The horror seethed and thickened in her belly, like a pot of goat’s milk coming to the boil. She thought that she was going to puke. Her palms grew sweaty as they gripped the spear. The tunnel was as fetid as the sewers of Rome itself. She had no strength to fight against the flow.

The stinking dark gave way to light as the tunnel flushed her out onto the sand. Shielding her eyes against the glare, she stumbled round to orient herself. The other girls emerged behind her, basking in the waves of heat and noise. The mob howled down from every side. The tiers of the arena rose like cliffs.

The sand scorched Zoe’s naked feet. Her fingers tightened vainly round the spear. They’d given her no armour, just a flimsy tunic belted at the waist. Her firm breasts strained beneath it, and she felt the hunger of a thousand eyes. She wore no helmet either, just a band to keep her hair out of her face. A spear-carrier was all she was – the first line of expendable defence.

Three of the others were dressed like her, and looked as terrified. The remaining eight were much more confident. Shamelessly bare-breasted, like the prostitutes they were, but wearing scraps of legionary armour. Polished helmets framed their faces; studded aprons hung between their thighs. Five of them had big, curved shields and brandished the short gladius of the soldier.

One of them caught Zoe’s eye and gave a mocking leer. Her face was painted garishly, the nipples of her big tits ringed with rouge. The cohort had been drafted from the brothels of the Tiber. Girls who scratched and bit like cats could fight with swords as well.

The crowd were baying with delight. The legionaries turned to flaunt their breasts. Zoe was a whore as well, but wore no makeup now. The strutting girls might yet win fame and fortune, but she was marked for death this afternoon.

The spear-carriers were all condemned. It would amuse the mob to see them slain. The tunics which they wore were only meant to titillate. The thin material was designed to tear.

Two of the whores wore leather skirts and conical bronze helmets. They carried bows, and each girl had a sheaf of arrows slung across her hip. Auxiliaries to guard each wing; their skin was dark and sleek. And now the crowd were screaming as a gilded chariot rumbled through the gate.

Zoe scampered clear of the two high-stepping black horses. The commander peered down disdainfully. She bore the name Victoria now, whatever her ex-clients might have called her. Her helmet had a horsehair plume, and a scarlet cloak was draped round her bare shoulders. A small girl with a haughty look and a vixenish demeanour. Her dark eyes fixed on Zoe, then dismissed her out of hand. Thrusting out her small, pale breasts, she urged the chariot forward. Her cohort gathered round obediently.

Zoe heard a man’s voice raised above the roaring crowd’s. An announcer of some kind, she guessed. Someone to set the scene. Her heart was drubbing in her chest as she tried to get a purchase on the words.

"… Four years ago … Britannia … A famous victory …"

Nervously she let her gaze flit off across the sand. The great arena smouldered in the sunlight. The oval space had been raked clean, but stains of mottled darkness still showed through. And obstacles were strewn around to hinder their manoeuvres. A wrecked cart here, a boulder there, the trunk of a dead tree ...

The announcer was still bawling in the background. "Behold, the evil Boudicca has risen up again …Our finest troops have come to deal with her!" That got a big laugh from the crowd, while the cohort preened and pouted. Then the trumpets snarled afresh, and the gate at the far end was hoisted open.

Zoe’s stomach tightened and she brought her spear up. The arch was gaping like a dead man’s throat. Then the tunnel vomited its contents. Three battle-chariots surged into the light.

The cars were lightweight wickerwork, with four girls clinging onto every one. Twelve in all, eleven of them naked but for loincloths. Their skin was painted blue with woad, their bodies striped like tigers. Death-mask faces snarled towards the powdered Roman whores.

A storm of boos and spittle broke around them. The young barbarians hissed back at the crowd. The chariots cast around like hungry dogs, then turned at bay, each dropping off two warriors from the back.

Zoe watched them narrowly and saw the dice were weighted. The enemy looked fierce enough, with their long swords and bronze shields, but she sensed the desperation underneath. Their blue-stained breasts were heaving, and their painted faces made their eyes look whiter. She guessed that they’d been snatched from hearths, not captured while resisting Roman rule.

The slender girl who played their queen was giving the performance of her life.

