LEANORE 23
By Heck



Comments to heck@beadyeye.net

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ANATOLE ABRAXAS WAS A WORRIED MAN. He paced the length of his luxury
apartments, a deep frown creasing his fat face. Close by, Taran Tarah lounged
indolently in a chair, casually peeling an apple.

The nenentus had cause to be worried. He was not without contacts in the
senate either, and what they had been telling him was troubling to say the
least. Julia Domina had accused him of crimes ranging from conspiracy to
murder, and she had the ear of the Emperor.

"What to do, what to do?" he muttered while he paced. He could see his
lifestyle, his entire future, going down the drains, and his anxiety was
confusing his mind.

"I don't see yer problem", Taran Tarah said round a mouthful of fruit. "She
can't do nothin' before the bout 'cos the crowd'll riot, and when I've killed
that big bitch of hers it'll be too late. Job done".

"But she'll have it hanging over me for later". The fat man lowered his bulk
into a stout chair. The furniture groaned under his weight. "It has to be
nipped in the bud now". A sly look spread over his face. "Do you still keep
contact with some of your more ... dubious acquaintances?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Listen carefully. This is what we'll do".

*

The sky was heavy and dull. Iron-grey cloud hid the sun and there was an
oppressive, sullen feel to the air, as if it had a severe hangover. It was
much cooler than it had been, but still warm and clammy in the open. The
familiar wisp of white smoke from the distant Chehelios was obscured, replaced
by a thick black cloud that seemed to boil around the mountain's summit.

Julia edged sideways along the row of seats, closely followed by the demure
Claudia. She exchanged friendly greetings with her peers, smiling as she took
her usual seat. Claudia stood behind, slightly off to one side, leaning
against the wall of the box. It was a privilege for her to be even allowed in
the box - to give her a seat would have been just too much.

The servant didn't mind, though. At least, standing here, she was spared the
jostling, claustrophobic atmosphere of the mob, which, without Leanore's
comforting presence, frightened her. She had a better view from here, too,
even though she squeezed her eyes tight shut when the spectacle became too
gory.

Her eyes fell on a small, weaselly man, sitting immediately behind the Domina.
She had not seen him here before and, although his clothes bespoke wealth and
status, he had an uncomfortable, almost furtive look on his pinched face.

A fanfare sounded, and the attention of all was riveted on the arena as the
pegarii cavorted onto the sand.

*

Right at the back of the tiers was a good place to stand. You could see almost
the entire arena, across the heads of the horde, and it was well shaded so
that, even on an overcast and humid day such as this, it was measurable cooler
than the lower levels.

It also had the advantage of not being overlooked by any other spectators.

The tall man stood relaxed, leaning nonchalantly against the back wall. He had
chosen this particular spot because it had an unrivalled view of the area in
front of the Royal Box where the contest, even if it did not end there, would
begin.

He did nothing to draw attention to himself, remaining still and impassive,
even when the crowd was at its noisiest.

From time to time, he adjusted the position of something under his enveloping
cloak.

*

The battle between champion and challenger was being touted as the greatest
contest the Hippodrome had ever seen. Posters and flyers describing their
physical prowess and successes littered the city like confetti, although no
one knew what form the combat would take.

Choice of combat was the prerogative of the champion, and the champion was a
shrewd man. He had watched Leanore's progress throughout the games, having
recognised her as a serious contender from day one. He had assessed her
ability, and knew her skill with the gladius. He felt confident he could beat
her, but with a blade even a lucky strike could prove fatal. He wanted to
leave no chance that she would win on a fluke.

He had chosen boxing.

A special entrance was required for the championship bout. The editor of the
games had decided that simply marching into the circus was just not good
enough.

So Leanore stood on a platform below the arena. A cunning mechanism of chains
and pulleys surrounded her and, when the signal was given, she would be
hoisted into the air. A dozen feet away, Taran Tarah glowered at her from a
similar apparatus.

The champion smacked his fist into his palm repeatedly, growling under his
breath with undisguised hate. He muttered and cursed to himself, trying to
taunt her with words, but apart from a cursory glance, Leanore totally ignored
him. Her eyes were focussed in the middle distance and her face was impassive
as she breathed deeply and regularly.

A boxing match would not bother her, normally, but she had her abdominal
injury, still wrapped in bandages, to consider. It was still sore, and her
magnificent washboard belly muscles remained stiff. Intently, she banished the
ache to the back of her mind.

