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.’
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. A
n 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.
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