LEANORE 09
By Heck



Comments to heck@beadyeye.net

CHAPTER NINE

TRAINING WAS DIFFICULT.

Sextus was true to his word. He worked them hard, expected total effort, and
came down heavy if he did not get it. Any subordination was stamped on as
swiftly and harshly as he had promised, and several captives had been killed
pressing home his message. He whittled them down to a solid core of talent,
the very best fighters floating to the top like cream, and disposed of the
chaff by sale as house slaves or agricultural workers. Also, as he had
predicted, about a third succumbed to the ravages if disease or died through
injuries sustained during training.

His regime was strict, severe, and he demanded unstinting dedication from his
assistants and complete exhaustion from the slaves. He honed and refined their
skills, and turned them into brutal and efficient fighting machines. Yet
though he was demanding and hard as nails, he was not cruel, and while he
could not be said to regard them with affection, looked upon them with an
almost fatherly pride.

At first, Leanore had been sullen and truculent, merely going through the
motions of what was expected of her. But over time, as the benefits of good
nutrition and hard exercise began to make itself apparent in increased
strength and vitality, she actually began to enjoy it. She threw herself into
the regime, and emerged stronger and fitter than she had ever been before. And
although she tried to hide the fact from Sextus by sneering at him and
avoiding speaking to him whenever possible, he could see that she revelled in
the forced exercise and was appreciative of the gains she made.

At first, the training was centred on strength and agility. Poles were lashed
between two posts, where the trainees could pull themselves up. The assistant
trainers ensured that their chins topped the bar on each repetition, and the
exercise produced strong arms as well as stamina. In addition, there was a
similar construction with leather straps attached to the poles. The trainees'
ankles would be fastened to these, and they would use their belly muscles to
haul up their upper bodies to touch their foreheads to their knees. Then there
was the platform, laden with rocks so the resistance could be varied. The idea
was that the slaves would lie under the platform and push it up with their
thighs, sliding it up the four guide poles and lowering as slowly as possible.

For agility, there was instruction in acrobatics and slalom races, weaving in
and out of poles set in the ground, and the most hated apparatus of all, the
Dolly.

The Dolly was an ingeniously simple device. It consisted of a tall post set in
a greased wooden socket. Top and bottom, on opposite sides, were stout wooden
spars extending four feet into the air. A system of ropes and pulleys allowed
the mechanism to be rotated at varying speeds by an assistant. A trainee would
stand next to the post and, as it turned, would jump over and duck under the
spars as they came around. It was hated because, while it was easy enough to
avoid the spars at first, as the rotation speeded up there was a real danger
of being hit on the shins or the back of the head. When it reached full speed,
it was quite capable of breaking a leg or smashing a skull, resulting in
incapacitation or even death.

As far as combat was concerned, while shields and nets were real enough, the
trainees practiced with wooden swords and tridents, carefully crafted to have
the weight and heft of the real thing. They would not be allowed real weapons
until they entered the arena for the first time. They were also schooled in
unarmed combat, which was a discipline they may be called upon to display at
the games and, as Sextus said, if you lose your weapon, what do you do?

Leanore was secretly pleased to find that she excelled at everything physical,
and threw herself into the training with gusto. Her muscularity, strength, and
acrobatic skill increased from day one, and very soon outstripped the
capabilities of the apparatus to challenge her. Sextus noted this with
satisfaction, and began to add resistance to her training. Heavy rocks would
be strapped to her back when she performed the pull- and sit-up exercises, and
more stones would be added to the platform. Eventually, they ran out of
stones, and the assistants took to sitting on the platform while she pressed
them high with her fabulous legs.

She was not the biggest trainee, nor the heaviest. But she was without doubt
the strongest.

Although she added muscular bulk, she remained flexible and agile, and her
stamina grew until she was all but tireless. It became the habit of all,
slaves and masters alike, to stop and watch when Leanore was on the Dolly. The
machine would be cranked up to full speed, and Leanore would bob and hop until
the assistant doing the turning collapsed with exhaustion. Bets were placed as
to whether she or the assistant would give up first, but that soon paled as
entertainment. Those that wagered on Leanore won every time.

