The girl in Thracian armour screamed as the prongs bit through her belly. The sound was muffled by her helmet grille. Hunching up around the pain, she tried to hack at Zoe, but her blade glanced off the fisher’s shoulder-guard. Zoe clenched her teeth and shoved. The woman’s wail grew hoarser. Both of them were almost nude. Their bare tits nearly touched.

The crowd were howling with delight, but Zoe never heard them. Her mind was focused on her squirming foe. She pictured the grimace behind the visor of the helmet. A disembodied mewling sound emerged. The girl wore a sleeve of metal scales, bronze greaves and just a loincloth. Her bare flesh glistened in the sun, and Zoe smelled her sweaty agony.

She dragged the trident’s handle back, then freed it with a jerk. "Huggh!" she grunted with the effort. "Gahhh!" the girl cried out. She dropped her sword and crumpled against Zoe, embracing her as if defying death. Her body was warm and muscular. Its very touch made Zoe’s loincloth damp. She blushed beneath her tan, aware of countless eyes on her. Then blood spattered through the visor as the Thracian coughed, convulsed and slumped.

Zoe bit her lip in guilty pleasure. She let the body slither to her feet. It wasn’t just the contact that aroused her. The act of killing made her want to come.

Her feelings mingled: lust and shame. A girl could get too good at this, she thought. The trident’s prongs were dripping with bright scarlet. The cheers immersed her like a louring storm.

She remembered her first fight in the arena. It seemed like half a lifetime since that day. She still recalled her terror – and the feisty fury which had overcome it. Emboldened, she had sworn to kill the women who’d condemned her. Two were dead already, but she’d left a score of bodies in her wake ...

Zoe took a shaky breath. Her bare breasts rose and tensed. She was stripped down to her loincloth too, her body oiled with sweat. The shoulder-guard and greaves she wore felt heavy and restrictive. She wished that she could fight completely nude.

There was one other pair still on their feet amid the scattered bodies. A fellow fisher sparred with a murmillo in the heat. The fisher-girl was fast and lithe, an Amazonian blonde, but the swordswoman hung back with feline guile.

Zoe swiped a hand across her forehead. A rag was knotted in her hair, but her fringe was lank and hanging in her eyes. She glanced towards the gallery and felt her owner’s gaze. Her stomach shifted queasily. He’d fuck her hard tonight.

By rights she should be dead by now. She’d joined his troupe and killed the other girls. Not to mention murdering a tribune and his wife. He could have had her whipped and crucified.

But no. It seemed her viciousness excited him the more – like keeping a young tiger as a pet. And Zoe fought like someone who was born for the arena. The hungry mob would pay to see her skill.

So now she was his champion, called Achillia the Greek. The crowd had started picking up the name. But she was still his bed-mate too – a tiger he could ride on. Her wrists bound to the bedposts to protect him from her claws …

Zoe watched the pair of fighters circle round each other. The murmillo was a girl of some repute. She wore a sombre loincloth and her shield was painted black. There were raven feathers in her crested helmet. Her skin was like dark honey, but the sunshine gilded it. Her sword blade glinted like a ray of light.

Zoe guessed at once which way the fight was going to go. She backed away, towards another corpse. This was a female secutor, sprawled tits-up on the sand. Still tangled in the cords of Zoe’s net.

The body wore a helmet like a polished metal egg. Its empty eyeholes stared towards the sky. The girl had had a tanned, voluptuous figure. There were three deep wounds across the breasts where Zoe’s trident prongs had skewered her.

Zoe crouched and started disentangling the net. She hadn’t needed it to beat the Thracian. But the girl in the black loincloth was a different proposition. She glanced around to keep track of the fight.

The fisher had her own net raised. She swung it round her head. It cast a stormy shadow over her. Zoe heard the whoosh of spinning weights in the dry air. The sleek murmillo waited, feet apart.

Then the net spread like a cloud. The swordswoman recoiled and raised her shield. The net curled round it and her arm, and sent her lurching back another step.

"No …" said Zoe flatly as the fisher darted forward, but she was speaking only to herself. The blonde girl didn’t hear her as she plunged in for the kill, a snarl of triumph screwing up her face. She thrust at the murmillo, and the swordswoman spun clear. Her gladius hacked the trident to one side. Then, as the startled blonde was trying to get her balance back, the blade went ripping up under her ribs.

