both fighters and she screamed again as Draca twisted the blade, feeling it grate on her ribs. Only then, at the white-hot peak of her agony, did the easterner drag her weapon free, leaving Penelope free to collapse, clutching desperately at the wound. She rolled into a foetal position, retching into the steely confines of the helmet, aware only of pain.
After indeterminate moments, rough hands grasped her and dragged her from the ground. In a final moment of brief lucidity, Penelope realised that she had been given the missio.
It was unseemly to show emotion. One must remain implacable at all times, for it was a weakness to show too much concern for another. This was the Spartan way: though camaraderie and love were to be expected between fellow warriors, when the gods decreed that it was a comrade’s time to pass, the hour must be met with solemn dignity. But to see Penelope moan and cry on the surgeon’s pallet was a trial Lysandra had never gone through before. Penelope’s legs kicked in response to her pain and so much blood flowed from her that it covered the pallet and dripped to the floor.
Danae knelt by Penelope’s side, holding her hand, whispering meaningless things to her as the surgeon tried desperately to staunch the flow of blood. There was always a bonus for arena doctors should they save the life of an expensive arena slave but, after a brief struggle, he gave up. He looked up at Lysandra, and shook his head slowly.
‘Have you no opiate?’ she demanded. Whilst the examination had been going on, she could understand why the man had not given her friend a drug for the pain. Such things could complicate medical procedures, but now it would not do to have Penelope go to the Styx crying like a baby.
‘Of course,’ he said resignedly. ‘But I am not supposed to give it to those that are going to pass. It is expensive, and if my master found out he would have me whipped.’
‘I understand,’ Lysandra said. ‘But this cannot be.’ She indicated Penelope who had begun to shake uncontrollably, her eyes rolling in her head, her mind eroded by pain. ‘Where is it?’ Lysandra stepped forward.
‘Just there.’ The surgeon turned, indicating a shelf that held medicines and salves. He was about to speak again when Lysandra lashed out, her fist exploding into his jaw. The surgeon dropped like a stone and lay crumpled on the floor. Calmly, she stepped over him and retrieved a small pot. She sniffed the contents and was satisfied.
‘What are you doing?’ Danae was stunned at this sudden violence from Lysandra.
‘He is a decent man,’ Lysandra said as she returned to the pallet. ‘It would not be fair of us to allow him to be whipped for breaking the rules. In this manner, he can merely tell the truth.’
‘But you will be whipped for hitting him!’
Lysandra pressed her lips into a thin line as she poured the glutinous liquid down Penelope’s throat. ‘I think the pain I shall bear will be somewhat less than hers.’
They waited for the drug to take effect and, slowly, Penelope’s agonised spasms began to abate. As the pain receded behind the veil of the opiate, Penelope began to speak. Her words were strange, as if she were a child, and Lysandra thought perhaps that she was reliving events from her youth. It was appalling to watch.
Only that morning, Penelope had been among them, laughing, joking and telling her ribald tales. Now she was just a quivering chunk of meat, breathing her last in a drug-induced stupor. It was a sobering thought.
Danae was weeping copiously, her head resting on Penelope’s hand as she held it.
They waited in silence, hoping that Penelope would regain some lucidity, that they could tell her that she was not dying alone. But it was not to be. It seemed as if she drifted off to sleep, but her chest had ceased to rise and fall.
‘It is over.’ Lysandra’s voice was harsh.
Danae looked up, her face haggard. ‘Poor Penelope,’ she cried.
Lysandra nodded. Inside she felt a terrible sense of sadness at her friend’s passing, but she knew that this must not be revealed.
Spartans never wept for the slain. With force of will, she closed off that part of herself that cared, hardening her heart. It was strange but, in some ways, she felt somewhat less than human as she did this. ‘Come, Danae. We must go now.’
‘How can you be so heartless? Our friend is dead!’
‘Yes, but that is what she was here for, Danae.’ Lysandra tried to be gentle, but the strain of the moment caused her to snap.
‘That is what we are all here for. That could be you or me. Do you think the comrades of the woman you killed felt any less grief than you do now? Sooner or later this was going to happen to one of us. I blame myself that I have not prepared you to bear this grief.’ Danae was struck speechless for a moment by this last comment.
‘As if it is for you to prepare us for such things, Lysandra,’ she spat. ‘You are no different to us, despite what you might think.
You are not our leader. You are merely an arrogant bitch who likes the sound of her own voice too much for my liking. For anyone’s liking.’
‘Danae…’