She also found she had a natural aptitude with the weapons, both the short
sword, the gladius, for which the gladiators were named, and the net and
trident of the retiarii. She preferred the former, by choice, but performed
equally well with either. Hand to hand, she was a whirling, twisting windmill
of arms and legs that was near impossible to stop.

Through selection and natural wastage, the numbers were reduced until, at
last, Sextus had the hard core of gladiators he wanted. At the end of three
months, he was left with a nucleus of about twenty men and women; a fighting
corps of martial experts to match any in the Empire and, as he had predicted,
the cream of the cream, the best of the best, had turned out to be Leanore.

Three months after she had first marched into the stockade she was a sleek and
tireless, powerful and muscular fighting machine, and some of her old
good-humoured irrepressible personality had resurfaced. Most of the time she
could be seen with a smile on her face, but that faded the morning Sextus
stood among them and made his announcement.

"Gather round, gather round". The squat trainer slowly revolved in their
midst, making beckoning gestures with outstretched hands. "You ain't done too
bad, for such a miserable bunch of spawn". There was a little ripple of
muffled laughter. The trainees knew he was in a good mood when he insulted
them. "So now, yer ready to go to the arena. We leave tomorrow, and I expect
every one of yer bastards to do me proud. The way yer performs will determine
the kind of price yer gets, and the quality of nenentus.

"Yer nenentus is yer owner, and he'll be the one who picks yer fights and sees
to yer. The better price yer makes, the richer the client'll bid fer yer. The
richer yer nenentus, the better he can afford to treat yer. So fer yer own
sakes, as well as mine, yer better do well.

"Yer c'n all call yerselves gladiators, now. Now, I don't care if yer takes
pride in that or not. But I do expect yer to do yer best, an' make me rich.
An' 'ere's a surprise".

"Yer c'n all take the rest of the day off!"

A half-hearted cheer passed around the stockade. Sextus stood and watched his
new gladiators disperse. All except Leanore, who remained hunkered down on the
compacted sand. He wandered over to her.

"Yer don't look too 'appy", he commented, stroking his bristly chin. "What's
yer problem?"

Leanore looked up, squinting against the sun as she met his eye.

"No problem", she said. Her language skills had improved by leaps and bounds,
but she still stumbled over her words occasionally, and retained her exotic
accent. "I did not expect to go to the arena so soon, is all".

"You afraid?"

"No, not afraid. I.. have not the words. I feel .shaky inside".

"Ah". Sextus squatted down to her level. Actually, below her level, because
his squatting body was much shorter than hers. "Just nerves, that's all.
Everybody gets 'em. Yer goin' off to the unknown, and yer nervous about it.
But I'll tell yer somethin' I don't just tell any of my students, an' if yer
blabs about it, I'll cut yer tits off, understan'?"

His words didn't scare her, but she nodded all the same. Sextus grunted.

"Right. Of all the gladiators I ever trained, yer the best. Bar none. I
shouldn't be surprised if yer goes all the way, and takes the Championship of
the 'ole fuckin' Empire. If yer shows yer potential in the arena next week,
yer'll be almost bound to get a good nenentus". He clapped her on the shoulder
as he stood up. "So yer'll be OK. Nothin' to worry about".

"That is good for you to say me. But I might let you down".

"How so?"

"I will fight, as you have taught me. And I will kill if I have to. But I will
not kill just to please you, or anyone else. I cannot".

He sighed, clearly troubled by her words.

"Now, that's a damn' shame". A look of anger was chased by concern across his
chubby face. "A damn shame. 'Cos if yer win and yer opponent is still alive,
an' out of some stupid sense o' morals yer don't kill 'im when the thumbs-down
is given, yer'll be executed. Simple as that". He turned from her and walked
away. "An' that'll be a terrible waste".

Leanore watched his back as he walked away. She had come to know this man over
the weeks and had come, not to like him; there was nothing likeable about him,
but at least to respect him. She knew what a taciturn individual he was, and
had a sense of the effort his 'pep talk' had cost him. If 'pep talk' was the
right word. He had done his best, she supposed. She had made herself a promise
not to lower herself to the level of her captors, and not to kill unless it
became unavoidable, but slightly regretted disappointing the bluff trainer.

