Roma Victrix (55 page)

Illeana allowed herself to be driven back, keeping in his range, stepping away till she felt the sand beneath her feet thin somewhat.

She backed off a little more.'

‘You're nearly at the wall!' Laenus shouted. ‘Stop running, Illeana!

Fight!'

As he spoke, Taurus thrust at her neck.

Illeana twisted aside, letting his blade smack into the wall where her head had been. She stepped and shoved him in the back before he could turn. Illeana crossed her swords at the back of his neck, the fire of victory surging through her.

‘Yes!' Laenus leapt into the air, punching his fists. ‘Yes! You did it, Illeana, you beat him!'

Taurus dropped his swords and turned, a smile writ large on his face; clearly he was as pleased as Laenus. Unbidden, he embraced her, lifting her from the ground and spinning her around. ‘
Roma
Victrix
!' he exulted. ‘
Roma Victrix!
'

‘You'll kill her!' Laenus bounded over as Taurus put her down.

‘You're going to kill the Greek, Illeana!'

Illeana closed her eyes, letting the afterglow of victory warm her. In her mind, she could hear the crowd chanting her name, feel the emperor's eyes upon her and see the body of her foe at her feet.

She was
Gladiatrix Prima
of Rome – the best in the world.

The wooden blades slammed together with such force that Lysandra knew it was only the metal rods inside them that kept them from breaking. Weeks of chopping trees and swimming had made her arms stronger than they had ever been and she found that she was able to match Superbus's strength. She shoved him away from her and she read the surprise in his eyes.

There was no banter now; he was all about ending the fight and his blades spat out with venom, testing her defences. Lysandra moved in to meet him, closing the distance between them as her own blades sped to deflect his attacks. Superbus collapsed his guard to take her balance, to steer her aside and take the victory. But this Lysandra would not allow. As he gave in to her pressure, she shifted her weight and slammed her forehead into his nose. Blood erupted all over his face and she followed up by kicking him in the testicles to drop him like a stone.

She crouched by him as he bled and retched. ‘There are no rules, Superbus,' she reminded him, refusing to let the sense of triumph be heard in her voice. ‘You should know that.'

The sun beat down, almost cooking the top of her head as she looked up at the hill. High above, she could see the tiny figures of Cappa and Murco. Both men were sporting ridiculous sun hats, the pick of which they had promised her –
if she made it to the top
.

‘You can do this,' Kleandrias told her. ‘It is not the hill,' he went on. ‘It is here, in your mind. You are fitter and stronger than you have ever been, Lysandra. More deadly. You can beat anyone put in front of you. Or any
thing
. The goddess is with you.'

She looked over to him. ‘Yes,' she agreed. ‘I believe that she is.'

Steeling herself, she began to run, pitting her body against the unyielding rock and clay of the hill.

It was high and steep and, as she half-ran, half-clambered onwards, she felt the strain earlier than she had expected. Her feet went from under her and she slid down a few feet, dust clouding around her.

Not this time
, she told herself and sprang up, forcing herself onwards.

As with the early
biathlon
, the sun was conspiring against her, her fair skin seeming to draw heat from the air to cook her from the inside out. Under her tunic, she was drenched in sweat, her hair plastered to her head in sodden locks. Her throat was dry and she risked a look to the top and was crushed to see that she was not even halfway. She resolved to push harder now and sacrifice every drop of strength she had to reach the summit, but as soon as the decision was made, she slipped again and went down, tearing the skin from her knees as she did so. ‘Come on,' she hissed. ‘Come on!'

Gritting her teeth, she surged forward once again, ignoring the pain that seeped through her limbs like poison. The hill had become so steep now that she was forced to grab hold of boulders and shrubs to haul herself onwards. Every muscle in her body shrieked in protest at the exertion, but she would not heed it. It was a matter of will now, hers against the hill's. Her senses began to swim as the mois-ture left her body, burned away by the unmerciful sun, and her breath came in ragged, choking gasps made foul by the dust and scree she was kicking up.

Now, with omission of thought, her limbs began to move faster.

Her heart pounded in her chest as though it would burst, but still she forced herself upwards. Win or die.

