Gladiatrix

XLIX

Nastasen flexed his fist, feeling the muscles in his forearm bunch. He had lost some weight during his incarceration but he could still feel the power latent in his flesh.

It had not been long since they had taken him — not for his rape of Lysandra, but for petty thievery and murder. He had spent his money on hemp and thus was unable to book passage on a ship.

He had headed for the countryside, intent on pushing hard to the east, but his habit had drawn him back to the drug dens of the city, forcing him to rob and steal. One of victims had put up too much of a fight and he had killed the man. It was an accident but it made no difference. The urbanae captured him and the magistrates marked him for execution in the great Games of Trajan.

It was, he thought, ironic, that he who had once been the trainer of those about to die on the sands would go to his own death in the arena — and with no sword in hand. It was a cruel way for a man to die, not in honour, but in shame.

The first days in the cells had been hellish: deprived of the drugs that sustained him, he had moaned and raved maniacally, lost in delirium as the need for them coursed through his very soul. The other prisoners had stayed well clear of him, for all knew that lunatics were dangerous in the extreme. Yet, like all things, the pain had passed and, for the first time in years, the Nubian saw the world through eyes that were unclouded. It was a pity, he thought, that his last clear look at the world should be in such a place.

A shadow fell across him and he looked up, squinting into the light of a torch. Slowly, the bearer came into focus. ‘Catuvolcos?’

‘Aye.’ The Gaul’s voice was cold. Several burly slaves flanked him, each holding a cudgel. The trainer himself bore a set of manacles, which he dropped through the bars of the cage. ‘Put them on,’ he ordered.

Nastasen complied, his heart pounding. ‘Am I to be released?’ he asked, not daring to hope.

Catuvolcos grimaced. ‘No. You are to fight, though.’

‘Until I am killed.’ He put the bindings on and jerked his arms apart, showing his captors that they were secure.

‘I don’t know,’ Catuvolcos growled as he unlocked the cage.

He glared at Nastasen, his eyes black in the torchlight. ‘But I hope so. If it were up to me, I would kill you myself.’

‘Jealous, Gaul? You’ve not fucked her then? Maybe after me, she wants no other man. I know she loved the feel of my prick up…’

Catuvolcos leapt upon him, raining blows into his face and body. Bound as he was the Nubian was unable to defend himself and collapsed to the ground. The Gaul came in with the boot before being dragged off by the guards. Nastasen struggled to a sitting position and spat out a glob of blood. ‘Maybe she’ll come and visit me one last time,’ he leered. As he struggled to his feet he savoured the look of impotent hatred on Catuvolcos’s face.

‘And I’ll have that sweet piece that you are so desperate to enjoy.’

‘Get moving.’ One of the guards shoved him away, putting himself between them.

Nastasen could scarcely believe that he had been delivered; yet, as the guards led him from the stinking cell and through the tunnels, he began to hope. They would not allow Catuvolcos to harm him. Not if he were to fight. And if he were allowed to fight, he could win free.

There was justice after all.

‘He’s been moved,’ Catuvolcos advised Lysandra the following day.

‘He’s segregated, but he’s allowed to train as well. It can’t look as though we serve him up to you half dead from gaol, though I’d prefer it that he had no preparation. Do you want to watch him?’

Lysandra paused in her callisthenics. ‘You are joking,’ she snapped.

‘I have no wish to see him until I have to kill him.’

‘You could learn something from watching him, Lysa.’ She did not think he even noticed that his sobriquet for her had slipped out, but she let it pass. ‘You’ll need all the advantages.’ He paused, his gaze seeking her own. ‘And, it might be a shock for you to see him in the open for the first time. After what happened. It would be better to be re-accustomed to the sight of him — I know that it can’t be easy…’

‘There is wisdom in what you say,’ Lysandra interrupted ‘I will not be shocked. What has happened I have dealt with.’ She realised that she might be exaggerating slightly but there was no need to enlighten Catuvolcos as to the fact. ‘We shall watch him then.

After I have finished with you.’ She stooped and grasped the two wooden swords.

Sorina turned away. She had spent hours watching the Spartan at her training and it disturbed her. Though publicly she was dismissive of Lysandra’s chances against her, she was beginning to think that she would be hard pushed to defeat the young Greek. As each day passed, Lysandra seemed to be growing stronger and more focused.

At first, she had believed that the re-emergence of Nastasen would work against Lysandra, wearing her down mentally. Now she realised that her enemy was using the rapist as a catalyst.

Despite her hatred, she was moved to admiration at Lysandra’s training methods. The former priestess pushed Catuvolcos hard, moving with speed and efficiency, striking her stronger opponent almost at will.

