Roma Victrix (47 page)

‘We'll carve her up for your entertainment and then get on with the games proper!'

Lysandra started as she felt the familiar impact of a vine staff on her back, the pain dragging her back from the black precipice of grief. She turned her head slowly to see the furious face of Hister looking down at her. ‘You fucking bitch!' he spat. ‘Call that a fight?

You're fucking dead – dead, do you hear me? Get on your feet!'

Lysandra heard the Gate of Life clank open and she looked to see two gladiators step out in to the rain. One was
thraex
and despite the ornate headgear, the dark brown skin gave him away – Iason.

The other, tall and rangy, wore the heavy gear of the
secutor
, his long hair flowing down his chest from beneath the full-face helm.

Caturix, she guessed.

She felt as empty as Hades as she watched them come towards her, wondering if she should just kneel here till they put an end to her pain. As she thought it, thunder crashed above her and a spark of lightning illuminated the stadium, casting the mob in a hellish light. It was a sign from the gods, a sign that she must fight and live on. She looked around, unable to bring herself to pull the sword from Varia's body; she picked up the girl's own swords instead.

Rising to her feet in one fluid movement, Lysandra felt strangely removed from herself as though she was now sitting in the stalls watching the events unfold before her. She bounded across the sands towards the two men, the speed of her approach causing them to pause.

And that was all she needed. Still running, she raised her right hand sword and hurled it with all her force at Iason in a terrible imitation of the game he had shown her back at the
ludus
. The blade spun wickedly, and in the split second that the African gladiator considered whether to move or to raise his shield it had already hit him just under the chin. Fountains of blood erupted from his ruined throat and he collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.

Caturix raised his shield and set himself as Lysandra charged him, sword raised. The distance closed between them and then the Gaul began his counter-charge. As he did so, Lysandra hurled herself to the ground and skidded across the wet sand, taking his legs from under him. Caturix cried out as he flipped over, crashing down in a tangle of sword, shield and helm. She could hear his curses, muffled by his helmet, as he made to rise.

But, like a tigress, she pounced on his back before he could turn, and rammed Varia's sword into the nape of his neck, just beneath the protecting metal of the helmet. Gritting her teeth, she twisted the iron savagely, separating the cords that connected spine to brain.

Blood sprayed up, coating her once again with its hot, viscous stink.

She rose and turned on Hister, advancing slowly, deciding whether she should kill him as well.

He could read the intent in her eyes and raised his hands defensively. ‘It's all right, Lysandra, listen to the crowd! Listen!' this last was laced with shrill hysteria. ‘They loved it. You killed them both in a heartbeat… I've never seen anyone so fast… Please…don't kill me.' He began to back away, waving his hands in front of him.

She halted and let the sword fall from her grasp and turned her back on him, walking slowly to the small, still form of Varia.

Crouching, she lifted the child from the ground and carried her to the Gate of Death, her cheeks burning once again with tears of grief and shame at what she had done.

In the silence of the surgery, Lysandra wept.

She knelt by the side of the cooling corpse that had once been Varia, clutching her hand, her head buried in her side.

She still could not bring herself to remove the sword, the mark of her guilt and shame.

This was the judgement of Athene, she decided, a sacrifice she was marked to pay for her years of indolence and neglect. Not only self-neglect but also her disregard of the goddess. Building temples and monuments was no substitute for the reverence that lived in the heart. She had lost that, drowned it in a sea of wine, petty indulgence and pride.

Too proud to let the girl grow her own wings, too proud to tell her that she loved her, too proud to acknowledge that the child had become a woman. This was not the assuredness of the Spartan ways being superior to all others – she had slipped into vainglory and this was her punishment.

Whoever Lysandra loved would be taken from her. First, Eirianwen at the hands of Sorina and now Varia, killed by her own sword: it was, she thought bitterly, a fitting Olympian irony. Sorina had loved Eirianwen as though she had been her own daughter and, through Lysandra's actions, Eirianwen had died by her surrogate parent's hand. Now, one who Lysandra herself saw as the child of her blood had perished by her sword.

