Gladiatrix

XXXII

‘Wake up, Gaul!’ Catuvolcos looked about blearily.

Hildreth, was pulling him off the table where he had slumped. ‘You can’t pass out!’ Hildreth herself was flushed red from excess, her breath reeking of beer and garlic.

Catuvolcos recoiled, and was sick down himself.

‘That’s disgusting,’ Hildreth observed.

‘Lysandra,’ Catuvolcos mumbled.

‘She’s locked up, idiot.’

‘No, we must let her out,’ Catuvolcos announced with all the conviction of the truly inebriated. ‘It is not fair that we should enjoy ourselves whilst she is in chains.’ He got to his feet, and overbalanced, falling onto his rear. He looked up, and began to laugh.

Hildreth shook her head, offering him a hand up. ‘Come on, I will help you then. You won’t get there on your own, I think.’

Supporting each other, the two weaved towards the catacombs, sniggering.

‘Shussh…’ Catuvolcos put a finger to his lips as they walked through the tunnels, their mirth echoing off the walls. Trying to cease their hilarity only made it worse and the two leant against the wall, shoulders shuddering with repressed mirth.

‘No, stop.’ Hildreth waved her hands, tears running down her face. ‘It hurts.’ She slid down the wall, clutching her stomach.

‘Help!’

Catuvolcos doubled up at her antics. For a time the two were incapable of even moving, both close to hysterics. ‘The thing is,’ he gasped, ‘I don’t know what we are laughing at.’

‘Your face,’ Hildreth exclaimed. ‘Shussh,’ she imitated him. ‘Was so funny.’ She rolled to her knees, and climbed up, using the wall to support herself. The two staggered on, and made their way to Lysandra’s cell. Grinning, Catuvolcos opened the door.

Lysandra lay naked on the ground, her body illuminated by the light of a dying torch. From head to foot, she was a mass of bruises and lacerations, blood oozing from a cut on her head.

‘Gods!’ Catuvolcos rushed to her side, knelt by her.

‘Is she alive?’ Hildreth was stunned by the sight.

He placed a hand to Lysandra’s neck. ‘Yes. But barely. Get help.’

He fumbled with the locks on the Spartan’s chains now cursing his drunkenness. He looked around, to see Hildreth still standing in the doorway, her expression horrified. ‘Go!’ he roared, but Hildreth was pointing at an area of the floor. Where Catuvolcos had moved Lysandra, the true extent of her injuries was apparent.

The floor beneath her lower body was stained with her blood.

‘Don’t tell me this!’ Balbus put his face into his hands. Sunlight fell across his face and made him wince. The hour was early and he had over-indulged in the governor’s hospitality. Stick and Catuvolcos looked like two corpses standing before himself and Titus. ‘Who did it?’ The lanista resisted the urge to curse.

‘We don’t know.’ Stick shrugged. ‘It could have been anyone.

We were celebrating with the others.’

‘You mean you were drunk,’ Titus growled. The two trainers stared sheepishly at the floor.

‘… And it couldn’t have been just anyone, you imbecile!’

Balbus stood up, his stomach lurching. ‘She was locked in a cell, you say. By your own hand! So whoever did it had to have a key.’

‘Keys can be stolen,’ Catuvolcos offered.

‘And has anyone reported one missing?’ Balbus shouted him down. When this rhetorical question was met with silence the lanista threw up his arms. ‘I can’t leave you two alone for one night!’ he blustered. ‘Every night is party night for Stick and Catuvolcos, but when Balbus takes one night off — one — what does he find? The place in disarray and his most promising gladiatrix raped, beaten and stabbed near to death. I’ll bet you’ve not even begun to get the other women on to the carts, have you?

No. And who’ll have to foot the bill to the arena for the over-stay? Lucius Balbus will!’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Catuvolcos mumbled.

Balbus glared at him. ‘Sorry, are you? You’ll be more sorry if I have you nailed to a board for your idiocy,’ he waved a finger, ‘and that includes you, Stick.’ The two trainers said nothing, merely looked down at the ground, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘Damn the pair of you,’ he added in a tired murmur.