*

The trip was far more comfortable than her previous journeys. The weather had
been dull and overcast, so the heat was less oppressive. Grey skies joined
grey landscape in a ragged line along the careless weld of the horizon, and
occasional showers of light, refreshing rain were not unwelcome. The novices
had travelled in what, for them, was the lap of comfort. They were shackled,
but rode on seats, five to a cart with room to move and stretch. The journey
took three or four days and they arrived at the venue fresh and well rested.

They had not seen much of the provincial town. The carts took them directly to
their quarters built into the walls of a large circular edifice, and they were
locked in dimly lit but relatively comfortable cells, segregated according to
gender. Next morning, they mustered together in the wide tunnel that led to
the amphitheatre.

Before the games began, Sextus took the time to walk among them, reminding
them of what was expected of them. He instructed them in proper etiquette and
arena conduct, signals the officials would make and what they meant, and a
degree of showmanship.

"Play to the crowd", he said, "an' they'll love yer. The bastards all want
violence, blood, an' death, but what they want most of all is thrills. Give
'em what they want, an' when the outcome comes down to the nob in the box,
yer'll be more likely to get the thumbs-up if yer've put on a good show".

And now, they waited nervously in line, listening to the muted din of the
crowds settling down. Alongside them were gladiators from other stables and
they could not help but feel an almost tribal rivalry toward them, even though
their opponents would be randomly chosen and they may end up fighting each
other.

The weather had changed since their arrival, and the sun bore down like a
physical weight in the breathless arena. Water and sweetmeat vendors wove
their way through the crowd, accompanied by a constant murmur of anticipation
as the audience severally took their seats or stood in expectant knots,
chatting about the spectacle to come. It was one of the smaller provincial
amphitheatres, capable of accommodating no more than four hundred spectators,
but was popular and well attended.

On a day like today, though, when novice combatants displayed their skills in
public for the first time, the administration expected a less than capacity
crowd.

Above the tiers, sailcloth shrouds extended on cunning mechanisms, shading the
expensive seats from the worst of the sun. The rank and file sweltered in the
heat while, down in the arena and exposed to the full glare of the baking
sunlight, a small squad of trumpeters stood to attention, sweating freely in
the fierce rays. At a sign from the conductor, they raised their instruments
to their lips and, with perfect timing, blew a loud fanfare as a door at the
rear of the raised senatorial dais swung open and a hush fell on the crowd.

Dressed in a gleaming white gold trimmed sleeveless gown that covered her from
neck to ankles but nonetheless contrived to display her voluptuous figure to
great advantage, a woman of regal bearing and great beauty stepped out onto
the balcony, shapely arms outstretched as she acknowledged the roar of
greeting that rose from the audience's collective throat. Tall and elegant,
with expertly coiffured red hair framing perfect features, she was at once
glorious and yet somehow terrible to look upon.

This was Julia Domina, wife of the senator Effluvius Dominus, and the crowd
greeted her with uproarious enthusiasm. Whereas her ageing husband tended to
be lenient when he presided over the games, and often gave the 'thumbs-up'
sign, allowing defeated combatants to live, his wife was known to have a
slightly twisted cruel streak and delighted in the blood and gore of the ring.
When her husband was not present, she actively encouraged the fighters to
gross acts of barbarity, and invariably demanded the death of the vanquished.

This, of course, was what the crowds came to see, and resulted in great
popularity for the senator's wife.

She basked in the adulation for several minutes, before settling languidly
onto the luxurious couch provided for her comfort. Games involving novices
were rarely of the highest quality, and the Domina looked a trifle bored as
she picked idly at a bunch of succulent grapes. A look was all it took to
indicate to her entourage that the games should begin.

The trumpeters blew another voluntary, by way of an overture, and marched in
procession from the arena. Quiet fell on the spectators. On the far side of
the arena a heavy, trellised gate rose with a creaking rumble. The audience
craned forward in their seats, trying to get a glimpse of the first of the new
gladiators.

