Gladiatrix

XXVIII

‘Aeschylus wouldn’t budge.’ Septimus Falco and Balbus were relaxing in their favourite bathhouse, some distance from the arena. Lanista and promoter both found it beneficial to discuss matters away from the distractions of the amphitheatre.

‘A pity.’ Falco wiggled his toes, enjoying the calming heat of the water. ‘But, as for me, I can’t lose. You see, I didn’t exhaust my options.’ He chuckled. ‘Really, Balbus, you may be dripping in gold, but I have to make a living too! The governor himself has an interest in the bout and will be willing to cough up to see it.’

Balbus’s eyes were hooded. ‘I thought he was an ‘Achillia’ devotee,’ he said. ‘Why would he pay to see the others fight?’

‘You must have your head buried in day-to-day papers.’ Falco kicked out and floated lazily on his back before continuing. ‘Our Sextus Julius Frontinus has become an advocate of the women’s game. He’s totally enamoured of your Achillia, true, but have you not noticed he is always early for the female matches?’

Balbus’s grunt was derisive. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I have too much to do. My days aren’t taken up with spectating,’ he added. ‘There are surgeons’ fees, bids for slaves from other schools, reports on slaves from other schools, correspondence, bet settlements…’ he trailed off. ‘It’s not easy being a lanista, Falco. People believe that all you need is a few sesterces and a couple of armed slaves to be a success. But I’m telling you, there is a lot more to it than that!’

‘You’ve turned it into an art form,’ Falco commented blithely and was rewarded by a scowl from Balbus. He returned to the side of the pool. ‘At any rate, the fight can go ahead,’ he said.

‘I’m haggling over terms but the governor is already sold on the idea. It’s just a question of how much I can squeeze out of him.’

‘That,’ Balbus smiled, ‘is always music to my ears, Falco.’

News of the impending bout between the two tribeswomen did not take long to spread amongst Balbus’s fighters and quickly to the other schools at the games. Keeping the fact a secret was impossible, as gossip amongst the slaves of both arena and ludus was rife. No sooner had Balbus put the paperwork together, than the news got out, courtesy of the scribes.

For Eirianwen, it was hellish. Having been cast out of the Tribe, women whom she counted friends could no longer associate with her: this was the law. Lysandra did her best to include her, but the Greeks were so different to the women that Eirianwen knew. There had been truth in Sorina’s words; the folk of the middle sea were another breed to those of the Tribes. However, they did try to be friendly and, though it went against the grain, Eirianwen was grateful to them, even if she could not allow herself to be taken in as part of their coterie.

It would be difficult enough to take Sorina’s place as Clan Chief if she should win the bout and openly consorting with the Greeks as a whole would only cause her kin to despise her.

She considered that the tribeswomen might just forgive her in her love for Lysandra, but she could not allow herself to seek comfort with the rest of what her own kind saw to be a rival clan.

She was all too aware of the ramifications of her contest with the Clan Chief. It was much more than two women fighting: she represented change; Sorina the old ways. The older warrior’s anger had festered and infected the other women. Sorina looked at things as part of the whole and that could not be applied to individuals. Rome was a cruel empire, but that did not make all Romans evil, nor all Greeks, for that matter. Eirianwen hated Rome for enslaving her people, but could not bring herself to judge an entire race on the actions of politicians and generals.

Sorina’s constant haranguing would lead to trouble in the ludus, of that Eirianwen was certain. If one of the tribeswomen did get it into her mind to cause trouble with the women of the middle sea, they would tire of it sooner or later and retaliate. The entire school would be split and this would make for an intolerable situation. Blood could be spilt away from the arena, which would in turn lead to more death by reprisal.

There was too much death already, she thought. The gladiatrices had to fight in the arena, but to follow the path of Sorina would bring the blood from that place into their own lives.

Eirianwen could not stand for that.

