Gladiatrix (22 page)

I couldn't find any easy answers and certainly none that made sense to me, so I just pushed it all away.

I twisted to look back at the bedroom; Alexander still had his lamp burning. When I left he'd been staring straight up at the ceiling, thinking. Which was a worry, given the gigantic chip on his shoulder that he kept trying to ram into the people around him.

Did he want to die? I shrugged that question off too.

What I needed to do was sleep. But I couldn't yet. I needed to act. To expend some more energy first. Do something.

I felt like running through the city, yelling Victoria's name. But all that was really left to do was search the rest of Victoria's phactor. I'd gone through the files related to the mission when I was preparing to meet Valerius, but not the other stuff. And that included a locked file that required a password.

My mind kept slipping back to that locked file. What would Victoria want to carry around with her and keep secure? Financial details? A diary? Or something else?

I picked up my oil lamp and went back inside. I lifted the bag out from under my bed and rifled through. The phactor was still there, stuck up the leg of my jeans. Not much security, but there was no complimentary hotel safe with this room. I pulled it out, checking to see what Alexander was doing before slipping it into the front of my shawl top. He was still lying on his back and studying the ceiling. I ignored him and went back outside.

The locked file didn't even have a title, just an eight-digit number. I stared at the digits 81753298? Nah. I couldn't guess what that could possibly stand for, and I was no cryptographic genius. So that meant I had to find the password instead.

What kind of password would Victoria use? Everyone else uses birthdays, pet's names, certain common words like God and sex … But Victoria was a cop, she knew all that. So what would she use?

The immediate answer was ‘one no-one else could possibly know'. Including me. It mightn't even be a word at all, just a configuration of letters and numbers.

Hmm. Think! Think!

I had nothing else to do, so I tried everything I could come up. The date Celeste went missing. The meanings of the name ‘Celeste'… etc. But nothing worked. I simply did not know enough about Victoria to pick it.

Maybe there was a clue hidden in her other files? I went back to the general directory and sighed. Not much to go on here. Besides the NTA mission, there wasn't too much else. Just a playlist of music and what looked like a photo collection.

Curiosity made me flick open the photo collection. Maybe it'd give me a window into Victoria's life, hint at a key word I could use. All the files seemed to have place names above them. New York, San Francisco, Half Moon Bay …

I opened the first one, a file named Abbeville. Inside was a video piece, entitled ‘Eighteenth Birthday'. I turned it on and the screen lit up with the image of an outdoorsy man in his mid-forties, sinewy, with dark hair and dark laughing eyes. He was using an old cane fishing pole to pull a fish out of a willow-filled creek. He said, straight into the camera in a honeyed Cajun accent, ‘Well, cherie, this here one's for you.'

The microphone had caught the reply. A girl's giggle and a cheeky, ‘I can catch my own catfish, Pa. And bigger too!' A girl's voice, full of mischief and life, not the deep, cold professional one I'd heard on the documentary.

Victoria at eighteen.

The man grinned, showing white, but not quite straight, front teeth. He said, ‘You sure can, Vicky. You can do anything.'

The recording cut out and I stared at the blank screen. So that was her dad? Celeste's grandfather.
Constan had said Victoria had family in Louisiana. And from that accent Abbeville might be there. This was an old recording, was her father still alive? Did he know she was missing? What a sad thought.

Sitting here quietly, paused in the chase, I knew the chances were that Victoria was not my mother. After what Des had found in that homestead in Kanangra-Boyd … well, who else could the dead Russian woman be? The coincidence was just too great. But Victoria's old recording had given me the taste of home and family that I needed right now. Something to anchor me to my real time. This sojourn would pass. I would get through this, and go home.

I missed Des. But he'd be there when I got back. I'd hang onto that.

Now I could sleep.

It was close to dawn and time to get ready for the fight. The house slaves were already up. Two of them were outside cleaning twigs and leaves out of the fountain and sweeping the courtyard. In a city that couldn't rely on a central power grid, daylight was precious.

