Lysandra bade Catuvolcos leave her when she exited the cell.
She wanted to take the long walk to the Gates alone. She did not wish to know whom she faced, and feared that the Gaul would call another woman from the Hellene cell. She could not afford to think of her foe as anything but that. To name her would be to make her human.
The bustle of the arena workers seemed to fade as she walked, trying to calm her mind, to stay focused. She must win, she told herself. So much rested with her. The army, the Hellene women, would be lost without her. She prayed that it would be Sorina she had drawn, that she might unleash her hatred on her enemy.
Lysandra stopped by the Gates, and closed her eyes. She breathed out through her nose and stepped onto the sands, raising her arms as Achillia once more — prepared to fight.
The crowd roared in acknowledgement of her salute and began to chant her name. They knew that Achillia would not fail them, that she would elevate the spectacle to something magnificent.
Lysandra stopped in the middle of the arena. The Gates opposite clanked open and her opponent stepped out onto the sands.
At the sight of her, the crowd went berserk. They knew that this would be a battle of equals from which only one would walk away.
Sorina was furious. Furious with the mob, furious with herself for not thinking as she fought. Even the Greek, Danae, had known to carry her weaker opponent, whereas she, Sorina, the famous Amazona, had rushed in to deny the crowd their entertainment.
But most of all, she was furious with Lysandra. Her hatred for the Greek seethed in her heart, burning hot. The words of the yellow-clad man in the crowd haunted her. The Spartan had replaced her in the hearts of the populace and, though she despised the mob, this hurt. It was a blow to her honour, her esteem. Lysandra was nothing. An arrogant girl-child with well-learned tricks. Not a true warrior.
When she learned that the agenda for the spectacle had changed, her heart leapt. It was as if the gods were smiling on her at last.
Here was a chance to fight the Greek bitch, offered to her so soon. She had gone to her cell and prayed, prayed with all her heart that her name was drawn with Lysandra’s.
Her mind swam with images of her enemy’s death at her blade, so strong that she felt a flood of heat in her loins. She could see herself, drenched in Spartan blood, hacking the pale body to pieces as the crowd screamed her on. Lysandra’s eyes alight with fear and pain, pissing herself in her death throes. Her own body shuddering in ecstasy as her iron blade drove deep into her hated foe.
She wanted her death so much, it had become an insatiable hunger. Never in all her life had she felt such hatred. Not even towards the Romans who had taken her freedom, and spilled much Dacian blood. Just one chance, she begged silently. Please, gods, just one chance to face her. She’d gladly die to send Lysandra to Helle first, safe in the knowledge that the arrogant bitch knew that she was the better woman.
The door to her cell opened.
‘Sorina.’ Stick’s ugly face was grim. ‘You had better start getting ready.’
She looked up at him, her eyes glazed and pleading. ‘Who am I to fight?’
The mob had begun to stamp its feet in appreciation of the match. Here was something worth cheering about. Frontinus tried to appear aloof and disinterested, but could not resist shifting on his couch as Lysandra’s opponent strode towards her. It was a match that promised everything. The other held the great scutum of the murmillo, her arms and shoulders heavily armoured with manica and plate. Aside from this, she wore only a short leather kilt, and the crowd screamed their appreciation. They were both magnificent specimens of womanhood, tall and beautiful, their charms exposed to the slavering spectators. Sex and death — there was no greater narcotic to sate them. And Frontinus was providing both in abundance.
Lysandra narrowed her eyes as her opponent stepped up.
‘Hello, Lysandra, how are you today?’ Hildreth’s smile was cold.
‘I am well, Hildreth,’ she responded to their once friendly ritual. ‘How are you?’
‘I am well,’ the German said. ‘I am sorry that you will die. I like you.’
Lysandra hesitated, memories flooding back to her. She recalled her first journey to the ludus: Hildreth’s kindness as she had shared her bread; the German girl’s laughter as she had shouted out the unfamiliar Latin words Lysandra had taught her; her own amusement at the German’s hairy body before she had been shorn like a civilised woman.
And their fight.
The speed and strength of the tribeswoman, the ease with which she had defeated her. For a moment, Lysandra felt her mouth go dry and her stomach knot. Hildreth nodded, reading the look in her eyes, and her smile turned to a sneer.
It was akin to a slap around the face. Lysandra blinked, and straightened her back. Distantly, she heard an arena attendant shout ‘ Pugnate!’ the order to fight. At once the German dropped into a fighting crouch, but Lysandra remained erect. She stretched her neck from side to side and spun her sword twice, this piece of show fast becoming her signature and the crowd hooted in appreciation. But more, she had shown Hildreth that she did not fear her.
Hildreth snarled, but Lysandra’s casual disdain had not proven enough to make her rush in. Whilst Hildreth believed herself to be the superior fighter, she was not so foolish as to think her task would be an easy one.
Hildreth raised her sword, pointing it over the top of the scutum at Lysandra, who responded by finally assuming a fighting stance, her own small buckler angled to deflect a thrust from the German.
The redhead scuttled to one side, trying to create an angle of attack, but Lysandra matched her movement to cut off this avenue.
Though the crowd had been derisive of such posturing in the earlier bouts, they now watched with rapt attention. Both fighters were known to them, both rising to the top of their game, and the winner of this bout would be on the path to greatness.
Connoisseurs and casual observers alike realised that when the battle was finally joined, it promised to be spectacular.
Then Lysandra attacked and they roared for her.
Her blade lashed out and was greeted by Hildreth’s own iron, the retort loud and clear. Hildreth struck back at once, not allowing Lysandra to take the initiative, but her own strike was deflected on the Thracian shield. Lysandra danced away, making Hildreth come on to her. The German had the protective advantage of armour, but this and the heavy scutum would weigh a fighter down. This was the fascination, the contrast that the mob craved.
Hildreth was strong. She waded in, her sword arm lashing out, seeking to bludgeon her way through Lysandra’s guard. Lysandra parried and hit back but the scutum was a formidable obstacle, time and again slamming her short sword aside. Hildreth stepped in and there was a furious exchange of blows, iron meeting iron with disjointed rapidity. The German rammed out her shield, turning it from a defence into a weapon of attack. It crashed into Lysandra’s chest, knocking the breath from her and smashing her to the ground.
The crowd screamed as Lysandra fell back, rising as one to their feet.
Hildreth rushed in, hoping to finish the fight quickly, but Lysandra rolled onto one knee, bringing her buckler to bear just as the redhead’s sword sought her neck. Again, Hildreth punched forward with the shield, seeking to force her to the ground once again. Lysandra lunged forwards, shoving Hildreth away, confounding her with the sudden movement.
Hildreth stumbled and the slight respite allowed Lysandra to surge upwards and launch an assault of her own. The tribeswoman was off-balance but she weaved away from the onslaught, wielding the shield with efficiency. Lysandra pressed in and a looping, overhand lunge got past the German’s guard, crunching into her armoured shoulder. Though the tough leather afforded some protection, it could stop a direct thrust, and Hildreth cried out as blood burst from the wound.