Last Gladiatrix, The (9 page)

A trumpet sounded in the arena.

‘What does that mean? Are the gladiator matches starting?’ Xanthe pressed herself against the bars of her cell trying to see something, anything.

‘You catch on quick, Scythian. They sound the trumpets at the beginning of the match, and then when a gladiator falls. You will hear them all afternoon. But first we must parade around the ring for all to see. Those trumpets you hear are merely heralding the beginning of the afternoon’s events.’

As if on cue, the ugly man appeared to collect them. He took Klara from her cell first before freeing Xanthe.

‘Are you ready?’ The Hun woman asked. She seemed taller than Xanthe remembered somehow, but that may have been because she herself suddenly felt so small.

Xanthe felt her voice stick in her throat. ‘Yes,’ she croaked, not daring more conversation as they followed the man on to the waiting area.

He handed them cloaks of purple and gold, gesturing to put them on. Doing as she was bid, she recognised the cloaks as the same she had worn the night before. She and Klara then lined up with the other gladiators, ready to parade around the ring for the enjoyment of the spectators.

As they passed through the gateway and into the arena, the bright sunlight temporarily blinded her. Xanthe blinked furiously, trying to get her bearings. High walls surrounded them, their significance not lost on her: they were high so that the spectators would not get splattered with blood.

Richly dressed men inhabited the lower seats, with the quality of dress growing less opulent as the seating climbed skyward. At the very top sat the women, under great sails that snapped in the wind, and were designed to shade them from the harsh Italian sun. The women belonged to a different world, one Xanthe could not recognise and would never belong to.

The group paraded around the arena twice. Some gladiators waved and played to the crowd, clearly enjoying their notoriety. Others seemed awe-struck, as the reality of their situation was made painfully clear. Everything seemed brighter, louder, and sharper, as the adrenaline began to pump through her veins. Xanthe’s head started to spin and she could not recollect how she ended up back in the waiting area.

Someone handed Xanthe a drink of water as she sat, contemplating the fine layer of dust which had accumulated on her sandals. She could not think, her heart thumping loudly as if to challenge the trumpeters. Mindlessly, she watched the others getting ready for their matches.

The ugly little man approached and passed her a sword. Xanthe stood and measured the weight of it in her hand; it was much lighter than those she’d practised with. Satisfied the weapon would do its job, her attention turned to the activity around her.

Klara had donned her arm and shoulder guards, sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. She smiled at Xanthe.

‘
Manica
.’ Klara held up her left arm, sheathed in the guard. ‘
Galeus
,’ she said, pointing to the shoulder guards she had donned. ‘You must know these names in case you survive your fight.’

Xanthe returned the Hun’s smile, knowing the gesture to be as close as the woman would get to offering friendship.

Klara stepped past her and proceeded to the gate leading on to the arena floor. ‘Remember, fight hard and kill quickly. Show no mercy. None will be shown to you.’ And she was gone. Xanthe heard the trumpets sound, announcing Klara’s arrival. The crowd roared as she advanced into the ring, and her fate was now in the hands of the Gods.

Although she could not see the fight, Xanthe could hear the ring of sword-on-sword and the roar of the crowd as the two gladiatrices fought viciously above for their freedom. She closed her eyes. Hands balled into fists, she prayed to whatever Gods could hear her for the Hun’s victory.

So intently was she focussed on offering her prayers to the heavens, that Xanthe did not realise Klara’s match had finished. The crowd could be heard screaming and chanting.

‘What has happened? Who won?’ No one paid her any attention, and Xanthe again cursed the fact she could not speak Latin.

Not too much later, two burly men carried Klara in on a stretcher, blood dripping from her badly wounded shoulder. Barely conscious as she passed by, she caught sight of Xanthe.

‘I survived,’ she croaked. ‘A draw! I am free, Scythian. I am free!’ Xanthe squeezed her hand before the attendants took her off to the physician, leaving a trail of blood in their wake. Xanthe offered up a prayer that the Hun would survive her injuries and be able to enjoy her freedom.

‘Ah! General Sextus, I am glad you could come. It’s always so nice to spend time with one of Rome’s greatest defenders.’ Senator Decimus Aurelius clasped him by the hand, slapping his back in welcome. ‘Come sit with us. I do believe your Scythian warrior woman is about to fight.’

