My first conquest as a gladiator was easy.  They put a girl, wild-eyed and frightened, through the heavy gates opposite where I made my stand.  She was clad in a thin shift, a piece of cloth that barely covered her body, and she was weak from hunger.  She'd been sent in to face an already-seasoned warrior. Judging from the clumsy way she picked up the trident thrown at her feet, she had probably never held so much as a knife in her hand before.  When she finally got the courage to look at me, I saw death already dulling the light in her eyes.  She was a house girl, no doubt she had the misfortune of displeasing her mistress in some way; there were none of the calluses from hard physical labor to mark her hands or knees, and her skin had not seen the sun.   I have always been willing to meet soldiers and warriors in battle and take their lives without thought, but the defeat of that girl still saddens me.  I made her passage into the Otherworld a swift one, sending a prayer to Cernunnos to look after her there.  The blood from the cut in her throat stained the colorless tunic she wore, and soaked the ground around her crumpled form.  No one screamed for me that day.

The man who owned me gripped my arm and slapped my face hard as I strode by him to take my place among the other slaves.  "You could have made a show of it," he hissed in my ear.  I stopped in mid-step and gazed into his dark little eyes that reminded me of the first boar I killed, pools of black emptiness, so small as to hardly be worth the look.  He was fortunate to be surrounded by guards; I could have killed him easily.   He made sure I was always bound inside the gates when I left the crowd.

"She was no warrior.  She was a child.  Next time, give me an opponent worth playing with."  He took my advice.  My next adversary was far more worthy of the games.

It was scarcely a week later when I fought again.  In the time since the first match, I had watched my fellows win and lose and several died.  It is never easy; the anticipation of the next battle, the uncertainty of whether you will live or lose your life and the hope you will meet your gods bravely.  I whiled away the days, mocking fights with the other gladiators and holding conversations with Epona, the goddess mother of horses.  It had been two or three years since last I sat a horse and I was starting to lose count of the days as they blended into one another.  I knew she still remembered me- she whispered in the voices of her chosen creatures when I passed them in their stalls.  Scota came to me in those first days of my life as a combatant, in dreams of war and weapons, peace and healing, promising to protect and guide me in the games until she had need of me elsewhere.

My people are superstitious, so I took the low-hanging, heavy gray clouds over Rome as an omen.  For good or bad I could not say, so I was very cautious when I entered the field.  She came out, at the same moment I did, and for a split-second, I stared in awe of her.  I had seen people from the land called Africa, so dark as almost indistinguishable from night, but one that tall I would never have imagined before I laid eyes on her.  Many men I have known were head and shoulders above the average person, but this woman would have dwarfed them.  I am not short, but I felt tiny, like the girl I had killed the week before. Except I was not afraid, and I made my way to the other fighter and she came to me.

She wore nothing but a shield and helm and carried a great sword.  I supposed from the length and breadth of it, it was made in the north, perhaps by the Germans or the people even farther away that have no name.  My uncle had owned one like it and was quite proud of it.  I saw him cleave a man in half, from the top of his head to the part of his legs with it once.  Silently reminding the war goddess of her troth to me, I prepared to meet the onslaught.

I barely had time to notice the crunch of sand under my shoes before she rushed at me, bringing the great weapon crashing down upon the shield of bronze that I raised in defense.  The force of her blow sent me reeling backwards, and I almost tumbled into her next drive.  She was very fast and I skipped out of her reach, gathering my wits about me, searching for a weakness.  She seemed to have none, save her nakedness.  The shield she bore was kept tight to her body, and she had a long reach with her weapon.  Fortunately, that did work to my advantage.

The swords my people made were long and broad, akin to the one my opponent held.  Their main function was to slash and cut in a sweeping arc.  Weapons good for beheading or separating limbs from the body, but not much else.  The Romans, always borrowing the better ideas of their conquests and improving on them, shortened the blade, making a thrusting, stabbing instrument of it instead, perfect for close-quarters fighting.  It gave them an edge over Celts in battle, allowing a soldier to wedge his sword under the shield into the belly of the other person or elsewhere.

Thus was I able to defeat the large woman.   I rushed at her, ducking and barely escaping the slash aimed at my head, feeling it glance off my own helm, briefly stunning me.  I kept on, though, driving through to my chosen spot.  At short range, she was nearly useless.   She did manage to shove me away with her shield, but I came on again, thrusting the short Roman blade into her ribcage.    She stumbled, gawking at the blood I drew, then charged me.  I spun away and the crowd cheered as her weapon dragged across my back, opening a large red line of blood that streamed over my skin in thick rivulets, spattering the ground with the motion of my turn.  Hers was streaming down her side and leg, and I wondered if perhaps I had struck her liver.  I could not waste time guessing; I plowed into her again, this time truly aiming for her organs.  I stabbed and cut open her belly and the warmth of her life washed over my arm, completely covering my sword in crimson death.  She dropped at my feet, and the spectators roared in appreciation.  I felt nothing as I left- no sense of triumph, no relief that it was not my corpse out there, waiting to be thrown on the pile of the day's kills- just emptiness.  I had not been named yet, but they begged for more from me.  I just wanted to have the long wound on my back sewn, fill my stomach, and find a quiet place to commune with my gods.

