The Gladiatrix, Then and Now

Megan, "the Fire Giantess," (so called because of her fantastic height and her fiery red hair) stood in the shadowy entrance and looked out at the arena floor. The attendants had done a good job of hiding the blood left behind by the morning's combatants. She had known many of them. She had not considered them friends, however; friendship was a luxury that could not be afforded by slaves or gladiators, and she was both. She closed her eyes and listened intently to the crowd, trying to gauge their mood.

Being the first entertainment after the mid-day "luncheon" break was always an iffy proposition. The arena crowds were so fickle. A good meal might put them in a generous mood, but the blood that had already been spilled that day might only serve to make them thirst for more. And if the Host had miscalculated how long the break was to last, the patrons may very well have gotten bored or annoyed.

The crowd sounded much as it usually did...which meant someone was going to have to die. Again. She sighed softly, then turned as she heard steps on the ground behind her.

"Mistress," she said as she started to kneel, only to be stopped by her owner's dismissive gesture.

"I merely came to wish you good Fortune, Megan. I have placed many wagers on you for this match." Valeria stood far enough away that she didn't have to crane her neck up at her gladiatrix towering almost two feet over her.

"Megan, the 'Fire Giantess'," called a voice from just within the arena entrance. The towering red-head didn't recognize the portly clean-shaven man who spoke with the voice of a boy. "Justin welcomes you to his games, and will be making an announcement on your contest shortly. He bids you prepare yourself."

With that, the messenger stepped closer to Megan and handed her a scarf. At least, it looked like a scarf; not very well made, though, and the simple cloth was black. She took the cloth, since she was in no position to insult the Host of the event by refusing it, and looked down at the messenger.

"My master has noted your prowess in the Arena, and is quite impressed," he continued. "He is of the belief that no one man can defeat you in single combat. Therefore, he has decreed that you fight your opponent at a handicap." Megan felt her stomach ball up in a knot. She was not aware that someone could both smirk and look apologetic at the same time, but somehow the messenger managed to pull it off. "Justin requests that you fight your battle blindfolded." Valeria blanched as she heard the news.

Megan looked at the blindfold and snorted with annoyance. A slave could not refuse a freeman's "request," under penalty of law, unless her owner told her to. The exception to that law was that a freeman could not order a slave into danger except in an emergency, but a slave in the arena lost that protection, and a slave's owner could not counter a Host's condition without withdrawing her from the Games.

Megan looked down at the blindfold, then at the messenger with a low, menacing growl in her throat. The messenger took a half step backward and blurted, "Your match will take place momentarily" before taking to his heels.

She moved into the entrance, taking her helm off of its stand. She held the helm between her legs and tied the blindfold in place, then donned the helm. The headgear somewhat muffled the noise, but she could hear the crowd roar in response to what the herald had said. "You've been announced, my champion," Valeria said from her elbow. "Fight well, and do me proud."

Megan walked forward and heard the crowd cheer louder. She could feel when she stepped out of the shadows and into the blazing sun. After slowly taking another dozen steps, she stopped and drew her sword, waving it over her head to urge the crowd on, then beat it against her shield.

Through the helm, Megan could hear that (presumably) Justin was speaking, but couldn't quite make out what he was saying. Finally, he ended his oration with the formulaic "For the glory of the empire!" She turned to face the direction the voice seemed to be coming from and replied, "Ave Justin! We who are about to die salute you!"

She moved slowly forward, her ears straining to pick up any clue as to where her opponent might be, but could hear nothing aside from the mulling of the crowd and the pounding of her heart. She had long known that her helm impaired her hearing as well is limited her peripheral vision, but never realized to what degree she was affected. She resolved to practice the restricted fighting style more in the future.

After a couple of minutes of slowly moving around, waving her sword in front of her, she could hear that the crows was starting to get restless and annoyed. She stopped and straightened up, then plunged the sword into the sand in front of her, casually sliding her right foot up against the flat of the blade. She then reached up and removed the helm, then flung it casually in what she hoped was the direction of the arena wall, wincing as she heard it clang against the stone. Just as she had hoped, the crowd screamed its approval of her show of bravado. It didn't hurt that she could hear everything more clearly now.

She felt that her now being able to hear negated any weakness she would suffer as a result of her unprotected head. She was easily a cubit taller than most gladiators, and she hoped she could hear the attack coming in time to block or dodge it. It would take a well-placed blow to kill her, and if her opponent got an unsuccessful shot in, she was confident that she could counter-attack and make him pay.

Megan walked forward, sword held at the ready, and stopped at what she thought should be roughly the center of the arena. She thought about what kind of opponent she was facing. The only clue she could find was in the phrasing of the host's desire. If the blindfold placed her at a "handicap," then obviously he thought that two fighters using similar styles would be evenly matched...if you discounted her obvious size and probable experience advantage.