She stood there in the middle chariot, glacial and poised, an arrogant expression on her face. The crowd’s contempt washed over her. She stuck her haughty nose into the air. Her skin was pale, unmarked by paint. She wore a knee-length tunic. A girdle cinched it round her waist and emphasised the plumpness of her breasts.

Her curling mane of russet hair spilled halfway down her back. A bright tiara rested on her brow. Her pride and her defiance fanned the fury of the crowd. She raised her spear and waved her warriors forward.

One of the buxom legionaries shoved Zoe in the back. "Go on and trip their horses, you Greek bitch."

Zoe stumbled forward and her heart began to thump. The voices surged and thundered like the sea. She thought of the Aegean, and a sleepy fishing village, and the salty wind she’d never taste again. Now she was a fish herself, cast into this parched bowl, discarded in the dust to choke and die.

The legionaries bunched behind her, rattling their sword blades on their shields. Whores or not, the honour of their Empire was at stake, and woe betide them if they didn’t win. The crowd whooped as the British chariots galloped through the wreckage. Their "Boudicca" was hanging back, directing the assault.

The snorting horses pounded in and the hapless spear-carriers broke and ran. All except one wailing girl whose muscles locked with terror. The horses kicked and trampled her; she rolled beneath a wheel. Zoe saw her flail and flop. The crowd’s derisive booing turned to cheers.

There was no time to feel horrified. A girl on foot was coming after her. A British wench, half-crazed with hate, as sleek as a blue panther. Her full breasts joggled as she lunged. The two-edged spatha hissed past Zoe’s head. The chariots skidded round behind them, kicking up a curtain of pale dust.

Zoe ducked and reared away. Her spear was much too clumsy at this range. The wildcat didn’t have a shield, and didn’t need one now. Blue-tits snarled and slashed again, and Zoe skittered backwards. The crowd poured bile against her back. Her panic bubbled up; she turned and fled.

The girl came panting after her, relentless as a dog. The tiered seats erupted with contempt. Zoe ran towards the wall, her bare feet flying over the hot sand. Horses whinnied, steel struck iron, and dust hung in the air. She had perhaps a heartbeat left to live.

Impulsively she swung around and skidded to a crouch, the clumsy spear now braced against the ground. The bloodthirsty barbarian was too eager, and ran full-tilt onto the slender point. Her mouth gaped open stupidly as she impaled herself; the sudden standstill made her firm breasts bounce. The sword lashed out convulsively and then she screamed with pain, her anguish mocked by the delighted crowd.

Spots of blood flecked Zoe’s face. She gripped the spear shaft as the wildcat bucked. The world had turned into a howling nightmare. Her mind shrank back inside herself, seeking refuge in the safety of the past …

 The courtyard of the house was cool, despite the summer sunlight. The honeysuckle buzzed with bees. A bird was singing in the little garden. Zoe sat beside Amelia, lapping up her gossip. They might have been two girlfriends, not a mistress and her slave.

Then she saw the woman who had followed at his heels. She looked no more than half his age, her figure slim and graceful in its stola. The garment was of finest cloth; her golden earrings glittered in the sunlight. She had chestnut hair beneath her veil, and a kitten-pretty face with dark sloe eyes.

The woman smiled with small white teeth while Gracchus looked on proudly. Amelia blushed and bobbed a curtsey. Zoe bowed, and felt those dark eyes burn ...

 A wave of noise broke over her and sucked her back into the present day. The British girl was drooping, like a bluebell splashed with blood. Zoe yanked the iron point out of her victim’s belly. It came free with a sucking sound. The wildcat mewled and crumpled to the sand.

Zoe stumbled back from her. The spear began to tremble in her grasp. Then she gripped it tight, her muscles bulging with the effort, and started to advance into the fray.

Amelia’s house had ceased to be a sanctuary for her. Livia’s jealousy and spite had put an end to that. She’d soon persuaded Gracchus that his daughter’s slave was worthless. Zoe had been bullied, whipped and thrown out with the trash.

Thus began the tumbling slide which finished in this dusty, bloody pit. She felt her heartstrings tighten angrily. Another woad-stained girl ran up, her shoulder tucked behind a British shield. Zoe’s surging fury found an outlet in her thrust, and the spearhead rang against the heavy bronze.

