Gladiatrix

XXVII

‘I won’t have it.’ Balbus glared at Sorina, his tone heavy with finality. This was not what he needed. It was early morning, the sun only just creeping across the desk in his rented Halicarnassus office and already there were problems to deal with.

‘You have no real choice in this, lanista,’ Sorina responded evenly. ‘We will fight, regardless. But it is my hope that one of us will survive. And that, in this, you may profit.’

‘It’s not a question of profit.’ Balbus slammed his fist onto his desk. ‘It’s a question of hierarchy. I’m the owner of this troupe, in case you had forgotten. You can’t just go arranging your personal feuds because it pleases you to do so.’

For a moment, sadness flickered across the harsh, weathered features of the Amazon. ‘It does not please me to do so,’ she said.

‘But nevertheless, I must fight Eirianwen.’

Balbus raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure you two can work it out,’ he said placatingly. ‘You’ve always been so close, there must be a way to extricate yourselves from the situation without blood-shed.’

‘You do not understand the ways of the Tribes, Balbus.’ Sorina sighed. ‘This is not a contract we can negotiate, or a court in which we can argue. I have been challenged and that challenge must be answered.’

‘This is preposterous,’ the lanista spluttered. ‘What am I running here?’ he implored, eyes flying to the heavens.

‘I am Gladiatrix Prima; Eirianwen, Gladiatrix Secunda. These games have brought your ludus to prominence. Was Lysandra, a novice fighter, not invited to the seat of the governor himself?’

Balbus noted the distaste when she mentioned the Spartan but waved her to continue. ‘I admit this match is not planned but it could show you, lanista, as one extremely willing to please the crowd… and the editor. By offering your two best fighters in a death match you show your generosity, risking your greatest assets. Your gladiatrices have, on the whole, outclassed those novelty fighters from the other schools. The crowd will love it. Think of the money in side-betting alone. And I am sure that you and Falco can squeeze some more coin from Fat Aeschylus for this…spectacle.’

‘You have a point,’ Balbus conceded, all too aware that avarice was getting the better of him. Then again, he soothed himself, everyone had to make a living. ‘I’m not promising anything, mind,’ he admonished. ‘But if the terms are agreeable, you shall have your fight. Fair enough?’

The barbarian got to her feet. ‘Fair enough.’ She nodded briefly. ‘I thank you for this, Balbus.’ She turned to leave.

‘Sorina,’ he called out as she put her hand to do the door.

‘Who should I bet on?’

‘I will walk away alive, lanista,’ Sorina said, her back to him.

‘Eirianwen is young, strong and fast. But she is not Clan Chief and never will be.’ She left before he could phrase another question, slamming the door behind her.

Balbus sat back heavily in his chair and mulled over the prospect.

The barbarian was correct, he could make a fortune from this bout. The aging veteran facing the young lioness; the strength of youth versus the wisdom of experience. It had all the makings of a classic confrontation.

‘Nikos!’ he screamed, calling a scribe to him. The skinny Greek entered in a rush, looking somewhat dishevelled.

‘Master?’

‘Get a messenger to Septimus Falco. Tell him that I require his presence with all haste.’

‘At once, Master.’ He bowed and left, leaving Balbus to contemplate the money he would soon be counting.

Lysandra arose early, filled with a desire to see Eirianwen, but her Hellene compatriots were not sensitive to her needs and quizzed her mercilessly about her evening with the governor.

When none of the details were as lurid as had been expected, they soon lost interest. She could not help thinking of Penelope, and this brought a sad smile to her face. The fisher girl would have been most disappointed by the lack of carnal excesses.

‘I do not expect you to understand,’ Lysandra finished disdainfully. ‘We spoke mostly of matters tactical and military. Whilst you are all competent fighters, I fear that such stratagems would be beyond you.’ This was greeted by ironic chuckles from the women. This, Lysandra reckoned, was to cover their own embarrassment. She was only speaking the truth.

Nevertheless, when they realised there was no gossip to be had, they let her be and she made her way from the cell. The passageways were mostly deserted at the early hour, the fighters still sleeping off their excesses from the previous evening. Lysandra could not get to grips with the need to drink oneself into insensibility after a bout but she had noticed it was the norm for almost everyone else.

Eirianwen, she knew, was an early riser and, though a prodigious drinker in her own right, she could normally be found in the baths at daybreak. This in mind, Lysandra headed straight for the small facility in the grounds of the amphitheatre, and her heart leapt when she saw Eirianwen sitting by the pool, her feet paddling.

Lysandra moved behind her and sat, her legs scissoring Eirianwen’s hips, and wrapped her arms round her belly. Eirianwen started slightly, but relaxed as she kissed her neck and shoulders.

‘Good morning,’ she whispered, breathing deeply the scent of Eirianwen’s freshly washed hair. ‘I missed you.’

‘How was your night?’ she let her golden head fall back to Lysandra’s shoulder, but there was an edge to her voice.

‘Not what I expected,’ she answered quickly, keen to allay any fears Eirianwen may have pertaining to her fidelity. ‘The governor is an admirer of the games,’ she explained. ‘He had no interest in anything else. He merely wished to talk, that is all. I think he is enamoured of us female fighters.’

‘A pity he wasn’t enamoured of keeping the Silures free. Roman bastard.’