Apart from her usual fighting garb, her fists were bound with strips of
leather. This offered no protection to the opponent, but rather kept the fists
tight and hard, lending telling power to every blow.

Taran Tarah was naked to the waist, sweat glistening in the thick hair of his
chest and back.

Yet another fanfare blasted, and the Master of Ceremonies made his
announcements.

"Citizens of the Empire! You are truly blessed to be here on this auspicious
day! The day on which the championship of the entire Empire is decided! Oh,
glorious day! A clash between the two greatest gladiators the world has ever
seen! Just for you!" A huge cheer went up at his words. "It is my profound
honour and privilege to introduce the combatants! First! The challenger!
Sponsored by the lovely Julia Domina, a fighter of great strength and skill!
You have gasped in awe at her terrible strength! You have been delighted by
her innovative style! And now, she faces the greatest challenge of all!
Powerful and deadly, but beautiful and every inch a woman, I give
you ... Leanore!!"

The pulleys whirred, the chains rattled, and Leanore shot up through the
trapdoor. The device actually propelled her a couple of feet into the air, and
she appeared to fly up into the circus, but she was prepared for this and
landed lightly on her feet, bowing to the raised box.

The crowd yelled their greeting. Leanore had given them more than their
money's worth over the past fortnight, and she was very popular with them.
They cheered and clapped enthusiastically.

At last, the announcer held up his hands for silence.

"And now! Sponsored by the famous Anatole Abraxas! The man you've waited two
weeks to see! The man who destroyed the Great Commodius himself to become
champion! The man who has successfully defended his title no fewer than three
times! He's savage! He's brutal! He's barbaric! He is ... Taran Tarah!"

Again the crowd went wild as the champion popped up onto the sand. He bowed to
the box and then strutted up and down, parading himself before the audience,
encouraging them to even greater frenzy.

Leanore remained impassive, keeping her face expressionless, but smiling
secretly inside as she recognised more than a few boos among the cheers.

Taran Tarah promenaded up and down in front of Leanore, informing her in
graphic detail what he was going to do to her. He swore and cursed, slighting
her appearance and slurring her patronne. He even besmirched her mother.

To all outward appearances, Leanore ignored him. But the comment about her
mother stung and angered her.

She took that hurt and anger, compressed it into a cold, hard ball, and shoved
it deep down inside in a core of determined resolve.

The MC held his hands up again.

"Citizens!" The hubbub died down. "As you know, the reigning champion reserves
the right of choice! For this contest, Taran Tarah has chosen ... boxing!"

The spectators cheered, but the was an undercurrent of disappointment. They
enjoyed boxing, of course, as much as they enjoyed any other form of violent
brutality, but they had been expecting, hoping for, blood and guts. That was
what they really wanted. Violence of any kind was perfectly acceptable, but it
was the gore that really got them going. Boxing seemed a little tame, somehow.

Their disappointment worked to Leanore's advantage, of course. Taran Tarah had
let them down in his choice, when he could have given them the showers of
blood they craved. Many who had been rooting for him now turned away, and
supported Leanore instead.

There is nothing as fickle as a fan.

Boxing in the Empire, several centuries before the birth of any Marquis who
might formulate rules, was very different. It merely signified a form of
unarmed combat where the competitors began by facing each other with raised
fists. After that, anything went. Fists, feet, heads, it was all the same, and
the bout continued until one or the other contestant was incapacitated or
dead.

No chance to win on points.

They received the blessing of the Emperor, made their salute, and turned to
square off against each other. The fanfare sounded, and the fight was on.

The contrast between the two was remarkable. Taran Tarah was maybe an inch or
two the taller, and much the heavier by about forty pounds. He led with his
left and faced his opponent side-on, reducing the available target size. He
had virtually no footwork and was, if anything, slightly ponderous in his
movements.

Leanore was much more agile. She danced and weaved, ducking blows and
blocking. She could lead with either hand, and interchanged frequently. She
stood more squarely, but her agility made her a difficult mark to hit.

Taran Tarah was confident that he could overpower Leanore by pure strength.
Lots of men had made that mistake.

The champion jabbed and followed through with a right hook that should have
carried Leanore off her feet. The woman bobbed under it and drove her fist
into his belly. He was staggered by the blow and doubled over. She slammed an
elbow into the side of his head.

