Roma Victrix (49 page)

Aesalon moved across the sand like a dancer, circling the bigger Swanhilde, looking for an opening. She carried her swords in a classical guard, Lysandra noted, leading with the left – her shield in effect – with the right held back for the counter strike.

Swanhilde decided to close the distance and punched out with her shield, hoping to knock Aesalon from her feet and finish the contest early. But the Roman gladiatrix moved with liquid fluidity, the muscles in her thighs and calves tensing as she spun away from the blow, her lead blade lashing out in response, forcing Swanhilde to turn as she did so. She took the first attack on her blade and brought the shield to bear just in time. The crowd gasped as Aesalon's blade scored its lacquered front.

Swanhilde gritted her teeth and drove forward like an infantry soldier, shield up and attacking from behind it but, instead of falling back, Aesalon threw herself forward, ducking low under the German's line of sight for the briefest of instants. She swayed to Swanhilde's right, her sword lancing out and up, bisecting her guard. Swanhilde jerked back but she was too slow and Aesalon's blade sliced up her chest to the side of her face. Blood gushed and the crowed screamed its approval.

The wound was not serious, but Lysandra knew it would be excruciatingly painful: the side of Swanhilde's face and neck was sheeted red – she had lost part of her ear in the exchange. Furious, she lashed out, her sword slicing down but Aesalon had already moved away and the iron hissed at empty air. Calling on her gods, she waded forward, throwing everything into an all-out attack that this time did force the
Gladiatrix Prima
back and, for the first time, the sound of iron against iron rang out as the Roman deflected the furious onslaught of sword and shield. Swanhilde, it seemed, had forgone the idea of using the shield for protection and turned it into a weapon, trying to batter the lithe Roman over.

She hacked down again. This time, Aesalon trusted her strength and met the blade. For a moment they were locked together and the Roman's right-hand weapon arced over Swanhilde's shield and plunged into her shoulder. Red ichor spurted up and she staggered back, the shield falling to the ground with a thunk.

‘
Habet
,' Murco said, shaking his head.

Swanhilde's upper arms, neck and breasts were slick with rivulets of blood – there was no rain now to wash away the marks of combat. Gamely, she gripped the longsword in both hands and made ready once again.

Aesalon scented victory and, viper-quick, her swords spat out.

Swanhilde deflected the left thrust, but the right opened a gash on her belly. She cried out in pain, but this time Aesalon had strayed too close and the German barged into her, her greater weight taking the Roman champion's balance and knocking her onto her back.

Swanhilde rushed forward and swung her sword down.

It scored the sand as Aesalon rolled away and made to regain her feet, but Lysandra could tell that Swanhilde knew she had to keep on top of her now and she lashed out again as Aesalon rose to one knee. The Roman raised both weapons in a scissor-block. The German's heavier blade would otherwise smash through and split her skull. Metal screamed on metal as Swanhilde tried to force through but, despite the beguiling softness of her body, Aesalon was strong. Lysandra saw the muscles in her shoulders bunch as she met force with force and began to push back. Swanhilde's face turned scarlet with effort as slowly, inexorably, Aesalon Nocturna rose to her feet

Despite herself, Lysandra began to be caught up in the battle along with the rest of the ravening mob. The two women on the sands were now locked together, two titans straining against the other, so close that the blood from Swanhilde's wounds stained Aesalon's chest. She heaved, back muscles tightening, and shoved the German away from her.

Swanhilde staggered but did not fall. Holding her weapon two-handed, she leaned forward a little, her hair hanging about her face in bloody locks. This time it was Aesalon who initiated the attack, cutting towards Swanhilde's neck with her right blade. The German did not parry, but instead dropped to one knee and sliced her blade across Aesalon's belly as she spun past.

The two women stood opposite each other and the crowd stilled, and Lysandra fancied she could almost hear the patter of blood as it dripped from the wound to be drunk by the insatiable sand at Aesalon's feet. The Roman looked down as the flawless white of her
subligaricum
began to stain pink and touched her finger to the wound. She raised it to her lips and her tongue flicked out, tasting her own blood.

