Gladiatrix

XVII

The train included around twenty women from the ludus.

As they were herded aboard the prison carts, Lysandra noted that the majority of this number had been taken from the novices. Evidently, Balbus wished to try out his new stock under the most testing of circumstances and would doubtless be hoping that the weaker ones were culled early.

The women were grouped together by rank and nationality.

Lysandra found herself in one of the rearmost carts, along with Hellene women. As she settled onto the straw-covered floor, she saw Eirianwen making her way to the front carriage. The beautiful Silurian stopped and walked up to the Hellene cage.

‘Good luck to you,’ she said. The comment was made to the group, but her eyes did not leave Lysandra. She smiled in response, her heart beating wildly, full of guilt over her illicit fantasies involving the tribeswoman. Eirianwen’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer and then she was gone, vanishing into the crowd of fighters.

‘You’ve made a friend,’ Danae commented as Lysandra settled back in the corner of the cart.

‘We have spoken once or twice,’ Lysandra acknowledged carefully. ‘She is affable enough for a barbarian.’

‘Dangerous too.’ Danae affected a sagacious expression. ‘An excellent fighter.’

Lysandra gave her a half grin. ‘We are all dangerous fighters, Danae.’

Soon after, the carriage lurched and the caravan got under way. Conversation was sparse for a time, which pleased Lysandra.

She had asked for and been given permission to carry her bucket of books with her on the journey to Halicarnassus. As the train wound its painfully slow way towards the city, Lysandra certainly had no desire to reacquaint herself with the featureless, sun-blasted Carian landscape, and so she entertained herself by reading Gaius Marius whilst the other women chatted amongst themselves. However, as the sun reached its zenith, the initial gossiping ceased.

‘What’s that you’re reading?’ Thebe wanted to know.

Lysandra grimaced, as she hated to be interrupted whilst she was studying. She bit down a waspish response to the intrusion and looked up. ‘A manual of tactics,’ she answered shortly.

Thebe wrinkled her nose. ‘How dull. Why would you want to read that?’

Lysandra sighed and placed the scroll in her lap. ‘At the temple, we were taught tactics as well as martial skills. Gaius Marius was a military genius and his book makes interesting reading.’ Danae did not look convinced. ‘I have Homer in here, if you would like to read that,’ Lysandra offered.

‘I don’t read very well,’ Danae said. ‘You know, I did when I was a child, but my husband made me stop. He said reading was for hetairai.’

‘That is absurd,’ Lysandra snorted. ‘Reading is not only for courtesans!’

‘I can’t read either,’ offered Thebe. As she spoke, the other women nodded in agreement.

‘I suppose if you have never read, books are unimportant.’

Lysandra turned her eyes back to her scroll. Despite her intention to raise the general level of education amongst the women, at this time she was more interested in reading for herself.

There was a heavy silence in the cart, broken only by the groaning and creaking of the wood. She looked up once again, and saw all eyes upon her. She sighed. ‘Do you want me to read to you?’

The women nodded.

‘Well,’ Lysandra said, ‘this book details the structure and tactics of the Roman army from contubernalis to a legion entire.’ Faces fell at this comment. ‘But I suppose you would rather hear the Iliad,’ she added. Again, every head nodded. She rolled Marius up for digestion at a later stage. Leaning back, she closed her eyes, as she knew the text by heart. ‘ Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus…’ she recited, her voice lifted in song.

For the rest of the journey, Lysandra narrated the great works to the women, deciding that oratory was perhaps the best way to introduce them to literature. It was not tiresome, as she enjoyed singing. A good voice was prized in the Temple of Athene and Lysandra reckoned hers to be of excellent quality. As she sang she offered silent thanks to the goddess for endowing her with so many gifts.

These tales helped the days pass quickly for the women but, as they drew closer to the city, Lysandra noted that there was less chatter amongst her companions, a tension and gloom falling upon them. The caravan halted some two miles from the walls of Halicarnassus and the guards began to pitch camp. As the sun was still high in the sky this seemed ridiculous in the extreme, a fact Lysandra pointed out to the Macedonian guardsman she recognised.

The guard paused as he walked past her cage, and grinned at her. ‘Have you any idea of the hubbub the arrival of a gladiatorial famillia causes?’ he asked her.

‘Obviously not.’ Lysandra gave him her most imperious stare.

