Last Gladiatrix, The (8 page)

The man led her down the stone corridors to her cell. Unshackling Xanthe, he cheerfully shut the cell door, saluting her with mock respect as he left.

Xanthe studied her new surroundings. Fresh straw had been strewn on the floor of the cell and a bucket of water had been provided. She inspected the bucket’s contents and found it to be fresh: a small mercy. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against the cold stone wall and tried not to think of Titus.

‘So you are the Scythian warrior woman?’ A female voice, in a dialect surprisingly familiar to her, sounded through the gloom. Xanthe spotted the speaker in a cell farther down the corridor.

‘I’m Sarmatian,’ she replied.

‘Whatever you are, you will be dead by tomorrow.’

She chose to ignore the woman’s pessimistic forecast. ‘And you? Who are you?’

‘I am Klara. A Hun. They keep me here because I am … untrustworthy.’ The woman laughed, dirty and low.

‘Truly? Where else would they keep you?’

‘The gladiator training school of course, but I don’t like doing what I am told. I won’t have to after tomorrow. It will be my last fight and I will be free.’ The woman sounded so confident. If she had survived to buy her freedom, maybe it would not be so hard for Xanthe to do so also.

A thought occurred to her. ‘Perhaps we will fight each other.’ She hoped not. Clearly the Hun tasted victory already and would make a fierce opponent.

Klara laughed again. ‘I don’t think so. You are to fight a man. A big spectacle. Everyone is talking about it. This almost never happens, so the crowd will go wild. Of course, you cannot survive such an encounter but no doubt you will fight hard. Why else would they bother pitting you against a gladiator? It would be no sport at all if you could not hold your own.’

Titus had prepared her well for this outcome, but the knowledge did not stop her stomach churning and the muscles in her neck from becoming ridged. ‘My advice to you: kill as quickly as you can. Do not hold back. He will be fighting for his life; never forget that. Now, you should sleep while you can.’ Her eyes burnt with a blazing fierceness. Klara withdrew to a shadowy corner of her cell, wrapping herself in a blanket. Before long, the sound of her soft snores could be heard echoing off the walls.

Xanthe sat a while longer, her thoughts full of Titus and the morrow. What if he did not survive his fight? A world without him would not be worth living in. She sighed. And her parents, they may never find out what had befallen her. Who would tell them if she did not survive? Who would comfort them in their heartbreak?

Xanthe picked up a piece of straw and chewed on it absently. She refused to entertain thoughts of defeat, intending to fight like demon and win tomorrow. She would see her parents again, and do so with Titus by her side.

A great weariness overtook her. Sighing, Xanthe curled up and closed her eyes, allowing sleep to claim her.

Lucius Pulus enjoyed his job, but especially the women. He took a moment to appreciate the Scythian woman’s curves as she slept, unaware of his lurking presence. He found her tattoos strangely attractive and wondered what it would be like to bed her. Some other time, perhaps.

The squat man shouted and banged on the cell doors. The Scythian opened her eyes and peered up at him through the gloom.

‘Come! Get up! It is time for the feast. Your sponsor is waiting.’ Lucius rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘Quick, girl. We haven’t got all night.’ He unlocked her cell as she scrambled to her feet, straw sticking out of her hair.

He grabbed her arm and manhandled her out of the cell, enjoying every minute. ‘I hope you’re not as dim-witted in the arena tomorrow as you’re being right now. It will make for a tedious event. Now hurry along. We have to get you dressed.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ Xanthe said, as she craned her neck to see if the Hun woman was asleep in her cell. Was it tomorrow already? How long had she slept?

The ugly little man muttered something before dragging her along the corridor to a small anteroom.

A fat, greasy woman waited for her, mumbling unhappily to herself. The horrid man said something, making the woman shout back what could only have been an insult, before withdrawing.

The woman tugged at Xanthe’s dirty tunic, indicating for her to remove it. Xanthe disrobed, standing naked in the cool evening air. The woman led her to a bucket of cold water and gave her a sponge, her meaning clear.

Grateful for the opportunity to rub the layer of grime off her skin, Xanthe found herself enjoying the sponge bath immensely. How nice to be clean again. She looked down, admiring her tattoos as they gleamed wet in the half-light.

