Gladiatrix

XLV

The ludus was alive with a frenzy of preparation. The trainers drilled the gladiatrices ruthlessly, ensuring that each woman would be at her peak when her time came to step onto the sands.

With her time split between her own preparations and overseeing her growing army, Lysandra found herself pushed to the limits of her endurance. After a sparring match with one of the German girls that resulted in a near defeat for her, Stick took her to one side.

‘You have to slow down,’ he admonished her.

‘I am perfectly aware of my limitations,’ Lysandra snapped. She had her hands on her thighs, waist bent and chest heaving from exertion.

‘No. You aren’t.’ He held up a hand, cutting off her protest.

‘You must slow down, or you will be spent when the time comes to fight. Look at you now. You struggled against that girl when you should have put her on her arse in a moment.’

‘Listen, Stick. I am not a child to be ordered about. I know what I am doing!’

‘No, you listen!’ The Parthian was genuinely angered and Lysandra stiffened involuntarily. Stick glanced about and then stepped close to her, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘You think I’m deaf, girl? I walk past your villa on my rounds in the night, and I can hear your screams from outside. Your dreams are bad, aren’t they?’ Stick did not see fit to mention it but it was patently clear that he knew who inhabited Lysandra’s nightmares ‘Now, you’ll rest or I’ll have you beaten so as you can’t train.’

‘Balbus would never allow it.’

‘Balbus isn’t here.’ Stick drew the vine staff. ‘Get away with you, and take a bath. No more training. Not army. Not this.’ He gestured expansively. ‘You’ll rest and that’s that. Do some writing, pray to your Athene — or whatever you do to relax. I don’t care.

You’ve become very expensive, Spartan, and I won’t have you spilling your guts all over the sand because you were too tired to fight. You must get proper sleep. Clear?’

‘Clear, Stick.’ Lysandra pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘But you are mistaken in this.’

‘I don’t give a shit. Now fuck off, and take it easy! Gods, Lysandra, anyone else would be happy to be given time off.’

‘You may have noticed, Stick, that I am unlike these others,’

Lysandra retorted and stalked away.

He would not, Frontinus determined, be seen as parochial. He was a Roman, and would prove to this Trajanus that he knew how to entertain in the Roman style. Especially as it had come to his attention that Trajanus was of Iberian stock — a Spaniard, no less. Thus, no expense had been spared and not a moment wasted in preparation for the arrival of Domitian’s confidant; Frontinus was eager to show the emissary that he could be as lavish as the best of them.

In addition to the more cosmetic nuances, Frontinus, with the help of the indefatigable Diocles, ensured that the local garrisons were well drilled, their lorica gleaming and their leathers well oiled and tanned. Nothing was left to chance; Frontinus feared that anything he overlooked was bound to come to the attention of the Iberian upstart and his reputation would be damaged.

Each day was taken up with duties and petitions from interested parties who wanted to cash in on the arrival from Rome.

Frontinus was hard pressed to keep up with it all but, with the aid of Diocles, he managed to stay afloat.

At least Lucius Balbus was no cause of concern. The lanista had assured him that the preparations for the games were going exceedingly well. Balbus’s associate, Septimus Falco, had been promoting the event since the news of Trajanus’s visit had broken and people from all over Asia Minor and even Greece itself were flocking to the city. It all added to his prestige: that he, Sextus Julius Frontinus, could put on a spectacle so lavish that people would travel from far and wide to attend was good political capital.

On the appointed day of Trajanus’s arrival however, Frontinus found he was somewhat nervous, despite himself. And when word reached him that the senator and his retinue were on their way to his home he was became positively rancorous.

‘Peace, my lord,’ Diocles soothed. ‘Have some wine and relax.

All is in order.’

Frontinus glared at the secretary but eased himself back on his couch; it simply would not do to be ill at ease when the Spaniard arrived. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, then gestured for the wine cup and sipped its heavily watered contents.

Time passed slowly and Frontinus drifted into a light slumber, rudely shattered by several loud blasts of brazen buccinae. Fortunately, Diocles had taken the wine from him, and thus avoided any spillage on his pristine toga. He gathered himself and, straightening its folds, got to his feet.

The doors to the great tablinium opened and Frontinus’s men snapped to attention as the Roman retinue entered. At their head was a tall, blond man in his early thirties. He was well built and clad in military attire, all buckles and bronze. He approached Frontinus and stood before him for a moment before throwing out a salute.

‘Hail, Sextus Julius Frontinus,’ he barked, his accent noticeable.

‘Hail, Marcus Ulpinus Trajanus,’ Frontinus responded, taking the measure of the man before him. He was impressed: Trajanus’s military bearing was no mere affectation. Frontinus could see the criss-cross scars on his right forearm. No dandy whose military achievements had been won for him, this was a man — a soldier’s soldier. And, Frontinus knew that, even as he assessed, he too was being scrutinised. He offered Trajanus his arm and the other’s grip was firm. To his surpise, he found himself liking the man on first impression. ‘Welcome to my home.’

‘It is my honour, sir,’ Trajanus said, inclining his head.

‘Come.’ Frontinus led the Spaniard through the avenue of soldiers. ‘We shall bathe and you will tell me of your journey here, and,’ he glanced at the younger man, ‘your purpose.’