Alexander was lying on his back with his hands behind his head. When he saw me rise, he rolled over and got to his feet too. Without words we started gearing up for the amphitheatre. Midway through, Freckle and another boy arrived with a simple breakfast of olive bread, goat cheese and water for us to share.

We'd turned our backs while getting changed. Alexander had pulled on a fresh dark blue slave tunic. I wore the black leather skirt and a laced leather vest over a red under-tunic that fell to my knees. Horace had sent down more clothes and armour with Freckle. On my feet I wore black, knee-high, lace-up boots and above them matching knee and elbow pads. I looked like I was going rollerblading in hell. I covered everything with my cloak. I was sure to be harassed if I didn't.

I'd pondered how to best carry the gun and phactor, I certainly wasn't going anywhere without them, but they couldn't be easily slotted into any part of my gladiatrix gear. No pockets. Nowhere to stow them. I ended up putting them back in the side pocket of my shoulder bag and slinging it over my shoulder. Alexander was carrying my armour and weapons. I didn't know who I'd be fighting, so I packed everything that could be of use. He gave the shoulder bag a curious glance, but was smart enough to mind his own business.

We were scheduled to meet Gaius in the stone amphitheatre on the Field of Mars, just outside the city walls. Alexander had trained in the same place so he led the way. The Field of Mars didn't look anything like the old army training ground it'd once been, instead the amphitheatre was surrounded by fine, new monuments and temples, with adjacent building sites full of busy workmen. Yuppification, if I had to guess.

The amphitheatre itself was a bit of a surprise. Alexander hadn't reacted to the sight at all, so I was guessing this morning was a regular event. It was an oval-shaped stadium about two storeys high. But literally every square inch was covered in graffiti. Different coloured chalks. Different writing styles. But a startling similarity in the messages.

A quick read showed that the gladiators were big favourites with the crowd waiting outside the double gates, and not just for their martial talents either. One diagram outlined the particular attributes of a fighter called Felix in what had to be greatly magnified detail. With the author's favourite bits highlighted, of course. If it was true to scale then his intimate friends were in trouble. Nearby, a slave was cleaning off a more politically sensitive message about Augustus'
granddaughter Julia, but no-one seemed to care about the gladiator stuff. Guess this kind of fan mail was good advertising.

Entry was via iron gates that opened straight onto the arena. We had to wait there while the guards checked our names. Security was tight because we were not the only ones wanting to get in. A crowd of fans of all ages and classes was chanting the names of their favourite fighters through the bars. One of the younger ones, a boy, seemed to recognise Alexander, but before he could do anything the guards let us through. I searched Alexander's face, but as usual he was keeping his thoughts to himself. The guards recognised him immediately, greeting him with open affection. While they stood talking I looked around.

The men — and it was only men — were from every corner of the Empire. Every colour and body type. They were all stripped down to leather skirts, like the one I was wearing, and lifting weights. According to Valerius the men here, the Ludi, were Augustus' own fighters, and this amphitheatre was their home ground. They were supposed to be the cream of the cream.

The arena was noisy and crowded, with dust rising up everywhere, but I managed to pick out Gaius. He was in the centre, talking to two men. As we passed through the crowd some of them yelled out to us. Mostly they greeted Alexander, but some sounded like they wanted to fight me. Given their slurred foreign accents they may have wanted to do something else entirely.

Nothing like trying to intimidate the competition — especially a woman. I knew exactly what the boys were doing.

Gaius was listening with a bored air to his two companions argue. They stopped briefly to let him
introduce me. The shorter man was Cerebus, the Ludi head-trainer. He was only five foot tall, but as wide with muscle as he was high. And he was covered in scars. His left thigh looked as though something with very large teeth had tried to bite it off. The marks left by the stitches used to sew him back together were still gruesomely obvious.

Cerebus looked me up and down, front and back like a racehorse he was thinking of buying, and then barked a terse hello. Barking seemed to be the only way he communicated. Just the volume changed. The other man, of middle height with thick blond hair, was carrying a helmet and sword. He looked in his mid-twenties, just a little older than me. Gaius introduced him as Felix. I silently wondered if he was the one from the graffiti diagram. He was polite at our introduction, but obviously itching to get back into the argument again.