The fisher choked on her own scream. Her snarl became a rictus of despair. Her bare breasts joggled limply as the sword was jerked back out. Her body wilted, slumping to the sand.

Zoe’s dark eyes narrowed but her face remained impassive. She felt the sun’s heat beating on her back. The Black Murmillo turned to her, her visor full of shadow. Her arms went up as if to flaunt her tits.

"Proserpina!" yelled the crowd, and Zoe’s hackles rose. The name seemed more appropriate than ever. Queen of the Underworld. Bride of Hades. Already sizing up her next opponent. Judging by her body, she was close to Zoe’s age, but she’d already earned a fearsome reputation.

The referee had kept well back, as if afraid the girls would turn on him. Now he flourished his vine staff and waited for the editor’s decision. The official stood and gestured for the fighting to continue. Zoe’s stomach knotted. Proserpina’s muscles bulged. The referee held out his staff between them, then brought it whipping down to start the bout.

Zoe struggled with the net, but it was snagged on something. The dead girl’s bosom wobbled under her. The swordswoman came prowling closer, crouched behind her shield. The crowd were cheering madly, but the pit was like the still eye of a storm.

Proserpina’s skin was smooth as silk. She had the dark complexion of a Syrian. Her bare feet shuffled through the sand. Her polished gladius was slick with blood.

Zoe glared at her, still fumbling blindly with the net. The blood of her own victims greased her skin. It trickled hotly down her curves, but the blood inside her veins was hotter still. It pounded through her body, and she wasn’t going to wait and see it spilled.

Proserpina lunged at her, and Zoe rolled aside. The sword sliced through the air where she’d been crouching. The slim murmillo followed through and kicked her in the side, her bronze greave thudding into Zoe’s ribs. The Greek girl gasped and scrabbled clear, then rolled again and snatched her trident up.

She glowered down the levelled shaft, and Proserpina halted. The sunlight gave the prongs a wicked glint. Both girls waited, bare breasts panting, while the mob went wild. "Pro-ser-pin-a!" some were chanting. "Achillia! Let her have it!" others called.

Prosperina’s visor was a grating clogged with darkness. Zoe lunged, then skittered round her, probing for a gap. But the girl had the reactions of a panther. Every move that Zoe made was blocked by that big shield. She wasn’t going to tire herself by chasing her opponent. Instead she waited for the Greek to make her first mistake.

Zoe overreached herself a moment later, and the girl came at her like a striking crab. Her blade swooshed over Zoe’s head and ruffled her damp hair, and then the shield-boss rammed into her ribs. Zoe grunted, reeling back. She felt her bosom bounce. The girl was going for her gut. She used the trident’s shaft to turn the thrust. Breathless now, she danced away, and Proserpina followed. The bitch was still in full control, still sidling in the cover of her shield.

Zoe braced herself and flung the trident like a spear. It crashed into the wooden shield and lodged there. Proserpina lurched and tried to raise her guard again, but the long protruding shaft unbalanced her. Angrily she freed her arm and tossed the shield aside. Now both of them had unprotected breasts.

Zoe drew her dagger as she swayed from foot to foot. The murmillo raised her sword and waded in. Zoe ducked the blow and tumbled sideways, to fetch up by the Thracian she had killed. Seizing the dead girl’s fallen sword, she vaulted to her feet and switched her weapons like a juggler. Sunlight glittered down the blades, and Proserpina eyed them warily.

"ACHILLIA!" the crowd were shouting, rooting for her now. Zoe gave a mirthless grin. She started edging round. Proserpina turned with her, then pounced impulsively. Their sword blades clashed, and Zoe’s dagger scraped her armoured sleeve.

The two girls parted, whirled and struck again. The blows were blocked. The Black Murmillo slashed at her, and Zoe’s shoulder-armour shrugged her off. She tried to get her own blade into Proserpina’s tits, but the girl evaded her with catlike grace. They gasped and sweated, trading blows, quite heedless of the mob. And then a twisted staff was thrust between them.

The referee had intervened. He turned his scowling face from girl to girl. Zoe sensed the fear behind his features. Her eyes flicked back to Proserpina, trying to read her stance.

"Hold!" the referee said gruffly. "See, the editor has called a halt."

