Gladiatrix (41 page)

Livia moved from a crouch to stand looking over my arm. She couldn't believe her eyes. But she sure wanted to.

‘Yes, Livia, you'll become divine. You'll have your own temples and feast days. You'll be worshipped throughout the Empire.'

Technological stunts aside, Livia was starting to believe me because she wanted to. What I was saying
was too close to her deepest hopes, and probably only reinforced her existing belief in her greater destiny.

Hell, she must feel close to being a goddess already!

As Augustus' wife she was the most powerful woman in the world. She killed with impunity. Even Augustus' own guards, the Praetorians, did as she commanded.

From the greedy look on her face, just another few little pushes should do it. ‘So that you can see how your ascent to divinity will affect the future of Rome, here are the faces of the next four Roman Emperors.' I flicked the screen with my nail.

A grim-faced marble sculpture of her only living son appeared. ‘Tiberius!' Livia spoke with a mother's pride. His title ‘Emperor' was carved into the base.

‘Yes, if you listen to me, Livia, he'll succeed Augustus. He'll reign in peace and wealth for more than twenty years. And you'll rule at his side, respected and powerful.' I restrained myself from adding that his name would forever be associated with child abuse and torture.

‘My boy.' Drinking in the picture on the screen, Livia glowed. It was a repulsive sight.

The next emperor in her line was Caligula, popularly known for his incestuous relationship with his sister, and for making his favourite horse a senator. He wasn't born yet, so Livia stared at his marble face without recognition.

She'd recovered enough to regally demand, ‘And who is he?'

‘That's Caligula, he's not born yet,' I said. ‘He'll be the son of your grandson, Germanicus.'

Gambling that giving her the warts-and-all version would lend credibility to my story, I said, ‘But he'll
only last five years. He'll be murdered by his own Praetorians.'

‘What!' Livia sent her guards, who were just edging back into the room, a filthy glare.

‘Don't worry,' I said. ‘The goddess will ensure your line continues. You'll know the next emperor, but not believe that he can take power. It's your grandson Claudius, the brother of Germanicus.'

‘But he's a stuttering fool!'

‘Yes, and that's exactly why the Praetorians will force Claudius to take the throne. He's no threat to anyone. They'll come to the palace looking for a replacement, and find him hiding behind a curtain.'

‘Behind a curtain?' Livia cackled. Evidently she didn't care who died as long as the right one survived to take power. ‘Typical! That boy's a snivelling coward.'

I watched her gleeful face as she spoke. Yep. She'd been sucked right into the world I was creating, because it gave her exactly what she wanted. Immortality in both senses of the word. Unfortunately for Rome, it was also all true.

The last emperor was Nero. ‘Your great-great-great grandson Nero will be the most famous of all. After him Rome will truly never be the same.'

Mother killer, nutcase … Yes, he was a great example of Livia's twisted heritage. Livia gazed at his marble features, in an ecstasy of self-congratulation.

‘You must understand, Livia, that this could be your future. But only if you accept me as an agent of Isis. You must free me and my slave, and give me Fabius, the man who stole the dagger. The goddess has sent me expressly to punish him for his sacrilege.'

Livia was evidently experiencing an emotion that must be foreign to her — indecision. She said in a small voice, ‘I must have more proof.'

‘You have no choice,' I warned. ‘The goddess is watching!'

‘But I can't let you go free …' Livia shook her head, as though to clear it.

As I watched, the hard edges returned to her expression. Damn! She'd tipped back the other way … I'd lost her!

‘If you're really the messenger of Isis … Then she will protect you. That will be my final proof.'

Fuck.

‘You will fight in the Circus today. The combat is fixed so that you can't possibly win. If you do win, then I will believe your message. You can have Fabius. And you and your slave will go free. If you don't win, you will all die. That is my final decision.'

She clapped her hands. ‘Guards, take her away. Now.'