The crowd screamed in approval at this, chanting her name as she dropped back into her fighting stance and beckoned Swanhilde on. She held the mob in the palm of her hand, Lysandra realised, like a
lamia
feeding off their energy, using it to strengthen her resolve, and they in turn loved for her for it – because she never forgot that as well as surviving she had to put on a good show.

Swanhilde charged in, blade moving fast. She made as if to cut down, but it was feint – and she twisted the arc of the attack, hacking at Aesalon's neck, but the Roman was too canny and took the blow on her left sword, pivoting her feet as she did so. This served to guide Swanhilde's weapon aside, leaving her open and she cried out as Aesalon struck home, plunging her blade hilt deep into the German's exposed side, just over the kidney. Huge gouts of blood erupted from the wound as Aesalon dragged her sword free and Swanhilde stumbled forward for a few steps before falling flat on her face. Her conqueror knew there would be no more resistance and grasped her by her hair, pulling her to a kneeling position.

Swanhilde did not even have enough strength left to raise her finger for the
missio.
That, or she knew it was pointless, her life emptying out onto the sands. The crowd screamed for blood and Aesalon ended it cleanly, ramming her blade into the base of Swanhilde's skull, spearing her brain, the tip of the weapon exiting from the top of her forehead. Aesalon let her fall and raised her arms aloft as the mob hailed her as
victrix
.

Lysandra stood up. ‘I have seen enough,' she said.

‘Enough to beat her?' Kleandrias asked as he too rose.

‘If Athene wills it, I will win,' Lysandra replied. ‘She is skilled and very strong – deceptively so. But her
speed
is phenomenal. It will be a hard match.' She said no more, but made her way from the stalls, her trainer and bodyguards in tow. The fight had not shocked her because she had expected Aesalon Nocturna to be good.

What she had not foreseen was that the beautiful Roman was a far better fighter than Sorina herself. Younger, stronger and faster, she would have destroyed the Dacian as she was when Lysandra fought her. But – that had been years ago. Lysandra had matured and was in her prime now.

Athene was testing her again, pitting her at her full powers against someone who could equal her. A test that would define her, Lysandra realised. Win or die, that would be her
credo
from now on. There would be no
missio
. Not for her, not for Aesalon – because both of them knew that there was room for only one
Gladiatrix
Prima
.

The procession made its way up the hill towards the Temple of Athene, the sound of the mourners wailing loud and incessant. Lysandra had paid large numbers of them well enough to ensure that the funeral dirge would be heard in Hades.

The night was cold, and rain fell in misty, irregular flurries that soaked through clothing and skin, seeming to penetrate to the very bone.

The torches carried by the mourners crawled upwards like liquid fire on the hillside with a slow inevitability. She glanced at the man next to her: like herself, Valerian was clad in black, a funerary veil over his head. She could not tell in the darkness whether he wept but she was grateful that the night and the rain hid her own grief.

Her eyes were drawn once again to the pyre. It was stacked high and soaked in pitch, the aroma not dampened by the rain. On the pallet, Varia was laid out, arms across her chest, eyes closed as though she were sleeping. She was so young, Lysandra thought, and the accusing ghosts of her memories filled her mind. She recalled when they had first met in Balbus's
ludus
. She had been little more than a child then and they had become friends when Lysandra spared her from the wrath of Greta, one of Balbus's scrubs.

More than friends to Varia. Lysandra had always known it – Varia had looked up to her, worshipped her almost. She was everything that the child had wanted to be. Tall, strong, hard and able to stand up to the Gretas of the world. It had flattered Lysandra's ego to have Varia in tow and amused her as the girl trained alongside her.

But the child had grown to womanhood and Lysandra had curbed her ambition, for her own safety: she had always known in her heart that Varia was not a killer. Her nature was too gentle. Even as they had fought, Varia's harsh words had seemed forced – as though she was trying to justify her own actions.

You should have let her win
, the ghosts accused her.
It should be you
lying there
.