It was demeaning to seek knowledge from such an imbecile.

‘Well…’ The Macedonian stooped and plucked a blade of grass to chew on. Lysandra thought it befitting as it gave him the appearance of a hayseed, which all Macedonians were. ‘It’s mad,’ he said after some time.

‘Your powers of description are epic,’ Lysandra sneered.

Irony was above the man. ‘What I mean is the people go mad.

It’s like the Emperor himself has arrived. Causes all sorts of traffic chaos, as you can imagine. People crowding round the carriages, nothing can move for hours. You’re new, you’ve never seen the furore — they absolutely love gladiators. And gladiatrices,’ he added quickly. ‘So we go in at night.’

‘I see.’ If that was the case, then it was wise to avoid attracting undue attention. There was nothing worse than people acting in a disorderly manner.

‘We cover the carriages in cloth, too, just to be on the safe side.’

‘How considerate.’

‘See you then, Lysandra.’ The man smiled, and she noticed with distaste that he had a gap in his front teeth. He ambled away, still chewing his stalk of grass.

Lysandra relayed the reason for their journey’s interruption to the other women. She told them the tale of Orion the Hunter to while away the time, and soon the day dimmed to twilight.

With little else to do, the women laid out their blankets, seeking to catch a few hours’ sleep. Resting when the carts were on the move would be impossible.

‘Thank you for the stories,’ Thebe said as she lay down.

‘It was nothing.’ Lysandra sounded slightly lofty, even to herself.

‘It kept our minds busy, at least. We are all scared, aren’t we?

Of the arena. Of what might happen.’

‘Spartans fear nothing,’ Lysandra intoned, her response instinctive.

Thebe snorted derisively. ‘Horse dung. You know, Lysandra, none of us believes this impassive act you put on. You’re like us and we are all scared.’

Lysandra sat up, coming to a decision. These women were not as she. Despite what they thought, they needed leadership and were incredibly fortunate that she was among them. Again, she realised the truth of Telemachus’s words; indeed, there was a divine purpose to her being here. ‘Gather round,’ she said.

The Hellene women formed a circle, cross-legged. They could hear the soft sounds of the guards’ chatter, the crack of the fires lit around the caravan and, somewhere, the mournful sound of a flute being played. In the dim twilight, Lysandra fancied that this must be akin to the eve of the Battle of Thermopylae, when Leonidas had gathered his warriors about him.

‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘Fear is a thought, not a feeling. It exists only up here.’ She tapped her head. ‘Forget fear. It stiffens the limbs and numbs the sinews, and if it takes a hold of you, all that you have learned in the ludus will be for naught. You all know that I was a priestess, trained since youth to fight.’ She paused, looking around the dim, frightened faces, holding each gaze for a few moments. ‘I can tell you this. I have seen you train, and all of you could hold your own in the Temple of Athene.’ This was a blatant falsehood but Lysandra considered it a necessary one. These words had the desired effect and she felt a measurable lapse in the tension around her.

‘My experience tells me that the training we have received from Stick, Catuvolcos and yes, even Nastasen, is excellent. It has been hard and gruelling, and often cruel. But this is necessary.

To forge the superior fighter from flesh, flesh needs to be beaten hard. Your training has made your responses natural to you.

Remember: fighting, from single combat to the clash of mighty armies, is not an art. It is a science. It has its theorems, its truths, its applications. In the end, superior tactics will always win out against brute force. Your lessons, well learned, will keep you all alive and send your foes to Hades.’

‘Do you really think so, Lysandra?’ Penelope, the fisher girl, whispered.

‘I know it to be true,’ Lysandra said softly, nodding her head, once again meeting the eyes of the women around her.

‘It is the arena, Lysandra,’ Danae stated grimly. ‘The people we are to fight are unknown to us. We may be killed.’

‘We may,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘But only if it is our time and nothing can alter that. But certainly, we shall not fail because we were afraid,’ she added scornfully. ‘We will fall only if the gods have marked us to die, and then we shall fall in their honour.

But I do not believe that will be so. I believe we will cut down our enemies like wheat before the scythe.’ She fell quiet, letting her words sink in, allowing the women to mull over what she had imparted to them. ‘Sleep now,’ she ordered. ‘And think not of what the future will bring. Trust in the goddess.’

