Gladiatrix

XLVIII

‘You are sure it was him?’ Balbus was not at his best. His secretary, Nikos, had woken him too early, advising him that Lysandra was demanding to see him. Irritated, he had thrown on a tunic, muttering about fighters getting above themselves. It was not as if she owned him, it was the other way around.

But, when Lysandra told him of her discovery, he was astounded.

‘Of course I am sure,’ she snapped.

‘Well,’ Balbus pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger, ‘he is in there with the condemned. I can arrange that he dies today, if you like. I assume you’ll want to see it?’

The Spartan’s ice-coloured eyes bored into his own. ‘I want to kill him myself,’ she said.

Balbus grunted. ‘Yes, I can understand that,’ he said. ‘No problem, I’ll see to it. Actually,’ he added, ‘the spectators will love it. The attacker trussed and helpless before the victim who takes her revenge will appeal to them.’

‘I’m not sure you understand me, Balbus. I want to fight him, not murder him.’

Balbus was taken aback, but could see that Lysandra was deadly earnest. ‘That’s absurd,’ he said after a moment. ‘Lysandra, you are a very good fighter, but you’re only a woman. Nastasen, even if he is in bad shape, would eat you alive.’

Lysandra cocked an eyebrow. ‘I think you are mistaken. And I must fight him.’

‘Lysandra,’ Balbus sighed. ‘I have too much riding on this — on you — to let you fight a man. You are topping the bill with Sorina; if you were killed…’ he spread his hands.

‘I must fight him!’ Lysandra slammed the palms of her hands down on Balbus’s desk. He jumped at the sudden action, feeling the beginnings of anger at her presumption. But the emotion died in him as he looked at her face. The pale skin had reddened, but not through irritation. Tears brimmed in her eyes and began to spill down her cheeks.

‘You cannot understand,’ she said. ‘The humiliation, the pain, the rage I feel. I live it again every night. The cell… those men all over me. What they did. Balbus, you cannot know my torment…’

‘Lysandra…’ Balbus thought to get up from behind the desk and comfort the girl, but decided against it. ‘It must have been a terrible thing.’

‘I must fight him,’ she said again. ‘I cannot carry this inside me, Balbus. Not now that I have seen him again. I see his face in my mind… I can feel him on me…’ She hesitated, angrily wiping tears from her face. ‘I can feel him in me. His stinking breath, the abuse…’ she trailed off, gathering herself. ‘I must make him feel what I have felt. He must suffer as I have suffered. I must beat him. To be free.’

Think of the money, Balbus told himself. Don’t think with your heart — think of the investment. Lysandra cannot beat Nastasen. ‘I understand how you feel, but no woman has ever fought a man in the arena, Lysandra. It’s… well… indecent.’

‘Indecent!’ she screamed at him. ‘And his rape and buggery of me was not?’

Balbus blanched at the blunt terminology. ‘Well, of course. But consider this — what if I allow this, and you lose. Your last sight will be of your rapist taking your life.’

‘That is my choice. Balbus, please.’

Please. Balbus almost fell from his chair, so much did the word take him aback. He realised that he had never heard her say it to him. Always it was Spartan pride, demands, threats and tantrums. But never please. He shook his head, looking at her through eyes that he often felt were jaded and dimmed. She was not Lysandra of Sparta to him; she was just a commodity, a piece of meat for the abattoir of the arena — mere merchandise. Wasn’t she?

Ah, but he was getting too long in the tooth for this game.

He had become involved with his stock, and could no longer look at her as simply a slave. He had gone soft, he thought ruefully.

Recently, he had given in to demands from Sorina, beautiful Eirianwen and Lysandra herself. Years ago, they would have gone to the blocks for their antics. Years ago, he would have felt no compunction. But now? He hated himself for admitting that it pained him to see one so proud so distraught. Lysandra reduced to tears. He closed his eyes. Who would have thought it? But it was insane. That she risked her life for his profit in the arena was one thing but he had no wish to send her to certain death at the hands of Nastasen.

‘It has never been done,’ he said at length. ‘The public will never accept it.’

