Gladiatrix

XVI

‘Well, well, well,’ Sorina grunted as she and Eirianwen pulled themselves up on the chin bar.

‘What?’ The Briton was trying to blow a sweat-slicked strand of hair from her mouth.

‘The Spartan has woken up.’ Sorina released her grip and dropped to the ground, flexing her wrists and fingers. ‘Look over at the novices.’

‘You’ve made me lose count,’ Eirianwen complained, she too letting go. She tilted her head, her eyes following the Amazon’s gaze. Through the throng she picked out the raven-haired Lysandra sparring with a German novice. Her moves were assured, economical and, Eirianwen noticed, dangerously quick. ‘She’s toying with her,’ she murmured.

‘Aye.’ Sorina nodded. ‘That she is.’ She winced as Lysandra felled her opponent with a vicious strike to the stomach. ‘See that? She fights like a Roman. Rarely swings the blade, stab, stab, always stabbing.’

Eirianwen shrugged. ‘It takes discipline but lacks power. I couldn’t do it. The sword is an art, not…’ She looked at Sorina, gesturing.

‘Science?’ the Amazon finished for her in Latin.

‘Yes.’ Eirianwen smiled. ‘She is good, but she will never understand the spirit of combat. A Roman and Greek trait.’

‘Having a breather, girls?’ Catuvolcos’s voice cut through their conversation.

Sorina glanced at him. ‘We were just admiring Balbus’s pet Spartan.’ She jerked her chin as Lysandra began to assail another German.

‘Lysandra?’ Catuvolcos turned too fast, craning his neck to see across the crowded training area. He flushed when he turned back, noticing the arch gaze of both women upon him. ‘I am glad to see she is on her feet,’ he muttered.

‘Your concern is too keen,’ Eirianwen said. ‘Your eyes betray you.’

Catuvolcos cleared his throat. ‘I don’t like to see a good fighter finished by the head wound. It would have been a waste.’

Eirianwen gave him a meaningful look.

‘Shouldn’t you two be working?’ The big Gaul began to bluster. ‘There is a spectacle coming soon,’ he added. ‘Rather sweat now than bleed later! Come, to the swords with you!’

Sorina moved off, but Eirianwen regarded Catuvolcos, suddenly angered for reasons she could not understand. ‘You should stay away from her!’ she snapped, and followed Sorina.

They made their way to the armoury, Sorina expressing a desire to fight as the heavily armed secutorix. To complement her, Eirianwen chose the net and trident of the retiaria as the two styles were often pitted against each other.

‘What do you think?’ Sorina asked as the Briton assisted her with her armour.

Eirianwen snorted. ‘He’s pining for Lysandra,’ she said. ‘It’s written all over his face.’

‘That’s typical of men,’ Sorina spat. ‘They’re always thinking with their pricks.’

‘I think it might be a little deeper than that as far as he’s concerned,’ Eirianwen muttered.

‘I doubt it. All men are pigs. They only want one thing, and to get it they will run in circles. Once it’s been attained, they revert back into swine. Besides,’ she flexed her arms, testing the tightness of the leather protection Eirianwen had tied in place.

‘The lanista will have his balls for breakfast if he tries anything with her. Catuvolcos knows the rules.’

‘You’ve never had much time for men, Sorina.’ Eirianwen put her hands on her hips, admiring her handiwork.

‘Of course not. I am Chieftain of the Horse Clan. We take men only to replenish the tribe. Once their purpose is served, what use are they? I certainly wouldn’t want one lying around my tent, farting and scratching himself all day long.’

Eirianwen retrieved a wooden trident and hefted it. ‘There is more to men than scratching and farting,’ she said, laughing.

Sorina’s mock dourness had broken her own fit of pique, she realised.

‘Yes.’ Sorina’s voice was solemn, but her eyes sparkled with mirth. ‘They think both actions are amusing and look for approval when they do it.’

Eirianwen shook her head. ‘Come!’ she said, waving the trident lightly at the older woman. ‘Let us see if these are some pricks you can handle.’