The young barbarian reeled beneath the impact. Zoe jabbed at her again, her handsome face a mask of anger now. The skin was taut across her sculpted cheekbones. Her eyes grew narrow, darkening like coals. She skittered round the naked girl, inviting her to lash out with her sword. When she did, the spear went in and stuck the hapless wench between the ribs.

The girl groaned loudly as the point sank deep into her flesh. She doubled up around the thrust, the heavy spatha falling from her hand. Zoe dragged the spear out of her body with a grunt, then jerked the long shaft in a vicious arc. It knocked the doomed girl’s head askew; blood spattered from her mouth. Thrusting out her painted breasts, she twisted round and slumped into the dust.

Zoe caught herself and gasped. Sweat trickled down her face. The spear felt quite familiar now – like the trident which she’d used to fight off sharks. The mob were crowing with delight, and then the noise got louder. Swiping back her matted fringe, she turned about herself.

One of the British war-chariots was bearing down on her, a pair of harpies crouching in the back. The driver screamed and lashed the reins, her heavy bosom bouncing with each jolt. The girl beside her aimed a spear, and Zoe raised her own. But the horses would just shrug it off, and smash her bones beneath their flying hooves.

She threw herself aside, beneath the thrust of the girl’s spear, and shoved her weapon through the chariot’s wheel. It splintered like an arrow, but the spokes were ripped asunder and the chariot skidded over on its side. The wicker structure broke apart and the charioteers went flying. Zoe rolled and picked the dead girl’s sword up as she rose.

The battle had spilled out across the bowl of the arena. Whores and prisoners hacked at one another through the dust. The wildcats fought furiously, but they could make no headway. British bronze and iron was no match for Roman steel.

Zoe swung towards the crumpled chariot. The horses were still struggling free; the driver’s corpse went flopping after them. The reins were looped around her wrists and tied round her slim waist. Her bowed head and her naked breasts ploughed furrows in the sand.

The other girl lay wriggling and gasping on her back. Zoe moved towards her, fingers tightening round the long sword’s sweaty hilt. Still sobbing to refill her lungs, the girl half raised herself. She stretched her hand out in appeal, and Zoe’s surge of rage began to ebb.

Then something whirred past her like a three-foot dragonfly and thunked into the slim barbarian’s chest. The girl reared with a startled grunt, her shapely bosom swelling as she gasped. Then she pulled an anguished face and let herself fall backwards. Her tits deflated as her breath sighed out.

Zoe stared at her, then looked round sharply. One of the dark-skinned archers met her gaze. The kilted slut was notching a fresh arrow to her bowstring. No fellow-feeling on her face. She’d happily have skewered Zoe next.

Victoria hauled her chariot round, her thin voice rising in a cry of spite. Across the bowl, the British queen had turned her car at bay. Between them, through a haze of dust, the foot soldiers kept fighting. One whore was too confident. A slashing spatha ripped her throat clean out.

She gargled and collapsed beneath an avalanche of cheers. Provided that the home team won, the crowd were happy to see both sides bleed. Another chariot veered past. The archer turned and loosed another shaft. Zoe wheeled to see if she had hit the driver. Then a girl came at her through the roiling trail of dust.

Zoe swung her long sword up to block the other’s swing. The weapons clanged and bounced apart. The two girls danced and skittered round each other. Zoe was still waiting for an arrow to strike home. It didn’t come. The wildcat lunged and Zoe beat her back. The archer was prepared to stand aside and watch her die. Zoe’s anger flamed afresh. She made her own attack.

The school had given her some basic training. Galba, the old veteran, had let her have some practice with the swords. She was gladiator-fodder, marked for death in the arena, but the crowd enjoyed it more if she could fight.

Yet the sword-master had taught her well. Perhaps he felt a little sorry for her. Or maybe he just fancied her. Who knew?

Zoe’s biceps rippled as she raised the heavy sword. The barbarian took the downswing on her shield and stumbled back. Zoe hacked at her again before she could recover. The girl reeled and withdrew another yard. A legionary behind her thrust a sword into her back. Her guard dropped as she groaned and arched her spine.

