‘You are weak!’ Albina snarled and attacked anew, driving Lysandra back with a flurry of blows. The Caledonian’s greater height gave her an advantage in length of stride and her forward momentum ate up the ground between the two combatants, bringing her ever closer to Lysandra. The powerful northerner rained blows down on her, but she was able to fend them off with her parmula. Albina stepped in as Lysandra struck back and the two women locked together, sword on shield.
Lysandra felt her muscles bunch as Albina forced her downwards, straining against the inexorable force of the Caledonian giant. Albina’s eyes bulged as she pushed, cords of iron-hard sinew standing out on her pale flesh. Lysandra butted her head forward, trying to catch Albina unawares, but the savage warrior was too canny. She lifted her chin, allowing Lysandra’s forehead to slap harmlessly against her chest. She was now blinded by a wall of flesh, her face sliding over the oiled, muscled torso of her enemy.
Suddenly, pain tore through her shoulder as she felt Albina’s sharpened fangs sink into her. Blood burst from the wound, dripping wetly down her back and chest.
Agony lanced through her body, but the pain gave Lysandra strength and she surged back, shoving the heavier woman away.
She scuttled backwards and Albina laughed, a harsh guttural sound. Her sharp teeth were stained pink with Lysandra’s blood and thick, scarlet fluid hung from her chin in glutinous strands.
The crowd screamed, excited at the sight of first blood, and Albina spat out a whitish clump of Spartan flesh.
It was a sickening sight, but Lysandra ignored it, calling on her training, learnt both in the agoge and the ludus. Ignore the pain.
The mind is stronger than pain.
Her face emotionless, she advanced on her grinning opponent, refusing to allow herself to become angered. In fury lay defeat; she would win through superior tactics and skill. Her blade flashed in the sunlight as she attacked, causing the Caledonian to lose her sneer and focus on the task at hand. Albina struck back and Lysandra let her come on, waiting, waiting, judging the correct moment to strike. She lowered her buckler a fraction and the northerner seized the opportunity, stepping in to cut her head from her body.
Lysandra’s foot lashed out, hammering straight up between Albina’s legs, smashing satisfyingly into the barbarian’s pubic bone, causing her to cry out. Elated, Lysandra pounced, her blade cutting downwards. Albina hastily raised her buckler, catching Lysandra’s iron, but the deflection was glancing and the sword bit into her upper arm, causing bright droplets of blood to fly. Albina tried to stab her sword into Lysandra’s side, but her shield was there. The blow was still sickeningly powerful, the force of it knocking her off balance. Intertwined, the two women crashed to the sand, rolling over and over, each trying to gain the advantage.
Both gladiatrices scrabbled to gain a grip on the other, but their oil-slicked bodies would not allow purchase. As they writhed against each other, Lysandra felt her hold on her shield break and it was lost to her as they fought on. With a desperate effort, she scrambled on top of her foe, her blade spinning round in a dagger-like grip. She caught Albina’s sword arm with her left hand, now free of the buckler, and made to ram her sword into Albina’s chest; but the Caledonian, seeing her danger thrust her shield arm straight up before Lysandra could strike, the hide of the buckler slamming into her face with a stunning force.
Dazed, Lysandra fell back, regaining only enough of her facul-ties to roll away. The titanic Albina got to her feet, her huge chest heaving. Both women were bloodied and sand mired, the grit of the arena floor clinging to their bodies. The barbarian came in, and a furious flurry of blows was exchanged, Lysandra’s sword moving like lightning to deflect both blade and buckler, which was at once weapon and defence.
She was fast, but could not avoid a horizontal slash, and the tip of Albina’s sword sliced across her belly. She hissed in pain, but no respite was afforded her. Albina’s buckler swung round, catching her in the side of the head, slamming her from her feet.
Blood pounded in her ears as she crashed to the sand. White spots exploded before her eyes, and the world tilted crazily. Through the haze she saw Albina walking in, her sword raised for the killing blow.
No! It could not end thus.
Lysandra surged upwards, rolling towards the onrushing Albina.
The move caught the Caledonian off guard, but even so, she was fast enough to bring her shield down to protect her exposed stomach. Too late she realised Lysandra’s gambit.
Lysandra, crouching before her enemy, stabbed downwards with her sword, the blade cutting cleanly through the top of Albina’s foot, shearing through bone and gristle, to pin the screaming gladiatrix to the sand. Lysandra heard the dull thud as Albina cast her weapon aside, trying with both hand to dislodge the blade that had transfixed her. Lysandra lurched unsteadily to her feet, holding her hand to her injured shoulder. Around her she could hear the crowd screaming at the sight of her. Albina had ceased her struggle, and instead raised her finger, imploring for the missio. Lysandra stooped, and grasped the barbarian’s fallen sword, her eyes flicking to the governor’s box.
The mob howled with glee, their hands cutting downwards in the motion for the kill. The editor had set them against the Caledonian from the start and they were eager for the sight of her blood. That she had fought well was of consequence. Sextus Julius Frontinus was evidently a man of the people; he would not disappoint them. Grimly, he turned his thumb, this one gesture signalling the end of a life.
Lysandra moved behind her vanquished opponent. She felt no remorse. If she had not been victorious, the barbarian would have spared her no such thought. Holding Albina’s own weapon in both hands, she brought it savagely downwards, spearing the back of the massive Caledonian’s neck, severing her spine from her brain. Lysandra twisted the blade twice as her foe’s blood gouted, drenching her subligaculum and belly. She heaved and dragged the crimsoned iron free. Like a felled oak, Albina toppled forward and smashed into the earth. The sand around her darkened with blood and shit, as her body defecated in the spasms of death.
For a moment, Lysandra stared, stunned at her action. But then, the adulation of the crowd washed over her in rapturous waves. She heard her own voice scream in triumph as she raised her arms skywards, brandishing the dripping sword above her head. Her eyes swept around the stadium, falling upon the statues of the pantheon. She pointed her bloody blade at the statue of Minerva, the Roman Athene, letting all know in whose name she fought.
This show of piety after such ferocity caused an eruption in the stands and, as Lysandra marched back to the Gate of Life, the masses chanted the name ‘ Achillia, Achillia ’ over and over.
It was the sweetest music she had ever heard.
XIX
The Hellene women were dancing about and screaming with joy as Lysandra returned. Danae embraced her enthusiastically, heedless of her wounds.
‘You did it, you did it!’ she shouted, spinning Lysandra about.
‘Well fought, Lysandra!’This from Penelope. Other such encouragements followed and Lysandra was caught in the euphoric flush of victory. She did not feel the pain in her wounds, nor did fatigue weigh at her limbs. Rather, she felt more alive than ever before. Success was heady wine, an addictive narcotic which she knew she must taste again.
‘All right, all right, break it up.’ Stick appeared, interrupting the women. ‘Get yourself to the surgeon,’ he told Lysandra. ‘No telling what diseases that Caledonian has. Had,’ he corrected himself. ‘And the rest of you,’ he brandished his vine staff, ‘get back away from here!’ Throwing a few half-hearted jibes at Stick, the women began to disperse and make their way to their cell.
Stick watched as they departed, his eyes fixing on the lash-scarred back of the Spartan. ‘Lysandra!’ he called out. She stopped and turned back. ‘You fought well.’