‘Get Dimitri out of here. Lucius will take him apart,' said Felix in a low, harsh voice.

‘Fuck that!' Cerebus was emphatic. ‘'e has to train with someone. Lucius knows that 'e'll be punished if 'e does it again.'

‘Ball's juice.' The reply jarred in translation. ‘He'll be protected no matter what he does! He's never been punished in the past, and he never will be.' Felix stuck his finger in the trainer's face. ‘You know as well as I do that he's got friends in high places and they'll use their influence to protect him. Put me in instead, I'll teach him a lesson.' He smacked the sword hanging on his belt for emphasis.

‘No, you bloody idiot! I've got Plautius Sulla's word this time. 'e's ordered that Dimitri go through with the fight. I've got no fucking choice.'

‘At least make them use the wooden weapons.'

‘They have to use live blades. The fight stops once one of them is down.' He looked over Felix's shoulder. ‘'ere they come now.'

At that Felix threw his helmet on the ground and swore.

Two men in leather skirts walked towards us. I was relieved to recognise their fighting gear. One of my worries was that they'd pair me with someone using a style I didn't know.

By this era, gladiators had been a major part of Roman life for centuries. It was now a business. A very lucrative business. And a highly trained profession. To cut down on losing expensive fighters, Augustus had put limits on the number of fights to the death, but they happened anyway.

You'd be a fool to take professional fighters lightly, especially if they potentially fought to the death on a regular basis. Whatever their style, such fighters develop tricks to win, to stay alive, to dodge costly injuries. And they were usually down-and-dirty ones.

The younger man was a retiarius. A trident in one hand and a weighted net in the other, he had a dagger in his belt, and his only armour was a leather shoulder guard. The second fighter looked like a samnite, a swordsman. He wore upper torso armour, a metal helmet and carried a Roman short sword in his right hand and a long shield in his left. Roman fighters were usually paired from different fighting styles and weapon types. It made it more interesting, as each had their own techniques and strategies. The unprotected retiarius was usually a nimble opponent for the heavily armoured swordsman.

The retiarius was of slender build, but taller than his partner. His face was white, with sweat running down his neck. He was terrified. The swordsman was
heavily built — medium height, but square with it. He deliberately walked a pace behind the younger man, no doubt to further intimidate him. It seemed to be working.

Gaius whispered to me that the older man was Lucius — one of the better-known gladiators in Rome. As soon as they reached Cerebus the whole Ludi stopped training, and silently gathered round us. Their faces were grim, as though they themselves were about to fight. The combatants saluted Cerebus and then turned to face each other. Cerebus shouted for them to start and they began circling. The crowd immediately began shouting encouragement to Dimitri, and deriding his opponent.

‘Beat that sack of shit,' someone yelled.

Another added, ‘You can do it, Dimitri. Stick a fork in him, he's done!'

Lucius brought his sword down with a heavy clang upon Dimitri's defensively poised trident. The blow sent Dimitri backwards, while Lucius followed swinging his sword up ready for another blow. The pattern continued on. Lucius attacking with heavy swipes of the sword. Dimitri retreating, using his trident to hold off the blade and his speed to get out of the way.

It was brutal, direct and no holds barred. The swordsman basically just cut and thrust. He used his superior weight to beat down his opponent's defence, and then hack at whatever bits of body came within range. No delicate wrist movements, like fencing in eighteenth-century Italy. And it was nowhere near as complex as samurai sword technique.

This kind of fight was all about speed, body strength and dirty tricks. That, and sheer nerve — which the retiarius had lost already. As well as his sword Lucius used his shield and his feet to attack.
Repeatedly, he tried to break Dimitri's knee with a punishing forward kick while Dimitri was holding him off, but to no avail.

Yet.

