Gladiatrix

VII

Night had fallen over the ludus, replacing the harsh burning heat of the day with a pleasant, balmy warmth.

Lysandra could hear the sound of laughter, muted by the thick stone walls of her prison, as women passed by her cell on their way to Titus’s gathering. The celebrations had to be in full swing by now as the hour had already grown late. She sat on her cot, forearms resting on her knees, hands idly toying with the laces of her sandal. She had one on already; all that remained was to put the other on her foot and join the festivities.

Lysandra hesitated, deciding if she would go through with it.

After all, she was not interested in drunken revelry and she asked herself over and over if the opinion of Catuvolcos mattered. She decided it did not, but then reasoned that it would be churlish not to attend. She placed her foot into the sandal and tied the laces.

She stood, put her hand to the door and froze. Perhaps it was not such a good idea. Had Catuvolcos not said she was unpopular with the women? It could be that excess of wine amongst her detractors could lead to cattiness and possibly worse.

She told herself that she was being ridiculous. No one would even notice her presence or absence; it had been weeks since anybody had passed even a cursory comment to her outside of what was necessary in training. She decided she would stay long enough to be noticed by Catuvolcos, thus proving him wrong, and then she would leave.

She yanked the door open before she could change her mind.

The training ground had been transformed in the hours she had spent in the silence of the cell. At the far end, nearest the baths, many tables had been arrayed, moved from the dining area to the grounds to provide more room for the women. She glanced up at the walls and noted that they were thick with guards and a heavy detail had also been placed around the armoury. A barricade of sorts cordoned off the area where the gathering was being held. Despite Titus’s magnanimity he was evidently taking no chances with security. She patted down her hair self-consciously and made her way towards the barricade.

Stick, Catuvolcos and several guards were standing by a small gap in the makeshift construction. She felt the Gaul’s eyes upon her as she approached.

‘Halt!’ said one of the guards. She recognised him as the Macedonian she had spoken with on her first day in the ludus.

He stepped forward and instructed her to lift her arms, giving her a rudimentary search.

‘Is all this really necessary?’ She directed the question at Catuvolcos.

He looked at her with an odd expression on his face. Obviously still bearing a grudge, she thought. Then he grinned at her, which only served to annoy her further. She hated to be mistaken in her assessment of another’s mood.

‘Yes, Lysa, it is,’ he said.

‘Will you stop calling me that!’ she snapped. ‘My name is Lysandra.’

‘Less of your lip, bitch!’ Stick cut in. He drew his vine staff.

‘Show some respect or, by the gods, I’ll beat it into you!’ He bristled when Lysandra regarded him as if he were something she had stepped in.

‘It’s all right, Stick,’ Catuvolcos soothed. ‘The women have a free night — and so do we, more or less. Let’s not have any unpleasantness.’ He turned his attention back to her. ‘There are over a hundred women back there.’ He jerked his thumb towards the gathering. As if to punctuate his words, there was a scream of raucous laughter. ‘Most of them are trained killers and some are feuding with each other. The search is just a precaution. You know what women are like. Can’t take their liquor and then they get tetchy. So we can’t risk someone smuggling in a weapon, that’s all.’

Lysandra sniffed, considering that reasonable. ‘Like as not, you’ll be proving your doubtless titanic capacity for wine at the earliest opportunity.’

‘Not a chance. We’re not allowed back there. I told you, we can’t afford to let the women get their hands on weapons of any sort, you know what I mean?’ He moved his eyebrows up and down several times. ‘You all find me irresistible, and when the grape takes hold of a girl, she wants to get romantic with me.’

‘I find you more irritating than irresistible,’ Lysandra told him.

Catuvolcos clutched his hand to his heart and feigned a stagger.

‘I’m crushed!’

‘Very amusing,’ she commented as she made her way past him; she did not fail to notice Stick’s malevolent glare. Moving off to the feast, she heard the wiry Parthian berating Catuvolcos for being too familiar with her but the Gaul’s response was lost to her in the general hubbub of the revels.

The gathering was in full swing, with many women already slumped over the trestles, the worst for drink. An assortment of food had been laid out, which had been attacked with gusto.

There was the usual barley stew but Titus had arranged meat for the festivities to satisfy the barbarian women. The smell of roasting pork and lamb wafted from many spits, the sweet smoke spiralling into the night sky. The mood was buoyant, with laughter and songs sung in a myriad of languages. She picked out smatterings of the words here and there and the subjects were not to her liking, referring to either lost love or the joys of sexual inter-course, neither of which she had experienced. Indeed, she prided herself that she had never given in to such emotional or physical weakness.