Lysandra broke the circle and moved back to her corner, throwing the blanket over herself. One by one, the others lay down, seemingly calmed by her words. She smiled slightly as sleep crept over her; if there was any doubt as to who was pre-eminent among them, it had now been dispelled. Come what may, she knew that they would now regard her as leader and that, soon, others would too.

It was right that this should be so.

They entered the city quietly, the caravan winding its way through the narrow streets of Halicarnassus. The night air had turned chill and not a few of the women, roused into wakefulness by the movement of the carts, shivered quietly. Time crawled by slowly in the netherworld between dusk and dawn, but eventually the train reached the great arena and, with almost military precision, the women were ensconced in purpose-built gaols, which were situated around and beneath the arena complex. The cells were large and, the women were surprised to discover, comfortable.

Certainly the accommodation was preferable to the tiny cells they slept in at the ludus. Exhausted by the uncomfortable journey, they fell into slumber. A few of Lysandra’s compatriots stayed awake, chatting into the night, before she admonished them to sleep. It would, she told them, be a testing day to come.

Nastasen and Stick roused them much later than was usual, and hustled them into a large courtyard; they were ordered to strip their dirty tunics and were sluiced down with water. The morning was already warm and the cold water served to revive and invigorate.

‘Not as good as a bath,’ Nastasen laughed. ‘But we have to have you looking your best for the parade.’

‘Parade?’ Lysandra glanced at Danae, who shrugged.

‘Not that you’ll be leaving for some time yet. Obviously, the people have come to see the male fighters. You women will walk behind them.’ Lysandra caught sight of Sorina, who spat on the ground at these words. Nastasen began to walk down the line of women, thrusting clean clothing into their hands. ‘One size fits all,’ he said. ‘We’ve even brought your sandals so your delicate little toes don’t get stubbed.’ The Nubian gave Lysandra a greenish tunic which she held up critically.

‘Do you have a red one?’ she asked.

Nastasen stopped in his tracks and turned back. ‘Why?’ he said after some time, his dark eyes glittering.

‘Spartans wear red, Nastasen.’

The trainer seemed to mull that over. ‘Do they, now?’ He jerked his chin, indicating that Lysandra toss the green tunic back to him. ‘Fucking Spartans!’ he muttered and continued doling out his supply of clothing, leaving Lysandra standing naked.

It took some time but, with Stick’s aid, all the women were given new attire, save Lysandra who was left without. Though there was no shame in nakedness, she knew that this action had been taken to humiliate her and she felt it keenly.

‘You see,’ Nastasen swaggered past her, his voice loud. ‘Our Spartan here didn’t like my choice of tunic. That’s too bad.’ He turned and leered at her. ‘Still, I will not be called unreasonable.’

This caused derisive laughter from all those women who were not in his direct line of sight. The enmity between trainer and fighter was well known amongst the famillia. ‘So our Spartan will walk the streets naked. Gymnos,’ he added in Hellenic. He stepped in closer to her. ‘Unless you want to give me something to change my mind,’ he whispered, his big hand reaching out to stoke her thigh. His nostrils flared as Lysandra flinched at his touch and he moved his hand upward.

‘Do not.’ Lysandra’s voice was cold.

‘I think you might like it,’ Nastasen grunted, stroking her sparse pubic hair beneath his fingers.

It was too much. Lysandra felt her temper snap, and she lunged forward, her forehead smashing into the trainer’s face, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone as his nose shattered. Nastasen bellowed in pain and staggered back clutching his face, blood pouring from between his fingers. The women cheered enthusiastically at this rebellion.

‘I’ll kill you!’ the Nubian hissed, drawing his vine staff. Lysandra moved from her rank, finding herself eager for the confrontation. Nastasen screamed and lunged at her, the vine staff hissing through the air. Lysandra stepped back, avoiding the wild swings, and countered by lashing out with a kick, catching the rage-blinded trainer in the midriff. But the strike did not slow the powerful warrior. In a rush he was on top of her, his great weight bearing her to the ground, the vine staff at her throat. ‘Now!’ he screamed, spittle foaming on his lips.

Lysandra could not move, Nastasen had her pinned, immobile.

She tried to thrust her hips up to dislodge him, but his weight was too great. Blood pounded in her ears and white sparks began to burst in front of her eyes.

Suddenly, his hands left her and she rolled away, retching and choking. She looked about, seeking the trainer, and saw that he too had fallen to the ground, holding the side of his face. Catuvolcos was there, his own vine staff in his hand. Somewhere she could hear Stick screaming for the guards.