Her vision began tunnel, but she could hear them now, all of them, screaming for her to get to the top. Hands and knees now bloodied, she reached down deep inside herself and forged ahead unsure if she was awake or dreaming. Her heart was in her throat and she thought at that moment she might die, when strong hands gripped her wrists and pulled her up.

Lysandra collapsed, exhausted and almost deaf to the cheers of her friends that told her that she had done it.

She had won.

‘Rome,' she gasped. ‘Let us go to Rome.'

The gladiators' feast was an ancient tradition. For some it would be their last night to experience the earthly pleasures of music, good food, fine wine and sex. Lysandra had been to many but never anything on the scale laid out in Rome's great Flavian Amphitheatre. The gigantic arena had been given over to the fighters, table upon table groaning with delicacies and exotic drink from all over the empire. Torchlight bathed the area and the sound of lyres interspersed with laughter drifted over her.

‘I've never seen anything like this.' True to her word, the fussy little Memmia Hortensia had made her way to Rome to bid Lysandra good luck for her fight with Aesalon Nocturna. She was touched by the gesture as she had all but forgotten the woman's promise to her.

Lysandra smiled at the older woman. ‘Nor have I,' she agreed.

‘I have been to such festivities before, but this is certainly grander than most.' The Flavian was the biggest building she had ever seen, huge and imposing. Her eyes flicked around to the empty seats.

Tomorrow, the rows would be stuffed full – fifty thousand Romans baying for her blood. She would be happy to disappoint them.

She, Memmia Hortensia, Cappa, Murco and Kleandrias had found a small table on which to share their meal, Murco making the most of the wine.

‘It's the good stuff,' he commented, sniffing his cup.

‘How can you tell from just smelling it?' Kleandrias wanted to know.

‘You just can,' the bodyguard replied. ‘It takes practice though.'

‘It's a waste of time if you want to know,' Cappa muttered. ‘Just drink the stuff, Murco.' He kept looking over his shoulder as though he was expecting someone. Or, Lysandra mused, perhaps he was looking out for famous gladiators. After all, he and Murco were former Praetorians, based in Rome, and they had probably been to this arena plenty of times since its grand opening by Domitian's elder brother, Titus.

They made light conversation, speaking about anything but what was to follow the next evening. Everyone at the table knew, and there was little point in bombast and premature declarations of victory. Every so often, Lysandra caught sight of the beautiful Aesalon Nocturna. Their eyes met once and they acknowledged each other with a nod. There was nothing more to be said between them: tomorrow, she would have to kill this beautiful creature and it seemed somehow wrong to destroy something so perfect.

A slave came to the table and leant close to Cappa, whispering something in his ear. ‘Lysandra,' he said. ‘Please go with this slave, there is a message for you.'

Lysandra arched an eyebrow. ‘What message?'

‘How should I know? The message is for you.' Cappa shrugged but she could see in his eyes that he was lying.

She excused herself and wove her way through the crowded tables, wondering what this was about. Then she saw Titus, Telemachus and Thebe standing some way back from the gathering.

Lysandra's heart leapt for joy at the sight of them and she pushed past the slave, trotting over. Thebe ran to greet her, throwing her arms about her neck and kissing her on both cheeks.

‘By the gods, Lysandra' she cried. ‘It is good to see you!'

‘And you, my sister, and you,' Lysandra squeezed her tight before breaking away and embracing Titus and Telemachus in turn. ‘How is it that you are
here
?' she asked.

‘Cappa and Murco,' Titus said. ‘They wrote to me and here we are. Besides, we would not miss this, Lysandra. You will be Queen of the Gladiatrices tomorrow and – though it pains me to say it – a Spartan will humble Roman honour.'

Telemachus winked at her. ‘You look…' he paused, trying to find the right words… ‘sleek.' He pantomimed flexing his muscles.

‘Chopping down trees will do that for you,' she commented.

Inside her, joy at seeing her friends again warred with apprehension. She would have to tell them about Varia. About what she had done.

‘Where are those two bastards anyway?' Titus asked.

‘They are at my table. Come.'

