Gladiatrix

XV

The sun was warm on Lysandra’s face as she stepped out of the infirmary. The very morning after her conversation with the Athenian priest, Quintus had given her leave to return to her training. This was, she knew, further evidence that Telemachus’s words had been heavy with truth.

She had cursed herself for a fool after he had left her to her thoughts. How could she have been so blind? It was all so obvious after the Athenian had cut through the fog of her melancholy.

She did indeed feel ashamed of herself for acting in such a pitiful manner, but that was past and there was no changing it. The future was a path not yet set and she now knew that the goddess had given her an opportunity to truly test herself and win honour for them both.

After a speedy visit to the bathhouse, Lysandra made her way to the kitchens to join the others for the morning meal. As she approached, the women around her fell silent until they considered her out of earshot; then they tittered and were probably making barbed comments about her. She felt her face flush, knowing that it was her own inept performance that afforded these inferiors licence to behave so.

But the mocking of Lysandra was not the main topic of conversation that morning. There was much excitement, as the new women were soon to take the Oath. They had, all of them, passed their tests and could now be considered gladiatrices proper — though the ultimate challenge would come on the sands, Lysandra knew.

Of course, the training routine had not ceased in the three days she had been absent and Lysandra found that the women had been split into smaller, more specialised groups after Balbus’s impromptu contest. Instead of merely practising with sword and shield, the novices had been set to work with the various tools of the gladiatorial trade. The larger, bigger-boned barbarians were heavily armed, fighting in the Gallic style, whereas the slighter women were training as the Thraex — the Thracian — clad in only the subligaculum loincloths, their torsos bare. These fighters were armed with nothing other than a sword and small shield. Still others were working with trident and net, the retiaria.

Titus, Stick and Nastasen prowled amongst them, berating and shouting, demanding more skill and speed. In the midst of one such haranguing, Stick noticed Lysandra standing apart, taking in the scene. He approached, shaking his head, his expression disgusted.

‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite invalid,’ he said. ‘Feeling better after our little break, are we?’ His brown, calloused knuckles rapped her on the forehead. ‘Still working, is it?’

Lysandra ignored the jibe. ‘What am I to train with?’

‘After your performance, you should train with Greta and the scrubs. I’m not sure you’re going to be any use to this ludus, Greek.’

Lysandra glared at him. ‘If you are going to refer to me in that manner, please address me as Hellene, for that is my nation, or Spartan. That is what I am,’ she said imperiously.

‘I don’t give a shit,’ Stick responded. He looked her up and down. ‘You’re a tall streak, but there’s no meat on your bones. I reckon you won’t be able to handle the heavy gear.’ He jerked his thumb at the women fighting as secutorixes.

‘That is absurd,’ she retorted. ‘I am well used to long hours in armour heavier than that.’ It was true; the secutorix kit afforded the women more protection than most, but the panoply covered only the arms and legs. There was nothing to protect the torso; this would, after all, defeat the object of the games, which was to slake the mob’s thirst for blood.

Stick jabbed her in the stomach with the vine staff, just hard enough to make her step back. ‘I was thinking aloud, not asking you for your views on the subject, slave. If you want a beating to put you back in the infirmary, just carry on giving me your opinion.’

Lysandra glowered at the insolent little savage, but remained silent, refusing to give him an excuse to hit her.

‘ Thraex, I think,’ Stick said after a moment’s more consideration. ‘You’re fast, Spartan, but I think you are not yet ready to train as the dimachaera: that is for proven fighters, and that time in Halicarnassus you were merely lucky.’ He gave her his tooth-iest grin. ‘So let’s get you into a subligaculum and see those little titties jiggle.’

‘I am not ashamed of my body,’ Lysandra sneered. ‘I find it quite pitiable that you seek your sordid self-gratification in such a manner.’

Stick’s eyes bulged and he raised the vine staff, swinging it across towards her shoulder. Lysandra reacted on instinct, stepping to one side and intercepted his forearm with her own. She twisted her wrist and gripped, pulling his arm down, dragging him towards her. ‘There is no need for that, Stick,’ she said, her voice calm. She released him and stepped away. Lysandra could see a range of emotions flicker across the trainer’s face as he decided whether he was going to take issue with her insubordination. He glanced around but satisfied himself that none had seen their exchange.

‘Just get into a subligaculum, and get to work with the others,’ he grunted.