Zoe’s fury goaded her. She slashed her blade across the proffered breasts. They blurted like split wineskins and the writhing girl screamed hoarsely. More blood splashed on Zoe’s tunic, pasting the thin fabric to her tits. She watched the Briton squirm and slump, and realised she was panting. A hot flush of arousal filled her groin.

Here she was, a slave, consigning people to their gods. She’d never had such power in her life. The red that splashed around her blade was making her quite drunk. Condemned or not, she felt invincible.

One of the barbarians had backed up against the wall. A harlot pinned her with her shield and jabbed her sword into the blue-dyed stomach. The Briton croaked and wriggled as the gladius punched home repeatedly. Six of them had now been slain. The rest must surely realise they were doomed.

As the thought crossed Zoe’s mind, she heard a blade divide the air behind her. She pirouetted, parried, and the wildcat knocked her over with her shield. Zoe gasped and hit the sand. She beat away the swing aimed at her face. The British girl snarled down at her and stomped on Zoe’s stomach. Zoe gagged and doubled up, but blocked another thrust. Her stomach was a knot of pain. The crowd were howling madly. The shrill voice of a woman seemed to cut right through the din.

"Let her have it! Give it to the bitch!"

As Zoe struggled desperately, a fragment of the past flashed through her mind. Another throb of nausea in her belly. Another woman calling for her blood ...

 She raised herself up off the bed and felt her head start spinning. It wasn’t just the wine she’d drunk. Some kind of drug was thickening her thoughts. Lucilla lay face downward on the floor beside the bed. She and Zoe were both nude, their limbs entangled in the soggy sheets.

Zoe’s mouth fell open, and the soldiers dragged her roughly to the door. The women stepped aside. They looked disconsolate again. "Take these whores away," the mother whispered bitterly. "Let justice take its course in the arena."

 The sword came hissing down again. There was no justice in it. Zoe’s rage put strength into her arm. The blade was blocked.

She scrabbled with her free hand in the dust, and kicked out sharply. Her bare heel caught the girl below the knee. The barbarian had come too close, and now she stumbled backwards. Zoe flung a gout of sand, then rolled and scrambled up.

The girl slashed at her wildly through the falling plume of dust. Zoe blocked and countered with three strokes. The first deflected the girl’s blade, the second caught her shield and knocked it sideways. The third stroke was a thrust into her unprotected chest.

"Hggh!" the Briton grunted with a miserable grimace. Her bosom quivered as she tried to squirm. Zoe gave the blade a push – then kicked her in the loincloth. The girl jack-knifed convulsively and ripped the buried blade out of her flesh.

More blood spattered on the sand, but Zoe was already dancing clear. She hadn’t time to marvel at the way her brain had spoken to her blade. The moves had come instinctively. It wasn’t just her training. Like making love: the body knew the way.

The two remaining chariots cast around like cornered wolves. The red-haired queen glared hatefully at Zoe. The legionaries were closing in, their naked bodies gleaming. The last barbarian on her feet was cut down where she stood.

One of the harlot-cohort was a buxom German girl, with a mane of ash-blonde hair beneath her helmet. She gave Zoe a pouting look. "Leave some for us, you cow!" Her eyes were cold and cornflower blue, like the stares of the two women in the bedroom. Zoe glowered back at her, and felt the fury pump into her limbs.

That evil pair had put her in this bloody butcher’s yard. And as for what had happened to Lucilla …

Her stomach quailed to think of it – and the queen barbarian’s chariot made a break. The legionaries scattered and the wain came bucketing in her direction. Zoe’s muscles knotted as she tried to gauge her moment. She sensed the German woman brace herself.

Then the legionary’s shield was slammed against her back, and Zoe lurched into the horses’ path.

The stomping hooves bore down on her. Their thunder filled the sky. Zoe stumbled, dropped her sword, then flung herself aside. A legionary’s armour would have slowed her fatally – but lightly clad and lithe, she tumbled clear. The chariot’s wheel whirled past her, axle squealing. The German harlot’s sour look was lost in clouds of dust. Zoe glimpsed an archer taking quick aim through the haze. Her arrow streaked into the driver’s back.

