Gladiatrix

IV

She would not cry.

It was not the Spartan way. Tears stung her eyes, threatening to well forth, but she gritted her teeth against them.

Her jaw set, she emerged from Balbus’s villa and made her way back to the training area, thankful only that her bravado had not failed her before the lanista. She could not give in to despair. She had to face her fate with courage and the discipline instilled in her since childhood — so she reasoned in her mind but her heart cried out, demanding that her emotions be released.

She fought a desperate battle against herself, drowning in the cacophony of the ludus. All about her women whirled in the violent dance of combat, their features blurred behind the opaque veil of her tears. She took a breath to steel herself but, in that moment, the dam of her self-control burst. She fell to a crouch, her raven hair hanging about her face and gave in to the pain.

Tears rolled unchecked down her face, each shuddering breath cutting her heart to shreds.

How could she have been so wrong? The face of the lanista filled her mind’s eye, his words mocking her with their awful truth. She had been so sure, so confident that regaining her freedom was simply a matter of formality; that Balbus, a civilised Roman citizen, would respect both her and her calling. Had he not adorned his ludus with images of the gods?

In that moment she knew that Balbus’s piety was a facade; the only god he worshipped was money. He made no distinction between civilised Hellenes or savage barbarians — to him they were all simply profit-making flesh.

Slavery.

The very word was an anathema to all that was Spartan, all that she was. With his grim pronouncement, Lucius Balbus had stripped out the very essence of her being, making her an aberration in her own eyes.

To cry was to disgrace not only her Spartan heritage, but Athene herself. Yet now, freed from the shackles of her will, her anguish tore through her with savage claws. In silent desperation she clutched her arms about herself seeking, childlike, to soothe the pain. How long she stayed this way she could not tell, conscious only of her own black despair.

‘Here.’

Dimly, she became aware of a gentle touch on her shoulder.

She raised her head, her vision still blurred by tears, to look upon the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. Through her misted eyes, Lysandra could not make out if the woman were a mortal or a muse of Apollo come to spirit her away from this place.

Her hair was of the finest spun gold, straight and fair, her skin kissed to delicate bronze by the Carian sun. The flawless coun-tenance was perfection beyond that of any described in Homeric hymn; impossibly beautiful, she moved gracefully, as if she were the remnant of a dream. She knelt before Lysandra and daubed her face with a cool, damp cloth, wiping away the bitterness of her tears. She smiled then, and the light of the world shone in her peerless blue eyes.

‘It will go hard for you if they see you cry,’ she said. ‘Don’t give them the satisfaction.’

Lysandra nodded her thanks and was about to speak when a shadow fell across them.

‘Eirianwen!’ It was Stick. The wiry Parthian did not attempt to hide his leer as he looked down at the two women. ‘Is this new slave in tears already?’

‘No,’ Eirianwen stood. ‘She was hit in the face by my back-swing,’ she indicated a wooden practice sword lying nearby. ‘She’s dazed that’s all.’

‘Dazed is it?’ Stick leant over and grasped Lysandra’s chin, turning her face from left to right, as would a vet with a sick animal. She resisted the urge to slap his hand away, knowing she must play the part Eirianwen had set for her. ‘She looks alert enough to me,’ he said, releasing his grip with a disdainful push.

Lysandra found anger taking the edge from her grief. She rose to her feet.

Eirianwen shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m losing my touch.’

Stick gave his whinnying cackle. ‘I doubt that, Silurian,’ he said. ‘Get back to work.’

The blonde woman nodded, retrieved her sword and began a set drill. Her movements were swift and precise, her strikes executed with speed and power. Despite herself, Lysandra was shocked that her beautiful benefactor was, in fact, from a barbarian tribe of the most savage ilk. The Silurians dwelt in far off Britannia and had been only recently conquered by Sextus Julius Frontinus. Evidently, the current governor of Asia Minor had brought some captives with him to his latest post and sold them on.

‘What are you staring at?’ Stick interrupted her reverie. ‘Five laps of the ludus and then join me with the other chattel!’

It was an order and, though issued by the repugnant little Parthian, discipline and training responded. Without thought she took off at a steady run, threading her way through the crowded training area, her long legs eating up ground with easy rapidity.

