Roma Victrix (46 page)

He leapt to his feet and began shoving his way through the crowd, heedless of anything but the need to get down there and stop the fight. Buffeted this way and that, he became frantic as he tried to force a way forward, ignoring the blows that were aimed at him from disgruntled supporters. A punch caught him on his head and he felt a sharp pain and then the heat of blood as it began to pour down his face, but he pushed on, surging through till he reached the cordon of guards that separated the mob from the arena.

‘We have to stop this!' he yelled at one of them, voice straining above the crowd and the crash of thunder.

‘It's a fight, mate,' the auxiliary said. ‘No stopping it till one of 'em's dead or gives up. Get back to your seat, eh, there's a good fella.'

Valerian lurched forward, trying to leap over the balustrade and onto the sands, but the soldier was ready for him. His
pilum
shot up and smashed, butt-end, into Valerian's stomach. Air whooshed out of his lungs and the pain made him collapse to his knees.

‘That's enough of that, all right,' the soldier said. ‘Get back to your seat, mate, or I'll fucking have you.'

Valerian was desperate now and again he made a try for the arena.

Too slow. The soldier kicked him down and began calling for help.

Kicks from hobnailed boots began to rain down on him. ‘Please!' he screamed. ‘Please stop the fight…' He kept shouting it over and over until there was a roaring sound in his ears and blackness descended upon him with sickening abruptness.

Illeana watched in confusion as Pyrrha faced off against Achillia.

The other gladiatrix was tall and strong, carrying herself with a casual arrogance that was frightening. But when Pyrrha began her sword dance, Illeana saw that the other fighter was taken aback.

Shocked even – and that was good, because though this routine of Pyrrha's was dangerous, it
did
leech confidence from her opponents.

But the bout did not begin as Illeana – and everyone else in the arena – had expected. Instead of getting down to business, Pyrrha's tall, pale-skinned opponent began shouting first at Pyrrha and then the
lanista
. Illeana could not hear her words, but it was clear she had no desire to do battle. There was more to this, she realised, than a simple lack of courage or desire to cross swords with her opponent.

Pyrrha, however, was not to be deterred and, after a few more moments of angry gesticulating from Achillia, she took matters into her own hands and forced the fight to begin. The crowd roared its approval and then laughed as the sudden start caused the
lanista
to leap out of the way and slip, loosing his footing on the wet sand.

Pyrrha attacked Achillia with gusto, laying in with a furious combination of blows that would have taken any other fighter apart.

But the Spartan, despite being taken by surprise, was able to fend off the furious assault, almost as if she knew what Pyrrha was going to do before she did it. The young gladiatrix gamely kept up the pressure but, to Illeana's experienced eye, it was clear that she was outclassed and, even more troubling, she could tell that Achillia had had more than one chance to break through Pyrrha's defences and score her own hits – chances she seemed unwilling to take. As the fight unfolded, understanding began to dawn on Illeana and with it the totally unexpected and unfamiliar feeling of fear.

With a snarl, Varia leaped towards her, swords blurring as she tried to hit home and it was all Lysandra could do to raise her own weapons in response. With a sharp clash, blade met blade as she deflected the downward cut of Varia's right hand and the vicious horizontal slice from her left. She followed by turning full circle, leaping into the air as she spun, then delivering a powerful downwards strike. The whole thing seemed to happen as though it were underwater, Varia flying towards her, the sight made hellish by the driving rain. As Varia landed, Lysandra was forced to stay her hand which, on instinct alone, snaked out to punch her blade through her guard and end the contest with a single blow.

Unaware of how close she had come, Varia seemed to take Lysandra's hesitancy as weakness and redoubled her efforts. Lysandra was forced to give ground, forced, she realised, to fight not only Varia who seemed intent on killing her but also herself as she battled her natural impulse to seize upon and exploit an advantage.

Varia cut low with her left and again spun about, her right-hand sword screaming towards Lysandra's neck. She ducked and twisted away, coming up in a fighting stance and, despite the stinging cold rain, she could feel sweat coursing over her body. The skin on Varia's neck and chest was red with exertion, her curls plastered all about her face. ‘Enough, Varia!' Desperate now to end this before it got out of hand, Lysandra implored her friend who had become like a daughter to her. ‘You have proven your point! I was wrong to stop you, I was wrong! I am sorry!'