Looking nervous and a little hesitant, somewhat in awe of the new experience,
the men stepped out into the sunlight. One was of average height, well muscled
and athletic. He wore a peaked helmet of shining brass, and was clad in a
short leather kilt and sturdy sandals. His left shoulder was protected by
stout leather, and he carried a small round shield in his left hand. He was
taking the part of a secutor, and his right hand clasped the short, stabbing
and slashing sword, the gladius, that gave the gladiators their generic name.

The other was perhaps a shade taller and much more heavily built. The power of
his muscular arms was evident from simple inspection. He wore leather pants
and a similar helmet, but had no armour of any kind, and was armed with a
long, slender javelin with a wickedly barbed tip.

At first glance, it would seem that the swordsman had the advantage. He had
some armour, after all, and the use of a shield. He was also lighter on his
feet and much more agile.

When held at arm's length and used as a jabbing weapon, however, the javelin
had the advantage of keeping the opponent at bay and the proponent well out of
reach of the flashing blade, allowing the wielder to nip at his opponents
defences until he found an opening for a killing thrust. Also, of course, the
javelin could be thrown from a distance and, in the hands of an expert, was a
lethal projectile. Throwing the javelin could be a mixed blessing, though. If
the spearman missed his mark, he left himself defenceless and at the mercy of
the secutor.

The two contenders marched to the centre of the ring and saluted the Domina
with clenched fists, as they had been taught. She smiled down at them with
cold grey eyes, her rouged lips curling cruelly. The pink tip of her tongue
protruded slightly as it ran over her lip in anticipation, and she nodded to
the men, signalling them to begin.

The combatants circled each other warily, to begin with. They had known each
other, trained together, for three months, and had got along quite well. If
not firm friends, they had at least shared meals and relaxed together, and
there was something of a bond between them. And here they were, beginning a
battle that would probably see one of them, at least, die. Each watched the
movements of the other, trying to anticipate the first move while, at the same
time, trying not to make eye contact.

From the spectators' point of view, the fight was a big disappointment.
Watching from behind the grilled gate, Sextus threw up his hands in disgust as
it was all over in a matter of seconds. Up on her dais, Julia Domina rolled
her eyes heavenward. Although it will take longer to tell than the actual
fight itself, what happened was this.

The man with the javelin thought he saw an opening. He charged forward and
thrust his spearpoint at the point where he thought his opponent's unprotected
ribs would be. But his move was telegraphed, and the secutor twisted his body
out of the way, turning inside the javelin, sword outthrust at the end of his
arm. He flailed wildly, and by sheer fluke his blade sliced across the throat
of the other. The javelin fell from numbed fingers, and the man sprawled on
the ground to leach out his life in the dust.

Still, the crowd applauded sportingly and the swordsman, grinning foolishly at
the fact that he had got away with his life intact, made his salute under the
disdainful eye of the Domina. Mindful not to turn his back on her he reversed
out of the arena, almost tripping over his own feet as the body of his
erstwhile colleague was hauled away.

Throughout the long afternoon, the fights dragged on. Men against men, women
against women, women against men. Some received the accolade of the crowd and
the grudging approval of the Domina, but most were merely average and some
were, frankly, lacklustre. Leanore stood behind the massive gate, watching
detachedly as yet another pair slogged it out on the sand. Beside her was the
man who was to be her opponent, a gladiator from another stable, and he, too,
stared fixedly out into the ring.

It was not her choice to be here, and she would have given anything to be at
home, among her family, going hunting or working her beloved metal. But here
she was, and there was little she could do about it. She resolved to do her
best to stay alive throughout these scheduled battles, to survive until she
could find a way to escape or be awarded her freedom.

Part of her mind registered the fact that the fight was over and yet another
mutilated corpse was being unceremoniously dragged through the dust. The
audience was getting bored and frustrated, now, and openly jeered if the
spectacle was not to their liking. Another fanfare blared out, and the big
gate opened before her.

Leanore strode out into the setting sun, head held proudly high. It was cooler
in the ring now, but still uncomfortably warm. If she were to keep her life,
she knew, she would have to please the crowds, would have to put on a good
show. Her event was to be unarmed, hand to hand combat and, except for a small
loincloth, she was entirely naked. Her dark skin gleamed under the sun, her
body edged with red from its sinking rays. She looked magnificent, with her
glorious breasts riding high on her deep chest.