The pierced girl gave a squawk and doubled forward. The frightened horses bolted as she slumped. The queen beside her tried to grasp the reins, and lost her footing. The lightweight chariot bounced and threw her clear.

Zoe watched her hit the sand, her slim limbs flailing out. Her white gown tore, exposing one pale breast. The girl rolled over several times, then lay like a stunned rabbit. The crowd around the bowl were going wild.

Zoe clambered to her feet and looked round for the spatha. Her tunic, soaked with blood and sweat, was clinging to her skin. The sword lay several yards away, where hooves and wheels had thrown it. A gladius lay closer, near the body of a fallen legionary.

She picked the polished weapon up and felt its weight and balance. Twenty inches of bright steel. A sword for conquerors. Squeezing her fist around the hilt, she turned to the barbarian. Her fury wouldn’t be denied, and someone had to pay.

The girl called Boudicca had risen up on hands and knees. Her russet hair now hung in strings. She’d lost her diadem. Her firm, round breasts came poking through the tatters of her gown. A lustful dryness grew in Zoe’s mouth.

The girl’s blue eyes were squinting; now they widened angrily. She hissed and snatched her spear up from the sand. A thrusting weapon, short and sharp. She gripped it in both hands. Raising herself into a crouch, she waited like a tense, defiant cat.

Zoe prowled forward as the cheers beat down like rain. Her mind was closed to everything around her. Victoria’s face was livid as she saw she’d been upstaged. The other sluts looked on resentfully. The girls in the last chariot were attempting to surrender, but the mob were in no mood for clemency. The legionaries dragged them from the wain and sliced their throats. But the crowd had focused on the final duel.

Zoe edged around her prey. The spear jabbed out at her and then withdrew. Boudicca tossed her long hair back. A sweaty curl was pasted to her forehead. Zoe lunged and slashed at her, but the British girl was nimble. She spun away and jabbed again, the spear point almost finding Zoe’s breast.

The two girls crouched and glared at one another. Boudicca’s ripe breasts pulsed rhythmically. Zoe watched them; saw them swell as her opponent took a breath – and struck the spear aside as it was thrust. She arched away and kicked the Briton’s legs from under her. One learned such tricks when walking Rome’s back streets.

She moved in smoothly, grasped the spear shaft, twisted it from Boudicca’s slick grasp. Then she flipped the point around and pressed it down against the bitch-queen’s throat.

It was the still eye of the storm. The tiered seats erupted all around them. Panting, Zoe raised her eyes. Despite its size, the place was intimate. She could have picked out any face, right up to the bowl’s rim. A graceful lady stood to shout at her.

Her voice was cultured, cutting through the roaring of the mob. Her clothes were rich. She had a retinue. The same voice had just called for Zoe’s death, when she was down. But now she wanted Boudicca to bleed.

"Let her have it! Kill the British bitch!"

It was no-one Zoe knew. The gladiators were just toys to her. Resentment tightened Zoe’s throat. Her anger simmered just below the boil.

She looked back down at Boudicca. The helpless Briton sneered. "Oh, you had better kill me," she said hoarsely. "Or one day, as I swear it, I’ll kill you."

The sword still hung in Zoe’s hand. She let her fingers tighten round the spear. The crowd had fallen silent as they waited for the kill. She only had to thrust, and they would love her.

A false and fickle love, of course. They’d cry for her own murder soon enough. So would she do the bidding of that spoilt little cow? Give pleasure to the people who’d enslaved her? She glanced towards the editor in his box above the gate. Imperiously he gestured for the kill.

Zoe curled her lip at him and threw the spear aside. A disbelieving murmur stirred the crowd. Boudicca’s blue eyes grew wide, and Zoe smiled sourly. Then she turned away and drove her sword into the dirt.

A storm of boos and catcalls burst around her. She basked in them as if they were applause. She was a slave, become a whore; a whore, condemned for murder. A murderess who’d learned that she could kill.

She thought of the three women who had brought her down to this. Once they’d seemed untouchable, but now she had the power of life and death. Somehow she was going to find her way out of this prison.

And one day, as I swear it, I’ll kill you!