Enraged, she struck back furiously, but the two women were now locked together and the German was unable to get sufficient leverage to strike with her long blade. Thinking quickly, she smashed Lysandra on the side of the head with the pommel of the weapon, stunning her.
Freed from the clinch as Lysandra spun away, Hildreth swung out, the tip of her sword slicing a bloody cut down her opponent’s back. The crowd roared in delight as the scarlet fluid sprayed up, catching the sunlight in glistening droplets.
Lysandra shouted out, more from frustration than pain, as she twisted back to face Hildreth. The German girl’s face was flushed; her blood up, her face twisted into a snarl. The wound she had inflicted acted as a spur and she attacked with a maniacal fury.
Lysandra kept her at bay, using blade and shield to defend herself against the onslaught; but now she could see that the German’s breasts, slicked with sweat, begin to heave with exertion. Soon, she told herself, soon.
She led her on, trying to coax a mistake, leaving her own parries desperately late. A dangerous game, but she prayed that the tribeswoman would not see her ruse through her battle fury.
If Hildreth thought she were tiring, she would redouble her efforts to finish her. Again and again, their blades met; Lysandra mist-imed a parry, and this time Hildreth’s weapon struck true, cutting deep into her side. Lysandra gasped as she felt cold iron grate sickeningly against her ribs, and flailed wildly with her sword to keep Hildreth at bay.
Hildreth leapt back, content to allow the respite; her eyes flicked to the gash in Lysandra’s side. Blood coursed from the cut, dribbling wetly down her thigh. Such a wound was a slow kill. In time, the blood would drain away, and with it her strength. Exhaustion would follow, making the finish that much easier.
Lysandra bit her lip. Hildreth had beaten her before and was winning again. The tribeswoman’s war experience was telling; she seemed to read her strategies with ease. True, she was bleeding and tiring herself, but her wound was nothing compared to that which she herself bore. She straightened up and stretched her neck from side to side, spinning her blade twice. The crowd their approval roared at her flamboyant defiance; Hildreth’s eyes, she noted, widened in surprise.
Lysandra knew that it would take more than bravado to carry her through. She saw Hildreth square her shoulders and advance, her defence high. Yet she noted that the scutum trembled in the German’s grip as if it were gaining weight as the fight wore on.
She waited, gauging the distance between them.
Then, as Hildreth stepped to close the gap, Lysandra herself skipped forward, her foot lashing out in a classic pankration kick, hammering into the wall of the tribeswoman’s shield. Hildreth screamed in agony, the scutum falling from nerveless fingers. Lysandra stopped short, wondering what the cause of her opponent’s distress was. Hildreth back-pedalled and, as she did so, Lysandra could see her shoulder bone horribly distended. The kick had dislocated it, rendering her arm useless.
Their eyes met, and Lysandra could read the pain and frustration there. Hildreth was finished. Lysandra shook her head.
This was not the way.
She tossed her own shield aside, sending it skittering across the sand and moved slowly away. The mob howled their approval, stamping their feet rhythmically in appreciation at this sporting act.
Hildreth tottered to the wall of the arena, oblivious to the enthusiastic spectators reaching down to try to touch her. Lysandra watched her grit her teeth, and then slam herself into the unyielding stone. She fancied that she could hear the grind of cartilage as Hildreth popped her joint back into place and winced involuntarily.
The tribeswoman collapsed, sobbing as waves of agony flared through her; Lysandra kept away, pressing her hand into the wound at her side, trying to stem the flow of blood. She felt light-headed and crouched down on the sand, her breath coming in short gasps. Time seemed to slow down then. She could hear her heartbeat, pounding as if in time to the feet of the stamping mob.
The sky darkened for a moment and she looked up; it was Hildreth’s shadow falling across her. The German’s face was pale and pinched with pain, her eyes glazed with exhaustion. Her arm, though back in place, still hung at her side. The agony had to be almost unbearable. Lysandra set her jaw and stood.
Hildreth nodded. No words were needed between them.
Both women raised their blades, coming at each other right side on. Lysandra knew that she must strike now, for she felt herself close to fainting. Hildreth must have sensed her weakness; with a shout, she attacked. Frantically, Lysandra lifted her blade and parried; she hit back, but in turn her sword was battered away. They fought mechanically now: each cut met by a parry; each thrust turned aside.
Lysandra was becoming desperate; she was spent and she knew it. Hildreth was like a rock before her, refusing to give way. There was time neither for thought nor tactics; it was simply a question of who was the stronger. She surged towards the German, cutting with the last of her strength. Their blades met again and again, the exchange seemed faster than any before.
Lysandra struck low, and encountered only soft resistance.
Hildreth gagged and both women looked down to see the blade embedded in her stomach to the hilt, her blood coursing out over Lysandra’s hand and wrist. The German staggered against Lysandra and her weight bore them both to the sand.
‘Hildreth!’ Lysandra gasped as the German rolled on to her back, her blue eyes looking skyward. She held the tribeswoman’s hand, tightly, as if by her own strength she could keep her from Hades’ grip. ‘Hildreth, I am sorry.’ Her voice cracked and tears sprung to her eyes. ‘I meant only to wound.’ Despite her earlier thoughts, it was only at that moment she realised that she spoke the truth. She trailed off as Hildreth’s eyes focused up on her.
‘You didn’t fight shit,’ she said, coughing blood as she spoke.
She tried to smile, the gesture made obscene by the blood that stained her teeth. Her body spasmed, and she cried out in pain.
For a moment Hildreth struggled, but then she became still, her hand suddenly relaxing in Lysandra’s grip. The warrior woman’s brave soul had fled.
Lysandra staggered to her feet, pressing her hand to her side to staunch the flow of blood. The noise from the stands was deafening, the crowd screaming her name, chanting it as if in prayer. She raised a fist in salute and, on unsteady legs, made her way to the Gate of Life.
XLII
Danae, kitted and ready for her second bout of the day, nodded to Lysandra as she came through the Gate. ‘You’re all right?’
Lysandra mumbled something in response but Danae did not really hear her; her mind was fixed on her bout, and she scarcely noticed the Spartan stumble down the tunnel towards the surgeon.
She swallowed, forcing her breathing to slow. Like many of the other girls, she had compelled herself to become hardened to the arena. Long gone was the young wife from Athens; she was a killer now.
Steeling herself, she stepped on to the sands, hearing the Gate of Life slam shut behind her. The crowd were still buoyant after Lysandra and Hildreth’s brutal display and were delighted that another combat followed so quickly. Any misgivings they might have had about the earlier mismatch seemed to have been forgotten and they cheered Danae enthusiastically.
An arena attendant walked up to her and handed her a gladius, which she raised in salute to Frontinus and then to the crowd.
The largely expatriate Hellene audience stamped when they heard her announced as ‘Theseis’ — like ‘Achillia’, she was one of their own.
‘And her opponent,’ the announcer screamed, trying to make himself heard over the din, ‘the fearsome warrior from the savage steppes of the north…’