Artemisia update - I have been working on adding new characters (Marius being my favorite so far) and the book is coming along nicely. But the largest development so far has been that I've finally decided on a time period. The book will be set during the reign of Titus (79 - 81 AD). This was a particularly interesting period in Roman history, given that Vesuvius erupted during 79 AD and Titus finished his father Vespasian's building projects - the most notable of these being the Colosseum in 80 AD. The Colosseum was opened with games lasting 100 days. This will be a perfect setting for the ending I have planned for my book.
Here is Artemisia's first battle in the arena. She's taken Apollo's place because he's become very ill and is too weak to fight.
The noise of the crowd ebbed and rose with curses and taunts. From the shadows of the tunnel, Artemisia could just make out the forms of four gladiators and two summa rudis in the arena. Two Thracians were pitted against two murmillos. The Thracians, their helmets graced by griffins, wielded bent sickle swords. Behind their square shields they attempted to flank their opponents. The sun reflected off the murmillos’ fish scale embossed helmets as they used their long, rectangular shields to deflect the Thracians’ blows. The summa rudis stayed out of the way, tending to their duty as referees and, if necessary, weapons suppliers.
Artemisia twirled the short sword in her hand, testing its weight. She was thankful that at least Apollo had been assigned to fight as a provocator. The chest plate of his armor hid her breasts, but the leather straps chaffed her back. She rolled her shoulders and laid a hand on her bare torso trying not to think about all that might go wrong.
It wasn’t going to be so bad. The matches were already decided before they began. Apollo was expected to win. Artemisia adjusted her helmet; the weight was already making her neck ache. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.
The crowd roared into a steady chant. “Kill! Kill! Kill!”
Her attention snapped back to the fraction of the arena floor she could see. The murmillos had the Thracians backed against the wall. Gladiators didn’t fight to the death anymore. What were they doing demanding the death of valuable slaves?
An eerie silence fell over the arena.
She couldn’t see where the patron sat, but she knew they were awaiting his decision. A raucous cheer swelled until she couldn’t hear her own thoughts.
A few moments later the two murmillos limped away and several men scurried out onto the arena floor. The bodies of the Thracians were carried off toward the south where the trash wagons waited.
The calm she’d felt before evaporated. What would she do if the fight didn’t go as planned? The sword in her hand felt useless.
“You there, get your shield ready!” One of the guards pointed at her. “When that gate goes up you enter the arena. If you don’t,” he held up his spear with a smirk, “I’ll give you a bit of encouragement.”
Artemisia wiped the sweat from her palm and picked up her shield. The rattle of chains signaled that her time to fight was near. The gate rose before her and she could see her opponent stumbling out into the bright afternoon sun.
She stepped forward, shading her eyes from the sudden blinding light. Hoots and jeers followed her progress across the hot, blood-stained sand. Together, she and her opponent marched to stand before the canopied box seat where the patron of the games sat with his family and the senators he wished to impress.
As she’d waited in the wings Artemisia had still believed that their greeting to him was only tradition. Now as she looked at the man she would fight, a few inches shorter than herself but with much broader shoulders, she could no longer soothe her fear with that illusion.
She raised her sword. In unison with her opponent she intoned, “Hail sire, we who are about to die salute you.”
The patron, a young man with light hair, nodded to them and with a slice of his hand bid them to fight.
Artemisia leapt back just as her opponent swung his sword in a wide arc. She felt more confident, the attack was lacking in skill. She settled into the stance ‘Pollo had taught her in secret. She gripped her sword and shifted her shield to protect her torso. The other provocator stabbed at her with a grunt of effort, and she side-stepped the attack with ease. Letting her brother’s training erase her fear, she slipped into the familiar steps and attacks.
She blocked another swing and lashed out with her shield. It caught the man’s shoulder and connected with his face guard, knocking him backward. Instinct pressed her forward, sword raised, but her opponent was quick. The strike just missed his thigh as he rolled left.
Artemisia backed away, giving him time to rise. The crowd could turn on her in an instant if it felt she weren’t giving them the show they deserved. The chant of “kill, kill, kill” echoed in her thoughts as she circled to her right.
An uneven place in the sand caused her opponent to stumble slightly. Artemisia took the opening and thrust her sword forward. It met its mark in the man’s right shoulder. He howled and the crowd went wild as she drew first blood.
The crowd roared louder as she was forced to fend off a wild attack. His sword stirred the air beside her left cheek as she dodged right. It crashed into her shield as she made a quarter turn to gain better footing. The fierceness in his green eyes pinched her throat closed as they locked weapons.
