will surely die.’
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Danae sobbed. ‘You survived. Poor Penelope…’
‘Stop your whining!’ Lysandra’s voice was harsh. ‘You think that it will do any good? Do any of you?’ She glared at the women. ‘We are fighting for our lives as are our enemies. Do not think of them as merely opponents. They are the enemy. Hold the memory of Penelope close if you will, but do not grieve for her. Turn your emotion to hatred. Hate those that killed her; picture her foe, standing over her, laughing at the agonies of our friend. Keep that in mind when you face your enemy. And make sure you send the bitch screaming to Tartarus.’
The women nodded, harsh masks descending over their faces.
It was a subtle change but the look in their eyes hardened somewhat and Lysandra could tell they were reliving Penelope’s death throes, turning their sadness to cold anger. Thoughts of grief were being forged into those of revenge and hatred for the women of the other schools. Her eyes met Danae’s. Like the others, her tears had ceased. Lysandra nodded in satisfaction and left the cell.
As soon as she was out of the Hellene women’s sight she made haste back to the arena and the Gate of Life. Above her, she could still hear the crowd howling encouragement to the fighters on the sands. At least, she thought, Eirianwen still lived.
Lysandra squirmed her way through the press of fighters gathered around the gate to watch the match. Her height afforded her a good view of the arena and her eyes widened as she saw Eirianwen. She was drenched in blood and Lysandra’s hand flew to her mouth before she realised the blood was not hers.
Eirianwen wielded a one-handed axe with which she was hacking viciously into her hapless opponent, causing chunks of displaced flesh to fly. Even above the cheers, and the terrible screams of Eirianwen’s adversary, Lysandra could hear the wet crunch of the iron axe-head crunching through bone and gristle.
The stricken woman fell to her knees, bleeding from a dozen mortal wounds, her left arm nearly hanging off at the shoulder.
Without even acknowledging Governor Frontinus, the beautiful Silurian grasped her foe by the hair and dragged her head back, exposing the throat. She raised her axe, punching the air in time to the mob’s chant of ‘ Jugula! Jugula! ’ drawing out the moment, eking out their pleasure. Only when she had them worked into a fever pitch did she bring the axe down, slicing her opponent’s head from her shoulders with a single blow.
The crowd erupted as Eirianwen held her grisly trophy aloft.
She was a terrible sight, naked, her hair awry, coated in blood and gore from her victim. She walked across the sands, coming close to the barrier that separated the spectators from the combat area. The mob stilled as she regarded the section before her.
Holding the severed head by the hair, she whirled it several times above her before casting it like a hammer into the poorer upper tiers. A fight erupted at once for possession of the awful prize.
Eirianwen saluted Frontinus nonchalantly before sauntering back to the Gate of Life.
Lysandra watched her approaching, at once relieved and appalled.
This was a side to Eirianwen that she had only glimpsed when the Silurian had spoken of her past — but now she had revealed of her true nature, the savage come to the fore. She herself had taken pleasure in killing her enemy and had drunk in the adulation of the crowd as though it were a heady wine. But Eirianwen had plainly butchered her opponent, making her suffer before she released her to merciful death. That, Lysandra thought, was truly barbaric. However, she reasoned, Eirianwen was indeed from a savage tribe and could not be held accountable for her lack of restraint.
It was a hollow thought, and forgotten at once as the gore-drenched Briton entered the tunnel. Lysandra rushed forwards and embraced her, congratulating her on her win, ignoring the mire that soaked into her tunic. Eirianwen’s smile was a white slash against the crimson and blue darkness of her face as she returned the embrace, both women heedless of who saw them.
Lysandra understood now that life was all the more sweet when death waited close by.
XXIII
Day in, day out, the ritualised slaughter of the arena continued. Hundreds of men, women and beasts died for the amusement of the mob, the candidacy of Aeschylus and the ambition of Sextus Julius Frontinus.
The governor of Asia Minor was not a young man, but was possessed of a strength and vigour that belied his age. It was by force of will that he held back the encroachment of time, refusing to retire and reap the benefits of decades in the service of Rome.
Frontinus knew that he was not unique in this regard: the Empire was full of such men. How else could Rome maintain her place as the ultimate power in the world?
The governor was a connoisseur of the arena and its spectacles and, though he despised the mincing Aeschylus, he had to admit that the fat man had put on a grand show. His idea of pitting different schools against one another was not exceptional in Rome, but here in the provinces it was almost unheard of and the promotion of the women’s game to something more than a sideshow was inspired.
Frontinus, like most discerning enthusiasts, had never taken the gladiatrices seriously. They were a novelty act, a joke. But the women of this Lucius Balbus were deadly in the extreme, their beauty adding a heady intoxicant to their allure. Indeed, as he watched the bare breasts and buttocks cavorting past in their deadly dance, Frontinus found himself shifting uncomfortably in his toga, lest his excitement be all too obvious.
He found himself arriving at the games earlier than usual just to catch all of the women’s combats. He was well taken with one or two from Balbus’s school, and decided he would grant the man an audience to acknowledge his skill as a trainer.
Thus it was that he welcomed the swarthy, sweating Balbus to the dignitaries’ box.
‘I am most impressed by your troupe, lanista,’ he said. ‘You have brought a diversity and dimension to these games that may well ensure a political post for my esteemed colleague, Aeschylus.’
He indicated the Greek who was sitting close by.
‘Your Honour is too kind.’ Balbus bobbed his head up and down in deference. ‘We do our meagre best, and your words mean very much to a lowly man such as I.’
Frontinus laughed. ‘Come, lanista. You are as rich as Midas and all know it.’ Waving away Balbus’s denial before it could be spoken he turned his attention to the arena. ‘Who is that girl?’ he enquired.
Though Lucius Balbus was overjoyed with his summons he was more than a little nervous. It seemed, however, that his anxiety was without foundation, the governor merely wishing to acknowledge his troupe’s skill. And his latest addition.
‘That is Achillia, sir,’ said Balbus, wincing slightly as Lysandra sliced the hand from the Thracian she was facing. Evidently, Spartan toughness was no myth and he was well pleased with the girl.
Wounded in the first days of the games, she had recovered quickly, and as the spectacle entered its second moon, she was ready to fight again. It seemed also that she had forged the Hellene women who had performed so poorly before the games into a close-knit group of killers. The death of the fat fisher girl, whose name he had forgotten, had gone a long way to making the rest of the miserable bunch profitable.
‘No, I meant who is she really?’ Frontinus said. ‘Achillia is not her real name, is it?’
‘She is a slave, sir, nothing more.’ Balbus felt small droplets of sweat break out over his body, suddenly fearful that Lysandra’s outlandish Sisterhood had tracked her down and petitioned the governor for her release.
‘But she has a name?’
‘Yes, my lord, her name is Lysandra.’ Balbus swallowed, wondering where the line of enquiry was going.
‘And she is a Spartan, or is that just a piece of theatre that you have invented?’
Balbus hesitated. He desperately wanted to lie to Frontinus but, if the man knew more than he was letting on, lying to him could be ruinous — and potentially fatal. ‘She is indeed, sir. The Genuine Article, so to speak.’
Frontinus acknowledged Lysandra who was standing with her opponent’s neck under her blade. He thrust his thumb out, indicating that the Spartan put the woman to death. A one-handed ex-gladiatrix was useful to no one. Nonchalantly, Lysandra slit the Thracian’s throat and was on her way back to the Gate of Life before the woman had finished her death throes. ‘I want to meet her.’ He turned back to Balbus.