‘Lysandra, a word if we may,' Telemachus put a restraining hand on her shoulder as Thebe hovered close by.

‘I'll find them myself,' Titus made off without further comment.

The three made their way to a table occupied by a sleeping barbarian.

Lysandra dragged him off the bench, allowing him to crash to the floor. ‘Idiot,' she muttered. ‘He will be dead on the morrow.' Barbarians always got mindlessly drunk before a bout, something – even with her weakness for liquor – she had never done.

‘It is so good to see you both,' she said as they sat.

Thebe reached across the table and clasped Lysandra's hands in her own. ‘We know what happened,' she said, simply.

Telemachus reached across and put his hands over theirs. ‘Your friends, Cappa and Murco, told us everything in their letter,' he added. ‘Lysandra, Varia's death was not your fault. You must know this.'

Their words caused a physical pain in her chest and she felt her eyes well up with tears. ‘Yes. It was my fault.'

‘It was an accident,' Thebe insisted.

‘In the arena, yes. I know that it was. But everything that happened before was all me. My drunkenness, my hubris
.
' She met Telemachus's eyes. ‘The goddess punished me by making me kill her...' Lysandra trailed off, reliving the awful moment when she had slipped, the dark shape of Varia's body crashing down on top of her, the choking sound she had made as the sword took her life. ‘Athene has forgiven me now, I think, but Varia's blood is on
my
hands. I took her from us.'

‘She was a grown woman,' Thebe's voice was gentle. ‘Headstrong, like those of us who raised her. But as much as I loved her, Lysandra, it was her choice to run away, her choice to do this thing and, in the end, her choice to fight you. What else could you do?'

‘Let her win.'

‘She was skilled, Lysandra, but she was never a killer. You knew this better than anybody.' Thebe squeezed her hand, not needing to add that if Varia had won their bout she would not have lasted much longer on the arena.

‘It is past,' Telemachus said. ‘Sometimes, the good die young.

Eirianwen did,' he reminded her. ‘Varia did. We cannot know the agenda of the gods, Lysandra. You are and have always been Athene's handmaiden. Sometimes, that has made me envy you. But you know as well as I that she is a jealous goddess. Whatever offences you committed against her, you have paid for them in blood. Now you will fight for her again – here, in Rome, as we said those months ago. It is your destiny, Lysandra.'

Lysandra looked him straight in the eye. ‘I know it is. Once I thought that to fight in Athene's honour was all I needed. I realise now that it is not, yet that is the pact between us. I honour her in blood, but I must walk the goddess's path and not my own. Do not fear for me, my friends. I have hardened my heart before – when Eirianwen was killed. And I have done so again. I am scarred, yes.

But I will not carry Varia's death into the arena with me. Tomorrow, I will kill Aesalon Nocturna and we will return home.'

Telemachus gazed at her intently, reading her eyes. She thought that he was as surprised as she not to find a lie there.

Varia was gone. It was over. It was as it had been when Lysandra was a child – she lived only for Athene and no other. Thus it would be until the day she died.

Illeana watched the tall Spartan greet her new friends, a shiver of anticipation going through her as she saw how well the woman moved. In torchlight she could see the hard yet lean muscles on her pale arms and thighs as though she were a statue come to life. Tall, long-limbed and clearly at her physical peak, Achillia would be the ultimate test for her. The fear had gone and had been replaced with an almost unbearable anticipation. Illeana wanted to fight her so much she could almost taste it.

‘She looks ready,' Taurus came and sat next to her. ‘But you will win, Illeana.'

‘Of that I have no doubt. You forget, Taurus, I trained for a long time with her prodigy. This gives me the advantage because all the ‘tricks' that Pyrrha used were taught to her by Achillia. She will not surprise me – I'll read her like a scroll and finish her just as quickly.'

‘If you fight her like you've been fighting me, she's got no chance,'

Taurus nodded. ‘We are equally matched, you and I.' Since her first victory over him, they had sparred many times and now Illeana could more than hold her own. It was this that had burned away her apprehension. To equal Taurus was to equal the finest warrior in the world: there was no man to match him and now no woman to match her.