“Don’t plan for this to end as you’ve been told, boy,” he growled. “The mob is out for blood today and I’ll be damned if you spill any more of mine.”
A worm of pain squirmed across her stomach as they separated their swords. Dribbles of warmth raced toward the short tunic skirt wrapped tightly around her hips. The cut wasn’t deep and the sting was already fading.
Artemisia twisted her left shoulder and caught him in the chin with the corner of her shield. The clack of his teeth against each other sounded like a hammer on an anvil. With her left foot she hooked his right ankle and tumbled him onto his back again.
He jumped up cursing her.
In a flurry of slashing, aimless blows he pressed her backward. Losing ground was the first step to defeat. Artemisia knew the prize for this fight had become worth far more than the two silver denarii promised. The true prize today would be her life.
She spun left and stabbed at his abdomen. Her sword sunk into the unarmored flesh of his right side just below his ribcage. Artemisia was completely unprepared for the sensation. Until now her battles had been for training only. The firm, yet soft, yielding of his muscle and fat to the sharpened blade knotted her stomach. She fought the strong urge to vomit as she wrenched it free.
Her opponent stumbled and fell, his chest heaving. He made a feeble attempt to rise and the crowd’s roar reached the apex of its crescendo. Artemisia backed away when she realized what they were chanting.
“Kill! Kill! Kill!”
Her eyes involuntarily turned to where the young, fair-haired patron of the games sat. A golden laurel leaf pin sparkled upon the shoulder of his rich burgundy tunic. The canopy cast his face into shadow but his arms glowed ivory in the afternoon light. He raised his right hand.
It hovered.
His thumb thrust out from his fist and he jabbed it to his neck.
The mob’s frenzy rose even higher. Their chant dissolved into a cacophony of sound.
Artemisia looked down at the man lying upon the ground. Crimson leaked from the wound in his side. The wound she’d given him. She lifted her sword. Death was what the patron demanded for him. Death at her hand.
She began her downward strike but at the last moment threw her weapon aside. She tossed her shield down beside it. The crowd shouted profanity and jeers. Holding her head high, she kept her gaze fixed on the patron.
He stood and moved to the edge of his box. As he leaned upon the railing she saw the aquiline nose which curved over his thin lips for the first time. A hand raised to the sky was all it took to quiet the crowd. Within minutes the silence became more deafening than their shouting had been.
“Obey me slave,” he demanded. “I will not be defied. The crowd wishes to be entertained.”
Artemisia made her voice sound as much like her twin’s as she could. “That is the old way. I will not put a good fighter to death.”
She waited, willing her knees not to tremble. What was she doing? This would certainly mean her death instead. The patron stared, eyes openly filled with shock.
Then a shout came from the crowd. “Mercy!”
“Hail the merciful gladiator!”
“Show mercy, my lord!”
The sentiment was echoed again and again until the mob had changed its wishes entirely. The Romans were fickle, she had been told, and now Artemisia was seeing it for herself.
The patron’s mouth turned up in a resigned smirk. Again his raised hand silenced them. “Very well, gladiator, mercy is granted to your opponent this day. But I would see the face of the man who dares defy my command.”
Artemisia did not move. She could not move. To reveal her face would be her destruction. “I beg of you, my lord, to allow me to keep my face unknown. I do not wish for fame.”
“You defied me once, do not do it again. Reveal yourself, gladiator.”
Artemisia’s hands resisted as she reached up and removed her helmet. The sight of her auburn hair cascading down her back brought cries of shock from the lips of the mob.
“How dare you make a mockery of my games woman!” The patron’s once pale cheeks now flushed with anger. “The punishment for this deception is death. Seize her and carry out the sentence immediately.”
An outcry spilled from the crowd as the summa rudis rushed forward and took hold of her arms. Shouts of sympathy.
“Spare her!”
“Show mercy to the merciful!”
Artemisia could not believe her ears. The mob was asking for her life to be spared. But the patron’s decree was just. It was the proper punishment for what she had done. Their words ceased to have meaning as she waited for the patron to silence them again.
His face wavered. He turned to his left and then to his right. The senators on either side of him had also taken up the mob’s cry.
The summa rudis tightened their grip, watching him with her.
An alabaster hand silenced the mob one final time.
“Release her. How can I execute the crowd’s new favorite? What is your name woman?”
“Artemisia, my lord.”
“Well, Artemisia. I believe you have failed in your goal to avoid fame. May your deed bring you all that you deserve.”
With that he dismissed her.
She took the back alleys home to avoid admirers and those who might wish to do her harm. When she arrived, she paused outside. How would she explain this all to Mana and Papa?
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