Lysandra, she surmised, was facing her fears in the only way she could: by confronting the man who had raped and tortured her in his own arena. Indeed, she realised that, if she survived, she would emerge from the combat even more powerful, and it was beginning to look by all the gods that she could beat the black warrior.

With Catuvolcos’s aid, her fighting repertoire had certainly increased. He not only gave her experience in fighting a larger, heavier opponent, but also had her performing a punishing callisthenic regime that included lifting heavy weights and other rigorous strength-building exercises, all of which she bore without complaint. Even now, after a gruelling bout with her trainer, Lysandra sprang straight to the heavy iron bars. Red-faced and teeth gritted, she began to lift the weights over her head as Catuvolcos counted out the repetitions.

Sorina looked down at her hand and clenched her fist, as if by such action she could permanently erase the etching on her knuckles that marked the passage of the years. She shook her head; she knew there was no way to tip back the sands of time.

Yet, she thought grimly, there was enough left in her to defeat Lysandra.

She was well aware that Lysandra had tried to play mind games with her in an attempt to unsettle her, but Sorina was too long in the tooth to fall for such obvious ploys. The gamesmanship had stopped however, as soon as Nastasen had been discovered in their midst. It was as if Lysandra had put their own bout out of her mind, concentrating only on the Nubian and her battle for vindication. It was time, Sorina thought, to turn the tables on her enemy. To resort to such mental warfare was not honourable and certainly beneath her. Yet she now realised that she must have all the advantages when the day came to face Lysandra. She would not be robbed of her revenge.

She turned away from the Spartan, her mind set.

L

Nubian and Amazon regarded each other.

‘Why would you offer to help me, Sorina?’ the black giant asked, squinting at her in the sun. He was clad in only a subligaculum, his ebon body glowing with a sheen of sweat. ‘We have never been friends.’

‘True.’ Sorina met his gaze evenly. ‘But I have my reasons.

What you did…’ She paused, measuring her tone. Nastasen’s crime was abhorrent to all women, yet now she deemed it a fitting punishment for the arrogant Spartan. The thought surprised her; that her hatred for the raven-haired Greek had reached such intensity. ‘What you did was wrong,’ she said at length. ‘Yet I cannot help but feel that Lysandra brought it on herself. She acts in an austere way, yet I know well she is aware of her own beauty.

She seduced Eirianwen, and because of that my sister-daughter lies dead. I know Lysandra taunted you in ways only a woman can. It is no wonder that, after the hemp, you lost control.’

‘Yes, the hemp.’ Nastasen’s voice became wistful for just a moment. ‘Though I am free of its grip, I can find no regret in my heart for taking her.’ He smiled, showing his teeth. ‘I was her first.’

Sorina forced herself to grin in response. ‘There is justice in that,’ she murmured. ‘But what do you think?’

‘I think that you will be cheated of your chance, Amazon. I will not stay my hand when I face her.’

‘You take her too lightly, Nastasen. I can help you. Like her, I am lighter and quicker than you. And,’ she added, ‘no less skilled than she. We women fight another way to a man. The mind,’ she tapped her head, ‘works differently.’

‘You still haven’t told me why you want to help. Surely you want the chance to kill her yourself?’

Sorina shrugged. ‘Dead is dead is dead, Nastasen. Though I burn to transfix her with my blade, I somehow see the beauty of her being impaled on your sword.’ She nearly grimaced at the play on words, but it was not lost to Nastasen who laughed. ‘And besides,’ she went on, ‘there is no queue of people lining up to train with you.’

‘That’s true.’ The giant glanced about. He placed his hands on his hips, as though he were sizing her up. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Yes.

I think we can help each other.’

Sorina grinned ferociously. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I think we can.’

It took only a single glance for the activities to cause Lysandra’s bile to rise. At Catuvolcos’s insistence, they had crossed the arena’s training compound to watch Nastasen at his work. In truth, she was more alarmed by the prospect of seeing the Nubian warrior again than she liked to admit, even to herself. As they walked, she found her stomach knotting up, her heart beating hard in her chest. She told herself she was being absurd, yet the panicked feeling would not subside.

Not, that was, till she saw Sorina duelling with him. That she had offered herself as training partner to Nastasen was akin to spitting in Lysandra’s face. More than that, she was playing up to him, sharing the odd laugh and joke as they sparred. Lysandra sat down heavily on a bench, her chin in her hands, refusing to simply turn tail and walk away. That would have been beneath her.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Catuvolcos murmured.