The mourners reached the summit and their dire increased in its intensity, high-pitched and keening. When she could stand it no longer, Lysandra raised her arms and waited as the howling died out. She stepped forward, clearing her throat:
Only-begotten, noble race of Zeus,
Blessed and fierce, who joys in caves to rove:
O, warlike Pallas, whose illustrious kind,
Ineffable and effable we find:

Magnanimous and famed, the rocky height,
And groves, and shady mountains thee delight:
In arms rejoicing, who with Furies dire
And wild, the souls of mortals dost inspire.

S
upple virgin of terrific mind,

Dire Gorgon's bane, unmarried, blessed, kind:
Mother of arts, impetuous; understood,
Rage to the wicked, wisdom to the good:
Female and male, the arts of war are thine,
Fanatic, much-formed dragonness, divine:
Over the Phlegrean giants, roused to ire,
Thy coursers driving, with destruction dire.

Sprung from the head of Zeus, of splendid mien,
Purger of evils, all-victorious queen.

Hear me, O Goddess, when to thee I pray,
With supplicating voice both night and day,
And in my latest hour, give peace and health,
Propitious times, and necessary wealth,
And, ever present, be thy votaries aid,
O, much implored, art's parent, grey-eyed maid.

As Lysandra sang, the old priest made his way from the temple, leading a magnificent bullock: so well-drugged was the beast that the rain did nothing to rouse it. ‘Athene!' she shouted, her voice cracked and heavy with emotion. ‘Hear me!
This was my fault
. Mine! I am your handmaiden and this is my punishment for turning from your path. I ask forgiveness and I will pay in blood if that is your will.'

She had given voice to her shame and her punishment, she knew, would go on till the day she died. It was guilt from which she could never be expunged. Athene would broke no deals: Lysandra could not throw herself onto the swords of Aesalon Nocturna and hope to end her pain so easily. The goddess would not allow it. So she must fight to win and honour the goddess that she had turned her back on. She had strayed unknowingly, perhaps, but ignorance was no excuse and Athene could be cruel to her priestesses as Medusa's dire fate had shown.

Lysandra stepped back and the old priest began the Hymn to Hades:

Beneath the hills and wrapped in night, the cavernous plains below, the
realm of Hades.

Mystic Hades, Holder of the Keys of Earth,
Incline Thy sacred ear, unlock Thy deep and adamantine gates, and bring
abundant fruits to bear.

All needy mortals pray to Thee, and You reply with riches from your
hidden chambers.

The seat of Gods, the basis of mankind is fixed upon Thine Avernean
throne in the Underworld,

Distant, unknown to rest, where darkness reigns, and destitute of breath,
pale spectres dwell.

In dread Acheron, whose depths are shrouded, and Earth's stable roots are
held secure,

Thou determines the fates of the dead, heeding the council of Queen
Persephone, Thy wife.

In Thy black chariot, by sable horses drawn rapt over the deep, in the
wondrous cave of Atthis, the wide gates display the entrance to Thy realm
devoid of light.

Thou shelter mortal souls in the comforting heart of Gaia, in the dark
womb of Earth.

Father of Dionysus, of subtle works, Thou alone are the author, visible
and known.

Teacher of Mysteries, Rapturous Lover, Power All-Ruling, Holy Giver
of Hope, who delights in the hymns of sacred poets, grant favour to the work
of Your Sister's Priest

And rejoicing come, for Holy rites are Thine.

Lysandra made her way to the pyre and retrieved the sacrificial axe that that had been placed there. The priest poured oil and then wine over the bullock's head as Valerian stood by with a bowl.

Gritting her teeth, Lysandra swung the weapon with all her strength.

It struck the animal at the base of its neck, nearly severing the head from the body.

Blood sprayed up from its ruined arteries, spattering them with hot, stinking fluid as the bullock's legs went from under it, dead before it hit ground. Valerian leaned forward, allowing the bowl to fill, body shaking with suppressed grief as he did so.

‘Gods on Olympus,' he cried. ‘Accept our offering and accept…

Varia… to the Fields of Elysium!' At this, he emptied the contents of the bowl onto the pyre and stepped away.

Lysandra took a torch from one of the mourners, steeling herself.