‘They will,’ she said firmly. ‘Balbus, they accept women at the top of the billing. Why not this?’

‘It’s simply not done,’ he argued. ‘Women and men are separate — and that’s how it should be.’

‘Think of the money,’ she said suddenly.

‘What money?’ Balbus was not going to allow Lysandra to manipulate him as Sorina had done.

‘The betting would be huge, and all against me. I will defeat him and make you a fortune. Think how it could be promoted.

The virgin warrior priestess has a chance for vengeance on the man who raped her.’

Balbus felt his conviction waver. She was right. ‘You want your rape advertised all over the city?’ he said. ‘Is revenge worth all that?’

‘I do not care how lurid your promoter makes it out to be.’

Lysandra drew herself up, the cold mask falling over her face once again. ‘You have never fought out there, Balbus, but you have been in the crowd. You know that lust drives the games and nothing more. It is base but that is the truth of it. You think that I cannot hear the shouts from the mob? The things that men scream out to me? Gods!’ She threw up her hands. ‘You have us fight naked more than not. And why? For speed?’ Her smile was cruel. ‘Or perhaps to give people a glimpse of that which is pink when we fight for our lives? To watch our faces as we win or die — agony and ecstasy — like copulation?’

And there she had it. Lysandra, in her infuriating way, saw straight to the heart of the matter. How many fortunes had rich men who desired to sleep with a gladiatrix offered him? How many fortunes had he thrown away, because, at the end of it all, he could not see himself as merely a whoremaster? He had given in once: to Frontinus when the governor had asked for Lysandra and, though the old man had had no designs on her, the fact that he himself had thought so shamed him. In that moment, he came to his decision.

‘I will allow it, Lysandra.’ He watched the tension drain from her, a fierce elation in her eyes. ‘But I want you to know that there will be no betting from me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because…’ He trailed off. ‘Because you are doing what is right. I cannot profit from your rape. There was a time when I would have, but no longer. You know,’ he smiled at himself, ‘if you lose, I will be ruined.’

Lysandra lifted her chin. ‘But I will not lose, Lucius Balbus.’

‘There is nothing that bitch will not do to whore herself to the crowds!’ Sorina was furious. The news of the bout between Lysandra and Nastasen had spread through the gaol like the worst sort of plague. It was all anyone could speak of. Sorina raged impotently in her cell, pacing like a caged tigress.

‘Would you have done anything different if the opportunity had been presented to you?’ Teuta, as always, tried to remain the voice of reason but Sorina had no wish to hear it.

‘I would have never been in the situation to be raped by him.’

Sorina whirled on her. ‘She brought it on herself — I think she secretly wanted it and taunted him with her body.’

‘Sorina…’

‘No! She has done this to get at me, that is all. She will rob me of our contest and yet she will die with all honours at the hands of a man. The mob will remember her bravery and I will be denied my chance at vengeance!’

Teuta stood and put a placating hand on Sorina’s shoulder.

‘She may win. Have you yourself not killed many men?’

Sorina jerked away from her touch. ‘That was different. That was in the heat of battle, where all is chaos. But this,’ she gestured in the direction of the arena above. ‘There is no way she can beat him. You’ve seen him, Teuta. How strong he is. She does this to go to her death and cheat me of my chance.’

There was a tapping, and the cell door opened. Varia was there, bearing a tray with wine and sweetmeats upon it. ‘I have brought you some refreshment,’ the child announced.

‘Get out! Get out!’ Sorina screamed at her, finding another vent for her rage.

‘But I was told to bring…’

Sorina raised her hand but Teuta stepped between the two, deftly lifting the tray from the girl’s hands. ‘Go,’ she said. Varia took to her heels and Teuta put the tray down. ‘There’s no need to take it out on her, Sorina. Just be calm. There is nothing to be done about it.’ She took a swig from the wine jug and smacked her lips. ‘Balbus has given us the good stuff,’ she said. ‘Have some.’

She patted the bunk, indicating that Sorina join her.