Trajanus chuckled. ‘A frontal assault, General?’

Frontinus shrugged. ‘We are soldiers born, Trajanus, and politicians by mere circumstance.’ Trajanus swelled at the compliment — as well he might, Frontinus thought. His own military prowess was well regarded; he had been fighting battles when this young pup had been at his mother’s teat. To acknowledge him as equal was an honour indeed ‘There is little need for rhetoric amongst straight-talking men,’ he added.

‘Truth,’ Trajanus said. ‘We shall bathe and talk, then.’

The two men luxuriated in the opulent baths. Expensive Egyptian incense and steam wafted towards the ceiling, enshrouding them in an aromatic mist. Awaiting them at the poolside were several slaves, both male and female, chosen for their beauty and ethnic diversity; the governor wanted to ensure that any and all of Trajanus’s needs were catered for.

At first, they spoke of matters concerning Rome and politics, and Frontinus was also eager to hear news of Trajanus’s campaign against the rebel general, Lucius Antonius Saturnius and his Germanic allies.

‘Indeed,’ Frontinus said, ‘I have seen one of these Germans in a recent games. A female, no less.’

‘I am not surprised.’ Trajanus lolled in the water. ‘They fight alongside their men, and in some cases better than their men.

Many tribes have the ridiculous belief that women are not inferior to the male. They hold them in some reverence, in fact.’

‘Utterly absurd,’ Frontinus responded, ‘in war. But in the entertainments I find the combat of women gratifying on several levels.

There is something exciting about it, do you not think?’

‘I?’ Trajanus arched an eyebrow. ‘Until recently, I had never seen such a thing. But the Divine Domitian, is an advocate of the female combats. One of these Germanians — Aurinia they call her — has taken his fancy. Now in Rome, female matches are billed alongside those of the men’s — equally, by torchlight.’

This last was said with distaste, leaving Frontinus in little doubt that the Spaniard himself held the women’s games in low esteem.

That he had mentioned the torchlight status of the matches meant that in Rome the female combats were being held at night, at top billing — unheard of till now. Then again, Frontinus mused, it was a modern age.

‘It is said in Rome,’ Trajanus went on, ‘that Asia Minor is host to the finest of these… events.’

Frontinus paused before answering. He would have to tread carefully here and well he knew it. ‘That is not so,’ he said. ‘Whilst we do our best, we are but a province. I am sure anything sponsored by the Emperor would make our poor events pale into insignificance.’

Trajanus laughed, his throaty chuckle echoing from the walls in the bathhouse. ‘Come, Governor,’ he said. ‘You said yourself, we are soldiers born, not politicians?’ He turned and fixed Frontinus with his gaze. ‘You fear to say what is the truth. You fear to say it, because you fear that I will return to Domitian and report that you believe your shows are better than his own.’ He lifted himself from the water, and stood by the edge of the pool, beckoning for a slave to dry him.

Frontinus found himself momentarily envious of the man’s well-muscled, youthful body, scarred yet unhampered by the chains of old age. Gingerly, he hauled himself out of the warmth and shivered.

‘ I will say it, then.’ Trajanus lifted his arms as a pretty Carian slave girl patted him dry. ‘Word has reached Rome of the recent Games of Aeschylus. That you, and you alone, are responsible for elevating the female combats from mere sideshow to main event.

That the quality of these… gladiatrices… is superior to anything we have in Rome. Your women, it is said, are superbly trained, that their combats are epic. That though we have good fighters in the capital, most of them are as nothing compared to the women of Asia Minor. He paused. ‘Are the stories are to be believed.’

Frontinus gestured dismissively. ‘I would be lying if I said that we haven’t accomplished great things with the women’s combats.

But,’ he added carefully, ‘that is a niche entertainment. Perhaps the novelty will wear off.’

Trajanus laughed again, and the two men made their way to be dressed. Soon after, they reclined on couches in Frontinus’s study, nibbling on grapes and olives.

‘I am here, as you no doubt know, to ensure that your preparations for the Emperor’s birthday celebrations are going in accordance to his preferences,’ Trajanus took up the conversation once again. ‘There’s nothing worse than a disgruntled Emperor, Frontinus.’

The governor coughed. ‘That’s true,’ he admitted.

‘It is well known to me that you have been frantically preparing a spectacle for me.’ Trajanus looked somewhat smug at Frontinus’s startled expression. ‘You must realise that espionage is a necessity in this day and age.’

‘I wouldn’t say frantically, young man,’ Frontinus blustered. ‘Your arrival was not scheduled. But, here in Asia Minor, I like to maintain that Roman skill of reacting to a situation and bringing it under one’s control.’ Like the boy or not, Frontinus was not going to be ridden roughshod by him — even if his observation was accurate.

Trajanus did not look in the least chagrined, but he did incline his head. ‘A bad choice of words, sir.’ The addition to the sentence was enough of an apology for both men. ‘But in any event, I am here to see if the rumours are true. If your games are worthy of our divine Caesar.’

Frontinus smiled. ‘Oh, I think you will find your stay here most entertaining, Trajanus.’ The governor raised his cup, his mind racing. The young senator was demanding something special, that much was obvious. Frontinus decided that he would have it.