Breathing hard, the two girls loosened up and backed away. The sea of cheers had faded to a murmur. Zoe wiped her sweaty face and looked up at the box. The editor was staring down at them.

"The pair of you have thrilled us with your fighting," he declared, in a voice intended for the whole arena. "I’ll have to meet the cost of all the wenches that you’ve killed, but every last denarius will be worth it!" Zoe eyed him levelly, aware of the dead bodies all around her. The crowd roared their approval at his words.

"The Gods have matched you perfectly," the editor went on. "This place has never seen girls fight so well. How could even Fortune choose between you?" He clapped his hands. "Let victors’ palms be given to them both!"

The watching mob seemed pleased with the decision, as if his magnanimity reflected well on them. They’d lapped up enough blood to keep them happy. Zoe took a long, deep breath and turned away, towards the Gate of Life.

Proserpina walked beside her as she crossed the sand. Neither of them spoke. They were just strangers who had tried to kill each other. The gate slid closed behind them, cutting off the noisy babble. The tunnel took them into a small courtyard. Arena slaves were waiting to assist them with their armour. Zoe waited dumbly as her arm-guard was unstrapped.

Wearing just her loincloth, she went over to the cistern and splashed tepid water on her face and breasts. She felt the same as ever after fighting: light-headed, with a dull, post-coital ache. What she needed now was someone soft to snuggle up with, instead of her employer’s sweaty bulk.

She looked around as Proserpina lifted off her helmet. The girl had a mane of coal-black hair, a heart-shaped face and eyes like a gazelle’s. The contrast with her sinister persona was unsettling. She tucked the helm under her arm. It leered at Zoe like a metal skull.

The girl’s damp hair was clinging to her forehead. She wiped it clear, and Zoe’s heartstrings tensed. Suddenly this woman looked familiar. That sultry skin. Those haunting eyes. That perfect pair of tits.

Her mind sped back towards another courtyard: another sweaty struggle for her life. Zoe had fought an Arab girl that time, and bested her. She’d spared her foe, and then the girl had saved her life in turn. Zoe still recalled her face, and now the name came back to her as well.

"Yersinia …"

The swordswoman stared back at her, then gave a crooked smile and padded closer. Zoe waited awkwardly. How did you speak to someone whom you’d just been trying to kill? Yersinia clearly felt the same. The two girls hesitated, lost for words. Then Zoe shrugged and handed her the ladle from the cistern. Yersinia took a sip from it, then let the water pour over her breasts.

"I said our paths might cross again," said Zoe. She wet her lips and glanced around. "And what about your owner. Is he here?"

Yersinia’s smile grew mischievous. "He had to sell me on. We ruined him together, you and I."

Zoe’s chest had tightened; now she let herself breathe out. Her quest had left a long and bloody trail. Justice might be blind, but it was groping at her heels. The shadow of the Roman cross was never far away.

"You didn’t recognise me, then." She sounded almost hurt.

"There’s only two things that I watch," Yersinia answered softly. "The eyes, because they tell me what she’s thinking. And her tits, because that’s where I aim my stroke."

Zoe hesitated, then reached out impulsively. Her fingers grazed the swell of the girl’s breast. "So do I," she murmured, even softer. "Just think, I almost put my blade in that."

The Arab girl flinched pleasurably. Her bosom was still tender. "Almost," she agreed, and fondled Zoe’s breast in turn. The young Greek gasped and felt herself grow moist.

It seemed entirely natural to fuck her would-be killer. The fight had whetted her desire, and Zoe’s loins were begging for release. She swayed towards Yersinia teasingly; their bodies brushed. She gave the slaves a sidelong glance. And then a man’s rough voice cut through her lust.

"Achillia, my kitten … please don’t stop on my account,"

The two girls drew apart at once, and Zoe felt her cheeks burn like a child’s. The fat lanista smirked at her. She hated being a plaything in his power. He’d had her previous murders blamed on bandits, but they were still a lever he could use.

"The editor just sent for me – and for her owner too." He gestured at Yersinia carelessly. "You’re both invited to his house, to tell him more about your famous deeds. No doubt he’ll want a fumble, too. I’ll charge him more for that! So get yourselves cleaned up, his slaves are waiting."