Livia's men turned me over to the two Praetorians waiting at the back entrance to the Circus Maximus. I couldn't hear what they were saying, we were awash in a sea of sound. The crowd inside was in full throat.

The new guards immediately snapped a pair of heavy cuffs with a short linking chain around my wrists, and hauled me up the stairs towards the gate. Panic set in. According to the contract with Domitia I was not supposed to be chained like a slave, and I was certainly not supposed to go in now.

‘No. The deal was that I come in at the end. At the end,' I shouted. ‘As part of the final fight.'

They either couldn't hear me, or wouldn't. As we reached the top I pulled them round, so they could read my lips. ‘No. I'm a free gladiatrix …'

The one on the left roughly backhanded me into the wall, saying, ‘You're not free any more, dearie. According to your mistress you defaulted on your contract.'

He leered into my face. ‘You're dead meat now, lovey. This is your punishment.'

I slid down the wall, shivering from the pain and the fear. What was I going to do?

I peered through the bars of the gate, while the two guards waited to gain entry, but it was dim inside — a huge tent cut out the daylight. But then I already knew what was waiting. I'd seen it from Domitia's terrace days ago.

Augustus had built walls around the huge racecourse in the middle of the Circus Maximus, and flooded it with water. This was the re-enactment of the naval battle where he defeated Antony and Cleopatra. The battle of Actium.

Trumpets sounded. The roar of the crowd settled to a sea of whispers.

‘The gladiatrix is here.' The man who'd hit me spoke through the bars. He had a long, puckered scar down his right cheek.

‘About frigging time, everything else is set up to go,' the guard unlocking the gate replied sharply. ‘There's nineteen thousand enemy troops on ships out there, and I don't like our chances of keeping them quiet for too much longer.'

Nineteen thousand?

‘So they all agreed? Swore the oath?' Scarface snarled.

‘What did you expect? They knew they were going to die when they were captured. At least this way they get to die as men.'

‘Yeah, and what else were they promised?'

‘Their queens. After the show they go free.' The other man laughed. ‘Well as long as the men perform properly.'

Scarface grunted. ‘Die like men? The bastards sail around in bloody wooden ships acting. Germans pretending to be Egyptians, fuck knows who else pretending to be Romans. With us poor buggers jabbing
them on with spears.' He spat, hitting my bare leg. I jerked away.

There had to be a way to survive this. Get through it. I couldn't just let Alex and Victoria die without a fight.

I slid back up the wall to my feet. I'd survived before, I'd survive this.

The heavy gate creaked open and Scarface and his white-haired mate dragged me through. There was a short perimeter of concrete, and then we stepped onto a long wooden dock with vessels tied on either side. Above, a black tent completely shielded us from the rest of the arena. One of the vessels looked like a battleship. Rowers with long oars, men wearing armour, and a ram jutting from the front.

Scarface dragged me over to the other one, an exotic-looking barge with high decks front and back, and slaves chained to oars each side of the flat middle deck. It was painted in garish colours and curtains of gauzy material hung from every vertical post. Lewd pictures had been painted on the hull. The message was clear. This was supposed to be Cleopatra's pleasure barge.

There were ten or so women penned in an ornate corral on the front deck. They were all naked from the waist up, wearing the same gauzy material as the curtains. They seemed scared, but not cowed. They had to be the hostage queens.

‘Take off your clothes.' Whitehair leered as he demanded it.

‘No.'

Scarface drew his sword again. ‘If you don't, I'll peel them off, and anything else that gets in the way.'

There were Praetorians all around us, loading the other boat. I couldn't get past them all, and back through the locked gate. If I didn't go through with this I could only escape using the transponder. I looked over
at the barge. The women saw I was being threatened, and moved closer to the dock side of the corral. They watched with clenched fists and tight faces.

I swung back to Scarface. ‘What happens next?'

‘You put on your costume.' He flung a jumble of clothes, sandals and a wig at my feet. ‘And get on the boat.'

‘When do I fight?'