Medusa had once been a priestess of Athene and she had suffered at her hands. Arachne too paid the price for her pride – now Lysandra of Sparta, who considered herself chosen by the goddess, felt the weight of her displeasure. It was a bitter lesson.

‘Gods, no!'

A voice from behind her snapped her from her reverie. Lysandra turned slowly to see a man standing in the doorway. He was bruised and beaten, his tunic spattered with blood – he seemed somehow familiar to her, but she could not place him.

‘You killed her,' his eyes glittered with grief and accusation. ‘You killed her.'

Lysandra rose to her feet. ‘I did,' she replied. ‘But hear me when I say that I wish by all the gods that it was me laying there. I…'

she trailed off, still not able to believe what had happened. ‘I slipped.

I slipped and she…' Lysandra fought hard to stem the well of tears; it was not the Spartan way to show weakness before others but her will was no match for her guilt and, like liquid fire, they spilled over to burn her cheeks. ‘I slipped,' she said again.

The man walked slowly over to the body, his face a mask of anguish. ‘I loved her,' he said. ‘I was going to ask her to marry me.

She would have been my wife and we would have left all this,' he gestured, ‘behind us.'

‘I am sorry.' It was all Lysandra could think to say. ‘I can see in your eyes that you loved her very much. As did I.'

‘Pyrrha was never going to be a match for you, Achillia. I know your… quality. I have seen you before.'

‘Varia.' Lysandra corrected. ‘Her real name was Varia.'

‘Varia,' he touched her curls. ‘She never told me.'

Recognition suddenly dawned in Lysandra's mind. ‘You are the tribune,' she said. ‘Valerian – friend of Frontinus.'

He looked up and smiled, his face bleak and bitter. ‘Once,' he replied. ‘But no longer. Rome took that from me and the gods, it seems, have not finished toying with me yet.' He clenched his jaw, eyes imploring her to leave him to his grief.

It would be wrong to shame him and allow a woman to see his tears. She smiled tightly and strode away. She heard him break down behind her but did not turn back.

Lysandra made her way back to her cell and could not help giving the small statue of Athene an angry glance. Its tiny, painted eyes glared back at her and she heard the voice of the goddess in her mind as clearly as she heard her own thoughts. ‘
You brought this on
yourself, Lysandra of Sparta. You fight in my name and I grant you victory
for honouring me. But you were in need of lessons and I have provided them
for you. Do not reach for the wine flask in this hour
.'

Lysandra nodded and sat on the bunk, her back pressed into the cold stone wall, rubbing her forehead and eyes. Wine would make it all go away for a while, but the goddess had forbidden her even that comfort. She heard footsteps and looked up angrily, about to send whoever it was away, but the words died on her lips.

The woman who stood before her was the most beautiful she had ever seen. Lysandra's mouth went dry and fear leapt into her heart – was this Aphrodite herself come from Olympus to mock the fallen priestess of her sister? It must be – everything about her was perfection: no mortal could be blessed with such beauty. Lysandra just stared at her in abject shock, her fraught mind unable to deal with this supernatural occurrence.

‘You knew Pyrrha?'

So, this was a mortal after all, for an Olympian would know that

‘Pyrrha' was simply an obscfuscation, but a mortal so gifted by the gods that she must be a favourite. ‘Yes,' Lysandra replied. ‘Her name was Varia, not Pyrrha. I brought her up. Trained her. Killed her.'

‘She was my friend.' The woman sat on the edge of Lysandra's bunk. ‘I too trained her. My name is Aemilia Illeana, but you will know me as Aesalon Nocturna.'

‘Ah,' Lysandra nodded, too weary and drained to feel anything other than numb at this revelation. ‘We are to fight in Rome.'

‘Yes, we are.' She met Lysandra's gaze. ‘That's why I came to see you. You fight very well, but it is my hope that you will not come to Rome yet. I think we have much in common, you and I and…' she hesitated for a moment, ‘I have no wish to kill you.'

