Ferox went to the left, Vindex to the right, and one of the tribesmen must have seen them because he shouted a warning. Two of the men turned to face them, leaving the other to fight the man in the helmet, who jumped nimbly back, avoiding a spearshaft swung like a club. A cry of pure fear came from up above and Ferox saw two men falling, locked together, one with his arms around the other’s neck. They slammed into the fire itself, flinging burning branches as well as sparks. The man in the helmet was closest and stumbled back, only just managing to block a savage swing from the spear at the price of losing his curved sica, which clattered against the cliff face. He grabbed his other wrist to add strength to the gladius. Then Ferox realised that he was a she, wearing high Thracian boots just like the woman in the arena.
The shock nearly cost him dear as a warrior stamped forward and jabbed with his spear. Ferox had no shield, something he kept meaning to acquire, and leaped back, but slipped and fell. Vindex was busy with his opponent, and before he could get up the spear point thrust again, and he rolled to dodge it, losing grip of his sword. He rolled again, pushed with both hands and bounded up, but the warrior was standing over the lost sword, teeth bared in a grin. Ferox ripped off the brooch holding his cloak and swung the garment, the wool heavy from all the rain. The warrior kept his distance, watching and waiting for the right moment.
The warrior facing the gladiatrix threw his spear. She batted it away with her sword, and it struck sparks off the rock behind her, but the man had flung himself at her and with a clang and a weird, distorted cry, she was driven against the cliff. She pounded the top of his skull with the pommel on her gladius, striking again and again and drawing blood, and yet still he clung to her, trying to wrestle her to the ground. Ferox swung the cloak again, snapping it with the motion, and hoped the man facing him would throw his spear for that might give him a chance. Instead the next time he swung the cloak the man tried to catch it on his shield and pull it away.
Vindex drove his spear through his opponent’s stomach. At the same time the one struggling with the woman succumbed to repeated blows to the head and collapsed, one hand still gripping her tunic which tore away as he fell, exposing her breasts.
‘Bugger me!’ Vindex’s amazement was clear, but not enough to distract Ferox’s opponent, who lost his shield in the process, but plucked the cloak free from the Roman’s grip. The man grimaced again and thrust. Ferox grabbed the shaft, but his fingers slipped over the damp wood and came loose. Vindex was transfixed, and it was the woman who moved first, running as lightly as at the start of the fight, even with the front of her tunic hanging down over her belt. The warrior realised she was coming, must have been surprised when he turned his head and saw a silver mask and bare breasts, and Ferox grabbed his spear firmly this time. A moment later, the woman stabbed the long point of her gladius into the man’s eye. She twisted the blade, slipping it free as the warrior dropped forward onto his knees, and then she danced back a few places, glancing down at the two men who had landed in the fire. They were both obviously dead.
Ferox still had hold of the spear and spun it around so that the point was towards her. Vindex, breaking free of his happy stupor, drew his sword.
‘I don’t want to kill you.’ The woman’s voice was distorted by the small mouthpiece in the mask. She spoke in the language of the tribes.
‘That’s nice,’ Vindex said. ‘Can we be friends?’
‘Why are you following us?’ Ferox asked. ‘What do you want?’
‘To help.’ She stood, balanced perfectly on the balls of her feet, ready to take her sword against either of them. ‘I could have managed all four if you hadn’t shown up.’ It was hard to tell her tone because of the mask, but she sounded matter-of-fact. Ferox saw a small darker mark on the skin between her breasts.
‘All four?’ Vindex asked mockingly.
‘They were only men.’ She was slim, fairly tall and had dark hair tied in a ponytail hanging down from the back of her helmet. It swung every time she switched her guard to face the other man.
‘Did the Mother send you?’ Ferox asked. He had seen that mark before, just this summer, a little scar between the breasts, a sign that a woman was one of the initiates of a cult of fighters who lived far away on a tiny island off the Caledonian coast. Boys and young women from Hibernia and the northern tribes went there for three years or more to be taught by the Mother, a woman who had been a skilled warrior, but was now sworn not to kill or to lie with a man and instead devoted her life to training her charges. A few months ago he had seen one Mother killed and another take her place.
‘No.’
‘That’s my sword.’ Ferox had just realised that she was carrying his gladius.
The woman swung the blade so that it hummed through the air. ‘It’s a good one,’ the oddly muffled voice conceded.
Ferox lowered his spear, though not so much that he could not easily bring it up to parry or attack. ‘Take off your helmet and tell us your name.’
‘No.’
‘Come on, love.’ Vindex gave the leering smile that was his only smile. ‘Let us see you. Judging from your tits you must be a rare beauty.’
The woman used her left hand to snatch up the torn front of her tunic.
‘Pity,’ Vindex said.
There was an odd noise. Ferox wondered whether she had tried to spit in contempt, forgetting that she was wearing the mask.
‘Drop the sword,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk.’
‘Yes, come on, love. There’s two of us and one of you. The odds aren’t good.’
‘Do you want me to wait for another ten to join you?’
Vindex snorted with laughter. ‘I like her. But look, lass, we did just save your life.’ He took a pace closer. The woman darted forward, thrusting the sword so that the point was at eye level. Vindex jumped back, tripping over the corpse of the man he had killed and sprawling onto his back. ‘Bugger!’ he gasped as he landed. The woman turned back, sword facing Ferox.
‘I have saved your life twice, centurion. So we are still not even.’
‘You saved me from the fire,’ he said, and it all seemed so obvious now. ‘And stole my sword. That’s once.’
‘In the amphitheatre. I threw the spear down to you.’ She had switched to Latin, the words fluent and vaguely familiar, although it was hard to be sure.
‘I thought you threw it at me.’
‘If I had, we would not be having this conversation. You offer a big mark. I would not need to be Camilla to strike you at that distance. Your frame is a large one.’ The words were precise, well chosen and correct, so that the mention of the Volscian warrior maid from the Aeneid sounded entirely natural.
‘Fat arse,’ Vindex said softly, and started to laugh.
‘Show some respect,’ Ferox said, and thrust his spear into the ground. He raised his hands to show that they were empty. ‘This lass might well be your next high queen.’
‘Salve, Flavius Ferox.’ She reached up with her left hand, letting the front of her tunic flap down.
‘Lovely,’ Vindex said.