‘Eager, are we?' He poked his sword tip into my stomach. ‘Well, don't you worry — you're just gonna take a little sail around the Circus first.'

I looked at the women. They stood in silence, holding my gaze. They were penned in, but not chained. I could find a way to survive, if they took off the chains and put me in that pen.

I ripped the Isiac robe apart. It was the only way I could get it off with the cuffs on my wrists. The two men watched my every move, I was naked underneath. I pulled on the costume — a short, black linen kilt, the Cleopatra wig with a fake Pharaoh's crown stuck on top, and then the sandals. That was it. I was bare from the hips up.

The two Praetorians pushed me onto the barge, but then forced me away from the pen, and up the stairs to the rear deck. Before I could see what they intended to do, they'd pulled my arms through another set of wide cuffs welded into an iron stand and snapped them shut. They took off the first set and dropped them on the deck next to me. The new cuffs were so restricting I couldn't move my forearms or hands at all, but it'd look like I was standing here like a queen, in command of the ship.

Whitehair immediately rubbed his rough, calloused hands across my breasts.

I lashed out sideways, trying to kick him in the balls.

He leapt backwards with a curse. ‘You fuckin' bitch!'

Scarface stepped in and backhanded me again, wrenching my arms cruelly. The blow nearly sent my crown and wig overboard, so they stuck them back on my head and decided to leave me alone.

I desperately scanned the cuffs and the stand they were welded to. There was no way I could see to get the cuffs open.

I faced forward, high up and in full sight. I fought down the panic. We were going to be sailing around a battle where nineteen thousand people would die. And I had no way of protecting myself.

Meanwhile Scarface, sword ready, had opened the pen on the front deck. Whitehair leant in and pulled out a young red-headed girl. Scarface slammed the gate shut just as the rest of the women reached for the girl.

Whitehair dragged her to the middle deck and threw her down hard.

The slaves sitting at the oars on either side immediately turned away. They were in hell already, they didn't need to witness more of it.

He pulled out his sword, and placed the point on her throat. She lay there pinned to the deck. Then he started to lift his tunic.

The blood rushed to my head and I screamed, ‘No!'

The penned women were shouting and throwing their weight against the gate, trying to break it down.

A tall woman with hair the same colour as the girl, made it over the fence, and tried to pass Scarface to get to the girl.

He simply stabbed straight into her stomach, swung her body around, and used his foot to push her off his blade and into the water.

We all froze in horror. There were no limits here. No promises kept.

We were all going to die.

The girl, Whitehair shaking her body with his thrusts, turned her head away from the bloody sight to stare up at me.

I sobbed in anger and frustration. All I could do was hold her gaze.

The shouts from the women had attracted an officer from the other boat. He marched across and barked, ‘Stop wasting time.'

Whitehair scowled and got to his feet, engorged penis still jutting out.

He kicked the girl to move. She was in pain and slow to rise. He booted her again as she crawled away, then adjusted his tunic.

She made it to the pool of blood on the deck and smeared the red across her face like war paint. Scarface hauled her back up the stairs, and threw her into the pen.

‘It's time,' the officer snapped. ‘Get the barge moving.'

Whitehair got his lead-tipped whip out and used on it on the rowers while Scarface climbed the stairs to take control of the big rudder straight behind me.

A sob escaped my clenched jaw. If this amount of suffering could happen here, in this tent, in this short time, what was waiting for us outside?

We glided out from under the tent and into full view of the flooded Circus. The Egyptian obelisk and the giant statue of Neptune stuck up out of the water in the middle of the arena. Below them the two faux navies sat in formation facing each other. Boats filled with armed Praetorian guards patrolled between them, shouting commands and threats.

The Egyptian ships, with green eyes of Ra painted on the side, were black, and the faux Roman ones, gold with black wolf heads on the prows. Even their
positions had been carefully staged. The glowering sea god menaced the Egyptian navy, his trident raised threateningly over his head.

Around us a towering wall of faces stared down.