The simple familiarity of running calmed her nerves somewhat, but she could not shake the emptiness that had overwhelmed her.

As she began her circuit of the ludus, its very perimeter defining her new imprisonment and new status, she struggled to come to terms with her misfortune: casting her mind back, she searched for some past deed that may have offended the gods and caused them to scourge her so.

It seemed a lifetime ago that she had left the sanctity of the temple, high on Sparta’s acropolis, to begin her Mission and yet fewer than two years had passed. It was rare for one as young as she had been to receive this honour yet, in the harsh environment of the temple she had excelled at all trials, both physical and mental. The High Priestess had deemed her worthy, and she was not one to make swift decisions. Calling the old woman’s face to mind brought a harsh stab of pain to Lysandra’s breast.

She wondered if she would ever see her again, or any of those Sisters with whom she had grown up.

She pushed the vision aside: it would do little good to think of what now was lost to her. Instead she recalled her pride and her certainty that the old woman had judged her well. She had been, after all, far ahead of any of the girls in her age group. In fact, Lysandra had considered that she was superior in both learning and physical prowess to most of the priestesses in the temple but this was a fact she felt would have been churlish to overstate. In the Spartan way, she had allowed her actions to elucidate.

Lysandra had left the temple with a definite plan in mind: most of her predecessors on the Mission had confined their duties to mainland Hellas and other centres of civilisation; she had thought this short sighted in the extreme. What use, she had asked herself, in spreading Athene’s Word to those that were already familiar with Hellenic religion or its inferior Roman derivative?

Yet, for all their lack of culture, the Romans had conquered much of the known world — save Sparta, a fact that she had to re-iterate ad nauseam to the uneducated — and Rome’s legions breasted far-flung frontiers. Away from the epicentre of civilisation, she could pass on her teachings to Gauls, Illyrians, Pannonians and the many other barbarian races that made up the imperial provinces.

As she ran, she recalled her first meeting with the Legate in command of the Fifth Macedonian Legion with fondness. It was, she knew, not unheard of for women to travel with Roman Legions. However, a woman working in an active capacity was a different matter entirely. At first, the Legate tried to dismiss her out of hand, just as she had expected. Nonetheless she cut a fine figure in her hard-earned scarlet war cloak and with a plumed Corinthian style helmet tucked under arm she clearly impressed him.

Though rhetoric was rarely practised in Sparta, her priestesses were usually schooled to convey religious oratory and Lysandra applied this learning to put her case to the Legate. Not only could she take the auguries and provide spiritual guidance to his soldiers, she told him, she was also skilled in rudimentary medicine.

It was this that had convinced him. A good commander’s first concern is for his soldiers, and any assistance in the hospital tent was not something to be dismissed out of hand. Admittedly, he had been somewhat grudging with his consent, but he had acquiesced.

Her small tent was billeted with the Sixth Century, First Cohort and their reaction to her presence was surly at best. To most soldiers a woman was good for one thing only, yet her position as a priestess of the Virgin Athene protected her from any amorous advances. A lusty bunch they may have been but soldiers were superstitious enough not to risk displeasing the fickle gods.

It had been a hard task to win them over but Lysandra, already used to the brutal life of the priestesses’ agoge, had not shirked her duties. She rose at dawn with the men, exercising when they did and even lending a hand to dig the palisades on occasion.

The willingness to get her hands dirty had initially been treated with derision by the tough, cynical legionaries and thereafter became a matter of amusement. One middle-aged soldier, Marcus Pavo by name, always seemed to take special care to tease her.

Once, she recalled, he had commented that her ‘tits were small enough to fool any recruiter into thinking she was a boy’.

Lysandra responded that she had seen him emerging from a swim in the Parapamis River and was sure that he too was still a boy, judging by his ‘equipment’. That she bore their jibes with good humour and responded with her own laconic wit in time caused men of the Legion to regard her as a sort of mascot. Their acceptance had meant more to her than she cared to admit; she had become one of them, a trusted augur and priestess and even friend to some, Pavo among them.