‘Certainly.’ She smiled slightly and stalked off, feeling rather pleased with herself.

Stick put Lysandra to work with Thebe, the Hellene girl who had performed first in Balbus’s recent trials. Much shorter than the Spartan, she was slightly built, but the months of training in the ludus had hardened her body and the evidence of her strength was etched on her naked torso.

‘Just take it slowly at first,’ Stick instructed Lysandra. ‘Get used to the parmula.’ He referred to the small buckler that offered a Thracian gladiatrix her only protection. ‘The important thing is not to wave it about. It’s not a fan. Keep it close to your body and deflect attacks — don’t try to swat them out of the way.’ Stick pantomimed waving his arm away from his body. ‘You see. If you do, you leave yourself wide open and you’ll get skewered.’

Lysandra nodded and turned her attention to the somewhat diminutive Thebe. She stretched her neck from left to right and spun her wooden sword twice in her hand, making it hiss as it cut the air. Stick shouted at her for showing off and ordered them to be about their work.

Thebe advanced confidently, her expression leaving Lysandra in no doubt that she was being held in contempt. After all, Thebe had won her bout whilst she herself had been dispatched with ease by Hildreth. That, she thought to herself, was the way of the lesser Hellenes — they were all so damned arrogant.

As instructed, Thebe struck out lightly with her rudis, letting Lysandra become accustomed to the small, Thracian shield. Stick was quite correct: the parmula would take some getting used to.

It felt extremely odd, and the natural instinct was to fend off attacks long before they came into range. However, Lysandra felt indeed fortunate that she had been trained to ignore instinct and observe the disciplines of combat.

After a few exploratory exchanges, she nodded at Thebe to pick up the pace. The slight Hellene responded, changing her angles of attack and breaking up their rhythm. It came to Lysandra as they sparred that her pankration skills could be applied to wielding the parmula. If she treated it as an extension of her hand, rather than a shield proper, then she could block and parry as she would in unarmed combat.

‘Come at me,’ Lysandra encouraged her smaller opponent. ‘At full speed.’

Thebe stepped back, however, and lowered her guard. She turned to Stick. ‘I don’t think she’s ready for this. She could get hurt. Stick, you saw how she fought the other day. She is the only one yet who has ended up in the infirmary.’

Lysandra fumed. If Thebe thought that a few months of training could eclipse a lifetime’s worth, then she was sorely mistaken. She was about to explain matters to the girl but Stick spoke to Thebe first.

‘Just let her have it,’ he suggested.

Thebe shrugged and raised her guard once again. For a moment she was still; then she attacked. Lysandra did not step back as the Hellene girl moved in. Rather she twisted her hips and her feet followed, causing her body to angle away from Thebe’s sword.

The parmula guided the weapon away from Lysandra and she struck home with her own sword, the tip stabbing her opponent painfully on the side of the neck. Thebe dropped to the floor, clutching her hurt.

Lysandra turned to Stick, her eyes alight, her nostrils flared slightly. ‘First rule,’ she quoted Nastasen. ‘You get an instant kill on the red. Always remember, go for the red first, because if you don’t your opponent will.’

‘I’d call it luck,’ Stick said dourly. ‘Let’s see it again.’

This time, Thebe was more cautious, now aware that perhaps she had underestimated her adversary. She feinted, shuffling in and out, seeking an angle of attack. Lysandra merely watched, conserving her energy, her own eyes probing for weaknesses.

Thebe thrust out with her sword but again Lysandra pivoted, bringing her blade down sharply on the other girl’s wrist. Thebe cried out in pain, the rudis falling from her grasp. With a real weapon, Thebe’s hand would have been severed. Lysandra followed up her move by ramming her own sword into her foe’s stomach, doubling her over. Softly she placed the wooden edge to the back of the gasping Thebe’s neck.

‘In the blue you get a cripple,’ she referenced Nastasen again.

‘Second rule. Go for the cripple before the slow kill. Remember, a slow kill might have enough left in her and kill you before she dies. With a cripple, you know you’ve got her.’ She paused and glanced down at Thebe who had sunk to her knees, the wind knocked out of her. ‘As you just saw.’

Stick shook his head. ‘Thebe, can you continue?’

Thebe shook her head, tears streaming down her face as her lungs tried to fill with air. She held up her arm, to reveal an ugly swelling on her wrist. Stick’s expression became disgusted.