A whispered ‘Cleopatra'. Then they all stood and growled down their hate at me. Like one giant beast about to pounce.

Scarface taunted me. ‘You're not very popular here, ay, Cleopatra?'

I was shaking so hard I vibrated. The women on the front deck held each other.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. An overwhelming feeling of unreality washed over me.

I couldn't really be here. In the Circus Maximus in ancient Rome. With hundreds of thousands of people roaring for my death.

The trumpets cut through again, two short blasts, and the crowd took their seats again. The Praetorian boats drew back, and the battleships moved to engage. The women shouted to the captive men aboard the passing ships. I couldn't understand what they were saying. The men saluted them and stared back in anguish.

Scarface turned the barge and we began moving slowly around the outer rim of the arena, so close we could see their eyes.

The crowd bellowed out as we passed. ‘Whores.' ‘Sluts.' Most of the words didn't translate.

Splat. A piece of rotten fruit hit my arm. I looked up into a rain of missiles, mainly rubbish, food scraps. When we came up to a whole section of the crowd dressed in blue tunics, Scarface laughed, and steered the craft even closer to the wall.

‘Where's your army now? Bitch,' shouted a blue tunic, close to the front.

He stood up and swung his arm. I ducked, but a rock thudded heavily into my shoulder.

Aahhh. Bursting pain.

At that, all the other men in blue tunics stood up and aimed as well. They'd come prepared, with baskets full of rocks sitting in front of them. This time they went for the other women too.

A deadly rain of stones hit the barge. A rock hit my head knocking the crown off, but the heavy horsehair wig gave me some protection.

The queens didn't hide; they dodged the missiles, and threw each one back. We were wounded, but the blues had blood on their tunics too.

A chant started up ahead of us. ‘Kill the blues. Kill the blues.' Another equally large section wearing green tunics urged us on.

‘Go on! Get the scum.'

‘The women 'ave got more balls than you — you blue bastards!'

The blues took this last cry as a challenge and surged down to the wall right above us.

Daggers started hitting the deck.

One snipped past me to hit the rudder. Scarface cried out.

Then another followed. And another. They were trying to pick off the two Praetorians as well as the rest of us. A man in blue started to climb down the wall to the deck. They were going to try to take over the vessel.

Whitehair started whipping the slaves on, as Scarface hastily steered us away from the arena wall.

But now the queens were armed. Holding the daggers in their teeth they scaled the fence in one fluid movement. They charged Whitehair, and the young girl, painted with her kin's blood, threw a dagger
straight into his face. He turned and stumbled, clutching the knife sticking out of his left eye.

As they surged up the rear deck stairs, Scarface drew his sword.

The crowd hushed at the sight.

A woman, black as midnight, led the way. She was covered in cicatrices. Raised scars. She threw her dagger straight at his groin.

Scarface just managed to dodge it. He dropped his sword, ran for the railing, and dived in.

The crowd choked in anger. As he swam away, some booed him, and threw missiles. Others saluted us. Thumbs up.

The crowd stared down at us expectantly, and we stared back. We'd drifted well past the blues, and now the front row held six women in white robes and veils. They were separated from the rest of the crowd by a fancy marble divider. Written on the wall in front of them was the title ‘Vestal Virgins'.

So these were the sacred priestesses? They stared down us, one with pity and the rest steely jawed. We were only foreign whores after all.

The African woman and the young girl tried to get me free. Another woman, squarely built with the same shock of red hair, picked up Scarface's sword and used it as a lever to force the lock.

Boooommmm.

Something heavy slammed into the arena wall right in front of us. The sound echoed around the arena.

Our eyes all darted forward. One of the faux Egyptian warships had rammed a faux Roman vessel right into the wall. The faux armies were now cutting into each other, fighting for a few more minutes of life.

I looked around, all across the arena the battle was peaking.

‘Look.' The girl pointed.

Scarface stood across from us, he'd been picked up by reinforcements. But the Praetorians just stood in their boat and watched us. They didn't try to get back on board. Just watched.