Roma Victrix (57 page)

Lysandra thought it weak on her part and that fear was still with the
Gladiatrix Prima
of Rome. As the thought occurred to her, the Gate of Life opened and the clamour in the arena became an almost overpowering cacophony.

Lysandra could not help but be taken aback by the spectacular beauty of the Roman Champion. It was unearthly, everything about her was perfection; her body naked save for the
subligaricum
.

Oiled and smooth like a poet's fantasy, she was the embodiment of the Roman Aphrodite – Venus. Raising her swords to the heavens, she acknowledged the adulation of her people, head tilted back and eyes closed as she drank it in.

Slowly, she lowered her weapons and as she did so, the crowd became silent and still. Aesalon walked towards Lysandra, a half-smile playing on her over-plump lips and Lysandra stepped forward to meet her. They stopped some six feet from each other and turned to face the emperor's box. It was hard to make out all of the figures therein, but Lysandra recognised Domitian and was pleased to see her old sponsor, Sextus Julius Frontinus, next to him.

Both women raised their right sword and, as she had been instructed, Lysandra spoke at the same time as Aesalon: ‘
Ave, Caesar!
'

Domitian gestured his approval and she turned to face the Midnight Falcon. Lysandra breathed out sharply through her nose, stretched her neck from side to side and spun her swords twice, the sound hissing in the near silence of the arena. Then she settled back – very slowly – into her fighting stance: left sword slightly extended, right sword held back and high.

Aesalon did not raise her weapons, simply turning side on to Lysandra as Maro placed his vine staff horizontally into the space between them. His shout of
‘Pugnate!'
echoed in the silence and he drew the staff back in haste.

There was no hesitation – Lysandra leapt forward like a
ballista
bolt, swords raised at a strange angle. She saw Aesalon move to counter, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. Lysandra did not strike with her weapon, but used her fist, smashing it into the side of Aesalon's face. The weight of the blow was doubled by the iron
gladius
and the beautiful Roman reeled away, blood pouring from the cut that had opened on her cheek. Lysandra seized the initiative and, as the Roman tried to regain her balance, she skipped in, her foot lashing out, catching Aesalon hard in the ribs, knocking her over.

Lysandra rushed in to finish the fight there and then, but Aesalon rolled aside as Lysandra's blade scored the sand. She whirled to face the Roman who was up and closing in. Aesalon's left blade cut towards Lysandra's ribs and she intercepted, absorbing the force of the blow and she counter-attacked, stabbing out with her own left which was in its turn deflected.

They broke apart, circling warily. Around them, the arena seemed to be an almost living thing, seething with noise and excitement and screaming for Hellene blood. But it was the Roman who bled.

Aesalon circle-stepped on the attack, a sword scything in with vicious intent; it was too fast for Lysandra to evade the blow and she was forced to parry both this strike and its follow-up. The two women came together for a moment and Lysandra made to shove the Roman back. But Aesalon simply gave with the pressure and took Lysandra's balance. She fell forward and rolled onto her back as Aesalon charged in, this time
she
sought to end the issue.

As Lysandra twisted to one side, she snaked out her legs to entangle Aesalon's feet, sending her also into the dirt. Both women scrambled up, Lysandra an instant quicker, and now she was on the attack.

She was the stronger and she exploited this now, the endless hours of cutting down trees in Paestum paying dividends. Her arms coursed with strength as she rained blow after blow on Aesalon, forcing her to give ground, backing her up towards the wall of the arena. Aesalon tried to change her angles, but the ploy was obvious and Lysandra worked harder now, determined to back her up and finish her off on the wall.

She saw a gap in Aesalon's defences and seized upon it, thrusting her blade out to take the Roman in the throat, but as she moved she was horrified to see that Aesalon was waiting for this. She twisted away and Lysandra was forced to pull her blow lest she break her sword – and her wrist – on the wall. Aesalon's speed was her ally and she moved around, shoving Lysandra hard, smacking her into the wall and, in that moment, panic welled up inside her. She did the only thing she could.

