Tome: Gladiatrix

Russell Whitfield’s debut novel, Gladiatrix, is Chick Lit at its finest….if your idea of fine Chick Lit is a book teeming with finely toned, nubile females who are frequently nude and hack huge chunks of flesh out of one another, when they’re not enjoying carnal knowledge of the same.
Gladiatrix begins the way all good blood soaked medieval epics should; with a scene of brutal combat.
Spartan Lysandra strides alone, walking “through the darkness of the passageway towards the sun-filled amphitheatre”
“The roar of the crowd was a living thing as it assaulted her and she staggered beneath its violent intensity. Row upon row of the screaming mob surrounded her, the amphitheatre stuffed full, as if it were a massive god gorging upon base humanity. Her vision swam as she registered innumerable faces, twisted and distorted , their mouths wide open with howls of lust and anticipation. “
It’s in this charged atmosphere that Lysandra mets her opponent, a stocky Gaul, whom she dispatches with consummate ease in one of many thrilling scenes of gladiatorial combat Whitfield brings to life, with rapier sharp prose and a connoisseur’s eye for action.
In the 1st century AD, during the reign of the Emperor Domitian over the vast Roman Empire, the hunger and demand for gladiatorial combats was huge, and the Emperor’s own need for novelty in the arena had given rise to the Gladiatrix, female gladiators.It’s the sort of climate where Lucius Balbus, “supplier of novelty acts for the great and frequent games of the province- the only lanista (manager) who specialized in the training of women for gladiatorial combat”, thrives.
Into his ludus (gladiator school), comprised solely of female performers, Lysandra, sole survivor of a shipwreck is brought, to further hone her already formidable fighting skills.
But the melting pot of the ludus, where women of various tribes and races, each openly distrustful of the other are thrown together, soon bubble over with tension as Lysandra ‘s haughty and arrogant demeanor puts her on a collision course with Amazonian Sorina, Gladiatrix Prima of the ludus and the Nubian Nastasen, a powerful and sadistic trainer, who like most men who are intimidated by strong women, seeks to humiliate her sexually, as well as physically and psychologically.
Whitfield’s major achievement is in engendering empathy on the part of the reader for his heroine, given that Lysandra is an insufferable snob.
Of proud Spartan stock, and a temple priestess to boot, schooled and skilled in the brutal regiment of Spartan combat training, Lysandra’s derision for her fellow gladiatrices, of various Celtic, Germanic and Britannic tribes whom she lumps under the all purpose slur of “barbarians”, is matched only by her unwavering belief in her own lethal fighting prowess.
But her shattered pride at the realization that she is now someone’s chattel, to be honed and trained to provide entertainment for a baying mob, her gradual coming to terms with her plight coupled with some fairly monstrous obstacles put in her way by the scheming Sorina and the brutal Nastasen, slowly but surely endear her to the reader.
Beside, like the best heroes, Lysandra triumphs over her adversaries with faith, determination and fearsome martial skills.
Whitfield sets a crackling pace, zipping the plot along in between vividly described fight scenes, with sexual tension ( handsome trainer Catuvolcos wants to sheathe his “sword” in Lysandra’s Spartan “scabbard” but her self pleasuring sessions at night are stoked not by fantasies of the muscular Gaul, but of Eirianwen, the blonde and beautiful Gladiatrix Secunda ) and vicious rivalry ( Sorina’s growing hatred for Lysandra reaches fever pitch fury when Eirianwen, a member of her own tribe falls for the lanky Spartan).
There’s an interesting idea bubbling beneath the viscera of shattered bones, spilt guts, and dismembered limbs, that slaves though they may be, the women in the ludus still enjoy a far greater degree of freedom as trained fighters compared to their restrictive roles as daughters and wives, especially in the claustrophobically patriarchal Roman Society.
But such musings are hardly germane to the tone of the book which is first and foremost, an action epic that has you turning the pages so fast, you risk getting paper cuts on your fingers as the plot hurtles relentlessly towards the climactic showdown between Sorina and Lysandra .
And when it comes it’s a tour de force in armed combat description, the fight vividly unfolding in your imagination, as blades meet, strikes are countered and two skilled combatants pirouette in a dance of death.
It’s the sheer velocity of the narrative that help you overlook the linearity of a plot that holds little or no surprises, the broad strokes in which villains like Sorrina and Nastasen are sketched with nary a tinge of grey to give them depth and an ending which screams “sequel”. But given the thrill ride Whitfield takes you on, you’ll have no trouble signing on for “Gladiatrix 2”.
This book contains action aplenty, buckets of gore, copious amounts of female nudity and hefty helpings of Girl On Girl action ( both the vertical and horizontal variety).
What’s not to like?