LEANORE 18 By Heck Comments to heck@beadyeye.net CHAPTER EIGHTEEN BY TRADITION AND BY RIGHT, the reigning champion did not have to fight until all the competition had been thinned down to just one. Therefore, following the parade, Taran Tarah would take no further part in the games until that last, decisive battle. The gladiatorial contests would not begin until the second day, so Leanore had no part to play before then. She had decided to utilise the time to rest and get her mindset right, in preparation for her first contest. That did not mean they were short of things to see or do, though. In the streets all around the great arena stalls and sideshows had sprung up overnight, as if by magic. Leanore and Claudia [the Domina would not be seen mingling with the hoi poloi] had spent a happy hour or so wandering amongst them, taking in the sights and smells and spending some of Julia's money on sampling some of the rare delicacies on offer. Too soon, though, people began to recognise the gladiatrix from her exhibition during the parade, and they found themselves being harassed from all sides by excited fans that wanted to touch Leanore's muscles, or beg her to make her mark on wax tablets 'for the kids'. One of the sideshow exhibitors had a 'test your strength' device, and harangued Leanore to have a free turn. His enthusiasm turned to anger, however, when she broke his machine; she and Claudia decided it was time to return to their lodgings. Competitors in the games were allotted quarters within the thick walls of the Hippodrome itself. Some were professionals, paid to fight and kill, and could afford quite luxurious accommodation. By far the majority, though, were slaves like Leanore, and had to make do with whatever their masters deigned to pay for. In that respect, Leanore was lucky to belong to Julia Domina. The Domina had made sure that she had comfortable surroundings and, while her rooms were far from sumptuous, they afforded privacy and comfort. While other slaves were guarded day and night, Leanore was sufficiently trusted that only Claudia lodged with her, the servant's role being what it had always been - that of bodyservant to the gladiatrix. Marcellus had found a bivvy with other officers in a nearby barracks, while Julia took rooms in an exclusive hostelry. Neither would be seen until tomorrow. Claudia and Leanore returned to their rooms to freshen up and wash the sweat and dust of the street from their bodies. Afterwards, Claudia would have been content just to sit quietly, but Leanore was beginning to feel the build-up of adrenalin and paced the floor until Claudia suggested they go and watch some of the events in the arena. A bank of seats had been put aside for the use of contestants who were not currently involved in proceedings. From the living quarters, a dark tunnel led directly to it so that gladiators who wished or were allowed to spectate, did not have to push their way through the hordes of the public. Leanore, with Claudia trotting at her heels, emerged into brilliant sunshine to glean her first view of the interior of the arena. Nothing she had seen, in all the venues she had contended at, had prepared her for this. The place was massive. There was no other word for it. A vast wall of stone, on which at least twenty tiers of seats and stands were perched, surrounded an enormous oval circus of packed sand close to three hundred paces across and six hundred long. The majority of the seating was for the general populace, shaded from the direct glare of the sun by canvas awnings that extended or, if the weather was dull, could be retracted on cunning cantilevered machinery. At one side, covered boxes were provided for the aristocracy and the very rich, and in the very centre of these was the outlandishly ostentatious box of the Emperor himself, conspicuously empty on this first day. Under the sand, Leanore had been told, were concealed ramps and trapdoors through which animals emerged or corpses were removed, and below the seating six large gates were strategically placed. In other places water jets were sited so that various conditions, from a light shower to a flooded plain, could be simulated. In the very centre of the arena stood a colossal bronze statue, thirty feet high, of a handsome, bearded man. Every muscle and sinew was sculpted in fine detail, and the figure wore the garb and weapons of a gladiator. Arm outstretched and sword raised, he faced the Imperial Box, but somehow it seemed that his gaze encompassed the entire amphitheatre. This, Leanore knew, was Xanthus, god of the games, and every arena she had been to included a representation of Him. He was not what Leanore would have called a god, mind you. Her gods controlled the wind and rain, the fire and the earth, and were embodied in the very fabric of the world about her and in the spirits of men. Hers were tangible, real gods who did not require belief to exist, no more than a tree or a hill needed it. They just were, and you had to be mindful of their moods; failure to do so could be fatal. Still, she was very far from home, and if these strange people amongst whom she found herself chose to worship a bronze statue, that was their affair. Thoughts of home always had an unsettling effect on her and, this close to the games, unsettled was the last thing she needed to be. She pushed the feeling to the back of her mind as she and Claudia took their