Zoe blinked at him, then shrugged. She suddenly felt weary. It seemed the ache of lust was never going to go away. Deliberately she crossed her arms over her naked breasts. "We’ll have your slaves escorting us, no doubt?"

Her owner smiled and shook his head. "I don’t think they’ll be needed. You’ll come back of your own accord. You know what you enjoy."

Zoe smiled bleakly. He was flattering himself. But the sex could be endured. She had a roof over her head. And one day they would get to Rome, where Livia was still living: the sly, sadistic harlot who was last on Zoe’s list.

The prospect of revenge had made her journey bearable. She’d cope with this ordeal in the same way. Zoe touched Yersinia’s arm, then turned towards the bathhouse, unfastening her loincloth as she walked.

* * *

The editor turned out to be a local magistrate. His house felt cool after the sticky heat. He’d organised the games to curry favour with the plebs. Zoe had killed two girls today to make this florid man more popular.

She and Yersinia had been dressed in freshly-laundered tunics, for easy access by a groping hand. Barefoot, as befitted slaves, they padded through the atrium and into the long garden at the back.

The magistrate was waiting there. He had a ruddy face and greying hair. Gesturing the girls to sit, he called for wine and olives. A silent slave poured three cups, and withdrew.

The house was on a hill. The garden overlooked the bay. The afternoon was turning golden, thickening like syrup from the west. Zoe took a sip of wine and nibbled at an olive. The magistrate looked on admiringly.

"That was a fine display today," he told them. "I’m privileged to meet you face to face."

"The honour is all ours," said Zoe sweetly.

The man smiled wryly. "Let me guess. You think I want you to perform in private. With your swords, or with your sex." He gave his head a shake. "The pair of you aren’t here as slaves but as professionals. I want to hear the tales you have to tell."

"All we do is kill, my Lord," Yersinia told him frankly. "And every death is like the one before."

"Your own lives are what interests me," the magistrate came back. "You are from Arabia, yes? Achillia is from Greece. Tell me more about your homelands. Tell me how you came from there to here."

"We’re here because we’ve been enslaved," said Zoe, without thinking. "I learned to hate before I learned to fight."

He poured her some wine with his own hands. "So do you hate Rome, then?"

His voice was calm. She wavered. "I’m in awe of it," she said. "But I hate its cruelty, and its corruption."

"So do I," he said. "Does this surprise you? The emperor grows ever more depraved. I have criticised him publicly – and he has ordered me to take my life! That’s why I am anxious for the people’s loyalty. His reign will soon be over, and I mean to be here after he is gone ...

"But there, enough of politics. I’d like to hear of uncorrupted lands. I hope you’ll dine with me tonight. It should be better than your normal fare."

They talked on as the warm day waned, until the meal was ready. Then they settled down on couches in the dining room. Zoe had rarely eaten such rich food, and found it filling, but the atmosphere was growing more relaxed. She talked about her childhood in a sleepy fishing village. Yersinia spoke of horses, incense, spice.

A slave came in and stooped to whisper in his master’s ear. The magistrate looked over at his guests. "There are some dancers at the doors – from Aegyptus, they say. They’ll entertain us, if it pleases you."

"Why not?" Zoe murmured, licking juices off her fingers. She caught Yersinia’s eye and winked. The dancing girls were led into the room. There were four of them, with soft dark eyes and golden-brown bare skin. A pleasant, musky perfume tinged the air. What clothes they wore were wispy and translucent, revealing the firm contours of their flesh. A male musician settled in the corner. He started playing on a pipe, and the girls began their slow, seductive dance.

Zoe watched them writhe like serpents, sleek and sensual. She felt her throat becoming dry and tight. The tallest dancer caught her eye and glanced away again. Zoe’s heart kicked lustfully; but then she felt a tingle of unease.

I watch the eyes, Yersinia said. They tell me what she’s thinking. And something cold and purposeful was in the dancer’s gaze. Zoe shifted languidly, her muscles growing taut. Her fighter’s instincts made her hackles rise. She glanced at her companion, but Yersinia was distracted. The girl had raised her hips to rub herself.

The tall Egyptian coiled towards the spellbound magistrate. Just like a serpent, Zoe thought again. The girl bent forward, showing off her thinly-veiled breasts. Her graceful arms reached round behind herself.