She started to circle slowly to her left, listening intently with every fiber of her being. As she had hoped, the crowd was inadvertently guiding her with their reactions: cheering when the gladiators moved toward each other, booing when they moved apart. Under the crowd noise, she heard a panting sound behind her. It didn't sound very near, but close enough for her to make out. She tilted her head slightly, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound, and appeared to relax slightly. She heard her foe's feet in the sand.

Just...about...there! Megan whirled, slashing down and across, and felt her blade bounce off a shield. It felt like the blow had been deflected off her opponent's shield, so he apparently had been able to see it coming and blocked it. She would have been very surprised if her opponent was blindfolded as well, but she had hoped.

She took a step back to dodge the counter-attack she expected, and heard the blade whistle through the air in front of her. The crowd was getting into it, now that the first blows had been traded, but their cheers made it that much harder for her to make out her foe.

She took another step back and started to move to her right, trying to keep him on her shield side. The jeers of the crowd told her that her opponent wasn't closing in. She turned her head slightly from side to side, trying to focus past the crowd noise to hear any clue as to her opponent's whereabouts. A couple of faint, slow scrunching noises in the dirt came from maybe about three paces ahead of her, but it didn't sound quite like sandal leather. As she took a step toward the sound, her opponent apparently threw a hand full of dirt in her face.

"Very clever," she thought as she let a mask of rage contort her face. "Would have worked, if I weren't blindfolded!" She heard a dragging sound ahead of her, and realized that he had placed his sword on the ground so he could grab the dirt, and was now picking it up, which meant that he was either kneeling or bending over.

Megan darted forward, bringing her sword down quickly in a series of overhand blows, and smiled inside as she heard his panicked oath. Her second blow slammed against his shield; from the angle, he appeared to be either kneeling or on his back with the shield overhead.

Pressing her advantage, she continued to rain blows upon him. Most of her blows fell upon the shield. She forced her opponent to scurry backward, not allowing him an opportunity to regain his feet. The roar of the crowd was almost deafening, as they sensed that a kill was imminent.

Megan's feet kicked against her opponent as she moved forward. She leaned over and brought her sword around in a feint toward what she hoped was his feet, trying to get him to commit his shield. With any luck, his arm was too sore and tired from her barrage to move very quickly. She followed up with a slashing wraparound that found bony flesh. A second blow, a little lower, found meat.

After the second blow, she stepped away from her opponent but kept her sword at the ready. The crowd was well pleased. She heard someone call her name, and turned to face direction of the voice.

"You have emerged victorious," Justin said to her. "You may remove the blindfold." As she did so, the Host addressed the crowd. "What say you, my people? What fate awaits the vanquished?"

In one voice, the crowd called for her opponent's death. Justin smiled gleefully at Megan and signaled her to take her fellow gladiator's life. Megan sighed resignedly and turned to her opponent. She could tell that the death blow would be largely pro forma; if he weren't already dead, he soon would be anyway. One quick, precise thrust of her sword and it was over.



Megan's eyes snapped open. Throwing her blankets aside, she rolled toward her attacker as a sword plunged into her bedroll. Her 28 stone slammed into a pair of shins, sending their owner crashing to the ground. She quickly rolled to her knees and punched him in the throat, hard. As he lay choking on the ground, she took a quick look around in the soft glow of the dying campfire in the center of the circle of wagons. At least two other guards looked to have been killed in the same matter that she almost was, and their assassins were drawing their swords from the bodies.

"Attack! Attack!" she yelled as she grabbed her own sword. The one other guard who had been asleep roused himself quickly and was barely able to dodge a sweeping blow from a bandit. The bandits had two big advantages: the element of surprise, and the fact that they were armored while Megan and her surviving companion were not. She wondered, as she charged one of the bandits, what had happened to the sentries who were stationed outside the circle. She hoped, as her target realized that Megan was almost two feet taller than he and started to backpedal, that they had been taken out by archers or had been caught unawares and quickly killed (which would show good planning and excellent execution on the bandits' part).

As her sword sliced open the bandit's belly and she looked for her next target, she wondered which of the other two options she considered would be worse. Between guards who betrayed them to the bandits and bandits with magical assistance, she thought as she heard a board creak on the wagon roof behind her, she would much rather deal with traitors. She spun and drew her sword in a two-handed swing that caught her would-be attacker in the calf, dropping him to the roof in agony. She toyed with the idea of finishing him off, but decided to let him live on the off chance that he might be able to answer any questions. She then reached up and grabbed his breastplate, throwing him to the ground.

Wizards would definitely be worse, she thought as she slid between the wagons and cautiously looked around the perimeter. The other guard had slain his foe as well, although it had taken him considerably longer. Wizards were too unpredictable, especially those who chose to live outside (or above, as she had heard more than one explain) the law. As near as she could tell, they had run the bandits off. There was no sign of the sentries, though, and that bothered her. Hopefully, the one she had let live had answers for them but if a wizard was involved, the bandit was likely as not bewitched to keep him from talking.