Varia did not respond but again jumped in with a frenzied attack: by the gods, she was fit – whoever had trained her must have put her through the mill. Lysandra always liked to wait for her opponents to tire themselves and take them when they were weakened.

But as hard as she had trained, she could tell that Varia had equalled her. There was no lessening in the force of her blows, no tell-tale signs of slowness – the girl was just warming up.

Again, Varia attacked and again Lysandra back-stepped, fending her off; somewhere, far away, she could hear that the crowd had begun to boo and hiss at her as she broke the unbreakable rule of gladiatorial combat – you had to fight.

Varia too was showing signs of fury and frustration. ‘Fight me, Lysandra, fight me!' she snarled. ‘Your avoidance mocks me!'

‘Varia, I…'

The pain was quite sudden and intense. Lysandra leapt away and glanced down, seeing a thin line of blood well into view from the point of her shoulder down to the soft flesh of her left breast. It was not deep but it began to bleed copiously, the rain causing it to slick in brownish rivulets down her torso. Varia cried out in triumph at first blood and redoubled her efforts, desperate now to humble her. She could read it in her eyes, this desperate need to win. But Lysandra knew now that she could not submit – she had run and played the mouse to Varia's cat. The crowd would not show her any mercy, thinking her a coward.

No, she would have to win and take Varia out of the fight and pray that she had done enough for the mob to grant her life for this impressive performance. She had to make them think that she would only win by luck alone.

She stopped running and she read the surprise in Varia's eyes: the girl knew that ‘Achillia' was on the retreat no more and, despite her bravado and evident skill, Varia knew well that she had not become
Gladiatrix Prima
for no reason. Varia made to attack again but Lysandra anticipated her aggression and was moving before the younger woman. Her foot lashed out, smashing up between Varia's legs, thudding into her pubic bone. She gasped in pain and was sent reeling as Lysandra struck her on the left side of her head, using the flat of her blade. As Varia staggered, Lysandra attacked again, this time her blade smacking the girl on the right side of her skull, drawing blood. Varia's eyes glazed for a split second but it was all Lysandra needed. She stepped in and kicked again, a powerful front kick that would have taken the door off a barn. It impacted on Varia's small sternum and the blow sent her crashing to the ground, flat on her back. In a rush, Lysandra was on her, sword pressed against her throat. She was about to instruct her to raise her finger when she felt the cold wood of Hister's vine staff press against her.

‘Step back,' he ordered.

‘What..?'

‘Step back or I'll have you dragged from here now and killed.

Call this a fight?' he hissed as she complied. ‘Get up, you,' he ordered Varia.

‘The fight is over,' Lysandra was furious. ‘It is
over
!'

‘It's over when I say so.
Pugnate
!'

Lysandra raised her blades once again as Varia charged in. Her legs looked unsteady, but she had no time to think of that now as, with a scream of pure rage, Varia leapt skywards once again, clearly determined to punish her for taking her out of the fight with apparent nonchalance. Blades poised, she descended like Nemesis herself.

It was all so clear now. Pyrrha had lied to her, lied to everyone about her past. This woman, this Achillia, was the one that had trained her. Their styles were too similar for it not to be so, though the Spartan wasted no effort with Pyrrha's signature jumps and pivots; she simply blocked and moved, not affording the young gladiatrix any chance to win the contest. The crowd hated it, but Illeana knew well that it took a greater amount of skill just to evade than it did to engage fully in the fight.

The Spartan was fast – Illeana was sure that she had never seen a gladiatrix move so well, especially when it was obvious that she was holding back. This had to be the champion from Asia Minor; this was the woman she would meet on the sands of Flavian. For the first time since she had begun fighting she felt the insidious worm of doubt crawl through the back of her mind: she was unsure if she could beat the tall, raven-haired warrior from Greece.

One thing of which she was certain: Pyrrha had no chance in this fight; it was only a question of how Achillia chose to end it.