As she hit the wall, she pushed herself straight back out again, catapulting herself into the closing Aesalon. The familiar liquid fire of blood and an open wound lanced through her as she felt the Roman's blade score up her shoulder. They crashed to the sand in a tangle of limbs, Lysandra laying atop the smaller Aesalon: she felt her arm coming across to snake around her throat but the oil on their bodies helped her and she slithered down, away from the killing grasp.

Lysandra scrambled up, trying to ignore the pain from the wound in her back. It was deep – she could feel it hampering her move-ments already. Aesalon knew it too; she could see it in her eyes, and this time it was the Roman's turn to take the initiative. Her attack came so fast that Lysandra barely had time to raise her weapons to defend herself. Aesalon's swords became as Zeus's lightning, flashing out in life-taking bursts that she was hard pressed to deflect.

In the half-light, Aesalon looked like a goddess, alive with fury. She cut down with her right, but as Lysandra raised her sword to defend, Aesalon spun her weapon in her grip, slicing it across Lysandra's torso, just beneath her breasts.

She hissed in pain as the blood burst out, sluicing down her body in hot rivulets. Aesalon did not stop to admire her handiwork but kept her momentum going, clearly hoping to overwhelm her.

Lysandra back stepped frantically, suddenly aware of the rising tide of fear and panic within her: this was the first time she had felt such fear in a bout because she knew now that this woman had the beating of her. She was too quick, too canny, and this was no Sorina whose age would eventually catch up with her. This was the
Gladiatrix
Prima
in her prime.

But, as she fought desperately to live, Lysandra heard faint voices carried to her on the breeze. ‘
Hellas! Hellas! Hellas!'
The Hellenes in the crowd were urging her on, as though somehow their voices could lend her strength. She would not disgrace her Spartan blood and she yelled in fury, leaping back at Aesalon, paying no heed to the thud of iron on flesh as Aesalon once again hit home, this time on her upper arm – Lysandra simply forced herself to come back at the Roman and she saw the shock in the other woman's eyes as she wrested back the initiative.

Their blades weaved, liquid fire in the torchlight, the discordant clash of iron on iron piercing the omniscient roar of the crowd.

Lysandra struck low with her left and exulted as bright blood sprayed up from Aesalon's sweat-drenched thigh. Gasping, the Roman tried to step back but Lysandra continued on, her right blade cutting in a vicious arc. Aesalon jerked her head back but the tip of the sword slashed down her left cheek, opening a shallow wound.

Aesalon staggered back, her hand coming to her face and touching the blood there. For a moment, all was still but then it was Aesalon who screamed with rage and charged into the attack.
You are also a
highly skilled pankratatist.
The words of Kleandrias came to Lysandra.

And I think that Aesalon is not accomplished in unarmed combat. These will
be our advantages
.

Lysandra decided to risk all and trust to the training of her youth.

As Aesalon rushed in, Lysandra cast her swords away, ducking inside the attack and grasping the
Gladiatrix Prima
's lead arm with her two hands. Twisting her body, she executed a hip throw, flipping Aesalon over and to the sands, her swords skittering away as she too hit the ground. Keeping her grip, Lysandra followed her down, left leg over Aesalon's throat, right knee braced against the Roman's body.

Lysandra pulled, knowing that it would only be a few moments before either Aesalon's shoulder or elbow broke. She gritted her teeth, head back, cords on her neck standing out as she exerted crushing pressure. ‘Come on!' she heard herself shout. ‘
Come on
!'

There was a sudden sickening, agonising pain in her calf. Lysandra screamed and jerked back, releasing her grip. Aesalon Nocturna sprang from the earth, her mouth a mess of Spartan blood. Snarling, she leapt forward and crashed into her and they rolled about on the sand, smashing blows into each other's faces. The oil on their bodies made purchase difficult as it became a gutter war, both women striving to batter the other into submission. Aesalon ended up on top. Hair hanging about her face, she used her fists like twin hammers.

Senses reeling, it was all Lysandra could do to cover up.

She had to escape or it would be all over.

She twisted about as though in panic, giving her back to the Roman, praying that Kleandrias had been right in his assessment that she was no
pankratatist
. She could almost feel the confusion passing from Aesalon's body to her own as she turned, but it was now that the strength training came to the fore. Lysandra forced her knees up and heaved, hurling the Roman from her.