I wonder sometimes what her name was and how she came to be there.  It was such a waste of a fine warrior.  If I see her someday, when I make my way to the Otherworld, I will tell her I am sorry.  I do not enjoy the taking of life.  I am a giver of it.

My third match brought me the honor of being named.  As a child, I grew up learning the tale of Queen Boudicca of the Iceni and her valiant effort to rid our land of the Roman army.  I know that so-called historians (the conqueror gets to write the story from its point of view) call her a butcher and scourge, my people call her 'hero.'   I remember wanting to be like her as I grew to warrior status.  When I played with my childhood friends, I would take the part of her and we reconstructed the battle between Boudicca and the Roman general Seutonius Paulinus over and over.

There was a garrison of Roman soldiers stationed close by that watched our play with some interest (I always assumed they were bored, as my father never put up much resistance to their presence), and they would make wagers on who would win.  If the 'Romans' won, that side made up largely of my uncle's ever-growing tribe of offspring, they would make presents of the money they bet and give little parades for them.  If the Celts won, my troops consisting of my younger sister, several friends, and myself, the soldiers pretended to be our slaves and would do such things as groom our ponies and care for our toy weapons.   It was great fun, and I harbored no resentment then.   I knew a sense of pride simply because of the fact I am a Celt.

My father was the chief of our small clan, though it was common knowledge that my mother often had a hand in his decisions.  He was a kind, generous man and much liked, but abhorred war.  He was not afraid to fight; he just sought more peaceful means to a solution when trouble arose.  He was happier hunting or soaking up the sun's rays while entertaining guests.  I would not say he was simple, but he certainly lacked ambition.  I did love my father, even when he made bad errors in judgment.  He was easy to forgive.  From him, I inherited my height, my hair and eye color, and my claim to chief. 

My mother was truly most influential in my young life.  She was a Druid of the professional class, and when I was not running wild with my friends, I was with her, deep in the forests behind the village, learning the names and properties of plants and flowers that would heal and those that kill.  I learned how to properly turn an unborn babe so that its head came out first, and how to judge omens in the patterns of the weather and the behavior of animals.  From as far back as I can remember, I could relate word for hard-memorized word the legends that had passed from the earliest of our ancestors as they made their way from the frozen tundra of a land far east to the distant shores of Eire.  It was my mother who taught me to fight as well, spending almost as many hours instructing me in the use of weapons, the training of war horses, and ways to outwit my enemies as she did preparing me to sustain life.  The irony of that is never lost on me.

I thought of her often as I prepared for battle.  The last image I have of her is that she stood tall and proud against two soldiers, making short work of one, slicing him open backhanded as the other removed her head from her body.  I can still see her blink in surprise when she realized that she was no longer whole.  From my hiding place in the undergrowth beyond I watched her killer heft her head, blood draining from it and matting her hair, then slam it onto a pike.  I stuffed my cloak into my mouth to keep from screaming.   It was that day I began to hate Rome.

Strange, how my life has been a product of a land foreign to me.  As a child, it seemed natural that it should be in my world, as we were allowed to go on about our lives unmolested by the garrison that occupied space with us.  As I grew, however, and began to understand the shift of leaders and how government changes, thus fostering uncertainty, I learned that peace and contentment are only as true as the one who grants them.  My twelfth winter saw that change for a very long time.  That year, Ulpius Marcellus came to govern Britannia and put down the trouble with the northern tribes. 

All these things, a jumbled mass of memory and inspiration to fight, flooded my brain as I waited once again for another enemy to charge at me from the opposite end of the amphitheater. 

It was Romans I was entertaining, a Roman owned me, and here, there were Romans to fight on occasion.  The squat little man at the other side, in the box where the senators sat, began to announce the game.  His voice boomed over the crowd and could probably be heard far below.   He announced the two men that faced me, then paused for dramatic effect and called for me.  "The licineaum of Aelius Pontius brings you...Boadicea!"  The mob erupted in screams of approval when I entered the field, the sun glinting off the bronze horned helm given me that morning by the Master-of-Arms.  The only other thing I wore was a tunic of chain mail that was already absorbing the heat of the afternoon sun.  I carried a long sword and shield, and I thought momentarily of the woman I had defeated the week before.  The wound across my back was still stitched and ached.

