“Fishhead,” that closed off the entire skull and left only the round eyeholes to the front, and the tiny slits above the ears. It was
her
helmet certainly, bronze, skinned over with silver. But until she undid it at the end of the match, to reveal her face and her red hair flattened by its pressure and her sweat, they could not know.
Of course, she was a woman, they could always see that. Her breasts were firmly bound by leather straps, ornamented, like her belt, with beaded snakes. The greave on her left leg was Jula’s, light bronze, marked with a figure of Minerva. Her arms were encircled by Jula’s leather and bronze protection. The shield, painted scarlet, had as its central boss the face of Venus, goddess of love—but paramour of the war god Mars: Jula’s shield. And her feet were bare. Perhaps the connoisseurs sitting in the nearer seats could even recognize her feet, the left one with its narrow purple scar.
So, she was Jula enough for them.
Her opponent was coming out from the other set of fighter’s doors. Today it was to be the Neptuni Retiarius—Neptune’s Fisherman.
She, a secutor, did not always fight a retiarius. In Rome it was more a custom than here. But today …
Curious, this man, barefaced and bareheaded, armed only with light greaves, armlet, net, and trident, (deceptively almost naked—it was the net that was so deadly) this man seemed to her familiar—not by meresight, for he was from another school (Talio’s?) but as if she had fought him before. And as if—she had
killed him
then.
Jula, behind the round fish eyeholes of her silver helmet mask, blinked. For a moment the arena swam. Then it was steady again.
The sticklers had positioned themselves, hitching up their robes to leave their legs free for running interventions or goadings with their sharp sticks—traditional, for nothing like that would be needed when Jula fought.
The boards had been held up, too, for the most distant seats, mostly unneeded, naming Jula in large letters, Jula who was famous, and the retiarius of Neptune who might come to be.
These things seemed to take too long, as if the world had unaccountably slowed its pace.
Jula stepped forward, and through the yowling of the crowd, the throb of blood,
inside
the helmet heard the voice of a man say intimately, quietly—something in an unknown tongue.
But she had emptied and cleansed her mind.
Nothing could get in. She was now only a machine.
Jula broke into a run. Despite her plating, she was agile, fast.
She glimpsed the retiarius had not expected this from her so immediately. Whatever else,
he
did not know
her
.
She slammed against him with the edge of her shield, even as he struggled to let out his net, and sprang away before he could aim the trident.
The man staggered. The crowd jeered.
The last retiarius she had fought on a showy constructed bridge over the lake of seawater they had brought in to flood part of the arena. There had been a make-believe sea fight, (with genuine casualties) and thewreckage of the little ships floated there, and she had not had to kill the retiarius because he fought so well. He had earned Walking Dismissal from the arena.
The net came swirling. Jula was gone.
Before the fisher collected himself, she was back at him again, and now her short pointed sword bit in, piercing his side.
And she—
remembered
it. This.
It had happened before. The red blood, and somehow the blood should be like wine, like the blood of grapes—but the retiarius was not black. He was a tallish fair-haired Northerner.
Her father might have looked somewhat like that. So many million years before.
She emptied her mind.
The net came in, and she bounced it off shieldwise, deflected it, the iron and bronze weights of it ringing as they smote on the ground. But he had not lost his grip.
Now he was crouching.
This was too soon—because exactly at this moment it would happen—and surely they had fought a greater time—that
first
occasion—and
her
helmet certainly, bronze, skinned over with silver. But until she undid it at the end of the match, to reveal her face and her red hair flattened by its pressure and her sweat, they could not know.
Of course, she was a woman, they could always see that. Her breasts were firmly bound by leather straps, ornamented, like her belt, with beaded snakes. The greave on her left leg was Jula’s, light bronze, marked with a figure of Minerva. Her arms were encircled by Jula’s leather and bronze protection. The shield, painted scarlet, had as its central boss the face of Venus, goddess of love—but paramour of the war god Mars: Jula’s shield. And her feet were bare. Perhaps the connoisseurs sitting in the nearer seats could even recognize her feet, the left one with its narrow purple scar.
So, she was Jula enough for them.
Her opponent was coming out from the other set of fighter’s doors. Today it was to be the Neptuni Retiarius—Neptune’s Fisherman.
She, a secutor, did not always fight a retiarius. In Rome it was more a custom than here. But today …
Curious, this man, barefaced and bareheaded, armed only with light greaves, armlet, net, and trident, (deceptively almost naked—it was the net that was so deadly) this man seemed to her familiar—not by meresight, for he was from another school (Talio’s?) but as if she had fought him before. And as if—she had
killed him
then.
Jula, behind the round fish eyeholes of her silver helmet mask, blinked. For a moment the arena swam. Then it was steady again.
The sticklers had positioned themselves, hitching up their robes to leave their legs free for running interventions or goadings with their sharp sticks—traditional, for nothing like that would be needed when Jula fought.
The boards had been held up, too, for the most distant seats, mostly unneeded, naming Jula in large letters, Jula who was famous, and the retiarius of Neptune who might come to be.
These things seemed to take too long, as if the world had unaccountably slowed its pace.
Jula stepped forward, and through the yowling of the crowd, the throb of blood,
inside
the helmet heard the voice of a man say intimately, quietly—something in an unknown tongue.
But she had emptied and cleansed her mind.
Nothing could get in. She was now only a machine.
Jula broke into a run. Despite her plating, she was agile, fast.
She glimpsed the retiarius had not expected this from her so immediately. Whatever else,
he
did not know
her
.
She slammed against him with the edge of her shield, even as he struggled to let out his net, and sprang away before he could aim the trident.
The man staggered. The crowd jeered.
The last retiarius she had fought on a showy constructed bridge over the lake of seawater they had brought in to flood part of the arena. There had been a make-believe sea fight, (with genuine casualties) and thewreckage of the little ships floated there, and she had not had to kill the retiarius because he fought so well. He had earned Walking Dismissal from the arena.
The net came swirling. Jula was gone.
Before the fisher collected himself, she was back at him again, and now her short pointed sword bit in, piercing his side.
And she—
remembered
it. This.
It had happened before. The red blood, and somehow the blood should be like wine, like the blood of grapes—but the retiarius was not black. He was a tallish fair-haired Northerner.
Her father might have looked somewhat like that. So many million years before.
She emptied her mind.
The net came in, and she bounced it off shieldwise, deflected it, the iron and bronze weights of it ringing as they smote on the ground. But he had not lost his grip.
Now he was crouching.
This was too soon—because exactly at this moment it would happen—and surely they had fought a greater time—that
first
occasion—and
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