Still angered she sat, trembling with suppressed rage. She snatched the jug, and drank deeply, the red liquid sliding from the lip of the jug down her cheeks.

Teuta’s eyes did not leave her as she drank her fill. ‘There,’ she said as Sorina wiped her mouth. ‘Better?’

‘If not for her, Eirianwen would still be alive. I hate her so much.’

‘I know you do,’ Teuta sighed. ‘But don’t let it destroy you inside, Sorina. When it comes down to it, Lysandra will die and you will see her corpse. The gods will accept the sacrifice in whatever form it comes.’ She reached out tentatively and put her hand on Sorina’s thigh. ‘Let us not think of Lysandra now.’

Sorina eased back on the bunk, opening her legs. Teuta knelt between them, her tongue gentle and probing. Sorina grasped her hair, dragging her in roughly. ‘It is not loving I want,’ she hissed. ‘Give me release!’

Varia weaved her way through the crowded corridors of the gaol, avoiding the gladiatrices who milled about. She was the happiest she could remember being. This was her first time at the games; the first time she could remember being away from the ludus.

And what was more, she was allowed to serve Lysandra and the other Hellene women.

Lysandra was not in her cell nor was she with the other women. Varia found her in the training ground, duelling with Catuvolcos. She knew better than to interrupt her, so she prepared a jug of water for her Mistress — the word sounded grand even in her mind — and sat down to wait.

Lysandra’s movements were as quick as snake’s and Varia marvelled at her speed and power. She knew that no one, not even Nastasen, could defeat her. Catuvolcos wielded a long stave, the length cut to that of a barbarian sword, whereas Lysandra held two wooden training swords; she would fight as the dimachaera, the two-knife girl.

‘He’s bigger and stronger,’ Catuvolcos said, his breathing laboured. ‘So you must be fast. Faster than you have ever been.’

Lysandra nodded, her eyes flat and focused only on her opponent. He yelled and attacked furiously, the stave blurring and hissing as he swung it at the lithe Spartan. Lysandra moved back and away but Catuvolcos pressed in and the hiss of the wood was interrupted by the staccato clack of wood on wood as Lysandra parried.

‘No!’ Catuvolcos shouted at her. ‘You must evade!’

‘I cannot run from him forever,’ Lysandra snapped. ‘I must engage him at some stage.’

Catuvolcos cast the stave aside. ‘Only when he is worn down and exhausted. You don’t stand a chance against him when he is fresh. He will overpower you in moments.’

‘I am tired of hearing that! You have said little else all day.’

‘Because it’s true!’ Catuvolcos exploded. ‘If you are set on this insane course, you must at least try to survive. And to survive you must stay away and pick him apart.’

‘Insane?’ Lysandra arched an eyebrow. ‘It is insane to seek vengeance?’

‘No, it is not insane to seek vengeance,’ he muttered, hating that she was using her small knowledge of Clan lore against him: vengeance was a holy thing. ‘But there are other ways. We can arrange…’

‘No,’ she cut him off. ‘He must die before the crowd. At my hand. He must go to his death knowing humiliation.’

He sighed and retrieved his weapon. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go again.’

Lysandra’s smile was fierce.

The routine was punishing but Lysandra pushed herself to her limit. Catuvolcos was extremely skilled and she was at her best to match him. Time and time again when she tried to push an advantage he ploughed into her, using his great strength to bowl her from her feet. It was frustrating and infuriating but she knew it was the correct manner in which to train for Nastasen.

Lysandra was surprised at how the old feelings of fear as well as the more sickening ones of inadequacy and shame had been awakened at the sight of the Nubian. She knew logically that she had nothing of which to be ashamed. She had done nothing wrong, yet she felt a terrible sense of guilt, the reason for which she could not explain. Each night since she had seen him in the cell, the nightmares were more intense, dreams of the trainer and his men and the violation they had committed to her person.

Outwardly, she maintained a facade of confidence, but inside she was gripped with fear — not for her life, but of failure. To face his great strength and skill might be foolhardy but how else could her guilt be assuaged? How else could she lay the fear to rest? She had to meet him on his own ground, match him and defeat him.