‘Leave her be!’ Catuvolcos shouted, stepping between her and the Nubian. Nastasen surged to his feet and was about to advance on his fellow trainer. The prison guards had come running and, though none could match either Catuvolcos or Nastasen in size and strength, they were of sufficient numbers to drag the two apart.

Stick was furious, hopping from foot to foot. ‘What do you think you are doing!’ He was beside himself. ‘You stupid bastard!’

This he levelled at Nastasen. Still held by the guards, the Nubian roared and tried to break free. That was enough for Stick. ‘Bind him!’ he ordered the guards. There was no way to subdue the huge warrior, save for the most basic: the guards began to rain blows down on their captive, knocking the fight from him before hurling him to the ground and slapping manacles into place.

Catuvolcos broke free of his own captors and rushed to Lysandra’s side. Gently, he lifted her head from the ground, cradling it as softly as he would a child’s. ‘Are you all right?’ he said, his green eyes full of concern.

‘I just wanted a red tunic,’ Lysandra croaked, gingerly rubbing her throat.

‘Get away from her!’ Stick aimed a kick at Catuvolcos’s rump.

The Gaul turned angrily but Stick held up his hand. ‘Don’t! We have enough troubles now.’ At this he began screaming at the guards to get both Nastasen and the women into cells.

‘I am uninjured,’ Lysandra said. ‘Really, Catuvolcos, I am well.’

Catuvolcos smiled gently at her, and helped her to her feet. When they stood, he did not let her go, seemingly reluctant to break the contact of her skin on his own. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

Stick thrust them apart. ‘What the fuck is this?’ Catuvolcos began to speak, but the Stick cut him off. ‘No, I don’t want to hear it. Get out of here, Catuvolcos! I mean it.’ The Gaul glowered at him but moved off. ‘And you…’ Stick turned to Lysandra, placing his vine staff on her chest. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble.

Come with me!’

Lucius Balbus steepled his fingers and regarded the naked Spartan standing before him. Stick had taken the precaution of having her arms and legs manacled and she appeared very much the defiant warrior captured.

‘She head-butted Nastasen,’ Stick said. ‘She’s a troublemaker, Balbus, and well you know it. This sort of defiance can spread and, before you know it, we’ll have a riot on our hands.’

Balbus motioned Stick to silence. ‘Why?’ he asked her directly.

‘He was trying to touch me. In my private place. We are not whores, lanista, and I resented his familiarity.’

‘One of the guards says that you refused to wear clothing offered you, Lysandra. Is that not so?’

‘It is so,’ she agreed. ‘I asked Nastasen if I could wear a red tunic. I did not think that this would be an issue. It is the colour of Sparta.’

Balbus leant back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. It was a trifling matter, but Titus had told him of the Nubian’s dislike for Lysandra. A simple request that should have had no consequence had now escalated into a brawl between trainer and gladiatrix. Proud Lysandra and stupid Nastasen. By rights, he should have the girl crucified before the entire famillia for her insubordination.

Should, but could not. She had just cost him twenty thousand denarii, and he could not simply nail that investment to a chunk of wood to watch it wither and die. Aside from which, Falco’s promotion had billed her on the under card as Achillia of Sparta and Lysandra was quite correct: everyone knew that Spartan warriors wore red. Balbus’s head throbbed. He could not even punish her, as she was to fight on the morrow and would certainly be killed if fresh lash wounds hampered her. He toyed with the idea of pulling her from the contest and replacing her with another but quickly dismissed it. He had to see if the girl was worth his indulgence.

He turned his gaze to Lysandra once again. ‘You will fight tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘On return to the ludus, you will be given twenty lashes for your disobedience. Guards!’ Two of his men came trotting at his call. ‘Take her to her cell!’ he ordered. ‘And get her a red tunic!’

Stick sat down opposite the lanista. ‘I don’t know what to do about her,’ he said when Lysandra had been led away. ‘I think Nastasen was asking for it, though. He detests her.’

‘And you do not? You are free with the staff when it comes to her. And groping the women is one of your prime humiliation techniques.’

‘I detest everyone, you know that. As for the other, that only happens at the beginning, to let them know they are property.’

Balbus inclined his head in acquiescence. ‘And Nastasen?’