A silence hung in the room for some time while Balbus pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying to let the anger drain out of him. This was just not fair: not when he was on the verge of the biggest deal of his life, the greatest purse that any lanista outside of Rome could hope to make and the fame that the proposed extravaganza would bring him. ‘What did the surgeon say?’ He decided to ask a practical question. Better to hear the worst, and get it over with.

‘She’s in a bad way,’ Catuvolcos said at once. ‘Balbus, terrible things have been done to her. The surgeon says…’ He paused, and swallowed. ‘The surgeon says it must have been a group that attacked her. It was — he said to me — not like she was just raped — they treated her in the vilest manner they could. There was hatred behind this attack.’

Something stirred in the back of Balbus’s mind.

‘Where’s Nastasen?’ Titus said beating him to the question.

‘Still in his quarters, I suppose,’ Stick said.

‘Guards!’ Balbus screamed. Presently, an arena watchman appeared in the doorway. ‘Get me Nastasen here. You know who I mean, boy? The big Nubian trainer from my ludus?’

The lad nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

The four of them waited in silence for the guard to return from the arena. None were surprised to learn that Nastasen was nowhere to be found.

Sorina felt a sense of keen disappointment when she had opened her eyes. Her last thought before consciousness had fled in the arena was that the gods would take her. The sight of Eirianwen falling, her hand reaching out for her Spartan lover, and the blood — so much blood — haunted her. That her own wounds pained her was nothing compared to the emptiness she felt in her heart.

She could she realised — and perhaps should — have turned her head from Lysandra and Eirianwen. Hindsight was so easy, the closeness of death putting things into harsh perspective.

Clan Chief: the title mocked her now. Chief of what, she asked herself. Itinerant slaves from all over the world — where was the honour in that? Was honour worth the death of one whom she had come to regard as daughter? She tried to sit up in her cot, gritting her teeth as her wounds pulled.

‘Lie back.’ A man’s voice broached no argument. Moments later, the surgeon was leaning over her. ‘I spent a long time stitching you up, Sorina, and I don’t want you splitting your wounds. You must lie still; I have others to attend to. Do you want some water?’

Sorina nodded, finding that her throat was too cracked and dry to speak. The surgeon tilted her head, and tipped some water onto her lips. The taste was heavenly and she tried to take more.

‘Not too much,’ the surgeon admonished. ‘Just a sip. You can have more soon.’ He laid her head back and moved on. Sorina followed him with her eyes and was stunned to see Lysandra in the cot next to hers. It was the long, raven-coloured hair by which the Amazon knew her for the Spartan was disfigured by so many bruises as to be near unrecognisable.

‘What happened to her?’ she croaked.

‘Rest now.’ The surgeon looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Don’t worry about her, concentrate on your own mending.’

‘What happened?’ Sorina injected as much force as she could into her voice.

The surgeon sighed. ‘She was raped, beaten and stabbed — probably by your trainer, the Nubian. Does that knowledge make you feel any better, Amazon? Now, do as I say. Rest.’

Sorina laid her head wearily on the pillow. She found that there was still hatred in her heart for Lysandra. If not for the Greek, none of this would have come to pass. Yet she was still womankind and rape was the vilest act that could be committed upon her. It was an abomination against the goddess herself.

No one, not even the Spartan, deserved that.

Her eyes were drawn once again to her unmoving form. That Lysandra would be much changed by this, she knew well. On the steppes, she had seen women who had been taken and so abused. Some recovered, some broke — but none were ever the same after such an ordeal.

She and Lysandra could never be friends, that was certain; yet, even though she still despised her, Sorina decided there should be a mending between them. Eirianwen was gone, the cause of their dispute passed on. Life without her would be intolerable enough and abiding hostility between herself and the Spartan would be a constant reminder of Eirianwen’s passing. But Lysandra would never make such a gesture, would not deign to lower herself to make peace with ‘the barbarian’. It would be she, Sorina, who must make the first move.

That would hurt her pride sorely, but it was something that had to be done for the good of all concerned.