‘Broken!’ he exploded. ‘Damn you!’

Lysandra shrugged. ‘It appears that my luck, as you call it, has held out. It would also appear that I am no longer the only one to be sent to the infirmary.’ She felt a sense of vindication. Thebe had learned that it could be painful to question a Spartan priestess’s ability to fight. She had brought her injury upon herself with her boastful words and Lysandra deemed that she should consider herself lucky it was only a broken wrist she had suffered. Insolence was something she was no longer prepared to tolerate. ‘Perhaps I should train with a more experienced fighter,’ she suggested contemptuously.

‘Like Hildreth?’ Stick shot back. ‘You think you can put her down?’

‘I will put down who ever I am matched against, Stick. Have no fear of that.’ She held his gaze, realising that his statement had been designed to test her. By threatening her with a bout against the imposing German, he was gauging if her confidence had truly been restored, for her eyes would give her away if there were any doubt behind them. ‘Well?’ she said after moment’s silence.

Stick looked away, and spat on the ground. ‘No, I don’t think so. Listen to me. You’ll train with the novices, but I warn you.

Any more of this,’ he indicated Thebe who was now on her feet, ‘and I’ll have you crucified. You’ve proven your point.’

‘Very well.’ Lysandra moved away to join the main throng of women, confident that she would impress upon the novices just who was the superior in the ludus.

Lysandra worked herself hard, revelling in her newly discovered resolve. Her opponents were, of course, mediocre, but she could only fight who was put before her. It was all training, she told herself, and substandard opposition allowed her to try out and perfect techniques that could later be used against more competent opposition.

By the day’s end, she had left many of the novices sporting bruised bodies and injured pride. This first day had done much to earn her the respect she deserved, and she determined that the proving would go on until she was satisfied.

‘You trained well today. Really well,’ Thebe commented as the Hellene contingent ate their evening meal. The smaller girl was from Corinth and, though that was some distance from Sparta, she was a Peloponnesian and that gave them a vague kinship.

Thebe had made an effort to find her at the close of the days training, and invite her to share a meal; as it was, Lysandra was pleased to accept. Thebe held up her bandaged wrist ruefully.

‘Stick was wrong, though. It’s not broken, just bruised. And wounding me seems to be the tonic you needed,’ she added with a smile. ‘You’ve come out of your shell.’

Lysandra considered apologising for the injury, but decided against it. Better to leave the impression that she was implacable.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I have found that I have adjusted to life here.

It is not the Spartan way to fail at a task. I had felt hard done by to be here, but we must accept the will of the goddess.’

‘I’m coming around to that way of thinking,’ Thebe agreed.

‘You know, that bastard Titus is right. At the end of the day, this is a better life than most have.’

‘Too right,’ another novice cut in; Lysandra knew her as Danae, an Athenian. ‘I thought at first this would be the end of me. I mean, slavery!’ she laughed aloud. ‘Can you imagine it? But I’ll tell you this: I’m more free here than ever I was in Athens.’

‘How can that be so?’ Lysandra arched a quizzical eyebrow.

Danae chewed thoughtfully before responding. ‘It’s hard for a Spartan to understand,’ she offered. ‘I know that Spartan girls are allowed to walk the streets unescorted, that they own property, and have a voice in affairs.’

‘Of course,’ Lysandra said. ‘That is only right and proper.’

‘It is not so in the rest of Hellas.’ Danae shook her head. ‘I was married when I came of age and my life consisted of the home and pleasing my husband. That was it. It was rare to see Athens. That is a conundrum, is it not?’ she added thoughtfully.

‘We Athenians live in the most beautiful city in the world, yet half its people are rarely allowed out to enjoy it.’

‘So how do you come to be here?’ Lysandra wanted to know.

‘My husband was many years older than I. I was married off to him at the age of twelve in exchange for a dowry — which one could say is a form of slavery in itself. We women are bought and sold for money even in life outside the ludus.’ She paused and her expression became melancholy. ‘Things went well enough at first, but soon he became intolerable.’ She held up her cup.

‘Wine was his master. When he was drunk, he would beat me and do unspeakable things.