But could she kill Sorina over it? That was the dilemma. She had spoken out in anger against her, words said by both that now could not be taken back. She could not bring herself to hate the older woman, they had been friends for too long. That they were from different tribes no longer mattered: in the enclosed world of the ludus they were kin.

Eirianwen Kinslayer.

The thought was a bitter one, but she knew in her heart that when they faced each other on the sands Sorina would give her no quarter. She must steel herself and bury her feelings. To do otherwise would be to invite defeat. Even then, she feared that the Dacian would be more than a match for her. She was the younger but Sorina had a lifetime of battle behind her, both in the arena and also on the plains of her homeland. There were no ruses Eirianwen knew that Sorina did not, no skill mastered that had not been taught by the Clan Chief.

Despite Lysandra’s constant encouragement, she knew that the odds were against her in this. As a Druid’s daughter, she was sometimes possessed of the Sight. But this time the Sight would not reveal her fate, the Morrigan had drawn a veil of darkness over the future.

And Erianwen was afraid.

‘So my money’s on the Silurian.’

Stick and Catuvolcos had returned to their regular night-time haunt, the trainer’s recreation site. As always it was crowded and all the talk was of the bout between Gladiatrices Prima and Secunda.

‘I’ve never seen so much interest in a women’s bout,’ Stick went on. ‘It’s incredible. The money changing hands over it is unheard of. Balbus is beaming like Helios himself. How about you, who do you think will win?’

Catuvolcos stared into his beer. ‘Hard to say. All the odds favour Sorina but I have a feeling Eirianwen will come through. She has a stronger cause to fight for.’

‘Huh.’ Stick helped himself to another cup. ‘What cause?’

‘Sorina fights to preserve what she thinks is right; Eirianwen fights for love. That is the strongest cause.’

Stick gave his neighing laugh. ‘You’re going soft,’ he accused, his bulbous eyes shining with mirth. ‘You sound like a poet. Don’t tell me that because Lysandra and Eirianwen are tonguing each other’s buds you think that they are in love! Come on!’ He slapped his thigh.

‘Stick, you’re disgusting,’ Catuvolcos retorted.

‘Thank you.’

‘But I’m serious,’ Catuvolcos went on. ‘I’ve been watching them since news of this broke out. Unbelievable as it may sound, the Spartan cares for her. I did not think she had any real feelings but it seems she has. And what’s more, Eirianwen can’t stop touching her. Small things, you know, Stick. But these things tell.

When they talk, it’s a touch on the hand or the shoulder. They are so close now.’

‘Now that’s one party I’d like to be invited to.’ Stick licked his lips. ‘I keep my sword in its scabbard at the ludus, but I’m still a man. That Eirianwen… those lovely big tits… and imagine getting one in Lysandra. That’s what she needs, you know. And I’d be the man to give it to her, I’m telling you.’

‘Stick, she’d eat you for breakfast.’ Catuvolcos laughed. ‘She’s a head taller than you and better in a fight.’

‘I like it rough, anyway,’ Stick said, his own face splitting into a grin. ‘That’s what I mean. It would be like two opposites, one blonde, one dark haired, the soft and the hard…’

‘You’re turning my stomach.’ Catuvolcos could imagine nothing more obscene than Stick in the throes of passion. ‘And you need to invest in a whore,’ he added. ‘Empty your sack, and spare me your fantasies.’

Stick nodded enthusiastically, eyes roving about the room. ‘Are you going to join me in some entertainment?’

Catuvolcos shook his head. ‘No, I think I’ll take a walk.’

‘Back to the brothel?’ Stick eyed him owlishly. ‘To see…’ he grinned, ‘what was her name again?’

‘Doris.’

‘Ah yes.’ Stick was brimming with suppressed glee. ‘Doris. The lovely Doris. You must be spending a fortune there. That’s madness, Gaul, because the whores here are all for free. Lanista’s expenses and all that.’