Both women leapt up, Aesalon raising her fists like a boxer, Lysandra dropping back into the
pankratatist
's stance. Lysandra staggered, unable to put her weight on her right leg where Aesalon had taken a chunk out of her and the
Gladiatrix Prima
seized the moment, darting in with a furious combination of punches. There was no order to it: she was milling but it was effective, and Lysandra covered up as the Roman's fists thudded into her body and forearms.

As Aesalon took a breath, Lysandra struck back, a straight left that snapped her opponent's head back and a right cross that sent her down to one knee. Lysandra's eyes flicked about, looking for their swords, but the brawl had taken them far from where Aesalon's swords glinted in the torchlight— her own were lost in the darkness – and before she could run to them, Aesalon was up again.

They were both covered in blood and arena filth, Aesalon's once-beautiful features a mask of gore, one eye beginning to close. Lysandra too could barely see as the pounding she had taken began to swell the flesh around her eyes. Her body was becoming numb with exhaustion and blood loss, the muscles in her back seizing from the early wound. But Aesalon too was suffering and Lysandra could tell that she was realising the extent of the damage as
her
eyes sought a weapon.

Lysandra stepped towards the fallen blades of the Roman champion, but Aesalon matched her and then came forward, weaving like the boxers she must have seen in combat. Steeling herself, Lysandra raised her guard and went on the attack. They came together like weary titans, almost using the other's body to keep upright as they slammed blow after blow to head and body.

‘Worth the wait, wouldn't you say, Frontinus?'

The emperor was enjoying the fight immensely. It was, Frontinus thought, more savage than Achillia's encounter with Sorina and the skill level on display far higher. But like all fights, when tiredness set in, the action slowed and it became siege warfare, each woman seeking to batter down the defensive wall of the other.

He could hear the Greeks in the crowd screaming for their champion and he recalled the conversation with Iulianus earlier that evening. Someone the Greeks would fight for… He recalled that Achillia had once been a priestess of Minerva – or Athene, as the Greeks called her. She was a champion and she had led an army in battle, albeit a staged one. He remembered their conversation – six or seven years ago in Halicarnassus, where she had embarrassed Valerian and debated military tactics with him – Sextus Julius Frontinus, conqueror of the Silures. She was perfect.

‘Caesar,' he leaned closer to the young emperor. ‘I beg you – if the Greek raises her finger at the end of this – save her.'

Domitian glanced at him. ‘If that's what the crowd wants, Frontinus. I'm not going to risk upsetting them, mind. But if it's any comfort to you – and your purse, as I'm guessing you've wagered that she'll live – I think they've both done well enough for the
missio
.

I've never seen anything like this. But, as I say, it's not up to me.'

Frontinus opened his mouth to argue, but this was not Vespasian who would give him a hearing and see to the heart of the matter.

All he could do was pray that Achillia emerged from this victorious.

Breath exploded from Lysandra as Aesalon sank a vicious punch into her solar plexus; she was forced to try and hold on to gain respite and they staggered like two drunks as she did so. Lysandra jerked her head back and slammed it forward, catching the Roman above the right eye, opening a nasty cut and Aesalon broke away, hand coming to the wound.

Both women looked again for the swords and found that the battle had carried them towards the weapons. As one, they made for them, with the tired, exhausted stagger of drunkards. Lysandra scrambled in the sand to grasp one of Aesalon's blades, unable to see clearly, but she heard the rasp of iron on sand and knew that the Roman had already retrieved the other.

Lysandra reached inside herself, hearing the words she had once spoke to Varia –
pain is a feeling. You feel hot, you feel cold – all such
things are simply a state of mind
. Whatever she had left, she would use it now, and as she advanced on Aesalon she could tell that she too had reached that same critical watershed.

Win or die. It was the way of the gladiatrix.

There was no time for skill now – it was just blunt force as they fought like barbarians, hacking and slashing at each other with a desperate fury, both landing blows to arms and torso, both too numb to feel the pain. Bleeding from a dozen wounds or more, Lysandra's strength began to fail – but inside she knew that this was her edge and, as desperate as she was, Aesalon was in worse shape, the Roman's attacks coming slower and with less bite.