Then, on a routine voyage across the Hellespont, the storm came: Poseidon’s wrath had dragged the entire century to the bottom, choosing to spare only her. Pavo had tried to swim out to her — to save her before his own exhaustion overtook him.

His desperate gasps for help as his armour pulled him under still haunted her dreams. In this violent twist of fate, the Earth-Shaker had stripped a priestess of his hated sibling Athene of her friends, her freedom and her dignity. In saving her life, he spat in her eye; Lysandra would rather she had perished with the rest than have to live the life of a slave.

She began to slow her run, realising that she was almost at the end of her laps. Her reverie had turned as black as her circumstances. Lysandra cast a glance at the statue of Roman Athene once again, and wondered why she had been consigned to this cruel fate. The serene marble face gave no answers.

V

They were pushed hard.

From dawn till dusk, the new captives were subjected to a punishing regimen of callisthenics that left them stumbling exhausted into their tiny cells at the day’s end. Here they were shackled and left till cockcrow, when the drills began again.

Though she prided herself on her physical fitness, Lysandra found the savage regime challenging. The day began with laps of the ludus, alternately jogging and sprinting; this type of exercise was known to make the lungs bigger and the legs stronger. A light breakfast followed, for those who could keep it down, and then the real work of the day began. The novices were not given swords to work with because, as Stick constantly reminded them, their bodies had to be strengthened first. And that would take several weeks.

They hung from bars, pulling with their arms until their chins touched the wooden pole from which they were suspended, or lay flat on the ground, sitting up each time Stick barked the order. Many such simple exercises were repeated over and over.

Lysandra and the Germans had been merged into a much larger group of women, other recent acquisitions to Balbus’s famillia, and all were put through their paces under the exacting eye of the trainers. Many faltered and were encouraged to greater exertions with the aid of the vine staff or birch rod. It was not only Stick responsible for these arbitrary thrashings; the trainers were rotated on a regular basis and Lysandra came to distinguish between the harsh-but-fair and the unfairly harsh.

There was Nastasen, burnt black as coal by the hot sun of his savage Nubian homeland. A huge man, his body thick with cords of muscle, he had strange, wiry hair growing in wild locks. He had taken an intense dislike to Lysandra for reasons unknown to her. She bore his animosity with stoicism, speaking little and working hard. Yet Nastasen still took delight in administering the lash to her, even though she was confident of her own excellence. She took some satisfaction from receiving her punishments in silence, knowing that her refusal to be moved would frustrate him.

Most popular amongst the barbarian women was Catuvolcos, a young Gaul given more to haranguing the women than beating them. His gladiatorial career, Lysandra learned, had been cut short by a sword thrust to the knee. Catuvolcos went easy on them most of the time, especially the tribeswomen, with whom he shared a kinship.

Titus the Roman, middle-aged and tough as a leather cuirass, was an exacting taskmaster, not shy with the whip when it was called upon, but not over-zealous. Unlike the other trainers Titus was not a former gladiator but an ex-soldier and a free man who had never tasted slavery. He was also old enough to have had his fill of inflicting pain for its own sake. Lysandra realised that he was out to instil discipline and toughness in his charges, not to break their spirits. Those of the women who could speak Latin swiftly dubbed him ‘The Centurion’.

It quickly became clear to Lysandra that there was a distinct cultural divide in the large group of newcomers. The barbarians, be they German, Gaul, Briton or from farther-flung tribes beyond the Euxine, went about together.

Then there were many women of the South and East: Egyptians, Syrians, Ethiopians and their ilk. They set themselves apart from the rest, babbling incessantly in their staccato tongues.

Lysandra found herself amongst Romans, Italians, Sicilians and even some Hellenes. Unfortunately, none of these were Spartan and, though they tried to converse with her, she found in their inane talk yet further proof that Sparta was indeed the greatest polis in all Hellas. She was courteous to them, but she had nothing in common with these seamstresses, these wives who, before the ludus, knew nothing of toil and hardship.

In time, none spoke to her at all.

