"You may well have bought yourself a dead woman, Maximus."  The voice of an elderly man brought me out of my state of unconsciousness.  My first instinct at the unfamiliar sound was to open my eyes and reach for whatever would serve me for a weapon.  But I found that my body would not respond to my will, and any effort to make it sent fiery pain to every wound that it harbored.  For a brief moment, I listened to what sounded like two men as they moved around whatever room I had been taken to.  It was a quiet place; there were no sounds or smells from beasts or the inhabitants of the holding pens below the arena floor.  The fragrance of healing herbs familiar and not wafted over me, carried on the warmth of the blaze somewhere beyond the pallet where I lay.

"Yes, I know.  But she's strong.  Not many could live through what she did yesterday.  And I know your physician will do his best."  The man called Maximus was younger; his voice, a silk garment dragged over gravel, gave him away.  A voice that could lull a baby to sleep, or a very wounded warrior.

"You have bought a new enemy as well.  He won't take the sale of her to you well."

"He'd have her  back in the ring before she's ever able to heal.  And only the gods know what he would make her fight next.  The man who had her was cruel enough.  She's better off here or dead.  And I will repay you, Gracchus, if that is your worry, whether she lives or not."  Gracchus, the elder of the two, was quiet for a short time.  Then he sighed as he answered.

"You know I trust you.  It isn't the money.  Or the purchase of this woman.  It's the worry I feel for you.  I love you like a son.  And Lucilla will be most angry that I allowed you to put yourself in any danger."  Both chuckled at that last.  I must have made some sound, or an indication that I was back in the world of the living, for one of them, I could not discern which, laid a hand lightly on my brow and then touched a cup containing fresh, sweet water to my mouth.  Most of the liquid spilled over my chin and neck and into my hair, but a little made it past my dry lips and teeth and down my throat, while a hand held my head up just enough to keep me from choking.  After, I let the comfort of deep sleep take me again and did not wake for some time.

When my eyes adjusted to the low light of the chamber I knew immediately to be servants' quarters, there was only a boy of perhaps sixteen or seventeen winters with me.  His head was bowed over a parchment scroll, studying it. His eyes roved line by line, mouth forming silent words.  He was dressed in a tunic of bright saffron; laurel leaves sewn in bronze thread framed the bottom hem and the neck of the garment.  It was not long, but more in the fashion of that my own people wore, with woolen breeches underneath to cover his legs.   At his waist, on the braided horsehair belt that no doubt kept the leggings from slipping, hung a smallish Roman sword, decorative, but not useful. The closed-toed sandals on his feet tapped nervously on the wooden floor, and I was aware that was what had probably stirred me from my slumber, in which I had dreamt of running horses and the land of my birth.

The youth glanced at me, and seeing that I was awake smiled gently.   I did not return it, but neither did I frown or glare, only kept my features blank.  He put his scroll down, adjusted the sword at his belt, then stood and padded quietly to me.   He seemed not to fear me, though surely he had been told what I was and could possibly be dangerous and I found myself liking him.  He took the liberty of seating himself on the edge of my bed and reached for the cup of water on a small bench beside my head.  I pulled myself up a little, as I was very weak and my wounds too fresh to really make movement possible.  I was naked beneath the light blanket that covered me, and it was my chest I most conscious of.  I reached slowly for the vessel with my arm that had not almost been cleaved.  He watched with frank, curious eyes as I sipped from it.  He was not ogling me because of my gender, but because of my status within my sex.  I wondered if he had ever been so close to a gladiator, let alone a female fighter.  I stared back at him, wondering what parents would be so trusting as to leave him to watch over me.  He took the bronze drinking utensil back when I finished and swept a judgmental gaze over the room.

It was a plain place, but it was clean. The walls were of sun baked clay with no adornment inside or out, save a small window on either side of the door that allowed the soft light of the afternoon sun to filter in and help the cheery blaze of the hearth brighten the tiny room.  Aside from the cot where I lay, the table behind me, and the chair the boy had previously occupied, it was barren.  The floor, made of interlocking wooden slats, was swept free of dirt and debris from the yard.  The scent of plants used to medicate the deep cuts that laced my body still hung in the air.

"Not very big, is it?"  He was looking to me, again.  I shook my head.  He smiled, pleased that I understood the Roman tongue.   He glanced at the cup in his hand, then beyond me to the table.   "Are you hungry?"

I was famished, and painfully aware of it when the mere mention of the opportunity to diminish the ache triggered the voices in my stomach; they woke and growled in anticipation.  I had no idea how long I had been in this place, other than the healing of those wounds that had not been bound or sewn told me at least two days.  I was sure it had been that long since I had eaten my last meager meal in the prison cells under the coliseum.  It had been little more than a gruel made of thick broth and chunks of meat, I supposed flayed from the carcasses of the animals and perhaps the humans that died above us everyday.  What else would they do with all that waste?  And such was I valued, that I would be subjected to just enough sustenance to keep me strong and healthy, while the man who owned me sat in luxury and ate the most expensive foods, purchased no doubt with the money he made from my matches alone.

"Aye, I could eat."

"Does 'aye' mean 'yes'?"  It was habit for me to mix my people's tongue with that of the Romans.  During my time as a slave, I had met many of my own kind.  Some could no longer remember more than bits and pieces of the Celtic speak, and many were just learning the Roman way of communicating.  As a result, it became a sort of new tongue and was used widely by slaves and fighters.  I spoke it without thinking, forgetting that it would naturally confuse the boy, who had been trained in the proper vernacular.

"Yes."  He got up from his perch at my side and looking over his shoulder, assured me he would not be too long.  He came back with a light meal of apples and dates, and a roasted fowl of some type I did not want to know the species of.  Taboo could be set aside for a while.  I was far too hungry to care and made short work of the food.  After, he resumed his studies and I waited for my meal to carry me back to sleep and dream of screaming, blood-maddened spectators calling for me...

"Boadicea! Boadicea! Boadicea!"  The chant of the crowd, my name thrown at me from the rows of filled seats of the arena, somehow could always inspire me to fight.  But for what? I battled not for the freedom of a nation, not for peace, but for my life and money that should have paid for my release from bondage, though I never saw a single coin of it.  They loved me, those Romans, because I was strong.  I can still hear the echo of the mob as I walked away from my latest triumph, how they begged for me to come back while the clink of money resounded in my last owner's hand as he collected wagers placed on my prowess with arms.   The barely concealed contempt in the eyes of soldiers as they parted to let me pass on my way back to my cell still burns in my mind.   I was a warrior, but I was beneath them.  I was only a woman.

My birth name no longer matters to me.  I have become quite accustomed to the name I bear now, Boudicca, which means 'Victory' in my tongue. It is the name I was given in the arena for the image I conjured of the great queen that caused Rome so much grief in her day.  It fits me.  The gods smiled on me when I was merely a slave, and far away from the place I used to worship them in.  It was a lifetime lived long ago, the killing for sport and bloodlust, but sometimes, I still smell the sand of the battleground and the lifeblood of my opponents and I cry out in my sleep for release.