Victoria aut Veritatem

Breathe, just breathe.

“Slow your breathing… Calm your heart rate… Concentrate on the task at hand… Remember your training. It is not very different from your training… Don’t be nervous. Desperate people do stupid things.”

The words of her trainer, Orsula, flitted through her mind and served their purpose to help the woman calm herself and concentrate on the immediate future. She barely registered as the arena above was suddenly filled with the deafening roar of the mob, which greeted the early entrance of the reigning champion. The guard, who stood beside the woman in the passage, pulled a lever on the wall and the heavy iron doors directly in front of them opened. The fierce afternoon sun penetrated through the bars of the portcullis into the dark passage and glinted off the armor of the guard, the metal plates and ornamentation on the regalia of the Gladiatrix, and the embossments on her small, round shield. The light danced over them as the portcullis opened, and the Gladiatrix stepped out into the glare and din of the arena. 

The herald in the Emperor’s box shouted into his audio amplification device, “And the Emperor’s champion, the undefeated Queen of the Arena, Vasa is challenged by…” He dramatically paused and gestured in the direction of the Gladiatrix, “A slave, taken from the defect colonies among the stars, as beautiful and cruel as the ancient goddess with whom she shares a name: Diana!”

She retained her attitude of cool self-confidence and unsheathed her short sword. Despite the technological advancement in the weaponry of their society, the gladiators were only given a shield, short-sword, and two knives. The use of archaic weapons allowed for the most entertainment for the crowd and gratified their frantic bloodlust. They, as well as the Emperor’s champion, were addicted to the entertainment of blood and death produced by the gladiator fights. Under tyranny, humanity has the choice to either revert to the ugliest, basest of its forms or to the noblest. 

The frenzy of the crowd dissipated into suspenseful silence as the contestants neared the center of the arena and took their stance a little way apart from each other. This was the fun part. Diana could feel the tension. She could feel it in every muscle and sinew of her body. But she remembered her own words, and the tension dissipated into cool resolve. 

“Why do you do this?”

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“Why do you do this?” It was a question that she asked of Orsula the day prior to the fight.

“Why do you train these girls just so that one day they can go into that arena and either be a victim of a Beast or become a Beast?” 

The hardened woman looked as if she might cry. A thing anyone who ever saw her would consider impossible. She was around forty with a once-beautiful face that was now set in an expression like a stone wall. Her tall, lean body and corded muscles made her look every bit the warrior who had defeated the previous Emperor’s champion when she was no older than fourteen. 

“Because I am a Beast.” She said fiercely, repressing her emotion. “We all are. It is the only way to survive. If you had been chosen as a concubine instead, you would have had far more humanity. At the very least, you would not have been an animal whose only choice is to kill or be killed. Besides, this is the only life I can remember. It is better to live as an animal than die as one.”

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Diana could scarcely remember the day that she was taken to become a gladiatrix instead of a concubine, as was previously planned for her. She was standing in a large outer courtyard of the massive palace, in a long line with the other slaves. None of them were cuffed or chained, but it did not matter. They were all half-starved and barely staying upright, there was no longer any hope of escape for any of them. The only instinct left was to survive. The slave traders were standing in front of the line, along with the heads of the different sections of the palace staff. Orsula, being in charge of the gladiatrices, was there. Diana remembered being told to step forward, which took far more effort than it should have, and briefly inspected by the slave master and an older woman. The woman paid the slave master and took Diana’s arm to lead her away. The slave master then said something which Diana could not remember but what she did recall was that she became so enraged by his comment that even in her weakened state, she managed to take him down and nearly choke him to death. She was stopped by the guards, and the older woman, the Mistress of the Harem, requested that she might be put instead into the School of Gladiators for her disposition was not one that is desirable in a concubine. Orsula, who previously restrained the slave master from inflicting punishment on Diana, laughed mirthlessly and said, “We must feed the Beast.” Diana still did not know whether she was speaking of the Champion or the Mob.