In the pitch black of her cell Lysandra prayed nightly for deliverance but Athene was deaf to her entreaties. She knew why: she was a slave, and the goddess would not condescend to succour one such as she. Beyond the beatings, beyond the daily toil of the ludus, this was the pain she found hardest to bear. To a Spartan, admission of suffering, even to oneself, was the gravest dishonour.

Yet, in the darkest hours, she began to wonder if she could consider herself Spartan at all.

The crash of the cell doors being flung open brought Lysandra to wakefulness. She sat up on her pallet and stretched, wincing as the recent stripes on her back pulled slightly. In time the door to her own prison was unlocked to reveal the huge form of Nastasen, his grinning face full of contempt.

‘Why is it your cell stinks worse than any of these other animals?’ he sneered.

Lysandra got to her feet and shrugged. ‘Perhaps because the stench you leave in here never seems to fade.’

The big Nubian took a menacing step forward. ‘You must like me taking my rod to your back. Maybe a different rod in a different place might teach you some respect,’ he said, fondling himself lewdly.

‘I’m sure Balbus would have something to say about that, Nubian.’ As Stick had demonstrated on their first day, it was apparent that groping and debasing comments were tolerated, but there could be no question of the trainers forcing themselves sexually on the women. This, she had overheard, was a simple economic consideration: pregnant gladiatrices could not fight.

Nastasen grunted, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘Get outside, you Greek bitch, and be thankful I don’t make an example of you.’

Lysandra could not resist. ‘Another one?’ she said blandly, arching an eyebrow.

The Nubian’s temper snapped and, with a growl, he advanced on her. Lysandra dropped back into a fighting stance, determined to cause at least some damage to the big man. He had initiated this away from the ludus and she considered it a personal issue.

‘Nastasen!’ Titus’s gruff voice sounded from outside the cell.

The Nubian paused, his eyes still fixed on Lysandra. ‘Leave it and assemble the novices.’ His demeanour broached no argument.

Nastasen hesitated, then turned sharply away, shouldering past the grizzled Roman. The older trainer shook his head. ‘Come on, Spartan. Get moving.’ Lysandra nodded and followed him out to the training area.

The women had been drawn into rank and file and Lysandra swiftly found herself a place next to Hildreth. She had not spoken to the German since their first day at the ludus but had noted during the exercises that her fellow captive had coped well.

‘Good morning, Lysandra, how are you today?’ Hildreth’s Latin, though weirdly accented, seemed to be improving.

‘I would be better if I were out of this place,’ she responded.

Hildreth looked blankly at her. Lysandra tried again. ‘I am very well, Hildreth, how are you?’

The German smiled broadly. ‘I am very well.’

Lysandra resisted the urge to grin. Instead she faced the front and waited for the daily grind to start.

With Stick, Nastasen and Catuvolcos standing to one side, Titus began to pace up and down the front line, pausing every so often to scrutinise one of the women. This went on for some time but he turned to address them all at last.

‘You are, without doubt, the most useless novices it has ever been my misfortune to train. Cripples would perform better. If you think your training has been tough so far, it is nothing compared to what lies ahead.’ He glared balefully at them, daring them to groan, but was greeted only by silence. All the women knew that to voice their displeasure was to invite a thrashing.

Satisfied he had their attention, he went on. ‘However, that can wait a little. Many of you soft-bodied whores are carrying injuries, either earned in training or self-inflicted through lack of effort.’

He held up his vine staff, indicating that a self-inflicted injury was, in fact, a beating administered by a trainer. ‘Therefore, it is my decision to give you three days of rest. That is ample time to heal any hurts you pathetic specimens might believe you have.

‘In three days, you begin the second and final stage of your training: your training with sword and shield, net and trident, the immortal arts of gladiatorial combat. Only when this is done will you take the Gladiatrix Oath.’

Titus ceased to pace and stood directly at the front and centre of the first rank. ‘I have to tell you now that it is not given that you will succeed. If any one of you fails to make the standards set by the trainers, you will be sold on. That might not sound so terrible, you may think. But if you are sold from this place, you will be a slave forever. Whether you toil with your hands at the loom, your back in the mines, or your cunnus in the whore-house, you will end your days as slaves and your children will be born slaves.

