Gladiatrix

XI

The brief conversation with Catuvolcos stayed with Lysandra over the next days. Again she wondered why the trainer was concerning himself with her. Certainly, there were other women more in need of his guidance. This became even more evident when the trainers had them begin sparring sessions.

Weeks of hitting sacks and straw mannequins was one thing, but putting the lessons into practice against a living opponent was a somewhat different matter. For her part, Lysandra found her mind not really on the task at hand, hating the mockery of herself that she had become. Her opponents were trying hard, but their attacks were slow and clumsy to her experienced eye and she was able to dispatch them with a ‘killing’ strike almost at will. Long years in the agoge had taught her body to respond, even if her heart was not in it. Hildreth too, she saw, was cutting a swathe through all set against her. The German was evidently enjoying herself, whooping and shouting with each victory.

In the midst of one of Hildreth’s celebrations, Titus gave the order to cease work. The women stopped, confused. It was nowhere near the noon break and they had only just begun to work up a sweat. Even the veterans had stopped their training and were making their way over to the novices’ area. They sat on the ground, watching as some of Greta’s women brought up some chairs and several long benches. More of the scrubs, including Varia, were marking out a ring in the sand with ropes — Lysandra estimated it was about twenty feet in diameter.

She saw the little slave pause in her work to wave at her, and she inclined her head in greeting. They had seen and spoken to each other often during the second period of the training and the child had come to regard Lysandra as a confidante of sorts.

If she was honest with herself, Lysandra enjoyed the girl’s company too, as it was a diversion from her own thoughts.

‘Today will be different,’ Titus shouted. ‘Today you will fight for the crowd.’ He indicated the veterans. ‘And you will be judged.’ Even as he said this, Lucius Balbus, approached with Eros, his catamite. The lanista sat on one of the chairs and Titus continued.

‘You are fighting for more than practice from now on,’ he said.

‘You are fighting to stay in this ludus.’ The women gasped. This was unexpected. They had had no time to prepare themselves for this test.

‘Those of you that perform well in this arena,’ he gestured to the roped area that Varia and her fellows had marked out, ‘will stay and take the Oath. Those of you that slacken will be gone.

We are looking for effort,’ he went on. ‘Fight well and, even in defeat, you may be spared.’ He thrust his fist towards his chest.

‘That is the sign for the missio, meaning you will have survived.

This,’ he thrust the fist out, his thumb held horizontally, ‘in the arena would mean death. Here, it means you are to go to the blocks. In defeat, to entreat mercy, you turn to the lanista and hold up your finger. It is his decision if you go or stay. He may be influenced by the veterans if they think you will be worthy to take the Oath. That is all. First to fight will be Decia and Sunia.’ The two women looked at each other, stunned by this pronouncement. ‘Next will be Thebe and Galatia. Stay warm,’ he advised them.

On stiff legs, the first chosen stepped up. Nastasen placed helmets upon their heads and moved away.

‘Begin!’ Titus’s voice was sharp. The women moved together, and the cheering started.

Lucius Balbus settled comfortably into his seat, and took a sip of wine from his goblet. Eros stood behind him, holding a shade over his head to shield him from the sun. Balbus always enjoyed these contests: it was good to see first hand which of his acquisitions were worth keeping and which were a bad investment.

Experience had taught him that giving the women time to prepare for these bouts was detrimental to their performance. It was better to thrust the news upon them before they had time to dwell on it and allow nerves to set in.

The first two combatants had begun awkwardly enough but, roared on first by the veterans and then their fellow novices, they laid into each other with gusto. Their high-pitched cries of effort punctuated the air, mixed with the clacking of their wooden blades as the two attacked and countered. After a furious flurry of blows, Sunia struck home with a vicious thrust to Decia’s sternum, knocking the wind from her. She fell back, tearing the helmet from her head, gasping for breath. Balbus had already made up his mind: the two had fought well and, as soon as the girl’s finger went up, he signalled the missio.

The watchers cheered and the next two women made their way the fighting area.

Lysandra watched the combats with a sick feeling of dread welling up inside her. Now, it became apparent why she and Hildreth had not been paired together before. The trainers had planned it all along. They had kept them back, knowing that they were the superior warriors amongst the novices.