That would have been it, for another boxer. But the thick muscles of his
bull-like neck helped absorb the impact and he spun round, extending his fist
like a flail. It caught her a glancing blow on the cheek, but as it landed
Leanore's fist crashed into his armpit. The plexus of nerves in the pit was
knocked out for a second or two, and a red-hot scythe of pain screamed down
his arm.

It should have rendered the arm useless, at least for a while, but her aim was
slightly off. He backed away, shaking his arm, and threw a kick at her groin.

Leanore swerved away from the foot, bringing her forearm down to strike his
ankle. The force of the shot flung his leg away, and he almost went down. He
stumbled for balance, shielding his head with both arms as Leanore rained
punches.

The champion reversed. Leanore followed, slamming her fists into his body. He
absorbed the blows, finally managing to fend her off with a blow to her chest.
Leanore saw the first flickers of doubt appear in his eyes. Here was yet
another man who had underestimated her.

In her box, Julia was on the edge of her seat, gripping tight to the arms as
she watched the bout. Occasionally she forgot herself, and yelled
encouragement to her gladiatrix, but mostly she sat riveted, chewing her lip
anxiously. Nearby, Claudia had covered her face with her hands, watching the
fight nervously through the slots in her fingers.

The contest raged on. Leanore had the upper hand, just now, and was handing
out punishing blows. Taran Tarah was on the back foot, ducking and blocking as
best he could.

Keeping him at bay with jabs from her long left, Leanore wound up her right
and unleashed a terrific straight punch. Her hard fist mashed the champion's
nose with an audible crunch. He staggered and nearly fell, a gout of red
gushing from his flattened nose and mangled lips.

As her punch landed, Julia leapt to her feet, applauding madly. Behind her,
the weaselly man stood also, moving very close to the woman's back. Claudia's
eye caught the glint of steel.

"Domina!"

Claudia hurled herself forward, between her mistress and the assassin. Julia
was thrust forward violently, almost toppling over the balustrade. Her
companions immediately seized upon the man, wresting the evil stiletto- bladed
dagger from his fingers and bearing him to the ground. The blade was bright
with blood.

Julia wheeled, exasperated by the blow and ready to spit venom at the culprit.
The scene that greeted her eyes shocked her.

Two of the lords held a twisting, squirming specimen of a man in their grasp.
Another held the bloodstained weapon, while yet another had gone to summon the
militia. At their feet, between the rows of seats, Claudia lay staring up with
sightless eyes, pierced to the heart.

Julia's hands flew to her open mouth as she watched the last of her servant's
lifeblood pump away.

The boxers were oblivious to all this. Taran Tarah had backed off, shaking his
head to clear it. Leanore followed, fists raised. The champion suddenly
changed tactics, and rushed her with outspread arms. The sound of their
collision was heard several rows back in the audience. The champion's arms
wrapped around Leanore's torso and she felt herself hoisted from her feet,
enclosed in his crushing bearhug.

Instinctively, her muscles tightened, hard as stone, and he was unable to make
much impression on her rigid body as she kicked at his shins with her unshod
feet.

By reply, Taran Tarah drew back his head. With all the force of his bull neck
behind it, he butted her. His forehead smashed into her mouth, splitting her
lips and loosening several teeth. She gasped as a spurt of blood splashed his
face and ran down her chin.

Leanore doubled her fists and brought them down on his shoulders with huge
force. His grip slackened, and she managed to wedge her hands under his arms.
Her muscles swelled as she pitted her strength against his, and astonishment
crossed his face as he realised his powerful arms were being forced away from
her body.

"You can't be that strong!" he mumbled through his minced lips. Leanore smiled
the smile of a tiger, seeming all the more dangerous due to her own swollen
and bleeding mouth.

"Oh, yes I can". She illustrated her point by sending a surge of power through
her arms, flinging him away from her. Before he could recover, she grabbed his
wrist and pulled him in close. His arms were pinned to his sides by hers as
they encircled him.

Tarah was a big man. Even with her long reach, it was all Leanore could do to
make her fingertips meet around his barrel chest and thick arms.

But they did meet, and that was enough.