The fat woman said something and poked at one of them with a fat finger. Xanthe instinctively recoiled, baring her teeth and growling, more for effect than with any real intent. The gesture had the desired result, and the woman leaped back out of her reach.

A bundle of clothes lay across a chair, and the woman gestured for Xanthe to put them on, too nervous to come closer. A short skirt made of soft leather, a breastplate of stiffened leather and a strange little cap that would offer no protection in the ring made up her new attire. They fitted well enough and at least the breast plate would offer some defence.

Xanthe turned this way and that, trying to see what she looked like. So this was how Romans imagined Scythian warrior women dressed? She wouldn’t know, having never encountered one, but as long as they gave her a good sword and she could move about freely enough, they could dress her up as they liked.

The ugly woman called out in a voice that would do a fishwife proud and moments later the squat little man appeared. He carried a purple cape edged in gold, which he gestured for Xanthe to put on. She fastened it about her shoulders, and he smiled his satisfaction.

‘
Festino
!’ the man said, gesturing for her to walk with him, her grand cape swirling about her legs.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked of no one in particular. The squat man gave her a push, and she stumbled forward before regaining her balance on the uneven cobbled floor. Xanthe hurried after him as he disappeared into the gloom ahead of her.

An escort of guards awaited them. A goodly number of other gladiators, similarly attired, also waited. Xanthe looked for Titus and spotted him standing grimly, facing towards the back of the group. She shouldered her way to him. The sight of her centurion lifted her heart and her extremities tingled.

‘What is going on?’ she whispered.

‘Good to see you, too, Scythian.’

Xanthe nudged him in the ribs. ‘Of course I am delighted to see you, Titus. I will be even more delighted once I work out if I am walking to my death tonight or not.’

He chuckled. ‘I admire your spirit. We are simply going to dine at our sponsor’s house.’

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Dine? Sponsor? What sponsor? Not the General?’

‘No, tomorrow’s games are sponsored by a great politician of the Senate. It is his feast to which we go. He is staging this dinner, as is customary, so the paying public can watch us eat.’

‘What?’ The group moved forward, surrounded by the Senator’s guards.

‘Many of these gladiators are famous in Rome, and the good people will pay to see them up close. Of course, for some this may be their last meal.’

‘Not for me,’ she muttered.

Titus reached out and ran his hand lightly over her head, in a gesture so tender it brought tears to her eyes. ‘Fear not, Xanthe. You are blessed by the Gods.’

She laughed bitterly. ‘If this is the favour of the Gods, I must seriously reconsider to whom I pray.’

It was his turn to laugh, a great belly laugh that drew attention from the other gladiators. ‘Perhaps that is something we can discuss over dinner tonight.’

They arrived to discover some gladiators already seated and the feast clearly under way. Members of the public stood about the walls, watching the gladiators eat and drink. The Senator’s servants escorted each newly arrived gladiator to the remaining seats, and Xanthe found herself separated from Titus, much to her disappointment.

‘Look, everyone!’ Klara cried. ‘It is the great Scythian warrior woman come to join our feast. Let us raise a toast to her last day in the mortal realm.’ Some gladiators raised their cups with a mocking gesture; the others clearly could not understand what Klara had said. Xanthe made her way to a seat next to the prickly Hun.

‘I am Sarmatian,’ she hissed.

Klara offered a shrug of indifference and gestured with a chicken bone at the heavily-laden table. ‘Eat. It is expected. Another part of the great Roman spectacle. The people like to watch us eat our last meal.’ She shrugged. ‘The Romans are barbarians at heart.’

Xanthe couldn’t argue the fact. Her stomach was clenched in knots, and she did not think she could force a single morsel of food down her throat.

She looked down the table at the men and women assembled there. Some ate like it was indeed their last meal, and perhaps it would be. She scanned the faces, searching for Titus. She spotted him down the other end of the table, sitting, looking morose, and not eating.

Xanthe bided her time until many of those gathered had drunk more than they should, before slipping out of her seat and walking nonchalantly down the length of the table. Titus noticed her long before she reached him, and his eyes lit up at the sight of her.