She could not submit – the mob was making it clear that they were displeased, so the Spartan would have to wound Pyrrha to put her out of the fight. Just as the thought occurred to her, Pyrrha struck home, the tip of her blade slicing Achillia from shoulder to breast.

Hope flared briefly in Illeana's heart. She had become close to Pyrrha, closer than she realised and now, as her friend and protégé fought back, she cried out her support, willing her to somehow overturn the odds. But moments later she saw that cutting Achillia had been a mistake. Now the Spartan set herself and Illeana could see that she would turn defence into attack. When it came it was swift, stunning and merciless. A swift kick between the legs, two strikes to the head and another kick and Pyrrha was flat on her back.

Illeana cursed silently. Achillia should have put her out of it, but instead she had done the worst thing she could if she wanted Pyrrha to come to heel. She had humiliated her and that would prick the fiery gladiatrix's temper and drive her on.

After a brief respite called by the
lanista
, Pyrrha was up and flying at Achillia once again, leaping into the air, using the same move that had so successfully dispatched the Capuan fighter, Audacia.

But Lysandra was not to be so easily defeated and she made to step into the attack and bring Pyrrha down mid-leap. But as she moved, the sand betrayed her and she skidded, falling backwards as she collided with the falling Pyrrha.

If she allowed Varia to complete the manoeuvre, Lysandra realised in that moment that the younger woman would kill her. The need to survive seared through her and she closed the distance between them, aiming to smash Varia to the ground and finish this before either of them got badly hurt.

Her foot slipped on the rain slick sand, taking her legs from under her.

In horror, Lysandra fell back as Varia's full weight crashed into her and together they fell hard to the ground. Varia made a noise, somewhere between a cough and yelp and Lysandra felt hot, slick warmth all over her chest, belly and then her legs.

‘Varia!' she shouted. ‘Varia!' But Varia did not move or respond, her weight pressing heavily on Lysandra. Her dead weight. ‘No!'

Lysandra's throat constricted and tears sprung to her eyes as the awful realisation hit her. ‘No…' This time it was a whisper as she slowly eased the slight body from her own.

Varia rolled onto her back and there, like a guilty conspirator, Lysandra's sword protruded obscenely from her chest; it had sheared through her, straight into the heart. Rain fell onto Varia's dead face and into her eyes, eyes that did not blink as the heavy droplets spattered them.

Lysandra put her face into her hands, pressing hard against her eyes as she dragged her fingers down, praying that this was not true but knowing it was. ‘Varia!' she called again, kneeling at her side.

Lysandra lifted her head skywards and screamed, screaming till her throat was raw, begging Athene, Zeus, Hera and all the gods to change what had happened, but when she looked down again, Varia was still there, her beautiful curls still about her dead face. Lysandra bowed her head, putting her face into the girl's still-warm neck.

‘Why?' she whispered, her voice cracked and hoarse. ‘Why, Varia..?

I love you so much.' As she spoke, she was sickened by the realisation that this was the first time those words had passed her lips. ‘I am sorry,' she whispered, ‘I am sorry.'

Illeana put her forehead against the cold iron bars of the Gate of Life, closing her eyes lest anyone see her tears. She had allowed herself to become close to a fighter and that was a mistake no one who plied their trade in the arena could afford.

She willed herself to look up and saw the Spartan screaming to the gods before throwing herself onto Pyrrha's body, cradling it as would a mother her babe. Achillia was deaf to the commands of the
lanista
and to the furious booing of the mob. Illeana had always loved the crowd, the sound of fifty thousand Romans chanting her name, but for a brief moment she saw them as the condemned of the arena must, a rabid, merciless and cruel beast who lusted only for blood.

The
lanista
was waving for quiet and eventually some semblance of order was restored. ‘Good people of Paestum,' he shouted. ‘I can only apologise for this… this… débâcle! This one,' he pointed his vine staff at Lysandra who still sobbed at Pyrrha's side, ‘came to me claiming to be a champion, claiming that she could fight. Let's see if the bitch's blood runs yellow.' He waved frantically at the Gate of Life. ‘Bring me Gelus! Bring me Hercules!' he commanded.