seats. An excited buzz filled the space while spectators settled into their places. Among them, vendors of sweetmeats and beverages moved like busy drones and the air was redolent with spicy aromas. The opening event was a chariot race, the first of several that would take place over the course of the games. Stone bollards had been positioned to mark off a wide course around the perimeter and, as a fanfare sounded, the first six charioteers drove their vehicles into the circus. The chariots were lightweight in construction, stripped of all extraneous decoration. Their six-spoked wheels bore tyres of iron bonded to the wooden rims, and some had wicked, jagged hub extensions for the express purpose of smashing the spokes from the wheel of any chariot alongside. They were open sided, the occupants protected only by narrow iron rails, and their floors were nothing more than thick canvas stretched over a wooden frame, which was lashed to the chassis by leather strips. This allowed for some suspension, helping to cushion the vibration of movement, but offered the charioteer only a very precarious perch on which to stand. Each was drawn by four horses abreast. Dressed in very light bronze armour and helmets, with elbow and knee pads of tough leather, the charioteers allowed themselves very little protection if they were thrown from their vehicle. Impact with the packed sand floor of the arena, or contact with the flying hooves of other teams, meant that there were more fatalities among the charioteers than in any other event. With one exception, all of the charioteers were men. They were slightly built, to reduce the weight their horses drew, but their sinewy arms contained all the tremendous strength necessary to control four charging equines. The favourite, known as Gregor the Mad, was a wild-eyed bearded man from one of the northern tribes, who had won nearly every race he had entered. The wheels of his chariot held the nastiest, most vicious hub extensions of all, and his driving whip had sharp brads woven into its plaited leather. He was known to use this lash on his fellow drivers more than on his own horses, and was not called 'The Mad' for nothing. There were no rules or codes of conduct in the world of charioteering. The burnished armour of the sixth driver shone like a beacon in the afternoon sun. She was a fairly tall woman and lightly built as were they all, but packed a deal of muscle onto her slender frame. Her bronze breastplate was hammered into a contoured shape that accommodated the female form, complete with embossed abdominal musculature, and if her body actually fulfilled the promise of the armour her breasts must have been magnificent indeed. From her high vantage point in the auditorium, Leanore observed the woman with interest, subconsciously stroking her fingers over her own arm, watching the muscles of the female racer's arms coil and flex as she struggled to contain her four snorting horses. In the very crown of her helmet a short tube had been inserted, through which her long, platinum blonde hair had been drawn. It cascaded over the back of the helmet and across her shoulders like an elegant, tumbling plume. According to Claudia's programme [although Leanore had mastered and become fluent in the spoken language of her captors, her progress in reading it was less rapid] the woman was known as Lydia. She was not very well fancied by the pundits or the bookmakers, because she had only appeared on the circuit this season and had only two wins to her credit, so was given long odds. The starter raised his flag, and the audience held their breath. He held them for what seemed like a long minute, then dropped his flag. The horses surged forward like a cavalry charge, an unstoppable avalanche of bone and muscle, hauling the chariots along behind them like flotsam caught in a riptide. The drivers jostled for position, trying to race wide on the straights and hugging the curve on the bends. Almost immediately, disaster struck. On the first bend the two leaders leaned into the corner, all but neck and neck. The outermost of the two tried to thrash his horses on to overtake in a reckless manoeuvre. The animals powered on, but the nearside wheel locked behind the wheel of the other chariot. Under its own momentum, it climbed the axle of the inner vehicle and pitched forward. The leading edge jammed against the ground and the chariot lurched, throwing the driver forward and over the heads of his own horses. Their flying hooves pounded him into the ground. They cannoned into the inner team, who tried to veer aside. Their feet became entangled with a heavy bollard and they went down, screaming in pain and fear. Their driver was flung sideways and tried to roll clear. He almost made it. The impetus of the third chariot carried it on, smashing into the wreckage of the first two. Three were left, including Lydia and Gregor the Mad. They swung wide around the carnage, keeping their pace whilst avoiding a similar fate. Although it had hardly begun, the race had already claimed the lives of three drivers and several horses. While the remaining chariots thundered past, teams of marshals streamed out onto the course in an attempt to remove as much wreckage as they could before the next circuit. In the stands, Leanore was a little sickened by so much death so soon. Despite herself, however, she was fascinated by the horror and could not tear