She smiled, careful not to draw too much attention to them.

‘Are you alright?’ She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, desperate to touch him. ‘I did not ask you earlier.’

‘It is I who should be asking you.’

Xanthe shrugged. ‘I’m as good as can be expected. I’ll be better when tomorrow is over and done.’

Titus smiled. ‘I hear you will definitely fight a
retiarius
.’

She nodded. ‘You were right to prepare me in the manner you did, for I am confident I can give as good as I get. I intend to win.’

‘That’s the spirit. I am sure the Gods will watch over you.’

‘You also.’ Xanthe drank in his face, taking in every detail and committing it to memory, fearing she would not see him in a while.

Smiling back at him, she returned to the other end of the table. How Xanthe longed to throw her arms around him, to feel his lips against hers! Her casual attitude did not match the roiling mess inside; it was an act for the benefit of those watching.

She longed to cry, to yell and scream at the unfairness of it all. Yet, such action would be unwise. No one here could be trusted; Xanthe could turn to no one for help. Better to not draw the curiosity of the other gladiators or the gathered crowd.

She resumed her seat next to Klara, who ignored her. Picking listlessly at food and sipping on water, Xanthe’s eyes remained glued on Titus’s handsome face.

As the next morning dawned, a hive of activity buzzed about her. Xanthe squatted and waited, the taciturn Klara her only company. Idly, she plaited strands of straw together; the repetition of the activity soothing her nerves.

A cacophony of screams and roars echoed through the underground maze of rooms. Xanthe looked up, wondering what terror played out in the arena.

‘It’s the
venationes
,’ said Klara. ‘The wild animal hunts, so to speak. They are the first event of the day. Perhaps some nobleman, some patrician, feels heroic and wants to fight a tiger. Or maybe some poor criminal or enemy of the state is being stalked today. The Romans like to see people being eaten by animals. Later, the animal itself will die, in one way or another.’ The Hun stood and leaned against the bars of her cell, so Xanthe could see her better. ‘The
bestiarii
, the gladiators who fight animals, will take care of them. By the time you get out there, the arena floor will be stained with blood.’

‘You are making that up!’ Bile rose in Xanthe’s throat at the thought of it. Klara laughed low and dark. ‘Did I not tell you the Romans are barbarous? Having said that, they have some wonderful music between fights. The Colosseum musicians are amongst the finest in Rome.’

‘What kind of a place is this? I have found the gates to Hades, surely.’

‘Life is cruel. You must know that by now. Don’t worry about the blood; attendants will rake it over and spray the area with scented water. You won’t notice. You will be too busy.’

‘Thank you, that at least is a comfort. And what if I refuse to fight?’

‘You cannot. There is a man they call the Instructor who will tell you what to do if you know not. He will yell ‘strike’ or ‘slay’. If you refuse to fight, he has a whip and a hot iron to convince your mind to change. Refusing to fight is a sure way to die.’

Klara had a point. Dying was not on her agenda for the day. ‘Have you ever been wounded in a fight?’ Death may not claim her outright in the arena; perhaps it would lurk silently to steal her life through infected wounds.

‘Of course. But do not worry: they have good physicians who will take care of you. We are considered valuable property, Scythian. Our owners want to get as many fights out of us as possible.’

‘I have no understanding of the events of today. How will I know if I have won or not?’

‘By the mere fact that you will still be alive.’ Klara chuckled. ‘If your match ends in a draw, you have a chance to appeal. Throw your weapon aside and raise your left hand in supplication. The Senator will then decide your fate. Of course, the crowd has a say in the final decision, so fight well and honourably. If they like you, your chance of survival increases.’

‘And if I do not win?’

‘Then you will be carried out the Gate of the Dead. Do not doubt me when I say this: no one comes second here. Draws are rare. Only the great gladiators are spared, mostly because they are too valuable to their owners. Perhaps, today, you will impress the dignitaries enough that they will present you with a
rudis
.’

‘What is that?’

‘It is a wooden sword, given to a favourite gladiator by their sponsor. It means you are freed from the obligation of fighting. It is what we all desire. And, today, I intend to win it for myself.’ Klara stretched, cat-like.