The prisoners exulted, but their joy was short-lived as other mounted warriors, alerted by their now fallen comrade, galloped into view.
Lysandra was shocked as the men were dispatched like so many animals; it offended her that they were scarcely given a fighting chance. No matter what their transgressions, it seemed barbaric in the extreme to butcher them so. Perhaps, at times, Sorina’s view of Rome was not so awry.
‘Don’t fight shit again!’ Hildreth said, interrupting her thoughts.
‘It is for real out there,’ she added as another of the unfortunate prey in the forest was skewered.
‘I will not, of that I can assure you,’ Lysandra replied tersely.
She spun on her heel and left Hildreth to her watching.
Lysandra returned to find the Hellene women. They sat in silence, each lost in thought. She thought to say some encouraging words but held her tongue. Perhaps they needed this time to reflect, to steel themselves for the coming trials. With little else to do, Lysandra sat, and her mind turned to Eirianwen. She shook her head, irritated with herself. She too had to focus on her combat.
It was not the Spartan way to err towards distraction. Despite her feelings for the tribeswoman, she must cast her from her mind. She once again considered that she was blessed: Hellene by birth, Spartan by the grace of the Gods as the saying went.
Only a Spartan could have such control of her emotions, she knew. It was what made them superior to all others.
Stick emerged from the gloom of the catacombs, his ugly face twisted in a grin. In his hand he carried a bucket of oil. ‘It’s almost time,’ he said. ‘The executions are about to finish.’ This pronouncement caused a stir among the women. ‘You had better start to get ready.’
‘Who is to fight first?’ Thebe wanted to know. There was a crack in her voice that Lysandra recognised as the beginning of fear.
‘Why, our Spartan, of course,’ Stick said. He set down the oil and left with a small wave.
Lysandra smiled tightly, and pulled her tunic away, tossing it to Danae. The Spartan rolled her head, loosening the muscles in her neck, casting all thought from her mind. Victory lay in preparedness, in training. The mind must be given over to reaction, not thought. Thus, she performed her callisthenics without being aware of her routine. Her body began to sweat and her muscles relaxed — she felt no tension as she worked, her mind clear and prepared.
She stooped and took a handful of the oil Stick had left them and slicked it through her hair, scraping the raven locks back severely. As if by unspoken order, Thebe approached and tied back her hair. The Corinthian took some oil, and began to work it into the scarred muscles of Lysandra’s back, whilst Danae came forward and, kneeling, began to apply the unguent to her legs and torso. As the two worked on her, Lysandra found that the application of the oil was somehow cathartic. It was as if with each pass of her companion’s hands she was less Lysandra and more Achillia, that the unguent was somehow an armour that protected her true self from the arena fighter that was Achillia.
Danae and Thebe stepped back admiring their handiwork, nodding appreciatively at Lysandra’s body gleaming slightly in the torchlight. Clad only in the subligaculum loincloth, her pale skin gave her the appearance of a marble statue.
‘You are as ready as you’ll ever be,’ Danae said.
Lysandra stepped forward and, flanked by Thebe and Danae, made her way towards the Gate of Life.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Thebe whispered as they walked. ‘All will be well.’
‘Do not be absurd,’ Lysandra murmured. ‘Spartans fear nothing.’
‘Well, I’m afraid.’ Thebe was waspish. ‘How can you be so calm?’
Lysandra glanced at her. ‘Because I know I am going to win.’
They stopped by the entrance to the Gate, and looked out upon the crowd. It was mid morning and the arena was not yet full, but there was throng enough to make a massive noise.
‘It is sort of exciting,’ Danae said, ignoring Thebe’s baleful look.
A fat, balding man puffed his way onto the sands, and began motioning for silence. He raised the horn to his mouth, and began to shout. ‘The first of today’s combats is upon us!’ he bellowed and was instantly drowned out by the crowd. It took some time, but eventually they quieted. ‘The gladiatrices to fight for your pleasure today come from great warrior lands. Far to the north, beyond the land of the barbarian Britons is Caledonia, a place where they eat the flesh of babies and worship evil gods!’
This was greeted with a chorus of boos and hisses. Evidently, the editor was casting Lysandra’s foe in the role of villain. ‘Great Governor Frontinus, gathered notables and people of Halicarnassus, I bring you Albina of Caledonia!’
At his words, the Gate opposite Lysandra’s own swung open, and a huge woman stepped out. She was freakishly tall, her skin whiter than winter snow; on this canvass she was painted in weird blue designs, spirals and arcane symbols that crawled all over body.
Her chest was so corded with muscle that her breasts were non-existent, and thick ridges stood out on her stomach. Her head was shaved bald, giving her an even more hellish aspect. The Caledonian was truly an awesome sight, towering like a colossus as she derided the abuse the crowd hurled.
‘What do you think?’ Danae said after some moments of stunned silence.
‘I think I shall need a bigger sword,’ Lysandra muttered, taken aback at the sheer size of the woman despite herself.
‘And her opponent,’ the fat man was shouting, ‘from the great warrior state of Sparta,’ he gestured theatrically. ‘I give you Achillia!’
The Gate of Life drew open but Lysandra remained inside. It was Achillia who stepped out before the crowd.
To the sound of the trumpets, Lysandra marched towards the centre of the arena, as did the massive Caledonian. She could hear the odd dirty comment at the sight of her near naked body, but this she ignored. That women were made to fight in near nudity was all part of the show and she knew it.
She faced Albina as slaves rushed out, handing the two women buckler and sword. The Caledonian grinned at Lysandra, revealing a savage array of teeth that had been sharpened to carnivorous points. Lysandra cocked an eyebrow at this, her own mouth twisting in a sneer.
The two turned and saluted the governor, who acknowledged them with a nod of his head. This done, they whirled about to face each other. The Caledonian dropped into a fighting crouch.
Lysandra remained standing erect. She stretched her neck from left to right and spun her sword twice in her hand, drawing appreciative whistles from the watching mob. Only then did she take an on guard position.
‘I’ll kill you,’ Albina growled, her voice hideously distorted by her sharpened teeth.
‘The contest is not won on foul stench and ill-looks. Were that the case, you undoubtedly have the advantage. As it is, I shall carve you to ribbons, you barbarian bitch.’ With that Lysandra stalked forward, her face an implacable mask.
Albina did not rush in as Lysandra’s first opponent had done.
She was no novice and she would not be provoked by harsh words. She allowed herself to be tracked, content to mirror Lysandra’s movements, cutting off her angle of attack.
They circled for some moments, neither willing to commit to the strike. Lysandra could hear the mob becoming restless, shouting for some action. Let them, she thought. They are not fighting a Colossus made female.
Suddenly, without sound or warning, Albina lunged in with a quickness belying her enormous size. Her short sword hissed like a viper as it cut the air, and instinctively Lysandra raised her shield to intercept the blow.
It was like punching a wall of marble, so powerful was the Caledonian’s strike. Gritting her teeth, Lysandra hit back, feeling her own blade clatter off the barbarian’s shield.