XXVI

‘This has to stop,’ Sorina declared, her eyes fierce.

Eirianwen shrugged, and turned her attention to her drink. ‘I don’t see what business it is of yours. Clan Chief you may be, but it is my choice with whom I make love.’ The two sat apart from the rest of the tribeswomen; the others wisely decided to leave both Gladiatrix Prima and Secunda to themselves.

Sorina had decided that now was the time to confront Eirianwen directly regarding her infatuation with Lysandra. The feeling between the two young women was obviously growing and her own disapproval was not enough to discourage Eirianwen from the relationship. A more direct approach was required.

‘I say this not from spite, Eirianwen, but to protect you. It is a disaster waiting to happen. You must see this.’

The beautiful Briton looked up. ‘I can see that you are getting old, Sorina, and are growing bitter in the autumn.’

Sorina recoiled. ‘Before she came along, you would never have spoken to me like that. She is tainting you, Eirianwen. All can see it but you. Even Catuvolcos, who was once besotted by her, has reckoned her for what she is.’

‘Catuvolcos is hurt because she rejected his advances. This, as you have often told me, is the way of men. I no longer wish to speak of Lysandra to you.’ Eirianwen slammed her cup down on the table, causing the others to look around. ‘It is you who have become tainted, not I. Your bitterness is consuming you and you must lay it aside.’

‘Do not think to give me advice, whelp,’ Sorina warned, leaning forward on the bench. ‘You are not ready yet to challenge me for leadership of the Clan.’

Eirianwen sighed, her shoulders slumping as she let the anger drain out of her. ‘I have no wish to challenge you, Sorina. I have found some small happiness. How can you begrudge me that?’

‘Because it will destroy you, girl. I seek only to spare you the pain that I foresee coming from this. Even now, your Lysandra is with governor Frontinus, drinking and, aye, parting her legs for him. Think on that, Silurian. Next time you put your lips to her sex, think of what and who has been there.’

At the mention of Frontinus, Eirianwen stiffened once again, and Sorina knew that her barb and sunk deep. ‘Yes,’ she hissed.

‘I can see your feelings on your face. You are no longer sure, are you? Sure of her, sure of how you will feel about her. I will guess that she’ll claim that she went unwillingly. I can tell you this is not so, for Catuvolcos and I saw her — painted and perfumed like a Roman whore. Beneath her veneer of chastity, she is a wanton.’ When Eirianwen did not respond, Sorina pressed on. ‘But this you know, as does everyone who passes by whatever dark corner you can find for your lovemaking. Her moans and sobs are loud for all to hear. Does she not please you, Eirianwen? She will please this Roman in the same way, with her mouth and tongue, giving herself and enjoying her debasement…’

‘Enough!’ Eirianwen shouted. ‘You do not know her, Sorina.

Your words strike me as hard as iron, for I am sick that she must go to him of all Romans. But she had no choice. Speak to me no more of this. I have made my choice and you are not a goddess to curse me for it.’

‘Then you are not of the tribe.’ Sorina’s voice was low, but the words were heavy with doom.

Eirianwen went white. ‘You cannot do that.’

‘I can and I will, unless you cast her aside.’

For her part, Sorina had not meant matters to go so far, but now the awful words were pronounced she could not take them back. She loved Eirianwen but the corruption was deep in her and, as Clan Chief, Sorina could not allow its influence to spread amongst the others. But in that moment, she saw that she had erred greatly. Eirianwen’s perfect features began to twist in hatred, the usually soft blue eyes becoming hard and empty.

‘Then I do challenge you!’ Eirianwen hissed. ‘Here and now or in the arena. It makes no difference, for the result will be the same.’

Sorina baulked but could not back down; it was not the way of the Tribes to refuse honourable challenge. She cleared her throat, lest her voice crack. ‘The arena, then,’ she said. ‘Balbus would kill the winner if we fought without his agreement. I shall see him and tell him of our intention.’