Zoe snatched a goblet as she saw the glint of steel. She hurled its contents at the dancer’s face. The girl reared back and pawed her eyes, wine blinding her like blood. She lashed out with the dagger in her hand. Zoe swung up from her couch and kicked the table over. The other girls were drawing blades, but lurched back as the plates crashed to the floor.

"Assassins!" cried the magistrate. The tall Egyptian squinted through the wine. Before she could move in again, Zoe sprang across the table. Yersinia scrambled up from her own couch. The nearest girl slashed viciously, but Zoe was too nimble. She twisted clear with gladiatorial skill. The dancer overreached herself and felt her balance going. Before she could regain it, Zoe kicked her in the knee. The girl cried out, collapsing awkwardly, and Zoe pounced. She seized the young assassin’s wrist and forced the dagger into her own breast.

The soft globe yielded ripely, and the girl went pale with shock. The dagger pierced her to the hilt. She whimpered with a puppyish dismay. Zoe looked into her eyes, then grasped the hilt and twisted. The girl grimaced in misery. Her agonised convulsions shook them both.

Zoe jerked the blade out with a giddy sense of power. The girl’s breast spurted blood. She toppled forward. Zoe flipped herself around as a second dancer struck. She crabbed away across the floor and the lissom killer padded after her.

The first assassin lunged towards the magistrate again, but Yersinia was crouching in her path. She’d snatched a cushion from her couch, and used it to absorb the dagger’s thrusts. The dancer snarled and hacked at it. Yersinia backed away. She coaxed the tall Egyptian after her. Then she slipped, and dropped her guard. The killer waded in. Too late, she realised this was just an old arena trick, as Yersinia grabbed her wrist and tumbled backwards.

The Arab girl went down with one foot braced against her belly. She flipped the dancer over her; the tall Egyptian landed awkwardly. Yersinia squirmed around and sprang, rapacious as a panther. Zoe barely glimpsed her as she focused on the two remaining girls.

They moved like dancers even now, advancing with a sinuous composure. The daggers glinted in the lamplight. Zoe levelled her bone-handled blade. The girls were edging round her to attack from two directions. Zoe looked from face to face – then dropped into a crouch.

A plate was lying by her feet. She snatched it up and skimmed it like a discus. It struck one dancer in the throat with a crunch of cartilage. The girl made a frantic croaking sound and dropped her knife to scrabble at her neck.

The other girl came at her and they circled, feinted, slashed. Their breathing rasped around the silent room. Zoe watched those dark sloe eyes and read the hatred there. She saw the next attack before it came.

The blade flashed out at her, and Zoe ducked it easily. Her eye refocused on the dancer’s breasts. They swelled and sank invitingly beneath the filmy gown, the nipples like a pair of tawny coins. Her dagger licked out like a snake and punctured the firm flesh. The young Egyptian gave a startled squeal. Zoe seized her like a lover, digging for her heart. The musky body squirmed against her own.

Gasping, Zoe let her slump. More blood pooled on the black and white mosaic. The musician had already fled. There was no-one left to fight. Her groin felt flushed and swollen as she turned to the last dancer, who was slowly choking like a landed fish.

Zoe hunkered down to watch her wriggling. The dancer’s tongue poked stiffly from her mouth. "Guess you need some air," she said, and sliced the flattened windpipe. The girl’s spine arched in agony. A final, bloodstained breath came wheezing out.

Zoe rose and looked for the tall dancer. Yersinia had her pinned against the floor. The Arab girl was sitting on her stomach and pressing her own dagger to her throat.

The magistrate stood looking on. His ruddy face was grey. "Who sent you, girl?" he asked. "Was it the emperor himself?"

"Answer him," Yersinia said. She moved her blade and pricked the girl’s right breast. The tall assassin flinched but didn’t answer. Yersinia teased the point around her dusky aureole.

"Tell him and I’ll kill you quickly – right?" She probed again. The dancer’s angry eyes were sheened with tears. Her bosom heaved abruptly, and she gurgled in her throat. Yersinia fought for balance as she bucked. The girl stuck out her tongue and then her head rolled to one side. Her lissom body went completely limp.

"Poisoned daggers. Shit," the Arab girl said in disgust. She sank the blade into the dead girl’s breast. Zoe peered at her own dagger, then discarded it. Her lust was going off the boil. She felt it turning sour.