Catuvolcos, at least, was doing his best to help and, on her part, she threw her all into the training. She was bruised and battered but she had learned much. After some hours he called a halt, himself hurt and exhausted.

‘Again, tomorrow?’ she queried.

Catuvolcos was bent, resting his hands on his thighs, gasping for air. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We’ll see how you’ve progressed.’

Lysandra nodded and walked away. Varia, the slave girl trotted towards her, bearing the water jug.

‘I got this for you!’ she announced. ‘You fought well,’ she added as Lysandra drank deeply.

‘Not well enough yet. You did as I instructed?’

‘Oh yes.’ Varia nodded enthusiastically. ‘She was very angry, shouting about how you were only fighting Nastasen so he would kill you and she wouldn’t have her revenge on you!’

‘Not quite the correct assessment on her part,’ Lysandra said wryly. ‘She took the wine?’

‘I don’t know. I fled before she could hit me.’

Lysandra smiled slightly. ‘If she was angry enough to try to hit you and yet she took it… Good. I would see her in her cups as often as possible. Her hatred of me will grow and she will lose her focus.’ Focus was something she herself would have to be aware of, she thought. Nastasen first, Sorina second. Then the ghosts would all be gone. ‘You have done very well, Varia,’ she nodded. ‘I am pleased with you.’

Varia blushed. ‘Mistress?’ she said hesitantly.

Lysandra was already moving away, but halted. ‘Yes,’ she turned.

‘What is it?’

The girl seemed to gather herself for a moment. ‘I want to be a gladiatrix like you. To be a heroine like you. You could teach me to be the best, couldn’t you? Then I wouldn’t have to fetch and carry like I do now — not that I mind serving you because that’s an honour but I don’t want to go back to just being a slave.’ It came out in a huge rush, and Lysandra had to force herself to concentrate on the tirade.

‘Balbus has no plans to make you into a fighter,’ she said shortly, and the girl’s face fell. Lysandra frowned; she did not need juve-nile peevishness now. ‘I cannot train you,’ she went on firmly. ‘It is forbidden for me to do so.’ She did not know if that were the case, but it seemed expedient so say so. Varia was useful in so far as her insignificance made her the perfect tool for gathering information on Sorina’s state of mind. No one took any notice of the girl.

Varia looked as though she would burst into tears and, though Lysandra was about to admonish her, the words died on her tongue. She could not now risk her ‘spy’ turning against her.

Guiltily, she realised that she also did not want to hurt the girl’s feelings overmuch. In her early days at the ludus, they had come to be friends. Moreover Varia had remained loyal to her, and that was a trait to be admired.

‘But then again,’ she said, ‘Balbus doesn’t have to know everything, does he?’

‘No.’ Varia toed the sand, looking down.

Lysandra nodded. ‘Very well. I will train you.’ Varia looked as though she would cheer. ‘ After my bouts with Nastasen and Sorina,’ she said quickly. ‘And not before. You must understand, Varia, that I risk my life each time I step out there.’

‘But you are the best, you will win.’

‘That is true,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘But the superior warrior never underestimates her opponent.’ She paused. ‘Your first lesson for free. Never take Nike — Victory — for granted for that is the surest way to send her favour from you.’

‘Yes.’ Varia nodded, her face full of studious intent. ‘Can I watch you as you train? To learn?’

‘Of course. You do, anyway, do you not? I will tell the other women that you are now my personal slave and not subject to their orders. Is that fair?’

‘Oh yes, Mistress!’ Varia beamed. ‘I will do everything you say.’

The girl’s friendship was, as always, earnest and Lysandra could not help but smile at her enthusiasm. ‘Very well then,’ she said.

‘Follow me.’

It was only as they walked away that Lysandra realised that she had referred to Varia as her slave. The realisation that she had done so was shocking but she could not bring herself to retract the comment; it would have shown weakness. She decided she would think of Varia as her helot; not only did this suit the girl’s purpose, it also reminded her of her Spartan heritage.

It was, she decided, an agreeable solution.