‘The arena offers you a way out. An opportunity to fight for nd earn your freedom. In the weeks to come you must prove to me that you are worthy of this right. That your yet unborn children are worthy to be free. You compete not only against your own pain but against each other.’ He paused for a while, letting that sink in. ‘That is all.’

Titus watched as the novices hesitated a moment before breaking up into their usual groups. The tall Spartan priestess, of course, turned on her heel and separated from the pack. He shook his head. It seemed she had everything she needed to be a ruthless and skilled fighter. But Titus could sense that the fire that somehow managed to burn behind her ice-coloured eyes was being doused little by little.

Varia struggled under the weight of the damp sheets, her thin arms shaking with the effort of carrying so many. Stupid, she thought to herself. She could not manage so many. Her efforts were inspired by fear; Greta drove her scrubs as hard as Nastasen drove the fighters. She had tried her best to complete her quota of work but there was always so much to do. The slave girl tried to pick up her pace but, so doing, overbalanced the precariously stacked cotton.

She fell, the sheets landing with a thud in the dust. Varia bit her lip, tears of frustration and not a little fear welling up in her eyes. Greta would be furious. Frantically, she began gathering the ruined washing when a shadow fell across her. Without even having to look, she knew it was Greta. The German always seemed to know when she had failed; was always on hand to chastise her.

‘You stupid little fool!’ Greta shrieked, kicking the sheets away from Varia’s scrabbling hands. ‘It’s all ruined! I’ll tan your worthless hide!’

Varia cowered, holding her hands over her head, waiting for the stinging blows to land. ‘I’m sorry, Greta, I’m sorry!’ she cried, her voice breaking as her tears spilled forth, desperate, but knowing that mercy was not in the German’s nature. She waited, her eyes squeezed tight shut. There was a sharp snap of flesh on flesh, but no blow landed. Slowly, she turned her head to see why Greta had spared her. She could scarcely believe what she saw.

Greta struggled, her wrist gripped in the hand of a tall goddess; a goddess who had come to save her. The bulky German tried to pull away but could not break free. Varia brushed the tears from her eyes and saw that it was Lysandra, one of the novices. Her heart leapt. Never before had anyone intervened on her behalf!

‘There will be no punishment today,’ Lysandra said, releasing her grip contemptuously.

Greta’s eyes bulged, a mixture of fear and fury. ‘You take your own beatings well enough, Spartan. And never once have I seen you lift a finger to defend your fellow arena fodder.’ She drew herself up. ‘This is not your concern.’

‘Beating hardens a warrior against fear and pain.’ Lysandra sounded as if she were reciting a well-learned phrase. ‘This girl is no warrior.’

‘It is still not your concern,’ Greta recovered herself somewhat. ‘She has failed in her duties, and must be disciplined.’

‘I have just made it my concern.’ Lysandra’s voice was low and calm. But Varia trembled somewhat at its sound. ‘I would hate for us to argue, Greta.’ She took a step forward and Varia swelled with glee as her tormentor gave ground. ‘I require this girl’s services,’ Lysandra went on, her eyes fixed upon Greta’s. ‘The wishes of the fighting women go beyond any paltry domestic concerns of yours.’

Greta snorted and turned to go. Her stamping feet had not taken her more than two yards when Lysandra called her back.

Scarlet faced, she turned about.

‘You have forgotten the sheets,’ she indicated the crumpled laundry. Fuming, Greta gathered the ragged pile and stormed off.

She had got a little further this time before Lysandra spoke again.

There was ice enough in her voice to cause Greta to stop in her tracks. ‘If you take vengeance on this child for my actions, I will kill you.’ It was stated so calmly, so quietly, yet it was the more chilling for its utter blandness. The tension drained out of Greta, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. She nodded once, and walked away.

Varia waited till Greta was out of earshot and then turned to face Lysandra. There was a strange feeling in her chest, a warmth felt never before as she looked upon her rescuer. She was so tall, so beautiful — so magnificent!

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for helping me.’

Lysandra’s lips curled in the slightest of smiles. She extended her hand and helped Varia to her feet.

‘I do have need of you,’ she said. Varia nodded and she smiled too, her heart overflowing with gratitude.