It was obvious neither of these men thought much of my skills if they were even aware I had any.  From the look in the eyes of the larger of the two, I understood I must kill them both quickly or I would be a spectacle of another sort if they bested me.  A public rape was not how I wanted to finish my day.  It was degrading enough done in the privacy of a dark dungeon, but in broad afternoon light and with thousands of spectators looking on, I would not allow it.  It is not that I thought I could not live through the shame, but I had pride, and feeding the lust of the crowd with death was more than I cared to give them as it was.

Remembering a trick I learned as a child in the games I had played then, I waited for them to approach, mock fear in my eyes.  Licking his lips and eyeing my barely covered state, the big man was first to me.  The other was more than willing to wait as a vulture for his companion to overpower me and get his share of the spoils after.

From all appearances I was outnumbered and therefore, at a disadvantage.  But I was smarter and faster.  This man was overly confident and not paying attention to what I was about.  At the moment he was upon me, I dodged the blow from the heavy-headed iron club he swung in my direction.  As I turned out of the way, I swung my sword in a backhanded arc and grazed his arm.  He yelled savagely, drowning out the cheering crowd, and blundered after me.  He was not very graceful, either.  I attributed that to his brute size and the cumbersome helmet and bits of armor he wore and the unwieldy club that was his weapon of choice.  I was at his back very quickly, the blade of my sword slashing through folds of muscle and fat at his midsection into his spinal cord and kidneys.  I stepped over his carcass toward the smaller man that stared at his now-lifeless companion.   He did not even try to get away from me and I dispatched his head from his shoulders, never knowing what he looked like, as his face was shielded from view by the heavy visor he wore.   So much for that.

How the crowd called for me that day.  I acknowledged their flowers and shouts thrown to me from the stands with a raising of my sword and shield, then ducked into the cool darkness of the runway.  I could rest and eat.  My owner did not bother me as I was chained and led away; he was far too busy collecting wagers to notice.  I walked proudly to my cell, and others who shared my way of life praised me as I passed.  It had been a quick, pointless fight, but it was better than other fates I supposed.

My cellmate, a Greek woman named Cynthe, roused me from slumber.  I was in the habit of sleeping soon after a match or when I was very nervous.  The problem developed after the death of my mother, and the healers had never discovered the cause or a treatment of it.  One Druid teased me that perhaps the Egyptian cat gods watched over me, as I slept often, like the animals the people of the Nile revere.  Groggily, I looked where she pointed at the barred wall that formed the front of room we shared.  A man, taller than most Romans and dressed in a general's armor, the silver wolf of Rome emblazoned on the cuirass, spoke quietly with one of the guards.  He looked in my direction from time to time, and I became apprehensive.

It was not unusual for soldiers and wealthy men to pay for the services of some of the female gladiators.  I knew that rich women too enjoyed the carnal pleasure of the males.  It was another sport; a way to demean what was already a bleak existence for other human beings.  The man glanced at me one more time and nodded at the sentry. I could not make out their conversation, but I understood he was asking questions about me.  I forced myself to become alert and stood, staring him down in a dare.

His answer was an unwavering gaze that sought out my soul and assessed me in a way that no one ever had.   Blue-green eyes, like the sea I had glimpsed from my first master's home in Corinth, did not judge or discriminate, but beheld me kindly and knowingly.  He turned away, footsteps crunching down the long hall toward the exit of the prison.  I motioned the watchman over and he obliged me, leaning conspiratorially against the iron bars.

"Yes, my lady?"  He called me that.  He might be in the service of a man we both despised, but cultural ties are strong among the Gauls and Celts.  He was aware of my rank as a Druid and a chief and treated me with respect and kindness.   He would often sneak food to me in my cell, especially when I was being punished with hunger.

"Who was that?"

"He left me no name."

"He is a general of the Roman army."

"Yes.  Some say he used to be a gladiator, himself. He comes down to watch, sometimes."

"Do you believe that?"  I found it difficult to imagine.  It was a disgrace for individuals serving in the army or members of aristocracy to take part in the games.  This man, from what little I had seen of him was proud and certainly a soldier.   If indeed he had been a fighter in the ring, he must have done something very special and honorable to attain the place he was in now.

My friend the guard broke into my thoughts. "I never know what to believe, here.  Perhaps, maybe not.  Who can say?  In a few years, even I might have been a gladiator."  We both grinned over that.  He guarded the women's quarters because he preferred the relative quiet and less threatening nature of our gender.

I gave the inquisitive general no more thought as the days came and went and my battles became ever harder and more bizarre.