‘Good.’ Eirianwen got to her feet. ‘I told you, months ago, that her fate, yours and mine were intertwined. Only now do I see the truth of it. Morrigan Dark Fate has decreed this, Sorina.’

‘You are sure of your course?’ Sorina set her shoulders, looking up at the younger woman from her bench. ‘You are willing to die for your Spartan?’

‘When the Mother becomes the Crone, the dark days draw close, Sorina. I am still yet the Maiden and your day is done.’

‘We shall see.’ Sorina forced iron to her voice, though her heart was breaking. ‘I have fought many battles, child, against better even than you. They are now fled the flesh, whilst I live on. You will go the same way as those others.’

Eirianwen smiled, but it was bleak with anger. ‘Everyone has her day, Clan Chief,’ she spat. ‘The time for talking is over, then.

You and I are done… till we are done.’ She turned on her heel without another word and stalked away from her kin.

She walked aimlessly through the corridors of the gaol, her eyes blurred with tears. Sorina’s mention of the hated Frontinus had twisted in her guts like the cold iron of a blade.

Eirianwen recalled the coming of the Legions, the fire and sword, and the blood of her tribe. The legionaries were like ants, moving inexorably over the land, swarming over and destroying all that stood against them. The mightiest warriors of the Silures were naught before the slight but iron-disciplined men of Rome.

Strength meant nothing against their cowards’ organisation; courage futile in the face of such honourless, efficient warfare.

Eirianwen had known Lysandra had gone to Frontinus. The news of it was common amongst the fighters from Balbus’s ludus but she had had no chance to speak to Lysandra on the matter.

The Spartan had been whisked away to be prepared for her meeting and Eirianwen had steeled herself for the worst. But she knew Lysandra and knew that she would not go to the Roman with willing enthusiasm. She was well aware that the inexperienced former priestess had come to love her and, having listened to her incessant talk of Spartan virtue and honour, Eirianwen trusted that, in her heart, Lysandra would remain true even if her body was violated by the governor. It was a sickening thought.

Eirianwen had seen Frontinus many times, the image of his lined, weather-beaten face branded onto her mind’s eye and the thought of his hands and lips on Lysandra’s skin turned her stomach.

Sorina had hit a nerve with her and she now harboured a doubt that she could look on her lover in the same light. But she would not discard her at Sorina’s say so; she and Lysandra shared too much for it to be so easily cast aside.

Sorina.

Thinking of the Clan Chief caused her fresh pain. The older woman was friend, sister and mother to her, her kin through the blood of the Tribes. When she had first come to the ludus it had been Sorina who had allayed her fears, Sorina who had given her the courage to fight on, Sorina who had taught her the tricks of the arena, the skills needed to survive. To win.

Yet Sorina’s eyes were skewed when it came to Lysandra. She was not of the Tribes, true, but Eirianwen knew there must be more to the hatred than that. It was blinding, all consuming, and that in itself was an evil. The Morrigan was playing her game, even here in far off Asia, setting those that loved against each other so that another love might survive.

Eirianwen cursed the goddess with all her heart for she knew that Dark Fate laughed at them all.

Catuvolcos took the girl from the warehouse and led her through the dark streets of Halicarnassus. A slight rain was falling, masking the usual rotting odour for the warehouse district. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, he put his arm round her shoulder, feeling her snuggle against him as they walked.

‘I’m available for anything,’ she said. ‘I don’t normally take more than one man at a time, but I’m told that I must if the trainers want it. I can also sing and play the lyre, but people hardly ever want that.’

‘I’m not going to do anything with you, girl,’ Catuvolcos said gruffly.

‘Oh.’ The prostitute was taken aback. ‘You’d like to watch me with others then? Or shall I just put on a show for you?’

‘No… no.’ Catuvolcos was appalled. ‘I just wanted to get you away from Nastasen. He can become strange when he’s been inhaling that stuff of his.’