‘I had him put in a cell to cool down.’ Stick shrugged. ‘He took a bit of a kicking but I think it’s his pride that will be more bruised. It’s Catuvolcos that is my concern.’

‘How so?’

‘He has a thing for Lysandra. I think he cares for her.’ This last was said with distaste.

Balbus sighed heavily. Indeed Lysandra was close to becoming more trouble than she was worth. ‘Has he been with her?’

Stick’s cackle was lewd. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think she has anything to get into, if you know what I mean. Might as well try to prod a statue. But the way Catuvolcos acts towards her I can tell he’s carrying a torch. We don’t need that, lanista.

There will be more trouble between him and Nastasen over her and next time I might not be around to stop it.’

‘Stick,’ Balbus said heavily, ‘these are problems I don’t need the day before a spectacle.’

‘Maybe we should put her on the blocks.’

Irritated, Balbus waved this away. ‘What’s done is done. She stays for now, Stick, but the punishment stands. I want you to keep an eye on Catuvolcos, however. He’s too soft on the women as it is, and if he’s getting sweet on one of my possessions it’ll be him that goes to the blocks.’

It was an artificial freedom, but it was freedom nevertheless. For the first time since her capture Lysandra looked upon the world without confines. There were guards, to be sure, but no walls enclosed her and it was liberating to see as far as her eyes would let her.

The Macedonian guard had told her that the arrival of a famillia caused a furore but she had been unprepared for the public hysteria that accompanied their parade through the city. The editor of the games had hired several troupes which, though not unprecedented, was certainly a rarity. As such, the interest aroused was spectacular.

The day had become blistering hot, but even the scorching eye of Helios had not deterred the people from thronging the streets to catch a glimpse of their favourites. Thousands of citizens lined the route of the parade, pitching and roaring against the thin dam of legionaries who had been assigned to crowd control by Halicarnassus’s urban praetor. Still, despite the throngs, Lysandra was able to catch small glimpses of the city. To her eye, Halicarnassus had a jumbled look to it, the original architecture of the Carians improved upon by Hellene expatriates, and this in its turn ruined by inferior Roman styling. The great Mausoleum, named for the ancient Carian King, Mausolos, was the city’s centrepiece and a beautiful building, to be sure. Yet it looked sadly out of place amidst the muddled array of architectural styles.

It was, she thought, a place at odds with itself.

Lysandra knew that the women fighters commanded nowhere near the interest that the men aroused, but it did not seem to be so as she marched with the others. Each step of the way, she was deafened by shouts of both encouragement and derision as the crowd saw the fighters they had wagered on — or against.

Like the others, she carried a placard bearing her name, and her arena tally — one victory. Thus, the devotees had a name for a face, and they gave voice to their raw feelings. As well as this, Lysandra heard many marriage proposals on her walk and countless other more intimate suggestions.

She was not the only one to be subject to such interest. At the front of their column, Eirianwen was hailed as a goddess. It was not surprising, Lysandra thought. Certainly, the Silurian would have aroused envy in Helen of Sparta herself. There were calls for Sorina as well: many times the victrix, she had her own solid core of devotees. It was exhausting, but exhilarating. The adulation of so many people was a heady wine, so much so that Lysandra barely reflected on her confrontation with Nastasen. She would bear her punishment and try to put the incident behind her.

The parade ended at the great arena where the traditional pre-games feast for the competitors would be held. The custom was ancient, affording the fighters a last sip of life’s pleasures before the inevitability of combat. Lysandra thought it ironic that this pleasure was to be taken on the very sands that would taste the blood of many of the revellers. Yet, the editor, Aeschylus, had spared no expense and the fare laid out was lavish. Trestles had been arrayed in neat rows, almost groaning with the weight of food and wine. Fruits and sweetmeats, many of which Lysandra could not identify, were in abundance and the air was heavy with the delicious tang of cooking meat. Barrel upon barrel of wine and other alcoholic drinks were also in evidence and it was to these that most of the fighters headed.

Lysandra was amazed to see that the sponsor had even gone to the expense of providing musicians. Flute girls wound their way through the tables and though their tunes were rarely in harmony, the shrill discord somehow seemed to suit the revels. Much thought had also gone into security. Each school had a clearly marked area to keep any over-eager or over-liquored competitors from settling their arranged disputes before the day of competition. Though segregated, the male gladiators were also present, a fact that delighted Penelope.