Sorina grinned at the quip and picked up one of the heavy shileds. The two women moved away from the armoury and all banter between them ceased. Combat was not a game. The time for friendship was over. The Amazon raised her wooden sword, indicating she was ready, and Eirianwen moved in to the attack.

At the day’s end, Titus and trainers called the novices together.

As they assembled, Lysandra noted Catuvolcos watching her, but she looked away quickly, the jibes of her Hellene compatriots still fresh in her mind. The trainers had set up a small table behind which sat Eros, Balbus’s catamite. The youth had a stylus in his hand.

Hildreth sat on the ground next to her. ‘Hello, Lysandra. How are you today?’ she ritualised. Lysandra grinned tightly at her, not knowing how Hildreth would act towards her now that they had fought.

‘I am well, Hildreth. How are you?’

‘I am very well. My Latin is well. How is your head?’

‘Still on my shoulders, apparently,’ Lysandra muttered.

‘What?’ Hildreth shouted.

‘My head is well, thank you.’

‘That is good,’ Hildreth grinned, a little condescendingly for Lysandra’s liking. ‘You fought shit.’

Lysandra grimaced; of course Hildreth’s Latin was learned by hearsay, but there was no need to resort to vulgarity. ‘Yes, you are correct, I did.’

‘Never mind,’ the German punched her on the arm — too hard. ‘We all have shit days.’ Lysandra nodded, and turned away, rolling her eyes. She did not need to be reminded.

‘Shut up, all of you!’ Titus bawled. Instantly, all chatter ceased.

Responses to orders, Lysandra noted, were now becoming second nature to the women.

‘Penelope,’ Lysandra heard Thebe whisper from somewhere behind her. ‘It’s your boyfriend. Look how handsome he is. And so mature.’ There was some tittering, and Penelope’s response was so obscene it boarded on the blasphemous.

‘Your training is coming to an end,’ Titus’s harsh voice rang out. ‘The lanista has secured a contract for this ludus to fight in the forthcoming games in Halicarnassus.’ He paused, his hard eyes sweeping over the women. ‘You are to perform as an under-event, a match against another school. That means you will not have to fight each other.’

Hildreth nudged Lysandra, her expression plainly confused.

‘We are to fight for real,’ Lysandra explained in a whisper. ‘In the arena.’ Hildreth’s smile at this news was triumphant.

‘Many of you are barbarians with unpronounceable names,’

Titus went on. ‘The mob doesn’t like that. The world is Rome and you must have a name that is familiar to the people. Something they can cheer. You will choose a name that is suitable. If you cannot, one will be given to you.’ The women got to their feet, an excited buzz of conversation rising amongst them.

‘But first,’ Titus shouted, causing them all to fall silent, ‘there is one matter to be attended to.’ He raised an arm towards the veteran’s compound and, at his gesture, a procession of the top-tier fighters, headed by Lucius Balbus himself, made their way towards the assembled novices. Each person carried a torch, the flames bright orange in the night air. Smoke curled from the brands, oily and thick. Balbus stepped away from the procession to stand before the novices. Lysandra was embarrassed to find her neck craning to see if Eirianwen was amongst those women in the parade that had followed the lanista. She was, and Lysandra blushed when she met the Briton’s eye. She was sure, however, that Eirianwen gave her what she read to be an encouraging smile.

‘Novices!’ Balbus’s voice caused her to look away. The Roman was wearing a pure white toga of the finest quality. ‘You have trained hard. When you came through my gates, you were but women. Now, through our skills and your own sweat, you have become something more. More even than most men can hope to be. You are strong. You are fast. You are deadly. I tell you this: in all the Empire, from misty Britannia to the desert sands of Arabia, there are no warriors more dangerous than those trained here. Some of you wore swords before you came to me; look now to your hearts and answer inside — are you not better than before? And those of you who were used to women’s work, look now to your hearts and answer inside — would you return to that life?’ The lanista paused, letting his words wash over the assembled women. Lysandra was impressed and found herself being caught up in the excitement of it all. Balbus certainly knew how to win a crowd.