Lysandra bit her lip, desperate to appease her. ‘Please do not be angry with me, Eirianwen. I had no choice in this. But I swear to you that nothing happened. We just talked.’ There was a silence, punctuated only by the gentle dripping of condensation and the distant roar of the furnace that kept the waters hot.

Lysandra pulled Eirianwen closer to her. It was now, she decided, that she must give voice to the truth. ‘I love you.’

Eirianwen turned her head, and Lysandra saw with shock that her eyes were red rimmed and cracked. She had been crying.

Full of concern, she touched the tear-streaked face. ‘What is it?’ she whispered, kissing her. ‘What troubles you?’

‘Love,’ Eirianwen said simply. She turned about so they faced each other, and pulled Lysandra to her. For long moments they held each other, aware only of the closeness and comfort that embrace gave.

‘What is it?’ Lysandra asked again. She felt herself close to tears at Eirianwen’s pain, but she forced them away by effort of will.

It would be unseemly to cry, she admonished herself. Despite her declaration of love, she still had standards to adhere to.

Eirianwen broke their embrace, and sat back a little, gazing into her eyes. ‘I do love you, Lysandra,’ she said, and Lysandra’s heart leapt. ‘But this love causes me great pain.’

‘But why?’ Inside, Lysandra was all in delirium at Eirianwen’s words, but she forced herself to calm. There was more to this.

‘Sorina…’ Eirianwen swallowed. ‘Sorina hates you and is displeased by the way we feel. She…’ The Briton stopped, tears flooding her eyes. ‘She has cast me out of the Tribe.’

That, Lysandra considered, was only a good thing. Perhaps free of the old bitch’s influence, Eirianwen could truly learn what it was to be a civilised woman. She could see though that this proscription was hard for Eirianwen to take. ‘Perhaps she will reconsider,’ she offered.

Eirianwen shook her head. ‘That cannot be. For I have challenged her right in this.’

‘This is bad news.’ Lysandra nodded. ‘I am sure none of your kin would vote in favour of our love.’ The last word tasted good on her lips. But Eirianwen laughed harshly.

‘Vote?’ she said. ‘This is no vote, Lysandra! I am to fight her over you. To the death.’

Lysandra recoiled. ‘That cannot be!’ she exclaimed. ‘It is true that she and I are not enamoured of each other but she is your friend. Your Clan Chief!’

‘Not when this is over. One of us will die. It must be so.

Either she will remain Chief or I will take her place. That can be the only outcome. But either way, I lose. If I die, then it is over. But even if I win, what have I won? The others will have to take me as Chief but I shall ever be an outcast because of my love for you!’

Lysandra took Eirianwen’s hands in her own. ‘This is an absurdity,’ she stated. ‘If Sorina has issue with us, then let it be me that takes this burden.’ Inwardly she burned with the desire to face the Amazon with her sword in hand, partly because she had come to hate her, but more for the pain she had caused Eirianwen.

But the Briton shook her head.

‘You are not of the Tribes. And even if you were, it was I who made the Challenge. It is I who must face her.’

‘I cannot understand this,’ Lysandra said. ‘It is the way of…’

She halted, nearly uttering the word ‘barbarians’. ‘The Tribes,’ she amended hastily, ‘and I have no experience of it. But I do know this. Leaders are the same, whatever their kith or kin. When you defeat her, the others will know that you have taken your rightful place. You said it yourself, Eirianwen. Sorina has grown bitter in hatred.’

Eirianwen’s brow creased as she considered her words, and Lysandra fought down the urge to kiss her, which would have ruined the flow of her impromptu oratory. She pressed on. ‘Does it matter that my ancestors were Spartan and yours noble folk of Britannia? How can there be evil in two people’s love for one another? Especially in this place! Why would she see ill in our happiness?’

‘Because we are not the same,’ Eirianwen whispered. ‘What hope can there be for us, Lysandra? Truly? Our chances of getting out of here alive grow slimmer with every bout. And even if we win free, what then? We are two women, a barbarian and a former priestess. Where could we go together that would not bring a thousand troubles on our heads?’

‘ Amor vincit omnia, Eirianwen. Love conquers all things, and there is truth in that. We will win free, and we will be together.’

As she spoke, Lysandra felt alive with the conviction of her words.

‘I have never known love before. Indeed, I have spurned it, thinking it would make me weak. But when I look into your eyes, I feel such strength… I feel that when I am with you I could accomplish anything. I care not for the scorn of others. I care only that you are by my side and I by yours. Women we may be, but our love goes deeper than any shared by man and wife. For we are equals, Eirianwen, and that is a rare thing in this world.’

Lysandra saw hope flare in Eirianwen’s beautiful blue eyes.

‘You think this could be true?’

‘I know so,’ she said. This was the first time, she recognised an Eirianwen who needed her. The Briton was older and more experienced than she and Lysandra had been happy to let her take the lead in their relationship. But now, it was the tribeswoman who was lost and, in supporting her, Lysandra felt her own inner strength magnified. ‘That this has happened between you and Sorina is a bad thing,’ she conceded. ‘Life is full of bad things, Eirianwen. But the gods sweeten the bad with the good. Is it ill we are slaves? Yes. But if we were not, how would we have met?

And my freedom is small price to pay for what I feel at this moment.’

Eirianwen did not speak but leant forward, kissing her with a soft yet urgent passion. And for a while, the concerns of the world were lost to them.