‘Do you not?’ Lysandra scowled at him, her ire coming to the fore. ‘She does this to insult me, that is all. There is no limit to the woman’s ignominy, Catuvolcos. She speaks of honour.’ She shook her head. ‘Where then is the honour of helping him? Does it honour Eirianwen that she trains with the man that raped me?

No,’ she answered herself. ‘Of course it does not. She is a foolish woman if she thinks this will have some sort of adverse effect on me. Nastasen is merely a stepping-stone to her, Catuvolcos, that is all. A training tool on which I shall hone myself, ready for when I face that old whore in the arena. Besides,’ Lysandra sniffed. ‘It is not as if training against a man is even her idea. We thought of it.’

‘Then don’t let it bother you,’ Catuvolcos offered. ‘Instead, watch him for weaknesses that you can exploit.’

It was as if Nastasen had heard Catuvolcos speak, for at that moment, he launched an attack on Sorina that was as furious as it was efficient. Using his bulk and strength to maximum effect, he disarmed her and slammed his wooden sword into her gut, sending her to her knees.

‘That man is strong.’ Catuvolcos had not realised he had spoken the thought aloud until Lysandra glared at him. ‘Well,’ he said a little defensively, ‘he is.’

‘That is as maybe,’ she snapped. ‘But you are strong enough yourself to be useful in preparing for him.’

‘I’m honoured you think so.’

‘I have seen enough,’ she said shortly and rose to her feet, daring Catuvolcos to protest. He did not, and she stalked away.

He watched the lithe figure storm off and sighed. He realised that the rivalry between Lysandra and Sorina had changed them both. As he turned his eyes back to the training area, he considered that it was the older woman who had let her ambition overtake all reason. That the two were trying to get the upper hand mentally before their bout was a power play so obvious that it was almost laughable. Yet, for Sorina to train with Nastasen was low. It was beneath the Clan Chief, and Catuvolcos decided that he would speak to her about it.

Lysandra fumed all the way to the arena’s small bathing facility.

Varia had spotted her striding to the squat building and had come along in tow.

‘Get a massage table ready,’ Lysandra barked at her. She tossed her soiled tunic at the girl before plunging into the heated pool.

She swam with strong strokes, slicing through the water as if this exercise would somehow purge her of the anger she felt. She was being ridiculous, she told herself. Despite her claim to Catuvolcos, the sight of Sorina and Nastasen had unsettled her.

They were, she realised, her nemeses made flesh: one black, the other white; one male, one female; one the taker of her virginity the other the taker of her love.

She climbed out of the pool, lifting her hands above her head so that Varia could dry her off. It was almost inevitable that the two people she hated most would unite against her.

She said as much to Varia when her massage had begun.

‘It doesn’t matter what they do.’ Varia said sagaciously. ‘You will defeat Nastasen, and then Sorina. You are the best.’

‘And that is how it must be.’ Lysandra fairly undulated as the Roman girl’s skilled fingers kneaded the tension from her. ‘I must face Nastasen, Varia, I must.’

‘Why don’t we just have him executed for…’ she trailed off.

‘For what he did.’

‘We?’ Lysandra arched an eyebrow, quietly amused at the girl.

Varia remained silent, working her way down her legs. ‘I do not want him executed, Varia. I want my revenge. Athene will be at my side and I shall defeat him. But more than this: when I win, it will strike a blow of terror into Sorina’s heart. And…’ She paused, wondering if she should reveal her innermost thoughts to the girl. It was shameful, but she suddenly felt the need to confide in someone. ‘And,’ she said at length, ‘it is more important that I will know.’

‘Turn over,’ Varia said. She applied the unguent to Lysandra’s thighs and continued. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I am not sure that I can win against Sorina,’ she said quietly.

‘Despite it all, I am not as confident as I should be. We have much to fight for and, though I am certain of my skills, I know that her will to win is as strong as my own. I am the younger, the stronger, but she is the Gladiatrix Prima. Never defeated. Her experience may tell.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Varia chided. ‘She’s all used up. You will win.’

‘The point is,’ Lysandra ignored Varia’s blind optimism, ‘that if I defeat Nastasen, I will have no doubt in my mind that I will go on to beat her. It is necessary that I face him for this reason above all. He is my catalyst. To win against him is the ultimate prize, Varia. After that Sorina will be a mere formality. In here.’

She tapped her head.

‘I don’t know why you are making such a fuss.’ Varia shrugged.

‘He’s as good as dead, Lysandra. There has never been a gladiatrix like you. You are the best that there has ever been.’

‘Of course,’ Lysandra responded, more from habit than real conviction. ‘I am being foolish.’ The words, however, were imbued with a confidence she did not feel.