to visit. I feel like you are rescuing me for a few hours. Silly, isn’t it? Soon, the games will be over and you will be gone.’
‘Yes, but my ludus is only a few days from here. I will come to see you as often as I can,’ Catuvolcos said it in a rush and realised that he meant every word.
‘I don’t mind if you don’t,’ Doris said seriously. ‘But do not promise me you will, if you don’t mean to keep your word. I would hate that.’
‘On my honour.’ Catuvolcos put his hand on his heart. ‘I swear that I will visit you as often as I can.’
‘Catuvolcos,’ Doris almost squeaked. ‘That’s… wonderful!’ In a rush of silk and perfume, she was upon him, her arms about his neck. ‘No one has ever treated me so well.’
The big man stroked her hair, wanting to kiss her but unsure if she would take his action as an affront. So much of their friendship was based on his restraint. He wanted more but would not take it. She had been through much, and he knew her well enough to realise that her sometimes brassy front was mere armour for a girl who lived a hard life in hard circumstances.
So when her lips sought his, it was a surprise.
Lysandra’s heart was in her mouth as she watched, her knuckles bone-white on the bars.
The blades of Eirianwen and Sorina whirled in their deathly dance, meeting again and again, their song as discordant as it was violent. The length of the swords made the short thrust impossible, so the contest was fought in the truly barbarian style. Huge sweeping cuts and arcing blows were countered by blocks so solid they caused sparks to fly.
Eirianwen attacked in force suddenly, the sword cutting downwards to Sorina’s head, but the older woman met the assault and parried again as the Silurian’s blade swung round, seeking to slice her head from her neck. Again, Eirianwen pressed in, a furious speed and intensity in her attacks. She slashed at the Clan Chief ’s head but Sorina ducked low, her sword licking out. The crowd gasped as Eirianwen’s blood flew brightly and she stumbled back, reaching for the wound in her belly.
Sorina roared, battle rage clearly upon her, and charged in, battering Eirianwen back, using her sword as a bludgeon, knowing that with the blood loss, so the strength leeched from the body.
Eirianwen was forced down to one knee and only barely managed to deflect a blow that would have opened her skull. For a moment, the two women’s blades locked together, the Amazon seeking to drive her foe into the ground.
Lysandra screamed and it seemed to her that Eirianwen heard, for she surged upwards, forcing the older woman back and away her own sword hissed down diagonally, slicing across Sorina’s chest. The cut was not deep enough to finish her, but it bled profusely, staining the Amazon’s sweat-slick skin with blood. The crowd went into paroxysms of excitement as the two fighters, bloodied and hurt, closed in, their faces set in pale determination.
The contest continued at a furious pace, neither woman giving ground despite their wounds. They stood in full reach of each other’s blades, trusting more on their skill than avoidance. Again, Sorina hit home, this time cutting across the heavy flesh of Eirianwen’s left breast. The crowd hissed as blood sluiced from the wound, drenching her torso. She cried out in pain and Sorina struck out once more but her blow was parried. Eirianwen used her momentum to follow through, the pommel of her sword hilt smashing into Sorina’s face.
The Amazon fell over backwards, hitting the sand heavily. But Eirianwen could not press her advantage. Her own wounds were taking their toll, and in a moment Sorina had recovered and rolled to her feet. Her nose was shattered, sheeting her mouth and chin in thick, purplish globules.
Slower now, they came together again. Stroke met counter-stroke, all thought of skill and technique fled. All that mattered was to beat the other into exhaustion. Time and time again their blades met flesh but both lacked the power to land a killing blow.
Lysandra could not bear to watch, but neither could she tear her eyes away from the awful scene as the two hacked at each other. Each time Sorina struck home, she felt the blow as keenly as did Eirianwen, each time the Amazon cried out in pain, the fierce exultation was her own.
Drunkenly, the tribeswomen tottered towards one another, barely distinguishable, so coated were they with blood and arena filth. As they came together, Sorina’s sword dipped imperceptibly, her years seemingly catching up with her, and it was then Eirianwen struck. Her sword hammered down on the older woman’s blade, knocking it from her hands. She lunged in, her weapon spearing straight for the Amazon’s throat.
Sorina twisted aside, her arms clamping onto Eirianwen’s wrists, and she spun about, now in control of the blade. For a moment, they struggled, then the Amazon stiffened and pushed with the last of her strength.
Eirianwen’s cry was loud as her own blade was rammed into her stomach, exploding from her back in a bloody mist. Sorina stepped back, her face a hideous mask of horror as the Silurian lurched away, fingers scrabbling desperately to pull the cold metal from her body. Her mouth worked, but no sound came forth as her ruined innards forced bile into her throat. It dribbled obscenely down her face as she fell to her knees and rolled slowly onto her side.
She lifted her head in the direction of the Gate of Life, her hand reaching imploringly to Lysandra.
Lysandra wailed insanely and hurled herself at the gates, trying to smash the iron with her own body, desperate to be with Eirianwen. But through tear-blurred eyes, she saw Eirianwen’s arm fall and her head loll to one side, and knew that she was gone.
Howling with grief, Lysandra felt many hands upon her, pulling her back. Spittle slavered about her mouth as she struggled against them, screaming incoherently. Something heavy slammed into her head, but she did not relent, surging away from her captors as she crashed into the Gates once more.
Again, she was struck, and again, until finally the darkness took her.
XXX
Lucius Balbus hummed tunelessly as a slave went through the complex process of adjusting the lanista’s toga. Despite the permanent loss of Eirianwen, the profit that he had made from her demise was enormous. Somewhat worrying was the current state of Sorina: the Amazon had sustained serious injury in the battle, and now lay close to death in the surgery.
But it was still worth the payoff. With the money from the games as a whole and his cut of the betting he could buy more quality slaves to replenish his stock. Experienced slaves at that.
And of course, there was Lysandra: Stick had informed him that there had been some trouble with her when Eirianwen fell.
Apparently, the two women were intimate and the Spartan had taken her death badly. That sort of thing was impossible to control, he mused, as the slave applied a sweet-smelling pomade to the sheer white cloth of the toga. It would not do to meet Frontinus smelling of the fuller’s piss.
Deprived of the company of men, the women inevitably fell to relationships with their own sex. Other lanista’s were much harsher on their stock, banning any kind of liaisons, but Balbus was prepared to endure the difficulties that a freer ludus gave rise to in return for the emotionally stable fighter. It was all about compromise in the business.
Lysandra was young and would get over Eirianwen’s death — of that he was certain. And, with the right touch from Falco, she could be promoted to attain phenomenal adulation from the masses. With Frontinus’s endorsement, the women’s event was attracting more attention from the public, and that meant more money for hard-working lanistas like himself. The crowd, then, would need a heroine.
Lysandra, he decided, would be that heroine. All it would take would be a few more matches against quality opposition and she would gain some renown and critical experience. It was all he could do to refrain from dancing with glee all the way to his litter.
Catuvolcos stood over the still form of Sorina. The surgeon, a small, fussy-looking man who sported a fading black eye, was applying a stinking unguent to the grievous wounds the Amazon had sustained. Her face was pale, the lines about her eyes seeming more pronounced.
‘Will she live?’ Catuvolcos found his voice to be too loud in the stillness of the surgery.
The surgeon looked up from his work. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
