Gladiatrix

VI

Lysandra led Varia to the school’s infirmary. As there had been no bouts during the recent weeks of training, the small compound was virtually deserted save for a few fighters with minor injuries. She reasoned that would soon change once her fellow novices began to feel the strains and cuts of their morning exercise. She was determined to get ahead of everyone else.

The chief physician, an irrepressible old satyr of a man named Quintus, looked up as they entered his small office to the rear of the main hospital.

‘Ah, the Spartan and young Varia,’ he said mildly, putting down his stylus. ‘What can I do for you today?’

‘Myrrh,’ Lysandra answered shortly.

‘It’s expensive stuff, Lysandra,’ he grunted. ‘Nevertheless, I’ve seen them take the lash to you more than they should.’ He got to his feet. ‘Just take your clothes off and I’ll apply some to your wounds.’

Lysandra cocked her head to one side. She had heard all about Quintus and his roving hands. ‘Just give me the myrrh.’

Quintus made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, but moved to a side room to find the balm. There was much clattering of ceramics and cursing but, after a short time, the old man emerged with a small pot. ‘Here.’ He slapped it into Lysandra’s outstretched palm. ‘Not too much at a time.’

‘I am well aware of how the salve is applied,’ she replied loftily, and exited the small room without another word, Varia in tow.

Quintus watched her retreating back and mimicked her last words to himself soundlessly, a sour expression on his face.

From the infirmary, Lysandra went straight to the baths. Ignoring the warm water, she marched purposefully to the cold pool, tossed her tunic to one side and plunged in.

The water was not as cold as she would have liked but would suffice for her purposes. This was an often-used practice in the priestesses’ agoge. After receiving punishment the girls would bathe in the icy waters of the Eurotas River to take the swelling from their painful injuries.

Slowly, she felt her body becoming accustomed to the chill of the pool. She stayed still, not wanting to give her muscles cause for any warmth. She glanced up, and noted Varia’s aghast expression.

‘What is the matter with you?’ she asked

‘You must be freezing,’ the girl responded.

‘Cold is a feeling,’ Lysandra said, reciting the lessons of her youth. ‘You feel hot, you feel cold, you feel pain. All such things are merely a state of mind.’

‘I wish I could be like you.’ Varia’s voice was awed.

‘Naturally,’ Lysandra agreed. It was, she thought, unsurprising: having been used to barbarians, Romans and lesser Hellenes, the young slave could not fail to be impressed by a true Spartan.

This thought caused her mind to take a bitter course. She was a slave, and therefore a true Spartan no longer. She hauled herself from the water and sat on the side of the pool, her feet paddling.

‘Pat my back dry and apply the myrrh to my cuts,’ she ordered sharply, wondering if she had made the right choice in aiding the child. It was an act of charity that would doubtless have ramifications. This, she thought, is what I have come to. Impressing children and bullying washerwomen. A fine end for a Mission Priestess.

Varia did as she bade her, gently administering the salve. Lysandra breathed deeply through her nose as she felt the sting lift from the lash marks on her back.

‘Is that enough?’ Varia asked.

Lysandra flexed her shoulders, feeling only a slight pull on the wounds. ‘Yes. That is good.’

‘I’ll get you a clean tunic,’ Varia said, evidently delighted that she had done well. She ran off without waiting for a reply but returned quickly, clutching a scarlet chiton. ‘Here.’ She thrust the garment into Lysandra’s hands.

She held it for a moment before slipping it over her head, almost grinning at the irony of Varia’s choice. She had not worn the red of Sparta since the shipwreck and here, of all places, she found herself sporting it once more. She felt unworthy, but was not mean-spirited enough to demand another tunic from her newfound companion.

‘What would you like to do now?’ Varia enquired.

Lysandra was at a loss. From agoge to Temple, through to the Legion and even here, her life had been dominated by routine and work. Free time was an unfamiliar commodity. She shrugged.

‘I do not know. Perhaps we could watch the senior women at their training?’ It was all she could think of.

Varia seemed pleased with that but then the child looked at her with such adulation that Lysandra was certain that she could have suggested sitting in a cesspit and the youngster would have been more than pleased to accompany her. A weakness in the Roman character was the need for companionship, it was certainly one that she herself did not suffer. She was only providing the child with company as an act of charity, she thought to herself.

Yes, that was obviously what had prompted her action to assist the girl in the first place. Varia was the one in need, not she. She needed no one.

The two made their way to the training grounds; Lysandra’s earlier assumption had been correct — there was indeed a large queue leading from Quintus’s surgery. The women were in good spirits, evidently delighted at their free time. No doubt the afternoon would degenerate into a drunken festival, she thought with disdain.

The training area itself was mostly unoccupied as news of the ‘holiday’ spread. Titus had clearly decided to relax the regime for all the women in the ludus. This made sense to Lysandra: it would only serve to create rifts if one group was seen to be given priv-ileges another was not. Soon, only two women remained training.

She turned to Varia.

‘The blonde woman I know.’ She pointed to the beautiful Eirianwen. ‘Who is the other?’

‘That is Sorina of Dacia,’ Varia responded. ‘She is Gladiatrix Prima. Eirianwen is Gladiatrix Secunda.’

