Roma Victrix (33 page)

But this was legendary Capua, and they did not half-train their fighters here.

Audacia was using her shield well, jabbing it out like a boxer to both confuse and create a barrier from behind which she could strike. Pyrrha was burning more energy, moving fast, trying to cut in at angles. The Capuan surged in and Pyrrha back-stepped frantically, fending off the bigger woman. A gap opened between them and then she did something that, in all her years in the arena, Illeana had never seen.

Time seemed to slow before her eyes as Pyrrha ran –
ran
– forward.

She launched herself into the air, blades poised.

It was madness.

It was suicidal.

It had never been seen before.

Like the mob, Audacia seemed to be stunned by the move for that split instant before the blow landed. Pyrrha came down like the war goddess herself, blade first, hacking the weapon into the flesh that joined the neck to the shoulder. Blood spewed from the wound and Audacia's keening wail of agony could be heard even above the roar of the spectators. Locked together, both gladiatrices toppled to the ground in a spray of blood and sand.

Pyrrha rolled away and scrambled behind Audacia, gripping her stricken foe by the hair and placing her sword at the other woman's throat. All eyes in the arena now turned to the
editor
's box. As sponsor of the games it would be he who ultimately decided the fate of the defeated Audacia, but as everyone knew, he would be swayed by the will of the mob. After all, like most
editors
he had made the heavy investment in putting on a spectacle to curry political favour with the citizens: it made no sense to antagonise them by turning his thumb on a fighter who they deemed had performed well.

Audacia raised her blood-covered hand imploring the crowd for the
missio
and they voiced their support for mercy. She had fought well. Illeana, if she was being dispassionate, would go so far as to think she had been unlucky not to win. The
editor
was inclined to agree as he adopted a down-mouthed expression of magnanimity and pulled his thumb into his waist, indicating the sheathing of a sword – and deliverance for Audacia.

Pyrrha released her opponent and raised her swords to some applause. These were not the ecstatic shouts of a satisfied throng: after all, it was their champion who had fallen, but the Capuan mob was erudite enough to appreciate a good fighter when they saw one.

The young
tiro
waited for a moment before making her painful way back towards the Gate of Life.

Lysandra's senses swum as her feet pounded on the hard earth, calves burning as she plunged on up the hill towards the setting sun. Her heart thudded in her chest as she ran, sweat drenching her body and soaking through her tunic. The ground rose steeper, causing her to stumble and scrabble upwards, dust and lose stones forming clouds of dust about her, settling on her skin.

She slipped, and slid back several feet. Gasping, she forced herself onwards, her rhythm broken. At the summit, Cappa called out to her in encouragement, urging her not to give in. Far behind, Murco laboured after her, too weary even to curse.

‘Come on, lass – come on!' Cappa jumped up and down on the spot like an excited child, beckoning her.

Gritting her teeth, Lysandra dug deep and kept going. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her, but she refused to stop running. To walk now would be to admit defeat – and that she could not allow.

She screamed, willing herself to go on, her tortured body nearly spent. The ground rose steeper still, forcing her to grab at shrubs and rocks to save herself from falling, but every agonising pace brought her nearer to her goal. One final push and she would be there.

The world began to judder each time her feet impacted with the earth, tilting crazily with abrupt suddenness as the ground rushed up to meet her. She struggled to her knees, trying to rise again, but could not, bile rushing to her throat and exploding out of her mouth. She puked until the dry retching began signalling the beginning of the end.

She was dimly aware of Cappa's hand on her back, his calming voice telling her she'd be all right. She rolled over and sat on her bottom.

‘Here,' he said, tipping water into her mouth. ‘Rinse and spit.

And don't drink the rest down too fast.'

‘Merciful Athene!' Lysandra gasped in frustration. ‘I was so close.'

‘Early days yet,' Cappa consoled her. ‘And if
you
feel bad…' he jerked his chin down the hill. ‘Look at poor Murco.'

The other bodyguard was staggering up towards them so slowly it looked as though as he was moving under water. Eventually, he reached them, collapsing in a heap, chest heaving. ‘Not… paying…me… enough… for… this… shit…' he managed, beckoning frantically for the water sack.