‘Thank you, Senator. May I offer you my condolences on the death of your father?’

‘That is kind of you, General. He died some years ago; at the time I was not in a position to honour his memory thus. Today’s Games are to mark the occasion. I must admit, I am looking forward to seeing your gladiators taking the ring.’

General Sextus looked about him before taking his seat. After all these years in the service of the Roman Republic, he was finally about to take his place next to one of the most powerful men in the Senate. This was where he belonged. Hereafter, the doors of all the greatest families in the city would be open to him. Perhaps he might even be able to manuever a political appointment? With this thought warming his cold heart, he sat down beside the Senator.

The view from the Senator’s box was decidedly different from the seat Sextus usually occupied. He smiled at the other guests, a broad all-encompassing smile. In moments they would all be witnessing an extremely entertaining match involving elite fighters from his stable; it marked the beginning of his renown as an owner of victorious gladiators. All of Rome would be ablaze with talk after this match.

General Sextus would pass into legend; this would seal his place in Rome’s high society. He wiggled with pleasure and excitement. After today, nothing would be the same ever again.

Xanthe stood at the gate and waited. In seconds she would take her place opposite her opponent, and then only the Gods could help her. She adjusted the sword in her right hand, her palm already slippery with sweat. Testing the weight of her shield on her left arm, Xanthe rolled her neck to release the tension gathering there. Her breath came in shallow gulps.

The gate opened, and Xanthe walked into the ring.

The Instructor stood to one side of the arena, whip and hot iron at the ready, just as Klara said. The gate clanked shut behind her, the heavy iron grille shuddering with finality. The crowd roared; whether in approval or not, she could not tell and nor did she care. Individual voices could be heard above the din, and for once she was grateful she could not understand them.

The sand crunched beneath her feet as Xanthe slowly advanced into the ring, her opponent nowhere in sight. Surely the
retiarius
would not come from behind? Yet, one could not trust these Romans; she must be ready for any possibility.

Then Xanthe heard a rattling sound at other end of the Colosseum. The gate, however, did not seem to move. The crowd screamed in anticipation.

While she had been told of the bloodthirsty nature of Romans, the naked desire for gore exhibited by the audience shocked her. Her mouth parched, Xanthe licked at her dry lips. The sun beat down remorselessly as she waited for her opponent to make himself known.

Romans loved a spectacle; indeed, the Games themselves were sometimes called The Spectacular. Titus stepped onto the platform used to raise slaves through a trapdoor in the floor of the amphitheatre via a pulley system of clunking chains. As he rose to the surface his eyes blurred and watered, the bright sunlight momentarily obscuring his vision.

All around him, the crowd roared their approval. Romans also loved a good surprise, especially when it came well-armed.

Titus could see his opponent. Stepping forward, sword raised and ready to strike the first blow, he began to advance toward the blurry figure. Through the grilled visor of his helmet, his eyes just beginning to adjust to the brilliant light, he saw his opponent was a woman. Startled, Titus stopped dead, his beating heart slowed, stilling time. The way she held her sword, her fighting stance …

Xanthe! The General had pitted him against Xanthe. He looked towards the Senator’s seats, and sure enough, there sat General Sextus looking like a toad who’d swallowed too many fat flies. No doubt all would know this story: the disgraced centurion and his Scythian warrior woman. Titus had to hand it to the old toad; this would be a magnificent headline event.

Now Titus fully understood the impassioned screams of the crowd, as they egged him on, eager for him to shed the blood of his lover.

Standing fixed in place, implacable as stone, there was nothing in life that could have made Titus raise his sword against Xanthe. The Instructor paced up and down at the side of the ring, yelling ‘strike’ at them both, over and over. He sought Xanthe’s eyes, her beautiful face as pale as alabaster, her sword hanging limply in her hand.

Then his heart lurched as she let it drop to the ground.

The Instructor started to scream at her, cracking his whip once, twice and then beginning to stride towards her.

‘Hold!’ Titus yelled. The man shot him a sideways glance before bringing the sting of his whip down across Xanthe’s back. Titus watched as she cried out, staggering sideways with the pain. The shock was plain to see on her face, and the blow forced her to her knees.