‘Yes, opiates do that,’ the girl said. ‘They prolong the act of sex, but they affect people in odd ways.’ She paused, looking up at him. ‘Thank you.’

Catuvolcos gave her a slight smile. ‘It is well,’ he said. ‘You are very young, and I doubt that anyone deserves to be treated in that manner.’

‘Oh, you get used to it,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘It’s not as if I like it, you know, but we are paid well enough. Well, the owner of the brothel is paid and we earn a little. I am not on the streets and my belly is not hungry. Most of the time.’

‘You are hungry now?’ Catuvolcos asked, realising that the beer he had drunk had made him ravenous.

‘Starving,’ she said. ‘But I never eat before a party. I could be sick if someone puts it too far…’ she trailed off. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’

He grunted, knowing all too well. ‘I could eat too.’

The girl pulled away suddenly, looking up at him. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she demanded.

‘Because…’ He trailed off, looking at her. In truth, she did resemble Lysandra but there was a youthful softness to her face the Spartan did not possess, even though only a few years separated the two girls. Certainly, the prostitute was streetwise and accustomed to being used, but her pathetic attempts to feign enjoyment at the degradation that Nastasen had subjected her to had sickened him. Indeed it had wrenched his heart to see so young a girl forced to act in such a manner. He realised he had not answered her question and shrugged with a grin. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly. ‘What is your name?’

‘Well,’ the girl lowered her eyes, toeing the pavement, ‘they call me Venus at the brothel. But my real name is Doris.’

‘Doris?’

‘It’s Greek. I’m named after my mother,’ she said defensively.

‘It’s very pretty,’ he lied. ‘I am called Catuvolcos.’

‘Well then, Catuvolcos,’ she smiled and offered him her hand,

‘shall we eat? I know a few places nearby.’

Catuvolcos encased her tiny hand in his big paw. It felt good, he realised.

Lysandra ignored the sly looks and muttered comments as she followed the Roman governor from the triclinium. Everyone who saw knew that she could only be accompanying him for one reason. It was humiliating in the extreme but she was too nervous to be as outraged as she should be.

‘These formal parties are such a bore,’ the Roman said as they walked through his abode. His voice echoed slightly on the marble walls. ‘I must apologise for Valerian. He is a good boy normally but turns ugly with drink.’

‘It is of no matter, Governor. I am well accustomed to abuse.

I hear it all the time from the crowds.’

‘Yes, I suppose you do,’ he acknowledged, leading her to a small anteroom. It was well furnished with three couches and a table, draped resplendently in red coverings. Many scrolls adorned the walls and there was a desk and chair set up in one corner near a small window. ‘My study,’ he said.

‘It is very lavish.’ Lysandra hesitated as he walked through, easing himself onto a couch. She did not now know what to do and felt vaguely foolish standing in the doorway. Perhaps she should merely disrobe and get the whole sordid business over with quickly. Suddenly, she realised that getting out of the raiment in which she was clad would be no easy undertaking.

‘What are you doing there?’ Frontinus smiled at her. He poured wine for them both, with his own hand, from a krater. ‘Please, do sit.’ He gestured to the couch opposite his own. Lysandra was relieved. Evidently the time was not now and she would have died of embarrassment if she had cast her clothes aside before the moment was upon her.

‘So tell me,’ he said as she sat. ‘Do you think the retiarius superior to the murmillo? I am always fascinated by those bouts, as they say so much. Two opposites, each affording the fighting man or,’ he inclined his head, ‘woman, different advantages and weaknesses. One would have thought the armour of the murmillo would afford heavy odds in favour over the net and trident of the retiarius. Yet these bouts are always closely fought.’

‘I am not trained as a retiaria,’ Lysandra said after a moment’s thought. ‘But I should hazard that it takes much skill to fight as one. In my view, skill should prevail over brute force. But, it depends on the fighter,’ she added. ‘There really are no superior styles of gladiator. It is the individual and how he or she applies the training of the ludus when in the arena.’