"You girls have saved my life," the magistrate said shakily. "I’ll see you are rewarded handsomely. The wooden sword of freedom shall be given to you both. You’ll never be constrained to fight again …"

Zoe barely heard him. She was staring at the bodies. Remembering the thrill she’d got from making each girl die. What had her owner said to her? You know what you enjoy. He knew her better than herself. He hadn’t meant the sex. He’d meant the slaughter.

* * *

The road crested the ridge and they looked back towards the town. The bay beyond was glittering like glass. Zoe shielded her eyes and scanned the empty country. Vineyards, fields and cypress groves lay drowsing in the haze.

She shifted the burden on her back and glanced at Yersinia. The girl gave her a wistful little smile. Perhaps she had mixed feelings about freedom, after all the years of being someone’s pet.

Zoe herself was used to being footloose. She could slough off her persona as a snake discards its skin. Her owner wasn’t pleased to lose Achillia from his troupe, but the magistrate had made it worth his while.

Now she wore a polished wooden rudis on her hip, awarded as a symbol of her freedom. Yersinia had one just the same. They’d flaunted them as they walked out of town. Zoe’s own black-handled sword was slung across her back. No doubt it would be needed in due course.

She had a purse of coins as well. A brand-new cloak was rolled around her pack. But the dagger in her belt was as plain as ever, and she rested on her well-used travelling staff.

"Where will you go?" Yersinia asked.

"To Rome," said Zoe. "I’ve got business there." Her face grew moody for a moment; then she smiled again. "So what’s in store for Proserpina, then?"

Yersinia shrugged. "Who knows?" She touched her crotch and then her sword. "I’d rather earn my way with this, than that."

Zoe nodded solemnly and kissed her on the cheek. "Good luck," she said. "May Fortune follow you."

"We part as friends," Yersinia said, and squeezed her shoulder fondly. Zoe held her hand in place, then turned and walked away. She heard the girl set down her pack, as if to flex her shoulders. And then she heard the rasp of a drawn sword.

She looked around in puzzlement. The Arab girl had bared her gladius. The polished blade flashed coldly in the sunlight. Yersinia’s dark eyes were as deep as wells.

"And now that we have parted, we have business to conclude. The fight which we began but never finished."

Zoe stared in disbelief, then slowly shook her head. "It was a perfect match," she breathed. "We could have fought all day with no decision."

Yersinia looked almost sad. "You know the rules we live by. None of us can turn our back on an undefeated foe."

Zoe took a step away. "Oh, don’t do this," she pleaded.

"Draw your sword," Yersinia said. "Let’s see who Fortune chooses." She pointed her own blade at Zoe’s face.

Zoe wavered wretchedly, then shrugged her burden off. Her gladius fell with it to the dust. She drew her wooden sword instead and gripped it in both hands. "You’ve nothing more to fear from me," she said.

"Fight me, Zoe. By the Gods!" Yersinia lunged and slashed. The heavy rudis blocked the blade and Zoe’s muscles quivered with the shock. She whirled away, then tried to strike Yersinia on the hand, but the gladius had a protected hilt. They fought across the empty road with grunts and gasps of effort. Zoe whacked Yersinia’s gut, but failed to put her down.

Their weapons clashed again. There was the crack of splitting wood. Zoe skittered backwards out of range. Her gladius was lying there, just waiting to be grasped, but she kept her fingers round the wooden sword.

Yersinia’s hair was in her eyes. She shook the damp strings back. Zoe stared towards her pleadingly. Then Yersinia lunged again. The rudis splintered as she hacked at it. Zoe went down onto one knee, then launched herself beneath Yersinia’s guard.

She drove the broken sword into the Arab girl’s firm body. Yersinia jerked and made a croaking sound. Zoe screwed the jagged stump as deep as it would go, not stopping till she won a scream of pain. Yersinia sobbed and clung to her, and Zoe held on tight. She felt her warm opponent squirm, then slump in her embrace.

She lowered Yersinia to the road and stared at her blank face. The splintered sword protruded from her midriff. Zoe left it buried there and picked her burden up. Her sword was a familiar steely weight.

The road led on over the crest. It might take her to Rome. The lady Livia was waiting there. Zoe started walking, but she couldn’t see the way. She was born for the arena; but at least she still remembered how to cry.