Leanore presented an image of pure feminine power as she stood there, her
lovely face topped by her short but thick, black, glossy curls and supported
on a long, strong columnar neck that sloped out to wide, smooth- skinned
shoulders capped by full, rounded deltoids. Tapering to a slightly thick and
muscular waist, where the flat slabs of muscle that formed her belly caught
the light and were more sharply defined by the shadows, her body flared out to
wide hips and round, densely packed buttocks. She swung her muscular arms and
long, powerful legs as she walked, causing the muscles to coil and ripple with
every movement.

She came to a halt before the dais, and only now did she spare a glance for
her opponent. Bronze skinned and a couple of inches taller than her, he was a
finely tuned athlete with a lantern jaw and bright, intelligent eyes under a
high forehead and closely cropped dark hair. Well muscled and holding himself
tall, he spared her a quick wink before returning his attention to the dais.

I know this man, Leanore realised. He was in the cart on the way to the ship,
but I never saw him on board, never saw him again until today, in fact. What
was his name, again? Shimon? Something like that.

Julia Domina had risen from her couch. She looked the pair up and down, her
gaze lingering on Leanore's splendid body. Her eyes drank in the sight of the
strong, majestic woman, and her tongue appeared briefly between her lips.
Suddenly, these games had become more interesting. There was no mistaking the
lust in her narrowed eyes and lascivious smile as she gave the nod for combat
to commence.

The man and the woman saluted her as tradition demanded, and turned to face
each other. They met and held each other's gaze in mutual appraisal. Leanore
had to admit, he looked formidable.

"I know you, I think". She spoke quietly, through her teeth.

"Many people know me", he replied with just a hint of arrogance. "I was the
wrestling champion of my homeland, before these bastards took me captive. My
name is Shimon".

"I am Leanore". She kept circling, hands extended to meet any attack. "You
were in the cart on the way to the ship".

"I was on the ship, too. They put me in a cabin on my own, fed me well, and
told me I was to be a main attraction. Pah! I'm still a damn' slave".

"We are all slaves".

"I've made this promise, a vow before all my gods, to stay alive long enough
to get away from all this and go home. So I'm not going to hold back, and if I
have to kill you today, I will".

"I have promised also. Do not expect me to be easy pushed over".

Shimon smiled at her turn of phrase, and frowned when he heard the crowd
beginning to jeer. They had come to see some action, not to watch two people
pussyfoot around and hold a conversation. A flung piece of orange peel struck
Shimon on the shoulder, and he raised an eyebrow at Leanore.

"All right, then. Let's get it on".

They locked fingers, and began the contest with a test of strength. Shimon
expected this to be easy; he was confident that he would have Leanore at his
mercy in a matter of seconds.

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline and his jaw dropped as he quickly
realised that the fingers interlocked with his own were, at least, his equal
in strength. It was like having each of his digits trapped in a small vice
that tightened inexorably, squeezing his fingers between hers. He poured on
the power, believing that he had underestimated her but needing only to
increase his effort to prevail.

He had underestimated her. In fact, he had underestimated how much he had
underestimated her. It seemed that, no matter how much of his considerable
strength he employed against her, her steely fingers matched his pound for
pound. He looked into her face, and was shocked to see no effort reflected
there. He knew there was strain displayed on his. In fact, the bitch was
smiling at him, giving him a wide, bright grin that seemed to say 'Is that the
best you can do?' His surprise registered on his face, giving way to real fear
as it dawned on him that this woman was more than his match in terms of
strength.

Leanore's grin took on a grim aspect as she began to apply her own power. Her
excruciating grip increased geometrically, turning his fingers white as they
were deprived of blood. Muscle rippled in her thick forearms and she began to
press his hands back, forcing him to his knees with a look of agony on his
face. Cracks audible to the first rows of the audience rang out as two of his
left hand fingerbones fractured under her power.

Shimon was at her mercy, and he knew it. The blood of his ancestors would not
let him cry out or beg for leniency, but it came almost as a relief when her
right knee crashed into his jaw and laid him out on the sandy floor.