‘You will now become part of a sisterhood, a sisterhood forged in blood, stronger than iron. But this sacred thing demands an Oath. A terrible Oath that you must serve. Women of the ludus, will you serve this Oath?’

As one, the novices raised their hands, and cried out their acceptance. Even Hildreth had picked up the gist, Lysandra noted.

‘Repeat, then, after me.’ Balbus voice carried over them. ‘I swear, by my gods, that I will fight with honour. That if it is my time to die, I will meet my death with the same courage and honour by which I live my life. That I will observe the Laws of my ludus, to suffer myself be whipped with rods, burned with fire or killed by steel if I disobey.’

The last intonations faded, and there was a heavy silence in the wake of the Oath, broken only by the crackling of the torches.

‘Woman!’ Balbus shattered the stillness. ‘You are now Gladiatrix.’

At this, the veterans began to cheer, and the cry was taken up by the newly made warriors. Lucius Balbus nodded to them and turned about, leading the veterans away with him.

Lysandra frowned, despite the women’s enthusiasm. She wondered if the Oath was binding. Certainly, many of her fellows would not speak such a thing unless they were made to in these circumstances. As they began to line up to receive their fighting names, Lysandra recalled the conversation with Danae and the Hellene women. There was, she realised, a sense of belonging here for many of them, much as there was in the Temple of Athene.

The Oath was, as Balbus had said, terrible. Conversely, they were swearing to do what had already been ingrained. They already obeyed and had already been ‘whipped with rods,’ for transgression. She noted that the women seemed to walk taller now, carrying themselves with assurance and pride. Lysandra realised how adroit the ludus system was. If the Oath had been spoken at the beginning of their training, many would have feared it. As it was, with their new skills, the women would take it as a challenge. More, they would think it a code to live by, a source of spirit and honour within the cadre. She smiled to herself; it was probable that only she among them was intelligent enough to recognise these things.

Lysandra waited her turn in line, already decided on what name she would chose. Thebe, Danae and Penelope were in furious argument as to who would be Heraclea, after Heracles, the greatest of Hellene heroes. It took some time for the queue to shorten. Hildreth stood before Lysandra and she overheard Eros assign her the name Horatia, after an ancient Roman hero who had defended the Roman borders against the invading Eutruscans.

Lysandra thought it ironic in the extreme that this name should be given to one who had been captured raiding Rome’s extremities herself.

‘Well?’ Eros looked up as Lysandra stood before him.

‘Leonidia,’ Lysandra said instantly. It would be an honour to carry the name of the most famous Spartan king. She could not avoid the eyes of Catuvolcos who stood with the other trainers now. He smiled slightly at her and she blushed.

‘Can’t,’ Stick cut in. ‘We have a Leonidia. She’s a veteran, fights as secutorix.’

‘Oh.’ Lysandra was crushed momentarily. ‘Spartica, then.’

Titus threw back his head, and roared with laughter. ‘I don’t think the public would take to a fighter named after a man who led gladiators in revolt. It might offend their sensibilities.’

‘I am from Sparta,’ she argued. ‘It’s as good a name as any.’

‘I haven’t got all night,’ Eros sighed, looking up at Titus.

Titus regarded her, eye to eye, and smiled suddenly. Lysandra was surprised at its warmth. ‘You have it in you to be great.’ He paused, coming to a decision. ‘Achillia. It suits you.’

‘Achillia,’ Lysandra repeated, trying on the name as one would a new chiton. She was satisfied; the female form of Achilles, the greatest warrior of antiquity. ‘Achillia,’ she said again.

‘Go on.’ Titus jerked his head. ‘Next!’

Lysandra walked away, feeling somehow different, as if something inside her had changed. She realised that, coupled with the Oath, gaining a name under which to fight had divorced her from her old life totally. It went beyond merely satisfying the public’s demand; it was a psychological tool. It would be Lysandra who trained and lived in the ludus. But come the day of the fight, it would be Achillia who walked onto the sands of the arena.