Lysandra kept to the periphery, making her way to one of several wine casks that were stacked about the training area. She poured herself a cup and looked around in vain for water to mix with it. She shrugged and sipped the strong liquor, wincing at its full-bodied taste. She started as a hand landed forcefully on her shoulder.

Lysandra whirled about — only to be confronted by Hildreth.

The German was holding a jug of beer, the foamy moustache she sported mute evidence that she was drinking the vile stuff straight from the container.

‘Hello, Lysandra!’ she shouted boisterously in Latin. ‘How are you today?’

‘I am very well, Hildreth. How are you?’ This, Lysandra mused, was fast becoming a ritual between them.

‘I am very well!’ Hildreth laughed. ‘I am — ,’ she looked up, trying to think. ‘How do I say it? Ah, yes. I am drunk as a sack!’

The Spartan arched an eyebrow. ‘I can tell,’ she said dryly.

‘ What?’ Hildreth hollered.

Lysandra had noticed that when the barbarians could not understand a phrase or could not make themselves understood, they thought that shouting would convey their meaning. She tried again. ‘Yes, you are.’

Hildreth laughed and clapped Lysandra on the shoulder, causing her wine to slosh over her hand. The German failed to notice and stumbled off, singing a song in her own rough language. Lysandra watched her go, a slight smile playing about her lips. Hildreth, she conceded, was a good enough sort. For a barbarian.

She wandered aimlessly among the revellers for some time, enjoying the celebratory atmosphere. Despite her earlier outburst to Varia, she was impressed by Titus’s concession of a feast. Letting the women gather in such a manner was excellent for morale and relieved the pressure of the daily toil in the ludus. She stood apart from the others, watching their ribald antics with amusement. Women stumbled about, a score of dances from different nations taking place around the compound. Lysandra rather thought that the ludus itself was like the Roman Empire in miniature: different creeds coming together in servitude to Rome. She congratulated herself on her own astuteness.

She saw Eirianwen walking towards her from the crowd. The beautiful Silurian raised her hand in greeting and Lysandra cast a glance behind her to see whose attention the gladiatrix was seeking. There was no one.

Eirianwen smiled as she drew closer; she wore a tunic of white cotton and Lysandra was surprised at how so simple a garment could emphasise her beauty, clinging to her hips and accentuating the curve of her breasts. Lysandra had always been proud of her height, but now, in front of Eirianwen, she suddenly felt ungainly and clumsy.

‘Greetings.’ Eirianwen’s voice was light, almost musical it seemed to Lysandra.

She took a healthy draft of her wine to moisten her suddenly dry throat. Why was the barbarian affecting her in such a manner?

Perhaps she was a sorceress, who was skilled in enchantments — like Calypso who so befuddled Odysseus. She dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. More likely she was feeling the effects of the un-watered wine. ‘Eirianwen.’ She nodded.

‘You are alone,’ Eirianwen observed. ‘That is not the way things should be on such a night.’

‘Oh, I am quite fine,’ she said, and drained her cup.

Eirianwen cocked her head to one side and Lysandra marvelled at the way the light of the torches reflected on her blue eyes.

‘Nonsense,’ she said and held out her hand. ‘Come.’

Mutely, Lysandra let Eirianwen lead her through the throng, her mind whirling. She felt as if she were walking on air, her heart beating fast in her chest; the flesh of her fingers tingling at Eirianwen’s touch.

The Silurian looked over her shoulder and smiled. ‘Here we are.’ She indicated a table, releasing Lysandra’s hand. Several other women were sitting together, including Sorina, the Gladiatrix Prima. ‘Sit,’ Eirianwen bade her.

Two of the women shuffled up on their bench to make room and the Spartan sat between them. Eirianwen moved to sit opposite her. Wordlessly, she refilled Lysandra’s cup.

‘Greetings, friends,’ Lysandra said formally. A chorus answered her. ‘I am honoured to join you,’ she added, raising her cup in toast to the women. The honour was of course theirs, for it was doubtful that they had ever been in the presence of a Priestess of Athene — a former priestess, she corrected herself.

‘You’re the Spartan,’ the woman next to her said. ‘Eirianwen reckons that you have potential. Only veterans may sit at this table,’ she added.

‘Lysandra is a veteran,’ Eirianwen interjected. ‘Though she has not yet taken the Oath she has already fought and won her first bout. That gives her the right.’

The woman shrugged. ‘I’m Teuta,’ she said. She was dark haired, her almond-shaped eyes and flattish features betraying her as either Illyrian or Pannonian. ‘That’s my real name. In the arena, I’m called Thana. Maybe you’ve heard of me?’ This last was said with not a little amount of hope.