‘I bore it from my twelfth year to my eighteenth, but some things are unendurable. He came after a night of dicing and drinking — I think he had lost a purseful of money — and started on me. I fought back for the first time and he fell. Smashed his head open.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘I was convicted of murder and sent to the blocks. One of Balbus’s agents liked the look of me, and here I am,’ she finished.

‘Surely you cannot have been convicted at trial for that,’ Lysandra said. ‘You acted in self-defence.’

‘Trial?’ Danae looked about at the other women’s knowing faces. ‘Where did you get the idea that women are entitled to trial, Lysandra? We have no rights, no say.’

‘It’s true,’ Thebe agreed. ‘This place offers a woman freedom outside of what she can get in normal life. Men run this world, Lysandra, but this ludus exists outside of that. We may be slaves to Balbus, but we do own our lives here. I am coming to understand that now. They might call us slaves but we are free in our hearts.

That is what Titus meant behind all his bluster and his threats.’

‘I’d like a piece of him,’ another woman cut in. ‘And you know what piece I mean.’

Thebe turned, astonished. ‘Titus!’ she exclaimed, laughter in her eyes. ‘Penelope, that’s disgusting. He’s so… old.’

Penelope, a chunky fisher girl from one of the Aegean islands shrugged. ‘I’m drying up in here,’ she complained.

Lysandra flushed, her embarrassment plain on her pale features.

This was certainly not a fit topic for discussion. She was about to turn the conversation to another area but Thebe spoke first.

‘But that Catuvolcos.’ Thebe sighed. ‘Now he looks like he could really go at it.’ She made an obscene gesture. ‘That big chest and those muscular arms. And I reckon there’s a cornu-copia of joy under his subligaculum. A shame he only has eyes for Lysandra though.’ She nudged Danae’s knee under the table with her own.

‘I am sure you are mistaken.’ Lysandra was scandalised at this kind of talk. ‘He took a professional interest in my skills.’

‘He’s taken an interest in sheathing his sword in a Spartan scabbard,’ Danae said, laughing. She put on a high falsetto voice.

‘Lysandra, Lysandra, I love you. Oh, Lysandra…’ Danae moved her bottom on the bench seat, thrusting it back and forth. ‘Ohhh, you are so wonderful, Lysandra, you are so good!’

If Lysandra had flushed before, she was scarlet now. This banter was outrageous. The women at the table fell about themselves laughing, sparing her further taunting. She did not feel anger at the jibes, for they were plainly made in good humour and without malice, but they did underscore the differences between herself and this uncouth band.

They finished their meal in light-hearted spirits and Lysandra had to admit to herself that, whilst she maintained a certain aloofness, she was pleased that she had allowed them to include her in their group. Certainly, these crass, ill-educated souls could only benefit from being in her company. It was not enough that she show them her prowess in fighting; she must also be pre-eminent in all other matters. Teaching them some decent, Spartan manners would certainly be beneficial she decided.

As she bade them good evening to return to her cell, she wondered where they had got the absurd notion that Catuvolcos had some sort of interest in her outside that of her training. She had had advances from men before, but had always shunned them.

It was forbidden for a Spartan priestess to engage in congress with a man.

Lysandra stripped off her tunic and lay on her cot, staring into the blackness. Obscured by the heavy door, she could hear the now familiar sounds of the ludus preparing for slumber: doors slammed shut; women called endearments to each other before sleeping; the guttural male voices of guards and trainers hurried them to their cells. She found herself straining to hear Catuvolcos’s lilting accent among them.

She could not help but bring the Gaul’s face to mind. He was, in his barbaric way, handsome. And, as Thebe had pointed out, very muscular. The way a man should be. Lysandra felt a warmth in her stomach as she thought of him then. Self consciously, she ran a hand over her breasts, trying to imagine it was Catuvolcos touching her. Her nipples hardened at her caress and her skin became hot, tingling with a delicious sensation. Her hand crept guiltily to between her thighs and she began to stroke herself, her mind swimming with images of flesh on flesh. She moaned softly in the dark, biting her lip lest anyone hear her at this iniquitous self-pleasuring. She let her mind drift, swimming in images of desire. But as her passion heightened it was not Catuvolcos she saw. Her climax burst through her with powerful suddenness at this realisation, the chains of her well-learned restraint breaking as wave upon wave of joy flooded through her.

She lay still, her heart pounding. As the glow of her orgasm faded, the image in her mind did not. As she drifted into sleep, the face behind her eyes was Eirianwen’s.