Frontinus continued in this manner for some time, quizzing Lysandra on her knowledge of the games, her opinions on different fighters she had seen and their particular merits. In time the conversation turned to war and strategy as it had in the triclinium. Yet Frontinus was not confrontational as Valerian had been. Indeed, she found his discourse engaging and his tactical knowledge superior even to her own. Then again, he had had the benefit of practical experience. In her turn, she queried him, applying his know-how to the gaps in her theo-retical training.

For hours, they debated the battle of Cynoscephalae, regarded as the classic legion against phalanx clash, this and the campaigns of Caesar in Gaul, the Marian Wars and more. Frontinus refilled the oil lamp several times and, though they both partook of the wine, sobriety and dialogue not drunken revelry was the order of the night. She found herself almost liking the man. He was witty, engaging, and possessed of an awesome knowledge of all things martial. Lysandra was also gratified that he, the great general, even conceded to some of her points.

The hours passed into the next day and Lysandra found herself growing tired. Nevertheless, she considered it would be crass in the extreme to show this so she continued, matching the old night owl, point for point. But, during a particularly interesting discussion on Leuctra and the Spartan tactics employed there, she could not help stifling a yawn.

Frontinus broke off in mid-sentence. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘The night has almost passed us by.’

Lysandra swallowed, her heart beginning to pound anew. ‘Yes, Governor,’ she said. The debate had disarmed her, but now she had to steel herself once again for the ordeal to come. At least, she thought, he was not as hateful as she had supposed. She considered that the Roman’s lovemaking would in all likelihood be straightforward, and uncomplicated. She counted herself an excellent judge of character and the lengthy conversation had revealed much about him. Though she knew she would not enjoy it, at least it would not be the nightmare rape she had envisioned and, for that, she was thankful. She reached to her shoulder, and began to tug the soft silk of the chiton away.

Frontinus sat up quickly. ‘Whatever are you doing?’ he asked, looking vaguely perplexed.

She blushed furiously. Removing the garment was as difficult as she had imagined. ‘You would prefer me to keep this on?’ she asked. ‘I am sorry, I have never done this before, and am unused to pleasing the male sex.’

‘I did not invite you here for that!’ Frontinus’s smile was kindly.

‘I will not deny that if you came to me willingly, I would be honoured, for you are extremely beautiful… not to mention intelligent, which is rare amongst women.’

She pulled the chiton back into place too relieved at being wrong to be offended by his unconscious arrogance. As she adjusted the dress, she realised it was not she who had erred; Balbus had misled her. Certainly, had the lanista kept his peace, she would not have been so fraught with worry. And, she thought angrily, she had now embarrassed herself, due to him. Had she been given the opportunity to judge the situation for herself, the evening would have passed without incident. Now, as it stood, she felt intolerably foolish. She cleared her throat, now thankful for the make up the slave girls had applied. Frontinus would not know that beneath it she was as scarlet as a Laconian war-cloak.

‘Why did you ask me here then?’

‘Because I admire skill at arms and I think you have the potential to be great.’ Lysandra nodded; it was not the first time she had heard this, and she believed it was the truth anyway. ‘Certainly, I am an enthusiast of the games,’ he went on, ‘and my eye is well practised. But I wanted to see if there was more to you than merely a good sword arm. And,’ he grinned, ‘governor I may be, but like everyone else, I am star struck by you warriors of the arena. And luckily for me, my position affords me the opportunity to meet those I admire.’ He raised his cup to her. ‘There is indeed much more to you than a good sword arm, Lysandra of Sparta.’

She lifted her own drink. ‘An astute observation, Governor,’ she said. ‘I salute you.’ Placing her cup on the table she rose to her feet. ‘I bid you good evening, Sextus Julius Frontinus. Vale.’

‘ Vale, gladiatrix.’ Frontinus smiled and watched her depart. She was indeed a marvellous creature, he decided. The perfect catalyst for his plans, in fact.

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