Despite the heat of the day, Lysandra felt a cold sweat break out on her brow. Her stomach churned and, on inspection, she found her hands shaking. It was one matter to defeat those who had never held a sword before setting foot in the ludus; but a blooded killer like Hildreth was a different proposition entirely.

Her spat with Sorina had proved that all her training was nothing compared to the hard-won savvy of a battle-tested warrior. Her own desperate struggle with Stick’s men on the beach, and the subsequent bout in the arena of Halicarnassus was the only real experience she had. It was nothing compared to the years Hildreth had spent battling the Romans on the borders of her savage homeland.

At least, she thought, she would go down to a foe who would finish her quickly. From then, it would be up to the Fates where she ended up. She glanced about, her eyes seeking Hildreth in the throng of novices. The German was looking directly at her, her eyes alive and sparkling. She too had guessed they would be paired against one another. Her fierce smile told Lysandra that she was relishing the opportunity to test herself. She looked away quickly, unwilling to hold her gaze, and instead let it fall on those women who Balbus had already singled out for the blocks. Soon, she knew, she would be among them.

The day wore on and the novices fought with a passion that overcame their inexperience. Lysandra realised that, for all their loathing of slavery, many of them believed what Titus had told them to be true. To live and fight for freedom was preferable to an existence that held no hope of such. For them, perhaps it was acceptable, for the sword and shield were new to them. They had not disgraced themselves or their ancestors the way she had done.

The girl next to her nudged her and she glanced up once more to see Titus looking at her expectantly. ‘You and Hildreth are to fight next,’ the girl told her. ‘You’d better get your kit.’

Balbus rubbed his hands together as Lysandra took her place on the fighting area. He had wanted to see more of his prized new slave in her training but administrative matters had kept him busy of late. She was, he thought, a fascinating creature. Eros, at his behest, had gone through the library, searching for any histories of the strange sisterhood of which the girl claimed to have been a member but there had been nothing. It all added to her mystery.

And then there was the German, Hildreth. A handful, he had been advised, but then she was one of those warrior women that so terrified the legions on the frontiers. The forthcoming contest promised to be of excellent quality.

At Titus’s barked command, the duel began.

Hildreth exploded into action, leaping to the attack, her wooden blade hammering into the Spartan’s shield. Lysandra backed off under the assault, occasionally hitting back with a strike of her own, but Hildreth was relentless. The German ploughed onwards, giving her foe no respite; the watchers roared her on, screaming for the quick kill.

The women’s shields crunched together and Hildreth lifted her sword, thrusting over the top of Lysandra’s scutum, catching the taller woman on the shoulder.

‘Just a wound!’ bellowed Titus. ‘Continue!’

Hildreth backed off, catching her breath, and Balbus leant forwards in his seat. He had seen Lysandra in the arena and knew she liked to let her foe tire before she herself took the initiative.

But no such attack came, the two merely circled each other warily, each moment that passed lending Hildreth more confidence.

Balbus flinched as one of Greta’s young scrubs screeched high-pitched support for Lysandra. He cast an annoyed glance at her, but she did not seem to notice. Hers was a lone voice, he realised; all the cheers were for Hildreth. Urged on by the crowd, Hildreth yelled and attacked once again, bearing down mercilessly on her foe.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ Balbus asked Nastasen.

The big Nubian raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s not as good as Stick said,’ he declared, glancing apologetically at the Parthian who was seated next to Catuvolcos behind the lanista. ‘Sorry, but she’s nothing special. And there’s the proof.’

‘She’s sick today,’ Catuvolcos cut in. ‘Running a fever.’

‘She looked well enough this morning,’ Nastasen said with a wolfish grin. ‘I don’t think she’s good enough. All talk and little return. I recommend the blocks for that one.’

‘You know nothing,’ Catuvolcos spat. Balbus raised a hand abruptly, cutting the argument short, and returned his attention to the contest.

She was too fast. Hildreth was too fast. Lysandra found she could not breathe properly in the oppressive, full-faced helm. Her chest heaved and sweat ran into her eyes continually, blinding her. It was all she could do to raise her shield and deflect the lightning-quick strikes of the German. She tried to dig deep, to retaliate, but it was useless: all her attacks were battered contemptuously aside, giving her no respite. The German was too good and Lysandra could feel herself tiring swiftly.

She saw the strike coming but could not defend against it.