‘I told you. You do not have to run with me,' Lysandra patted his back as he drank. ‘Either of you. Just wait along the route.'

‘We're paid to guard you,' Cappa replied. ‘Can't do that if we're too far away to help you if anything happens.'

‘She's a gladiatrix, you idiot!' Murco gasped, handing the sack back to Lysandra. ‘You think she can't handle herself ? I'm not doing this again – no offence,' he offered to Lysandra.

‘I'll run with you tomorrow,' Cappa smirked. ‘Again. Your trouble, Murco, is that you drink too much wine. I'm still as fit as I was twenty years ago.'

‘That's not what you said last time it was your turn. You complained all night about your aches, pains and blisters.'

‘Have you two finished?' Lysandra cut them off before it degen-erated into another round of bickering. Both Romans bickered like old crones and she was not in the mood to listen. She got to her feet. ‘Time to get back to the cabin. Come on, Murco,' she offered him a hand up. ‘Up you get, old man.'

The trio made their way back to their temporary home as the sun began to sink. Lysandra was furious at her abject failure to reach the summit. Too many years of booze-soaked inactivity had taken a greater toll than she had anticipated. To be a gladiatrix required a greater level of fitness than that of even the doughtiest Spartan warrior. Lysandra reckoned that she could not have out-fought one of the Three Hundred but she would wager her entire fortune that she would have been able to outrun any of them in her prime.

In her prime.

She should be in her prime now. She was the right age to reach her psychical peak. The old strength of body and will was still there.

It would come, she told herself.

It would come.

The next morning, Murco awoke her before dawn as she had requested. Each day, before her training she went to the less-than-opulent Temple of Athene to make an offering and pray that Varia would return home to the
Deiopolis
in safety. The truth of it was that the headstrong youth had probably returned long since but still, she worried, and an offering would not hurt matters.

She led in the pure white lamb, waving a greeting to the old priest who was busy sweeping the floor. He seemed as ancient as the building he guarded, all white-beard and scraggly hair. She had been coming for over two weeks now and she guessed he had become accustomed to her visits; at first, the old man had been genuinely put out at someone suddenly appearing to disrupt his indolent harmony, but he had come to realise that Lysandra knew her way around a temple and was thus not a threat to the lassitude of his semi-retirement.

It was peaceful here. Quiet. Lysandra used the place to centre herself even as she drew the sacrificial blade across the throat of the lamb, cutting deeply so she severed its larynx, thus allowing no sound to escape the beast. It thrashed pathetically on the altar, its hot blood coursing all over her hands as she whispered her prayers, beseeching the goddess to give her the strength of will she had once possessed. She let the animal bleed out, seeking answers to unknown questions in the crimson liquid.

Her ritual finished, she rinsed her hands in the altar bowl and turned to leave. But for the first time, the caretaker spoke to her.

‘See you again tomorrow, girl?' he said in strangely accented Hellenic.

She smiled at him. ‘Yes. Tomorrow.'‘

He said nothing more but went back to his work, whistling a broken tune. Yet the exchange, as brief as it was, left her feeling strangely lifted and light of spirit. And she was eager to begin the trials of the day.

‘Fifteen… sixteen… seventeen…' Cappa counted as Lysandra pulled herself up on the chin bar. She alternated, first lifting her chin above the bar and then placing the back of her neck against it on the next repetition. It was excruciating, but it worked different muscles and built up endurance. ‘No pain!' had become the mantra of the little household and each time Lysandra began to fail, Cappa, Murco or both invoked it. Now as she went into the forties, they switched roles: Cappa counting, Murco exhorting.

‘Forty-three…'

‘No pain!'

‘Forty-four…'

‘No pain!'

And so it went on.

Both men knew what they were about when it came to training.

They had been Praetorians, well used to putting their subordinates through their paces and they now called upon that experience to aid Lysandra. Though they sparred with wooden swords on occasion, this was not specialised gladiatorial preparation: that would come in the
ludus
. All this was designed to make her stronger, tougher and faster.

And as the days wore on, she began to love the toil and sweat once again.

‘That hill still has the beating of you,' Cappa told her one afternoon as she worked on the wooden
pallus
, training her eye to strike at vulnerable spots on her “opponent.” ‘You need to be stronger.'