The Hellene women had found a free table and had gathered together as was now their custom.

‘I’m telling you,’ Penelope enthused, chewing on a chicken leg. ‘It’s been my bleeding time for days. I’m going to get some action tonight if it kills me. No risk fun.’

‘It might kill you,’ Danae commented. ‘You know it’s forbidden.’

The Athenian wrinkled her nose as she bit into a stuffed dormouse, which, they had been told by one of the Italian girls, was a popular Roman delicacy.

‘I don’t care.’ Penelope shrugged. ‘Just because most of you are happy with a licking, doesn’t mean it’s satisfying me. You’ve been snacking for months. I want the whole meal — meat and vegeta-bles.’ The women fell about laughing and Lysandra found that this last comment brought a slight smile to her face.

‘More wine?’ Thebe reached for a carafe. Lysandra’s hand snaked out, and slapped her away. Thebe flushed angrily.

‘Do not be foolish, Thebe,’ Lysandra admonished.

The Corinthian gestured to Eirianwen and her coterie, who were indulging in the foul-tasting beer that they craved. ‘They’re drinking and we should too.’

‘They are barbarians!’ Lysandra snapped haughtily. ‘ We are Hellene. It is enough to take wine in small quantities, with water, especially tonight. I would not see you with a sword in your guts because your head was heavy with wine.’ She felt slightly hypo-critical saying this, as it was well known that she had been carried insensible from the gathering at the ludus. None saw fit to bring that up, however.

At the end of their repast, Lysandra excused herself and made her way to Eirianwen’s table. She nodded at Sorina, who regarded her coldly as she sat. For her part, Eirianwen’s eyes were somewhat glazed from imbibing her vile liquor.

‘Lysandra.’ She grinned. ‘It is good to see you!’ Her enthusiastic embrace caused Lysandra to stiffen a little. She was unused to affection and the barbarian habit of constantly touching one another was unsettling.

‘I came to wish you luck.’ Lysandra’s eyes swept around the table. ‘All of you.’

Sorina took her cup away from her lips. ‘We don’t need it,’ she said shortly. ‘We are not novices like you and your friends.’

That was typical of barbarians. Sorina could not be held accountable for her rudeness, she knew no better.

‘Thank you, Lysandra.’ This was from the Illyrian dimachaera, Teuta. She raised her foaming cup in a toast.

‘You are all drinking,’ Lysandra noted the obvious.

‘Of course, do you want some beer?’ Eirianwen smacked her lips. ‘It’s Egyptian, the best.’

‘No, thank you. I do not think it is wise to drink heavily before a combat.’

‘Ha!’ Sorina ejaculated. ‘This from the veteran of one combat and the model of sobriety. Forgive me for not bowing to your great experience.’

‘Have I done something to offend you, Amazon?’ Lysandra asked carefully. She would not cause another brawl between them.

‘You don’t matter enough to have offended me, girl,’ Sorina sneered. ‘You and those others,’ she gestured to the Hellene women,

‘are just fodder for the arena. It’s a rare novice that lasts. And you don’t have what it takes.’

‘You’re drunk.’ Lysandra’s own voice was harsh. ‘But there is no need to insult me.’

‘Of course I’m drunk. To be drunk before battle is to honour one’s gods. You should know that, being a priestess and all.’

‘We do not honour Athene by falling around in a stupor. It is foolish to fight with a thick head.’

‘You trust your goddess, yes?’ Sorina placed her cup on the table between them.

‘Naturally.’

‘Then if you are marked to die it will make no difference if you are drunk or sober, will it? For a priestess, you have remarkably little faith.’

Lysandra stood, her frame rigid. ‘I came to wish you well, but I will not play the whipping girl to a drunken old hag who swims in liquor and past glories.’ She stalked away before Sorina could respond. She breathed out, forcing the anger from her body. Suddenly, she had a headache, and decided to retire for the night.

The cell of course was empty, the other women making the most of the freedom the revels offered. She removed her sandals and sat on her bunk, pulling her knees up to her chin, her thoughts turning inevitably to the morrow and what it might bring. She did not fear the coming of daylight. Rather she felt a keen sense of anticipation. The Athenian priest had been right when he had challenged her. A lifetime of training served no purpose unless that training was tested. What use was the sharpest sword if it were left in its scabbard? How could one truly know the mettle of the blade save for matching it against another? That she would defeat her enemy was undoubted and all would know that it was a Spartan who was victrix. The thought warmed her and she smiled slightly to herself.