‘The Illyrian goddess of hunting,’ Lysandra identified, ignoring the question. ‘A good choice of name.’ She had learned that arena fighters were given or chose names from legend. It made them recognisable to the crowds and added drama to an event — or so Titus believed. ‘You all have such impressive titles.’ She glanced around the table.

‘Yes,’ Teuta said before anyone else could answer. ‘Eirianwen is called Britannica. Soucana over there,’ she gestured to a fair, shorthaired woman, ‘is Vercengetoria.’

‘Yes,’ Soucana shouted, evidently a little the worse for wear.

‘Scourge of Caesar, I am named for the hero of the Gauls!’ The other women cheered good-naturedly.

‘And Sorina is Amazona, correct?’ Lysandra inclined her head at the Gladiatrix Prima. She kept her expression neutral but was shocked at how old the Dacian was. The tanned face showed signs of time’s march. She must be well past thirty already, Lysandra thought. ‘Your given name carries history, does it not?’

‘That is so, Spartan,’ she agreed. ‘I am from Penthesilea’s line.’

She too kept her face expressionless.

Lysandra’s lip curled. It was in the barbarian nature to lie, making extravagant claims as to their linage. Penthesilea was the Amazon queen who was slain by Achilles. That none in the entire ludus had the benefit of Spartan education was indeed fortunate for the aging warrior, or this probable falsehood would have been called into question long ago. The Amazons of old never took husbands for life, so it was impossible to say who was from whose line. And they were incapable of writing anything down, so they could make up whatever nonsense they liked. She refrained from making an issue of it, however, for it would have been impolite.

Instead she changed the subject. ‘This is certainly not what I expected from slavery.’

‘It is a better life than most can expect,’ Eirianwen said.

‘Though we are slaves, we are valuable to Balbus. It makes sense for him to see that we are treated well.’ She paused, looking straight at Lysandra. ‘The trainers are very harsh at the beginning,’ she said. ‘This is done to break the spirit of the weaker ones, to see who cannot take the pressure. If a woman breaks in training she will die in the arena.’

Lysandra nodded. It was so in the agoge.

‘To train a fighter costs a lot of money,’ Eirianwen went on.

‘We have good food, good physicians and, if we survive long enough, a decent place to live.’ She gestured to the houses set far back from the training grounds.

‘You sound like you are getting to like it,’ Sorina cut in, her voice harsh.

‘I hate it,’ Eirianwen responded. ‘But what would you have me do? Waste away in grief or accept my lot and hope to win my freedom one day?’

Sorina spat on the ground. ‘Roman bastards. At best they will see you dead. At worst they make you one of them. I will never be corrupted.’

Lysandra watched the exchange, realising she had finished her wine. Feeling somewhat light-headed, she refilled the cup and was pleased to find that the bite had gone and now the liquor was going down much easier.

‘I am not corrupted,’ Eirianwen said. ‘Really, Sorina, you should not burden yourself with so much hatred.’

‘How can you say that?’ Sorina drained her own cup. ‘Did Frontinus not defeat your tribe, slay your warriors and cast the others into slavery? What now of the Silures, Eirianwen? What of your land?

Is Britannia not showing the signs of the Roman disease? Growths of stone infecting the fields, roads like swords cut through the heart of the Great Mother. Pah!’ She threw up her hand in disgust.

Eirianwen cast her eyes down, and shook her head. ‘You speak the truth, Sorina, but I do not hate the Romans for what they have done. They did not invent war, or its consequences.’

‘They are raping the world!’ Sorina’s voice was heavy with wine-induced malice. ‘They call it civilisation, but it is an abomination. Let them live in their towns of stone, but do not force the freeborn to do likewise. Since the First Days, the Dacians have ridden free on the plains, beholden to no Emperor, no man.’

This last was said with utter contempt. ‘Then the Romans came, burning and killing the innocents of my land. When the tribes rose against them, we fought hard and well. Well enough to force them back across the Danube. They were afraid.’

There was silence around the table at her outburst.

‘Actually, they were not,’ Lysandra said. All eyes turned to her.

‘Really, Dacia is not worth the effort in manpower to placate.’

She shook as she cleared her throat, annoyed that her words were slurred slightly. She knew the wine was taking effect but she found that she did not care and poured herself some more. ‘There is nothing there of value, is there? Except slaves,’ she said as an afterthought, gesturing to Sorina. ‘It would take a long and costly campaign to subjugate such a wide territory, which is why there have only been minor Roman operations there.’

‘When I am finished in this place, I will gather the warriors of the plains, and bring them to war against the Romans!’ Sorina said vehemently.

‘And you will be crushed.’ Lysandra shrugged. ‘No barbarian army can stand against disciplined troops.’