her eyes away. The crowd was on its feet, cheering and applauding madly. The race was over fifteen laps. Gregor had surged into the lead and the other charioteer, a man with a gold crest on his helmet, was hot on his heels. Lydia seemed to be hanging back and the crowd ignored her, but Leanore had the feeling she was simply biding her time. Round and round the great circuit they flew. Gregor and goldcrest used the lash liberally on their horses, urging them on to ever-greater efforts. Lydia was more restrained, hardly using her whip at all, relying on her skill with the reins to encourage her animals. On the eleventh lap goldcrest saw an opportunity, and began to make his move. Slowly, he started to move up on Gregor, inching alongside and finally beginning to overhaul him. Gregor seemed unable to respond, despite yelling curses at his team and flogging them mercilessly. Goldcrest continued to make progress until the two chariots drew level. Gregor's arm went back. His wrist seemed to flicker, and his long whip snaked out to encircle goldcrest's neck. The wicked barbs bit deep, lacerating his flesh, and his hands leapt to the tightening noose, his own whip and reins forgotten. Gregor jerked hard, and the barbs slashed. Goldcrest was yanked from the back of his chariot and crashed to the ground, rolling over and over as his lifeblood leached from his tattered throat. Feet stamped on the tiers as the audience roared its approval. Their favourite was now in a two-chariot race, and his lead seemed unassailable. He had lost his whip when goldcrest fell, but it did not seem that he would need it. Only three laps remained. Now Lydia began to urge her team on, cracking her whip above their heads. The muscles of her arms and shoulders stood out in relief as she fought to control the horses, moving in concert with her vehicle with legs planted wide. Gregor threw a glance over his shoulder and frowned as he saw the woman gaining upon him. He yelled an insult and leaned forward, pushing his team as hard as it would go. Two laps left. They thundered down the straight. Lydia's skill began to show as she forced her team inside Gregor's, pushing him out of his chosen line and setting herself up for the bend. She drew level, using the back of her hand to wipe away a thick gob of Gregor's spittle from her cheek. She smiled grimly and pushed her team on. Side by side, the two chariots heeled round the curve, neither able to make further headway. Lydia's chariot jerked as Gregor veered his sideways, smashing into the flank of his opponent's vehicle. She tried to keep away from him, but time and again he slammed his wheels against hers, trying to insert the evil spike between her spokes. Gregor leaned in for another assault. The jagged spike missed her wheel, but her canvas platform lurched drunkenly as one of the leather ties was cut. Lydia was nearly thrown from her perch, and only her superb balance and athleticism saved her. The final lap. Leanore was on her feet, now, yelling her support to Lydia, hardly able to hear her own voice above the roar of the horde and the rumble of wheels. Even mousy little Claudia was standing, carried away by the excitement of the spectacle. They raced around the bend. Gregor veered his chariot to the left, trying to repeat his earlier success by driving Lydia's horses into the bollards. Lydia was having none of it, though, and made her team push back. Her off- and his nearside horses galloped with touching shoulders down the straight, the chariot wheels inches apart. Gregor heaved to the left again. His hubspike touched one of Lydia's spokes and sheared it through. Lydia was thrown right by the jolt and Gregor's fist lashed out, missing her face by a whisker. The last bend was upon them. Both threw their chariots into the turn, leaning hard and struggling to keep control. Coming out into the final straight, they raced neck and neck. Gregor tried to slew sideways once more. His hubspike latched on to the framework of Lydia's chariot, locking the two vehicles together. He launched a punch at her head that, had it connected, would have hurled her from the chariot. She ducked under it, and her whip hand came into contact with the edge of his chariot. Lydia dropped her whip. The sinewy fingers of her right hand curled around Gregor's chassis. The finish line was mere yards away. Lydia was very strong. The chariot was light, and travelling so fast that its wheels had only tenuous contact with the ground. She heaved upwards. Gregor gave a cry of shock and fear as his chariot spun in air. Lydia's heave, combined with its own momentum, had served to turn it completely over with Gregor underneath. Out of control, his horses hurtled on, dragging the upside-down chariot, leaving a wide smear of red on the sand. To the cheering hysteria of the crowd, Lydia drove her chariot over the line, the sole charioteer to finish the race. As the marshals ran out to catch Gregor's horses and salvage his destroyed body, she lifted her arms to the crowd, grinning widely as she accepted their accolade. Leanore sank gratefully into her seat, chest heaving and heart pounding with excitement. This was only the first event! She felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation at the nape of her neck and looked around. Four tiers back, on a seat some eight feet higher than hers, Taran Tarah glared at her with lethal intent in his deep-set eyes.