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Extract from ‘Gladiatrix’
Lysandra
would never forget her first time.
Alone,
she walked through the darkness of the passageway towards the sun-filled amphitheatre.
As
she drew closer to the arena, she became aware of the sound from above — a
rhythmic, thrumming cadence that began at the periphery of her consciousness.
Distant at first, it became hypnotic as a siren's song, permeating the stone
around her, penetrating her to the very bone.
Lysandra
battled to keep her churning emotions in check. Fear flowed like ice in her veins
and, for a moment, she faltered. Yet part of her surged with the desire to face
this most terrible of challenges. It flared only briefly but burned hot enough
to sear away her terror. From the darkness, she stepped into the harsh light
of the arena.
The
roar of the crowd was a living thing as it assaulted her and she staggered beneath
its violent intensity. Row upon row of the screaming mob surrounded her, the
amphitheatre stuffed full, as if it were a massive god gorging upon base humanity.
Her vision swam as she registered innumerable faces, twisted and distorted their
mouths wide open with howls of lust and anticipation.
A
fetid stench rose from the freshly raked sands, filling her nostrils with the
reek of blood mingled with the excrement of slaughtered animals. The venatores,
wild beast hunters, had been at their work that day, butchering hundreds of creatures
for the delight of the crowd. Her stomach lurched, raw nerves screaming at her
to run, to flee this Tartarus made flesh, but again she fought down the urge.
The
baying of the frenzied mob increased in its intensity. Her eyes narrowed as she
gazed across the arena, emerging from the tunnel that faced her own was another
woman.
Her
opponent.
Lysandra
was only vaguely aware of an arena slave rushing up and thrusting two short swords
into her sweat slick hands, as she focussed on her adversary. She realised that
the combatants must have been chosen for their physical differences. Whereas
she was tall and slender, her foe was short and solidly built, her limbs chunky.
To Lysandra’s Spartan eyes, she looked downright vulgar. Huge, udder-like
breasts heaved beneath her white tunic, threatening to burst forth from their
confinement; this study of Gallic typicality was crowned by straw-coloured hair,
the final contrast to the raven-black tresses of Lysandra’s own. There
were but two similarities: the weapons they bore and the certain knowledge that,
in scant minutes, one of them would die.
The
Gaul turned towards the dignitaries’ box and raised her right arm in salute.
Lysandra, though unused to arena etiquette, emulated her. She had spent her whole
life in ritual observance and made the gesture with confidence. Not that it mattered.
The richly clad Roman whom Lysandra assumed to be Sextus Julius Frontinus, the
governor and procurator of Asia Minor, did not bother to acknowledge them, his
attentions clearly focused on the dusky charms of the slave girl by his side.
Lysandra
turned towards her opponent. The two women faced each other, the sea green eyes
of the Gaul locked with her own. For interminable moments, they stood, their
emotions mirrored in each other’s gaze, and Lysandra felt a sudden, sharp
regret at their plight. Though they were not foes of their own volition, Lysandra
knew she could not stay her hand. Her eyes hardened with the resoluteness to
survive and she saw the other woman nod as she too came to this realisation.
They raised their weapons.
For
a few heartbeats, all was still. Then, with sudden violence the Gaul attacked
and the strangely beautiful sound of iron striking iron sang out as Lysandra
met her assault. The Celtic warrior screamed and cursed as she laid in, imbibing
rage-fuelled courage. There was no order to her attack, just a constant flurry
of hacking blows, dealt with all the strength the stocky body could provide.
She was like an avalanche, rolling forward, crushing everything in her path.
Lysandra
knew she must be as mist. Most of her life had
been spent preparing for combat: a ritual training to be certain; a ceremonial
skill never meant to be called upon. But now, in the stark reality of mortal
threat, this hard-learnt preparation came to the fore, and her body responded
instinctively.
It
was as if her opponent was moving underwater. As the Gaul initiated an attack,
Lysandra’s own blade moved to deflect the blow. Do not meet force with
force, she told herself as she weaved away from the onslaught. Her refusal
to engage in a slogging match seemed to encourage her foe, who redoubled her
efforts. The Gaul’s feet churned up sand as she pursued Lysandra across
the arena, slashing and cutting at thin air. As the chase wore on the crowd erupted
into a chorus of boos and cat-calls, demanding more action.
Sweat
now plastered the Gaul’s yellow hair to her forehead and darkened the sheer
white tunic to gauzy grey. Lysandra saw her shoulders heaving with exertion as
she evaded another attack. The Gaul paused momentarily, gasping for breath. It
was obvious that she was weakening but, more, her confidence had drained and
the insidious worm of doubt was now eating at her fighting spirit. Gamely, she
raised her swords, and a sudden rush of fire filled Lysandra’s veins. Now,
her instincts screamed at her. Now was the time.
She
countered.
Her
blades whirled, blurring in their swiftness as she mercilessly turned defence
to attack. Her opponent’s parries became desperate with awful suddenness
as she back-stepped, swords moving frantically to deflect the onslaught.
Lysandra
pressed in harder, the Gaul only stopping her now at the last possible instant.
She redoubled her efforts, engaging in a final, furious exchange of blows with
her desperate opponent. As the impact of blade on blade jarred her arm, she felt
the last strength leech from the barbarian and smashed through her guard.
There
was no remorse: just a wondrous, beautiful exultation as she felt the other woman’s
flesh yield and part as she rammed home her blade. The Gaul made a choking sound,
huge gouts of blood vomiting from her mouth and the gaping wound in her chest.
Lysandra dragged the blade out and using her own momentum, spun about. Her sword
caught the staggering woman on the neck, severing the head from her body; it
arced skywards, the eyes and mouth wide open, frozen forever in shock and pain.
The headless body stood wavering for what seemed like an eternity before, with
an almost reverential slowness, it toppled backwards and crashed to the sand,
blood spreading out behind the gaping neck like a crimson pillow.
With
chilling abruptness reality crashed back down upon Lysandra, the roar of the
crowd cascading over her, drenching her in a waterfall of dissonance. It was
a bizarre tableau: the corpse still twitching at her feet and, approaching her,
a tall man, clad as Charon, the ferryman of the dead, bearing a hooked staff.
Slowly, and with a degree of ceremony, ‘Charon’ retrieved the Gaul’s
head, then attached her torso to the staff. At the same formal pace, he retreated,
dragging the body behind him.
Lysandra
backed away, then turned and made her way towards the tunnel, her thoughts a
confused morass of elation, guilt and relief.
© Russell Whitfield 2007 |