Sorina got to her feet, swaying slightly. ‘Who are you calling a barbarian, you arrogant whore?’

‘Anyone who cannot speak Hellenic is a barbarian.’ Lysandra stated the obvious, letting Sorina’s insult pass. ‘It is the sound of your language… like sheep… baa, baa!’ She laughed at this. It was an ancient truism, but never failed to bring her to mirth.

‘Peace, Sorina.’ Eirianwen put a calming hand on the older warrior’s arm as the Amazon’s face darkened in anger. ‘The drink is in us all. Let’s have no more of this talk.’

Lysandra was about to speak again but decided against it; she did not want to distress Eirianwen. Sorina sat, but would not let the matter drop. ‘How can you be so sure of a Roman victory?’ she asked.

Lysandra ran her hand through her hair. She looked around and saw a long wooden ladle on the ground by a pot of barley stew. She stumbled up, retrieved it, and returned to the table.

‘Here.’ She tossed the implement to Sorina. ‘Can you break that?’

‘Of course,’ the Dacian responded, snapping the wood with ease.

‘Now take the two halves and break them at the same time.’

This time, the task was much harder but the Amazon persevered.

With a loud crack, the staves broke. Sorina triumphantly met the Spartan’s gaze. ‘You are very strong,’ Lysandra observed. ‘Now break the four.’

Sorina cast the wood to the ground in disgust. ‘That would be impossible. What are you trying to prove?’

‘Simple. That is how civilised people fight. In close units, you see. For the Hellene or the Roman, personal valour is honoured but discipline and training count for much more on the battlefield. A barbarian fights for glory, charging to battle, swinging a big sword round his head… her head, in this case. And achieves what? On foot, she needs space around her to wield her sword, lest she kill the compatriots by her side. Instantly, she is outnumbered three to one, for civilised troops lock shields and fight as a unit. On horseback, she charges into a hedge of spears and swords. And dies.’

‘You talk a good fight, Spartan,’ Sorina said. ‘For one who has never set foot on the battlefield.’

‘Have it your own way, Amazon.’ Lysandra found that for once she did not wish to pursue an argument. Better to end the conversation. ‘You are just like every other barbarian. Too proud and too stupid to learn from your betters.’

Sorina sprang across the table, crashing into Lysandra. The two women fell to the ground, rolling over several times. Sorina emerged on top and slammed her fist into Lysandra’s face, sending a sharp message of pain through her wine-fogged head. A few onlookers saw the brawl erupt and called to their fellows. Soon a crowd had gathered around the two struggling women and began chanting rhythmically, ‘Fight, fight, fight!’

Lysandra thrust her hips upwards, causing her furious assailant to overbalance and topple forwards. She rolled away and sprang to her feet but the liquor had made her clumsy and she stumbled. Sorina was charging towards her, spitting hate, and it was only by long-learnt reflex that Lysandra was able to lash out with her foot, catching the onrushing Amazon in the pit of the stomach.

Sorina doubled over in pain and Lysandra moved in quickly, seeking to grasp her foe’s head and smash her face to pulp with her knee. But Sorina’s reaction was swift: she lunged forwards, butting her shoulder into Lysandra’s midriff. Jerking upright, Sorina carried Lysandra with her, flipping her skywards.

She crashed painfully to the ground, cracking the back of her head as she landed. Head spinning, she staggered to her feet, barely in time to meet Sorina’s attack; the Amazon’s fist connected with the side of her face and Lysandra responded in kind, her own blow snapping back her opponent’s head. She surged in, but suddenly, she was being dragged back, as was Sorina, cursing and kicking.

Eirianwen had hold of the furiously struggling Gladiatrix Prima.

‘That’s enough,’ she shouted. ‘Sorina, enough!’

Teuta grasped Lysandra around the middle, lifting her from the ground and heaving her away. ‘Gods, Spartan! Leave it!’ Lysandra ceased to struggle and the Illyrian let go, dumping her uncere-moniously onto her bottom.

The crowd around the fracas had dispersed as quickly as it had gathered. Lysandra touched her cheek ruefully, feeling a large bruise beginning to swell up. She puffed out her cheeks, trying to clear her head, which spun both for the wine and the forceful blows landed by the Amazon.

She looked up to see Sorina standing over her.

They regarded each other in silence for some moments, then the older woman extended her hand and pulled Lysandra to her feet. ‘You fight well,’ she acknowledged.

‘As do you.’

‘But not well enough.’ Sorina turned away before Lysandra could respond. Feeling somewhat foolish, she made to leave, but Eirianwen stepped up to her.

‘Don’t worry. That will be an end to it for tonight,’ she said.

‘Come. Let’s have another drink.’