Hildreth’s sword crashed into the side of her helmet and Lysandra’s vision was filled with a bright, white light. She felt herself stagger and tried to raise her shield but she was hit again.

Lysandra blinked and pain exploded through her, as Hildreth rammed her sword into her abdomen. She doubled over, bile rushing to her throat. The wooden rudis fell from her hand, the sound of it hitting the ground strangely loud in her ears. There was sharp pain at the back of her head and the world tilted crazily before turning to black.

Balbus’s mouth was agape. The Spartan lay prostrate on the ground before her triumphantly screaming foe.

‘ Habet, lanista,’ Nastasen said. ‘She’s had it.’

This could not be. Balbus himself had seen the woman in combat and knew her worth. This was not the same gladiatrix that had so consummately dispatched her foe in Halicarnassus.

She was a shadow of that, her movements stiff and disjointed, her attacks feeble.

He felt a clutching at his calf, and looked down to see the child slave that had been screaming for Lysandra. She was on her knees before him.

‘Master, please.’ The girl’s eyes were full of tears, her voice anguished. ‘ Missio, I beg of you. She is the best, I swear it.’

‘Get off my foot.’ Balbus shook his leg as one would to dislodge an over-affectionate dog. The girl released him but would not relent. ‘Master, spare her!’ She was cut off as Stick leapt up from his bench and clouted her around the head.

‘Get away, Varia.’ He kicked her in the rear, sending the little slave sprawling.

Titus approached, shaking his head, his lips tight.

‘Well, Titus,’ Balbus demanded archly. ‘How do you explain that?’ He pointed furiously to the unmoving Spartan. ‘Your training methods have blunted this girl.’

Titus flinched, his eyes narrowing at this maligning of his skills.

It was Nastasen who had beaten the girl, but he was the head trainer, and thus ultimate responsibility for a fighter’s performance lay with him. Yet he knew that the Spartan’s failure had little to do with the Nubian’s bullying. It went deeper. ‘ Lanista,’ he said respectfully. ‘Something has changed the girl. I cannot say what.

I know she has it in her to make good, but she has lost her fire.’

‘She was lucky that first time,’ Nastasen said. ‘Look at her now.

Lose her,’ he advised Balbus. ‘She’s damaged goods. Anyone can see that she doesn’t have it in her.’

Balbus felt the eyes of all upon him, awaiting his decision. On this showing, she should go. Could he have been wrong about her? After all, anyone could be lucky in the arena. Many times he himself had seen a superior fighter taken down through sheer bad luck. Perhaps it had been so with Lysandra’s first opponent.

Perhaps her poor performance had flattered the Spartan too much. He raised his arm, ready to deliver his final judgement.

‘She feels the gods have abandoned her,’ Catuvolcos said quietly.

Balbus paused, recalling his first conversation with Lysandra.

She was rather straightforward and unimaginative in her manner, he thought. Perhaps a crisis of faith might cause this display. He weighed up her performance in the arena against what he had just seen. Could he afford to lose her?

‘One last chance,’ he said quietly, and thrust his fist towards himself, indicating the sheathing of a sword. ‘ Missio!’

He got to his feet and whirled away. He was aware of an angry muttering amongst both the veterans and the novices. He realised it would not be seen as fair to free one who had performed so poorly and yet send more worthy fighters to the blocks. To show favouritism could cause havoc in the ludus if the women thought one of their number was receiving good treatment that they had not earned. He glanced at the women already condemned, who looked on sullenly. Some of them were no-hopers, extra mouths to feed, and that meant more overheads. But he had made his own bed. He turned back.

‘I understand from Catuvolcos that there is an illness amongst the novices,’ he called loudly, causing the hubbub to quieten instantly. ‘I was unaware of such before the day’s contests. This might be a reason for your pathetic displays today. However, I am not an unreasonable man.’ He glared at the women, silencing any contradiction. ‘I shall not be so lenient again.’ He raised his arm to the condemned. ‘ Missio!’ he said.

A cheer erupted from all the women, veterans and novices both. As one they rose to their feet, whooping and shouting, for none enjoyed the sight of those they had come to know being expelled from the ludus. As he walked away, they began to chant his name, showing their appreciation of his clemency.

He jerked his head in Lysandra’s direction. ‘Have her taken to the infirmary.’