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In the arena, Vasa roared and charged at Diana, who stood where she was until the last moment when she side-stepped, and as Vasa changed her trajectory, spun around, and sliced at her bare midriff, Diana blocked the blow with her shield and continued to go on the defensive alternately parrying with her sword, deflecting with her shield, and using her superior agility to confound and avoid Vasa’s constant attacks. The hours upon hours of training every single day for months had paid off. The Champion and the Challenger were nearly evenly matched. Dozens of victims had fallen to the sword, knife, or on some occasions, the teeth of Vasa. She was considered unconquerable and had proven, time and time again, to quickly gratify the masses with blood. But, this time, the Challenger assumed a defensive strategy in order to tire the Champion, who only went on the offensive, unless she were to toy with an especially weak opponent. 

In Diana’s mind, the fight became a constant rhythm of movements: thrust, parry, block, side-step, parry, turn, slide, block, thrust… After a while, her strategy seemed to begin to take a toll on Vasa, but it had already been taking a toll on herself. Furious over having such difficulty in winning her own game, Vasa suddenly, in a frenzy of movement, was able to throw Diana to the ground. But as she was about to stab her, Diana rolled out of the way, leaving her shield behind and causing Vasa to trip as she retreated. Angrier than ever, the Champion arose and discarded her own shield to prove that she could destroy this slave-girl without any advantage in gear. Both Diana and Vasa pulled out the knife that was sheathed at their hip and again circled each other like a pair of leopards, tensed to pounce. 

This time it was Diana who attacked first, and the two connected with such a fury of renewed strength that the crowd could barely see what was happening, though there were screens placed at strategic points in the arena and sound amplifiers to allow every member of the audience to fully experience the battle. When the two came apart again, the mob erupted because Diana had been cut on her lower back, and her blade was embedded in Vasa’s thigh, below her skirt. She removed it and dropped it at her feet. Vasa then, to the horror of Diana and the strange pleasure of the crowd, licked the blade that was dripping with Diana’s blood.

What violent bloodlust. Though Diana.

She was exhausted. The fight had lasted a very long time, or it seemed like a very long time. The last brawl had energized the Champion but only further weakened Diana. She bent down and grabbed the hilt of the knife whose sheath was strapped to her boot.

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Before the fight, Diana was in the dimly lit armory being readied and equipped by Orsula and two female attendants. One was lacing on the metal-plated leather top, which went from her collarbone to the middle of her ribcage. The other was arranging her dark mane in a low ponytail and applying black paint to her eyelids. When they were finished with her, Orsula placed the short sword and knife in their sheaths at her hips and bent to put the other knife in the sheath on her right boot. She stood and under the pretense of hugging Diana, an action so unlike her, Orsula whispered in Diana’s ear. 

“The one in your boot is poisoned. It is undetectable and untraceable. If you need to, use it. It will give you a decided advantage over Vasa. Diana, promise me that you will not die as an animal.”

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She pulled the knife out, and Vasa grinned savagely. Diana spotted a rat, the type that she saw often and sometimes, in her loneliness, talked to at the training center, scurrying over the sand directly between Vasa and herself. Suddenly, she threw the knife at the rat and pinned it’s paw to the floor of the arena. Vasa jumped back and looked confused, like the murmuring crowd. They watched the squealing and convulsing of the rat, which only lasted a moment before it died. But they all saw the clear effects of the poison, a dose that would kill a human a minute or so after contact, just long enough for it to be attributed to the loss of blood. Poison was against the rules of the arena.

Diana raised her eyes to the crowd and looked directly into the Emperor’s box. Her eyes were filled with such a fierce determination that they seemed to blaze in the afternoon sun. She spoke, and the entire arena listened, astounded.

“I wanted my freedom. I wanted my life back. I wanted to be human again, not just an animal whose sole purpose is to kill or be killed just to gratify the bloodlust of the barbarian masses and their barbarian Emperor. If this is the price of humanity, I will not pay it! I will not die an animal.”

She heard a gunshot, and everything went black.

Finis