‘Well, I wait till she has finished work,’ Catuvolcos said. ‘I enjoy her company,’ he added, sounding rather foolish in his own ears.

‘You mean you aren’t giving her one?’ Stick roared with laughter.

‘Catuvolcos the lover! It’s priceless. First Lysandra, now this one.

You amaze me.’ Catuvolcos scowled, his face flushing with embarrassment, but Stick sobered, smiling slightly. ‘Good for you, boy,’ he said, for once not chiding or mocking. ‘There’s little enough to take a man’s mind from where we are and what we do. If your Doris makes you happy, then that is a good thing.’

‘You think so?’

‘At least it has gotten you over Lysandra,’ Stick observed.

‘That’s true. If I am honest, since I have met Doris, I cannot find it in my heart to stay angry towards Lysandra. I was being foolish.’ He waved at a slave girl for more beer. ‘She could not be a wife to me, nor any man. Her upbringing, and now her life here in the ludus has changed her; it would change anyone,’ he added quietly. ‘Of course, she welcomes the change. Victory to her was an outlet, a vindication of her belief in her own greatness.’

Stick laughed. ‘You have to admit, it’s rare to come across a woman with that big a head. Do you think all Spartan’s are like her?’

‘They cannot be, surely.’

‘Sorina will take it hard if you reconcile yourself to Lysandra, though.’ Stick was again serious. ‘Especially now.’

Catuvolcos scowled. As a Celt, he understood that Sorina and Eirianwen must fight. A challenge had been made and must be accepted lest honour be forfeit; but the reason for the battle was without honour. Lysandra and Eirianwen’s affair was their own and, even as Clan Chief, Sorina had little right to interfere. He had told Sorina so and they had quarrelled over it. ‘I wish that it had not come to this, Stick,’ he said after some time. ‘Eirianwen and Sorina are both good women, but the Clan Chief is blind over the love between Eirianwen and Lysandra. Publicly, she says it is because Lysandra’s ‘civilised ways’ will corrupt the Clan. But the truth is that she is jealous. I feel badly to say this, for Sorina has been a good friend for me in troubled times. But she loves Eirianwen as a daughter and it cuts her to the quick that she has chosen Lysandra. She cannot stand to be second place.’

Stick shook his head. ‘And when one barbarian challenges another, neither will back down,’ he said sadly. ‘One of them will die over it. It seems a waste, Catuvolcos.’

‘It is that,’ Catuvolcos agreed. ‘Sorina is now distraught at the consequences of this quarrel. How can she kill the one whom she had come to regard as daughter? I think that she now regrets her words but there is no going back. If she had closed her eyes, it would not have come to this.’

Their mood had taken a gloomy turn and the two men drank in silence. Perhaps it would not have come to this if Eirianwen had been any other, Catuvolcos thought to himself. So beautiful, so perfect. She was almost a goddess on earth. Her physical attractiveness was matched only by her good nature, and as a Druid’s daughter, her knowledge of lore was great. She was the perfect successor to Sorina in so many ways. Save for her love of a Greek woman. ‘I had best go,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I must meet Doris.’

Stick seemed to shake off his grim mood. ‘I think you’re an idiot for not spearing in this pond where the fishes are free. Now piss off and leave a real man to his enjoyment.’ Stick tipped him a wink and got to his feet, seeking his diversion amongst the women.

Catuvolcos left him to his enjoyments, walking briskly towards the brothel. Though he had only known Doris a short time, he felt a genuine affection for the young prostitute. That she plied her trade on her back was of no matter to him. He himself peddled flesh, only in a different way. More often than not, his charges would end up dying young or worse, maimed and useless.

He shook his head, annoyed that the conversation with Stick had turned his mood bitter. Yet he was able to cast these grim thoughts from his mind as soon as he spied Doris’s place of work. She was waiting for him by the doorway, her labours over with for the night. She walked towards him and it made Catuvolcos happy to see that her step was quick.