The cell door opened, causing Lysandra to start from her reverie.

She turned sharply to see Eirianwen silhouetted in the half-light.

She was holding a carafe idly in her hand, her face turned away as she addressed the guard. A few words were heard exchanged with the unmistakable clink of coin changing hands. Eirianwen moved into the cell, shutting the door behind her.

‘I brought you some wine,’ she said simply. Without waiting for an invitation, she made her way to the bunk and sat opposite Lysandra.

Lysandra felt her mouth go dry and butterflies flitted insanely deep inside her. Her hands suddenly became cold and damp, her heart beating a little faster. ‘I am not drinking tonight,’ she said, embarrassed at her feelings.

‘Nonsense!’ Eirianwen handed her the carafe. ‘I have mixed it three parts water, one part wine as you Greeks like it.’

Lysandra smiled at her, finding it easy to forgive her Latin usage. Normally, being referred to as Greek was offensive to her but, from Eirianwen’s lips, it was not so. ‘Well,’ she said, shrugging, ‘why not?’ She felt the tribeswoman’s eyes upon her as she drank and found she could not meet her gaze.

‘You mustn’t mind Sorina,’ Eirianwen said softly. ‘She is spiteful when in her cups. I came to apologise for her. Lysandra, you may think of us as barbarians but we too have our rules of…’ she looked up to the ceiling, gesturing.

‘Etiquette,’ Lysandra finished for her.

‘Yes!’ Eirianwen snapped her fingers. ‘Etiquette. Sorina was rude, but she is drunk. She will regret her words in the morning.’

Lysandra passed her the wine. ‘ In vino veritas, Eirianwen. She holds a dislike for me.’

‘She dislikes all Greeks and Romans… No,’ she shook her head, ‘she dislikes what Greeks and Romans represent. Civilisation, the Law of Man, straight roads and philosophers’ words. All this is against the Earth Mother. It is unnatural and it is wrong to go against the way of the goddess.’

‘I am a Priestess of Athene,’ Lysandra noted. She kept her tone gentle, and was surprised to find she was not affronted by Eirianwen’s theology.

‘ Ath-e-ne,’ Eirianwen repeated the unfamiliar word. ‘That is so Greek.’ She laughed somewhat tipsily. ‘It is the civilised way to put everything in a box. Ath… ene is only an aspect of the Great Mother. As is your Juno, Venus and all those others.’ She used the Roman names for the goddesses, but, Lysandra realised, they were all she would have heard.

‘It is not the night for theological discourse,’ Lysandra said after a moment’s thought. Eirianwen’s views were somewhat offensive and patently incorrect. She was, however, unwilling to put this to voice. She cast her eyes down and her gaze fell upon the Silurian’s feet. They were small, much more so than her own, and exquisitely beautiful. She swallowed. ‘We should focus on tomorrow and the trials it will bring.’ Eirianwen shuffled a little closer to her on the cot. She leant towards the Spartan, so that their faces almost touched.

‘Are you afraid?’ she murmured.

‘Spartans fear nothing.’ Lysandra’s habitual response was a whisper. She looked up, her gaze locked with Eirianwen’s and she found she could not break it.

‘But you are trembling.’

‘No I’m not…’

Her words were cut short as Eirianwen’s lips found her own. The kiss was soft and Lysandra’s mouth yielded to its caress. The trembling inside her melted away at the Silurian’s embrace, fading to a warmth that she had not felt before. She felt herself drifting, surren-dering to bliss. Eirianwen’s mouth brushed slowly downward, paying exquisite attention to Lysandra’s neck, causing her body to tingle.

Somewhere, at the back of her mind, Lysandra knew she must put a stop to this before it went too far. Certainly, she knew her sisters at the temple often practised Sapphic love, considering it was not a breach of their vow. In the ludus too, all the women released their tensions in such a manner. But never before had she been prey to the weakness of her flesh — that she should succumb to her lust so easily shamed her.