Dimitri was strong and moved well, but his fear had eroded any chance he had of using his native technique. Sometimes terror works miracles — just as a cornered animal fights more fiercely. But here it was clearly working against Dimitri. He was constantly reacting rather than attacking, and when an opportunity to snare Lucius opened up he was too afraid to take the risk. If Dimitri had taken the initiative he could have used his agility and longer reach to his advantage. He could have won. But he didn't believe he could.

Lucius was formidable, but he had his weaknesses. His body was covered in scars, but the worst appeared in the same two places on the left side. Lucius had a strong right arm and weaker left. Good on attack, but not on defence with the shield.

And he didn't move well, he had weak balance and a stiff torso. Driving forward was his strength. Turning and twisting just put him off-balance. No doubt he was used to battering all his opponents into the ground with his strong right arm, rather than out-manoeuvring them.

He was a human bulldozer.

After twenty minutes of slash and bash, Dimitri was growing tired just repelling Lucius' blows. Every time the sword hit his trident he absorbed the blow, jarring his arms and body into jelly. Finally Lucius decided to end his sport and kicked his opponent's feet out from under him.

He lunged on top of Dimitri.

Cerebus shouted for the trainers that ringed them
to move in and stop the fight, but before they could do anything Lucius had chopped straight into the younger man's right upper arm, cutting through the muscle and into the bone.

The retiarius' agonised scream bought the partisan crowd erupting forward.

The trainers held the crowd back as Cerebus reached down and grabbed Lucius by the hair, pulling him off Dimitri.

Cerebus was seething with rage. He punched Lucius to the ground, but the swordsman just lay there laughing. Felix knelt down to look after Dimitri and arranged for him to be carried off on a stretcher.

Lucius got up, wiping the blood off his face from where Cerebus had hit him. But he wasn't worried. At all.

Felix tried to get at him, but Cerebus moved between them first.

Felix shouted, ‘Let me fight him — you know he won't be punished. Dimitri will never fight again. Now he'll die in the salt mines.'

‘No, Felix!' Cerebus shook his head. ‘I've been promised the fucker will be punished this time. Trust me!'

Lucius smirked at Felix.

Felix lunged around Cerebus, but the trainers pulled him back.

‘Put the fucker in the cage until judgement tonight,' spat out Cerebus. Two trainers stepped forward, hooked Lucius' arms and started dragging him out of the arena. Lucius was laughing.

‘Stop! Hold him,' I said, pushing through the crowd to stand in front of Cerebus. The men, still boiling with their desire for revenge, had to be pushed back from following Lucius off the field. ‘I'm
scheduled to fight this morning.' I pointed at Lucius. ‘Let me fight him.'

If I had to fight one of the Ludi, then Lucius was a reasonable choice. I had just one chance to impress Gaius and Cerebus beyond any doubt, and I had just gained the advantage of watching Lucius fight. He had a couple of features I could put to immediate use. He was over-confident and slow moving. No doubt he knew far more dirty tricks than he'd used already, but if I could make him angry enough he'd just attack without thinking. Lastly, he used the Roman sword, so there was less risk for me in using some of the special techniques I'd learnt.

Cerebus just looked at me as though I was mad.

‘Yes. Let the big bitch fight me. I'll cut off something different this time,' said Lucius. He was enjoying being the big bad wolf.

Alexander moved to my side to say quietly, ‘He only disabled Dimitri. But you're not even a member of the Ludi. He will kill you.'

I ignored him. ‘Cerebus. You want to see him punished, give me the chance to do it for you.'

He considered me for a moment out of shrewd, old eyes. ‘You really believe you can win against this prick?'

I looked over at Lucius. He licked his lips and said, ‘I'll stick it to you like you've never had it before, bitch.' And blew me a kiss.

I looked back at Cerebus. ‘It would be a pleasure.' And smiled my own wolf smile. Teeth and all.

Cerebus narrowed his eyes, then turned back to Gaius for his opinion. Gaius said nothing, just shrugged his shoulders.

‘'e's yours then, love.' Cerebus gestured for the crowd to move back.