Keeping her head well back and out of the reach of another butt, Leanore
poured all her power into her muscular arms. The man tensed and tried to
resist as she had, but her strength was irresistible. Slowly, very slowly, the
twin columns of might that were her arms tightened about him, constricting his
chest and gradually driving the breath from his body. Each time he tried to
draw breath, they tightened just a little more. He struggled, he fought, he
lifted his feet from the ground, hoping to drag her down with his bulk.
Leanore simple planted her feet more securely and bore his weight,
coincidentally increasing the massive pressure on his tortured ribcage.

The mob was on its feet, cheering and stamping madly, urging her to even
greater efforts. They loved a display of strength, and this was one of the
best they had seen.

Tarah's eyes started from his head and his mouth moved wordlessly as little
spots of light began to swim before his sight. One or more of his ribs gave
way with muffled pops, and his face contorted with pain and fear.

Somehow, someway, he managed to get a knee between her legs. He knew it would
not do as much damage as it would had his opponent been a man, but he tried it
anyway. Summoning the last vestiges of his strength, he drove the knee upward
and slammed it into Leanore's unprotected crotch.

He was right. It did not do any real damage. But it was enough to make the
challenger gasp in pain and release her grip, clutching at her groin with both
hands.

The champion reeled away and tumbled over, rolling on the ground to put
distance between them. He had fought some hard battles in his time, but had
never encountered an opponent who fought with such ferocious strength. He
rated her the strongest woman, no, the strongest person he had ever come up
against.

She was coming at him again. He had neither the breath nor the energy to run
away. He staggered to his feet and, as she came close, launched himself at
her, turning in air to bear her down in a cross-body press.

She caught him! The impossible bitch caught him in mid-air, cradling him like
an infant! She tossed him a couple of times, getting his position right, and
he felt her strong hands close on his neck and thigh.

Taran Tarah yelled in surprise and confusion as he felt himself being heaved
up, higher and higher, until he was raised to arm's length above this
incredible woman's head. She began to move forward, faster and faster, until
she was running past the Royal Box with her victim.

Even the Emperor was on his feet, leaning over the balcony in delight at the
spectacle. The crowd roared with excitement. Boxing or not, this was great
stuff!

Abruptly, Leanore came to a halt. Her momentum, and the great power of her
body, combined to slam Tarah down to the ground. He landed on his back with a
great "whoof!", the force of the impact embedding him into the packed sand to
a depth of several inches.

Leanore stood over him. He groaned as he strove to draw air into his lungs,
the pain from his broken ribs and, now, his bruised back, racking his entire
body. Feebly he tried to roll over, but it was useless.

He was a beaten man.

Recognising her victory, Leanore stepped back and turned to the Royal Box
where the Emperor was beaming widely, applauding as enthusiastically as
decorum would allow. All around the Hippodrome, the crowd were frenziedly
applauding, stamping, cheering, and calling her name over and over.

"Lea-nore! Lea-nore!"

Instinctively, she looked up to Julia's box, and was surprised not to see the
radiant countenance smiling down on her. Then the redhead's kohl- streaked
face appeared above the balustrade, and Leanore frowned as she realised the
woman was crying.

The Emperor held up his hands, making calming motions to quiet the crowd.
Eventually, the uproar subsided, and he made a questioning gesture, palms up.

Many in the crowd wanted to see a death, and were baying for blood. The
majority, however, recognised that Taran Tarah had been a good champion and
had given them several years of great entertainment. They gave the 'thumbs up'
sign, showing they were in a forgiving mood.

The Emperor, though, was not. Smiling expectantly down at Leanore, he extended
his fist and made the signal. Thumbs down.

Leanore stared up at him and sighed. The crowd fell silent. A thick, greasy
feel filled the air. The darkening sky had become eerily still, and the
amphitheatre was swathed in heavy shadow.

Scrabbling to her feet with a stricken look on her face, Julia leaned over the
balcony and yelled down to Leanore. She knew what was on the gladiatrix's
mind.

"Leanore! No! Don't do it! You've only just got your freedom! Don't turn your
back on the Emperor!"

But she did it, anyway.

With a deep sigh of resignation Leanore folded her arms and, slowly and
resolutely, turned her back.

The Emperor's benign expression turned to one of fury at the audacity of the
woman. The crowd were cheering her action, but he could not tolerate it. He
spoke sharply to the aide at his side and, within seconds, a dozen
legionnaires were trotting over the sand toward Leanore.

And then there was a sound like the gates of hell slamming shut.