Circling warily, Leanore watched as Shimon came groggily to his knees, shaking
his head to clear it. He regarded her with a new respect, which would have
multiplied if he had known that she had carefully judged the force of her
blow. Full power would have claimed his senses, if not killed him outright,
but she was mindful of her vow not to kill unnecessarily.

She would kill, if it came to a choice between her life and that of an
antagonist, but then and only then. She was quite philosophical about it, and
accepted that people would die at her hand, but was resolved that she would
not commit murder.

Shimon staggered to his feet, blood streaming from his mouth as he spat out a
couple of shattered teeth. That had been close, and he could not understand
why she had not finished him when she had the chance, but remained confident
that his wrestling skills would win out at the end of the day. He would just
be careful not to take her for granted again.

If he had know that this was a woman who, at fourteen, had killed an adult
lion with her bare hands, he might have been less confident.

The pair faced each other again. Shimon feinted left, following with a high
kick aimed at her head. She swerved aside, but he followed through with a left
fist that connected solidly with her flat abdomen.

He felt the jar up his whole arm. While the blow, delivered with his full, not
inconsiderable strength, rocked her back on her heels, she did not double over
in agony as he expected. Her tremendous belly muscles absorbed the blow with
little effect and she danced around, swinging a leg to scythe his feet out
from under him.

Shimon landed flat on his back, the wind driven from his body with a 'whoosh!'
Before he had the slightest opportunity to recover, Leanore was towering over
him, one graceful foot pressed firmly across his windpipe. He grasped her
ankle with both hands, twisting in a desperate effort to throw her off. She
merely increased the pressure on his throat slightly, letting him feel a
little of the power she could exert if she wished.

Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed this view. Lying on his back,
looking up the length of her shapely, muscular leg at her splendid, near-naked
body above. But his rasping breath and the pressure on his neck told him that
he was a fraction away from death. She had only to increase that pressure
marginally to crush his windpipe and cause him to suffocate. He closed his
eyes and prepared to die.

Miraculously, the weight disappeared. There was booing from the crowd as his
hands flew to his throat. He opened his eyes and, coughing, looked for his
opponent. Leanore, hands on hips, was patiently standing several yards away,
giving him time to recover.

Dazed, Shimon lurched to his feet, gasping for breath. His athlete's physique
gave him the ability to recuperate rapidly, though, so that by the time he
approached to within a few feet, he was almost back to normal.

"Why didn't you finish it?" Shimon spat phlegm onto the sand.

"I make a promise to myself that I do not kill with no reason. I will not kill
you, unless it is me or you".

Shimon gave a snort of laughter.

"I thought that was the whole idea. Me or you".

"We will see".

They began circling again, watching for another opening. The tiniest twitch in
his shoulder warned Leanore of his attack. She met his rush with outstretched
arms, one hand grasping his throat, the other his thigh. He could not suppress
the cry of alarm that escaped him as, with as little grunt of effort, her
muscles bunched and she hoisted his two hundred-plus pounds high above her
head. Crouching slightly, she heaved him away.

Stunned into complete shock by her sheer strength, Shimon's training totally
deserted him and he flew flailing through the air, unable to set himself for a
controlled landing. He landed over four yards away, right on the crown of his
head, and lay unmoving.

Leanore looked on as one of the attendants rushed over to the prone body and
placed two fingers on the side of Shimon's neck. Looking up to the Domina, he
gave the 'thumbs-up'. Shimon was still alive.

The Audience was on their feet, now, cheering and yelling Leanore's name. As
she had been taught, she stepped up to stand below the dais, looking to the
patronne for a verdict.

Julia Domina, her gorgeous face flushed with arousal, rose gracefully to her
feet. She moved to the balustrade and smiled down at the victress, the
lascivious pink tip of her tongue showing between her teeth. Her gaze shifted
to the audience, and an expectant silence fell over the crowd as they awaited
her decision. They knew the Domina's tastes, and anticipated a death.

The Domina raised both her hands, fists clenched, letting the tension grow.
She extended her digits and gave the signal.

Thumbs down.

The crowd erupted in a roar of approval, yelling the names of the Domina and
their new heroine in the arena.

But their cheers turned to boos and catcalls as Leanore contemptuously folded
her arms and, silently and defiantly, turned her back.