Lysandra watched the auburn-haired woman move and was impressed. The Dacians had been a matriarchal society back in the time of King Theseus, a thousand years before. It was them and their Themiskyran kin whom Homer had dubbed the Amazons in the Iliad. Their culture had changed little since the days of Troy, she knew — yet that was the way of barbarians. They were happy to ignore progress and civilisation in favour of their unstructured, disordered lifestyle.

But, by the Gods, this one could fight. ‘A true Amazon,’ she murmured.

‘Yes,’ Varia said in response to Lysandra’s whispered comment.

‘Sorina was the chieftain of a powerful tribe in her homeland.

She was a great war leader, and speaks of those days often. We Romans defeated her in a battle and she hates us for it. She calls our cities “cancers on the Great Mother”,’ the girl added.

Lysandra nodded, not really listening. She was engrossed in the violent dance Sorina was sharing with Eirianwen. Their wooden swords blurred as the two women attacked and countered with savage ferocity. She was so engrossed that she did not see Catuvolcos approach. The handsome Gaul had his reddish hair tied back and wore only a loincloth, showing off his well-muscled body. He carried a wine sack, which he passed to Lysandra as he sat next to them on the ground.

‘You’re in the shit,’ he commented as she took a sip.

‘How so?’

‘For aiding your little friend here.’ He indicated Varia. ‘Greta has complained to Nastasen about you and he means to set an example.’

Lysandra shrugged. The Nubian took perverse pleasure out of inflicting pain. ‘That would make a change,’ she commented blithely.

Catuvolcos chuckled, gesturing for the wine sack. ‘You’re not afraid of him, are you, Lysa?’

Lysandra stiffened at his familiar use of her name in the diminutive. ‘Spartans fear nothing,’ she said.

‘Do you have a book of these things you say? It seems to me that you have an answer for everything, but no answers that are truly yours. Don’t you ever speak from your heart?’

She regarded him haughtily. ‘I speak when it is necessary to do so. A Spartan does not talk for talking’s sake. Our sparing use of words is so admired it has been adopted into common parlance.’

Catuvolcos gestured, indicating her to continue.

‘ Laconic,’ she said. ‘This word comes from Lakedaimonia, the area of Hellas where Sparta is situated.’

‘You must be very proud.’

‘Obviously,’ Lysandra chose to ignore Catuvolcos’s attempt at irony. ‘It is impossible to explain to one who is not Spartan what it means to be Spartan.’ There was, she knew, little sense in sharing with the trainer her conundrum regarding her worthiness to claim this heritage.

The trainer let it drop. ‘Titus has decided that the novices should mingle more with the veterans. There will be a festivity of sorts this evening.’

Lysandra sniffed. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

‘You know, Lysa, things would go better for you here if you tried to mix more with the other women. You’re not the most popular of the novices.’

Lysandra wondered why he was trying to draw her into conversation. Despite the fact that he too was a slave, the ludus had a quasi-military structure and he was her superior. Such fraterni-sation between ranks was often bad for discipline. Then again, he was a stupid barbarian and could not be expected to understand such concepts as authority and its effects upon morale. ‘I am not here to be popular. I am a slave. A performer with only one purpose — to kill for entertainment.’

Catuvolcos turned serious. ‘You have a chance to earn your freedom doing it, girl. But that is not my point. I think you should come to this gathering. You might even enjoy yourself.’

‘And I think you should not be speaking to me. If you are so concerned about popularity, it would be better if I were not seen associating with a trainer.’

Catuvolcos looked as if he had been slapped around the face.

‘Suit yourself,’ he said tersely, getting to his feet. ‘I have intervened on your behalf with Nastasen because I thought he had been too hard on you. I can see I made a mistake; you deserve everything you get. There is a difference between pride in one’s heritage and blind arrogance.’

‘Philosophy from a barbarian?’ Lysandra sneered. ‘I am stunned.’

Catuvolcos stalked away, his face florid.

Lysandra watched him go. She did not feel at all pleased with herself but to accept his advances would have shown her to be weak. She frowned, feeling as though she could have handled the exchange a little better. She turned her attention back to the training ground but Sorina and Eirianwen had ceased sparring and were now performing stretching exercises to warm down their muscles.

‘You were very rude to Catuvolcos.’ Varia was fiddling with the hem of her tunic. ‘He was just trying to be nice.’

‘So?’ Lysandra snapped. ‘Am I supposed to swoon with joy? I have no desire to go to a party. A party?’ She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. ‘In this place? It is an absurdity.’

‘People say that life is what you make it. I don’t like it here, but it is all I know and I try to be happy when I can.’

Lysandra got up. ‘First philosophy from a barbarian, now from you. Life is what we make it, Varia? I think not, for it was no choice of mine to be here. This place has taken away everything that I was. I cannot make the best of it as you say. It is different for you, you know no better.’

Varia looked up at her, closing one eye as the sun shone in it. ‘I know that I am glad you are my friend.’

Lysandra was about to tell the child she was no friend of hers: that she needed no friends, and the girl would be better off just leaving her alone. The words did not come.

‘I would be happy if my friend went to the party,’ Varia added.

‘If only to show Catuvolcos he was wrong about you being too proud.’

Lysandra folded her arms across her chest, tapping her chin with her index finger. ‘There is wisdom in what you say,’ she conceded. ‘It would be wrong to let him think that his outrageous accusation was correct.’

‘So you’ll go then?’

Lysandra nodded. ‘Yes. I think I will.’