Gladiatrix

LIII

‘An unforeseeable accident?’ Frontinus bristled, his watery eyes boring into Balbus, who shifted from foot to foot under the gaze.

‘As I said, sir, I could not have foreseen it.’ The lanista had thought it prudent to bring the news of Nastasen’s demise to Frontinus straight away. There was, he reasoned, little point in delaying matters.

‘A most convenient turn of events.’ This from the Spaniard, Trajanus. Balbus thought of those from the Iberian peninsular as little more than barbarians, but this one at least carried himself like a Roman, his Latin faultless. Balbus supposed that he was of Roman parentage. ‘I knew that this woman of yours, this Spartan, would stand no chance against a male warrior,’ Trajanus continued in a pedantic tone. ‘I would suggest that perhaps someone has realised the folly of their idealism and has circumvented any losses they may have had a-betting.’ At this, he cast a sidelong glance towards Frontinus, and Balbus noted the old man’s scowl.

The lanista cleared his throat. ‘No, my lord, that is not the case, I can assure you. It is my belief that the killing was a personal matter, between slaves.’ He took on just the right look of resigned regret. Better to side with Frontinus who would remain in Halicarnassus long after the Spaniard had departed. ‘The bout between Achillia and Nastasen was not yet public knowledge. If any side bets have occurred, they could only have been between yourselves, as no one else knew the bout was scheduled.’

Trajanus sniffed disdainfully, his air that of a man who had been fleeced. ‘You’ve apprehended the killer?’

‘Unfortunately, no,’ Balbus lied quickly. ‘There were many who had cause to despise Nastasen and, truth be known, no one will speak out. I know that there are methods of extracting information but so many slaves could have done this. Then again, it could have been a guard… an arena employee…’ he trailed off. ‘I simply cannot know who did this.’ He paused, spreading his hands. ‘I am sorry if this sordid affair has disrupted any honourable wager between you. I assure you that nothing underhand has gone on and you may of course investigate the murder if you wish.’ He kept his face neutral, hoping that his bluff would not be called. To offer them the chance to look into the matter would, he hoped, dissuade them. He felt his sphincter twitch as Trajanus made to speak, but Frontinus opened his mouth first.

‘No need for that, good Balbus,’ he said. ‘I know well that you are an honourable man. I realise that your offer is made in good spirit, but I feel that it is rather beneath men of our rank to go scrabbling for details in the death of mere slaves.’

Balbus could have kissed him for that. Even if Trajanus now wished to delve he could not, without revealing himself as the lesser, pettier man. ‘Of course, sir. Foolish of me to offer but, as you say, it was in good faith. Despite all our precautions these things do happen, I’m afraid.’

‘Yes, quite.’ Frontinus waved a dismissive hand. With much bowing, Balbus retreated, thoroughly relieved. Again, he could not help but think that this game was getting too much for him.

A younger man may well have enjoyed the trials, the risks, the highs and the lows. But for him there was merely the sense of relief, mingled with an almost overwhelming tiredness.

The games wore on, their passing lost to Lysandra. The Carian countryside blurred as she ran, her mind fixed only on putting one foot in front of the other. Fitness, stamina, strength, discipline and skill; these were her watchwords. Each day came and went, obscure in their similarity. Mile upon mile passed beneath her feet, countless cuts and thrusts with the rudis as she sparred.

She felt herself growing stronger, her muscles tightening under the punishing regimen. There were no longer women good enough to face her, so she was forced to bribe the male gladiators with her savings in order to train.

For Lysandra, there was nothing but pain, sweat and toil.

And Sorina.

‘Come on, Sorina, pull!’ Teuta urged as the Amazon hauled herself up on the chin bar, the tanned arms bulging. ‘Legs!’ she shouted, and was well pleased as Sorina lifted her legs with seeming effortlessness. ‘Thirty leg-raises! Go!’

Silently, the Gladiatrix Prima complied.

Lysandra’s wooden swords blurred as she attacked the wiry Ethiopian. The man was fast, moving quickly to evade her blows and counter with those of his own. But even as they moved, his features shifted, becoming those of Sorina’s. With a scream, Lysandra weaved in, her swords a spider’s web of violence. She did not even see which of her blows had struck him, knocking him senseless.

Sorina also found that no woman could match her in training.

Circling her adversary, her face was fierce and feral, her movements fluid and, if the swords were real, deadly. Her lithe opponent was good.

But not good enough. Deftly, she stepped inside the man’s guard and scissored her swords at his throat.

‘Get me another one,’ she snapped at the watching Teuta.

‘Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight…’ Thebe counted out the repetitions as Lysandra performed her push-ups. Alongside them, the little slave, Varia, gamely attempted to keep up. ‘Ninety-nine, one hundred! Good, Lysandra, good.’

Her body drenched in sweat, arms trembling, Lysandra gritted her teeth. ‘Fifty more,’ she hissed.

The sandbag shook and bled grit as Sorina pummelled it, her fists smacking into the canvas sacking with hot venom. Each blow sent a juddering satisfaction thorough her body, as she pictured the coldly beautiful face of the Spartan pulping under her fists.

The men watching guffawed with glee as the big German gladiator crashed to the ground, spitting blood. Lysandra stood over him, her shoulders heaving with exertion. Furious, the German surged to his feet, swinging angry blows at the agile Spartan.

Where she could not evade, Lysandra parried. Where she could not parry she struck back.

Her foot lashed out, catching the warrior straight between the legs. Clutching himself, the man collapsed to his knees, then on to his side as his compatriots jeered.

Lysandra glanced at them and allowed herself a rare smile.

The months passed, each day as before, both women honing themselves to their peak. In her youth, Sorina had felt herself strong; but with Lysandra to drive her on, her body reached levels she did not think herself capable of. For her part, Lysandra, even with all the training of the agoge, knew that she too was at her best. Never before had she been as skilled.

The last night was upon them. It had come abruptly, a sudden end to all the preparations that had dominated their lives for so long.

Lysandra put down her swords and watched Sorina as she laid a last, huge blow into the suspended sandbag. Across the training area their eyes met. In that moment, time seemed to stop. For they knew that come the following eve, one of them would lie dead. It was a comfort to both of them.