Lysandra chuckled, a low scratched sound that bounced off the walls of the cell. ‘That is a pity,' she replied and left it at that. ‘You trained her, you say?' She shook her head. ‘That child was never a killer – surely
you
–
Gladiatrix Prima
– must have seen that! Why did you put her in the arena! Why!'

The perfect face turned pensive: it was like looking upon the finest sculpture made real, so heartachingly beautiful were her features. ‘Because it is what she wanted. Needed, in fact.'

‘You should have refused to train her.'

‘If I had, she would have gone elsewhere,' the gladiatrix replied.

‘She meant a lot to me, Achillia – more than I knew, until you…until it happened,' she amended.

‘She meant more to me, Aesalon Nocturna. More than you can know.'

‘Your grief is written all over your face. That is why I don't want to fight you. You will not be right up here,' she touched the side of her head and then smiled. ‘Once, Pyrrha – Varia – said to me that I was ‘one of the best gladiatrices in the world'. I see now that she meant you were the other, but Achillia, you have been through too much. If this had not happened, I would revel in the chance to test myself against you. But know this. I have seen you fight and, even with an unclouded mind, I know I would probably beat you.

After this… I know I can. Don't do this. Postpone till next year when you are… healed.'

Lysandra looked straight into her beautiful eyes, the ice-blue of hers locking with the emerald perfection of Aesalon's. She held her gaze for long moments and then she saw it, a ghost in the depths of the Roman's soul. She was afraid. Lysandra knew that fear: it was a fear she had shared with Varia before her fight with Sorina; the fear that she was not up to the task, that the other woman was a better fighter; that, despite all her confidence and all her victories, she may have finally met someone who was more than a match for her. Aesalon Nocturna had reigned supreme in the arenas of Rome, vanquishing all who stood before her. But Aesalon Nocturna had now seen Achillia and she knew that here was someone who could kill her.

‘It is the will of your emperor that we fight,' she said at last.

‘I will speak to him; he will not want to be cheated out of a good spectacle, after all.'

‘I thank you for your concern
,
Aesalon Nocturna, but it is wasted.

I lost my love and now I have lost one who I considered a daughter to me. I have nothing to live for now, save serving my goddess, Athene. You know that the most dangerous opponent is one who cares nothing for her own life. You, Aesalon, must be prepared to stand in front of me and to do that, you must be prepared to die. I do not think you are – and that is why you will lose.'

Fire sparked in her eyes but was quickly doused by something other than fear. She looked away quickly. ‘I offered you a chance at life.'

‘No,' Lysandra replied. ‘What you tried to do dishonours you, and I can see you feel the disgrace of it. You saw me fight and you saw that I could beat you – probably the first time you have seen anyone come even close to your skill. You came here hoping to profit from my grief and sow seeds of doubt in my mind so that the scales might be equalled.

Both your fear, and your actions because of it, shame you.'

She did not bother to deny this. Instead, Aesalon Nocturna stood and made her way to the door as if to leave but then she hesitated, turning her head slightly so her profile was half-illuminated by torchlight. It was a sight that Lysandra would remember as long as she lived. ‘In Rome, then,' Aesalon said.

‘In Rome,' Lysandra replied.

Illeana made her way straight to the trainer's enclosure, her face burning with shame. Achillia had seen straight through her and had been right in everything she said. For the first time in her career, Illeana was afraid and the fear had made her act without thought. It was beneath her to try to undermine the other woman's confidence – she was
Gladiatrix Prima
!

Or was she, the fear whispered in the back of her mind. She had fought countless bouts, won countless victories, some harder fought than others, but she knew that none of those women were in Achillia's class. The Spartan gladiatrix had the scars that proved she had been tested sorely in the past and emerged as
victrix
. Illeana had very few and they were mild, mere scrapes: she had often said that the marked-up fighter was a poor one because it showed that she could not defend herself properly. But the display that Achillia had put on destroyed that theory: she held Pyrrha off with consummate skill and sickening speed.

There was, Illeana knew, only one way to purge the doubt in her mind – and that was to fight.

As she drew closer to the
lanista
's rooms, she heard raised voices and paused to listen.