The Instructor raised his whip once more, screaming for her to stand and fight. Xanthe could not understand him, yet her warrior training and instinct kicked in and she twisted around in time to raise her shield and ward off a second blow.

Titus roared and charged towards the man. The Instructor backed up in surprise, before rallying and calling for his hot iron.

‘You will fight!’ he screamed, the Instructor’s voice almost drowned out by the baying of the crowd, who seemed concerned they would be cheated of the spilling of blood.

Xanthe did not move nor take her eyes from his face. Titus understood what she meant to do: his love was prepared to die by this Instructor’s hand so that Titus could live. She would offer no resistance.

Time stood still. Thin strips of cloud streaked across the bluest of skies above. The chant of the crowd swelled and faded like the roar of the ocean, and even the screams of the Instructor faded to the background as Titus’s heart beat out the measure of the moment. He had a swift choice to make.

Xanthe’s eyes were upon him, so green and so true, her heart and soul reflected there. She would give her whole self with love. Titus had not, until this terrible moment, known the measure of true love nor felt it in his own heart.

The most loyal of soldiers, to Titus love had always seemed for merchants and noblemen, not warriors. He now knew that not to be true. Now after really finding it, experiencing it, the centurion had no intention of letting it go. He would fight for her, although not the way everyone in the Colosseum expected him to.

Consequences be damned, as long as Xanthe lived. General Sextus and the Senator wanted a spectacle: he would give it to them. The people of Rome wanted something to talk about; he would give that to them, also.

Steeling himself, he raised his sword to the heavens and bellowed the most terrible of cries.

Titus rushed at Xanthe, sword raised. She blinked in disbelief, expecting him to slide to a stop at any moment, but on he came. Instinctively, she grabbed at her sword and blocked his vicious downward swing. Iron hit iron, ringing out across the arena to the crescendo of screams from the audience. How they loved the promise of blood.

Xanthe’s muscles strained against the force of the strength bearing down upon her. The advantage was his, as she crumpled to her knees. The dark fury of Titus’s face was clear through his visor, he was close enough to kiss, his breath brushing her ear.

Her eyes darting sideways, Xanthe sought his gaze as she struggled against him. Confusion and hurt fought for supremacy. How could Titus attack her after all they’d been through together? She had been willing to lay down her life for his. What a fool she’d been.

Rage overtook her at that moment, a surge of fury giving Xanthe the momentum to push back with a strength she did not know she possessed. Taken by surprise, Titus lost the advantage, but only for the moment. Yet, it was long enough for Xanthe to regain her feet, and squatting, she began to use her strong legs for leverage.

Titus pressed his weight forward, his eyes dark and fiery beneath the visor. ‘Listen to me!’ he hissed, barely audible above the roar of the bloodthirsty crowd. ‘We must fight each other. We put on a show or die, so we must make them believe we fight to the death. Forget the crowd; fight me. If we fight well enough, perhaps the senator will give us our lives.’

Xanthe looked at him, uncomprehending at first, his words a jumble of nonsense to her pounding ears. He gave her a little shake, their swords scraping together.

‘Quick, Xanthe! Before the crowd suspects. We cannot die today.’

The urgency of his voice penetrated the thick fog of her brain. Suddenly, Xanthe understood what her centurion meant to do. If they could fool the people, the Senator and everyone else, then maybe they would both live to fight another day. There was no other course of action.

‘Do you trust me?’ Titus asked

She nodded; words would not come. 

‘Do you love me?’ Titus's grip tightened on her arm as he crushed Xanthe to him, his lips inches from her own. Again, she nodded mutely, heart pounding in her throat.

‘Then say it. I need to hear you say it,’ he said, forcing the words between gritted teeth as the maelstrom swirled around them.

‘I love you,’ Xanthe whispered.

‘Again. Louder!’ he cried.

A renewed sense of hope surged through her. Bellowing her love for Titus in the Sarmathian tongue, she pushed him with all her might, throwing the centurion off balance and on to his back. Leaping from her crouching stance up to her feet, Xanthe circled him, sword at the ready.