‘I will be,' Lysandra replied, launching a furious attack on the
pallus
. The weight of the practice sword – the
rudis
– felt good in her hand.

‘We'll get you there.' Mucro said, emerging from the house, a harness in his hands. ‘This used to be a punishment in the Guard.

But for you, it's good training.'

Lysandra paused in her work. ‘What are you going to do?' she raised an eyebrow. ‘Beat me with that?'

Murco laughed. ‘No – everyone knows that is a national pastime in Sparta. Come with me.'

The two bodyguards led her away from the house and to the foot of the hill. Here an unyoked chariot awaited them. ‘You are not serious,' Lysandra protested, knowing already that they were.

‘Stop complaining or I'll start making horse jokes,' Murco tossed the harness to her. ‘It's been altered, padded and all the rest. Get it on you.'

Lysandra did as she was told, adjusting the leather straps so they were snug on her shoulders and waist.

‘Good,' Cappa said, fitting the trailing end of the harness to the two-wheeler. Grinning he stepped on board, soon followed by Murco. They were enjoying themselves immensely by now, Murco even having remembered to bring a small flask of wine and two cups.

‘Cappa, my friend,' he handed his companion a drink. ‘Time for a trip around the Paestum countryside. Lysandra, if you please.'

Lysandra took a deep breath and stepped forward at the trot. The chariot was not as heavy as she had expected and she was able to increase her pace a little. Cappa and Murco made a point of admiring the scenery as she ran, making plans to visit the lake and perhaps do some fishing. This, she thought, was great sport for them.

And, it seemed, everyone they passed. The sight of a woman bearing two grown men in a chariot was the cause of great hilarity to adult and child alike. But as time wore on, Lysandra found that she was too exhausted to notice. The muscles in her back and calves screamed in pain as she toiled on, sweat pouring from her body, her lungs working frantically, but never taking in enough air.

The joking from behind had stopped now as her pace began to slow. ‘Keep it up, lass,” Cappa shouted. ‘No pain, now. Don't give in… don't give in!'

She dug deep, deeper than she knew she could. Everything had gone now, everything but the agony of exhaustion and the need to carry on. She thought for a moment she was still running but realised that she was not – she simply moved on at a trudge which in its turn slowed to inertia. Lysandra heaved, but her strength was gone. She threw herself forward, trying to use the momentum of her weight to get the chariot rolling again. It was useless and she fell to her knees, gasping for air.

‘Fucking hell!' both bodyguards were at her side, Murco emptying water over her head and cursing at the same time. ‘We didn't think you'd get half as far! Good girl… good work!'

‘Well done, lass!' Cappa undid the harness.

‘I think a small part of me is beginning to hate you two,' Lysandra spluttered. ‘You are enjoying this a little too much.'

‘It's for your own good,' Murco reply was sagacious. ‘You can walk back, mind. We'll take the chariot.'

‘Walk? I think not.' Lysandra rose to her feet and staggered to the chariot.

‘I told you this would happen,' Cappa said as he picked up one of the yokes. ‘I
told
you.'

The chariot run now became part of her daily regimen and the tale of the ‘horse-woman' spread quickly and their route was often lined with people who had come to see the curious sight for themselves, cheering on the strange woman and her trainers.

As her strength grew, Lysandra began to enjoy the runs more and more, getting a thrill from the cries of encouragement. Soon, she was completing the round trip, revelling in her new-found endurance. Cappa and Murco were as unflagging in their support as they were unmerciful in their training methods. She began to realise why the Roman legions were so successful – with taskmas-ters like these, their men had to be the fittest soldiers the world had ever known.

Their techniques were often agricultural, both literally and figu-ratively, but they worked. Lysandra found she had swapped sword and shield for shovel and axe as the Romans had her dig deep trenches with no regard for weather or the lateness of the hour. Three
gladii
deep by three
gladii
wide was what a legionary had to dig. ‘Good enough for them, good enough for you,' Cappa had told her, and he would not tolerate an incomplete job – she was made to finish each ditch. The first time left her with blistered hands, aching back and a return home long after the sun had gone down. Accompanying her digs were frequent excursions – sometimes with the chariot – to the nearby woods. Here she would pit muscle and a steel axe-head against the trees.