But even as she thought this, she found her arms lifting above her head, as Eirianwen pulled her tunic gently from her. She sat before her, naked and suddenly shy of her body in a way she had never been before. She made to cover her breasts with her arm, but Eirianwen’s hand intercepted her movement. Looking into her eyes, she placed her fingers on Lysandra’s shoulders and ran them lightly downwards. Lysandra’s lips parted in anticipation as Eirianwen’s touch drew closer to her almost painfully erect nipples.

‘You are beautiful, Lysandra.’

These words caused a lurch in Lysandra’s heart and she reached out tentatively to touch the tribeswoman. Eirianwen lowered her head, her lips seeking the swell of the Spartan’s breasts. Lysandra let her head fall back, succumbing to this delicious ministration, her whole body, her whole being becoming alive with sensation.

She heard herself sob with pleasure as the warm wetness of Eirianwen’s mouth closed over her nipple, drawing it in, tongue rolling over it with maddening intensity.

When she drew away, a moan of disappointment escaped Lysandra’s lips. But then she looked up to see Eirianwen lifting her own tunic to reveal such magnificence, such faultless beauty that Lysandra thought she would weep. She had thought the large breasts of the Celtic women unattractive but, as her eyes drank in the sight of Eirianwen’s flesh, she knew that she had never seen anything as lovely. A fierce desire seized her and she pulled Eirianwen close, seeking her lips with her own. They kissed, and Lysandra felt a delerious passion flood through her, so strong that it threatened to break her heart.

Then, almost imperceptibly, Eirianwen pushed her onto her back and moved up her body. She lay on top of her, her breasts swaying tantalisingly close to Lysandra’s mouth. She lifted her head to taste the proffered bounty and tried to do as Eirianwen had done to her, alternately teasing the areola with her teeth, then paying soft attention to the delicate bud of her nipple.

‘Am I doing this right?’ she whispered urgently, suddenly fearful.

‘Is it good for you?’

Eirianwen laughed softly. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, easing her body lower so that Lysandra could reach her without lifting her head. ‘You are wonderful.’

They lay like that for some time until Eirianwen began to journey downwards, tracing her tongue ever lower. Lysandra stretched out her arms, tensing the muscles in her shoulders as she felt the tease of teeth on the soft flesh of her inner thigh.

Her lover’s lips moved slowly, maddeningly inwards, only to brush over the wetness of her sex and then continue onwards. She bit her lower lip and her hips began to move slowly, not of her volition. Eirianwen continued her game, tormenting her with the promise of the ecstasy to come.

‘Eirianwen, please…’

She was silent then, as Eirianwen relented, kissing the wet warmth of her nether lips. Lysandra gritted her teeth, the tendons in her neck standing out in thin cords, her hands clawing at the blanket. Eirianwen moved her tongue languidly up and down her now soaking furrow, making love to it with her mouth.

Lysandra was lost in joy; sweat pearled all over her body, warming her, then cooling her. She cried out as Eirianwen found the sensitive apex of her sex, her tongue circling it, tasting it, each pass more wonderful than the last. She reached down, her hands finding the spun gold of Eirianwen’s hair, twisting it in her fingers. Lysandra felt a pressure, soft at first, on the flesh between her sex and her anus. Eirianwen’s tongue moved faster now, her finger pressing rhythmically, more urgent and firmer than before.

Fire began to burn in Lysandra’s stomach, spreading out to consume her entire body, a breathtaking pressure building inside her. She became rigid, every muscle in her body tense as she teetered on the brink of an unknown abyss. Eirianwen’s finger moved lower, resting on the bud of Lysandra’s anus for a moment, before sliding it into her. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her body threshing and twisting in a paroxysm of lust as this last act sent her tumbling helplessly over the precipice of ecstasy. A sound was loud in her ears, and she dimly realised it was her own cries of pleasure. Wave upon wave of agonising bliss burst through her, years of restraint exploding free in a cleansing fire.

As it subsided so it began anew, each time taking her higher, before finally leaving her quivering and spent.

Her chest heaved with exertion, hair damp and plastered to her forehead. Eirianwen moved up and smiled, her lips glistening.

As they kissed, Lysandra tasted herself there and felt no shame.

Eirianwen kissed her cheek, her neck, before she herself lay back, her legs parting. Her small hand began to stroke herself and, for a moment, Lysandra was mesmerised.

‘Well,’ Eirianwen’s voice was gently teasing, breaking her gaze,

‘I think I deserve something in return.’ She pulled Lysandra to her and soon it was the sound of the Silurian’s cries that filled the room.