Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

  And then there was the German, Hildreth. A handful, he had been advised, but then she was one of those warrior women that so terrified the legions on the frontiers. The forthcoming contest promised to be of excellent quality.

  At Titus’s barked command, the duel began.

  Hildreth exploded into action, leaping to the attack, her wooden blade hammering into the Spartan’s shield. Lysandra backed off under the assault, occasionally hitting back with a strike of her own, but Hildreth was relentless. The German ploughed onwards, giving her foe no respite; the watchers roared her on, screaming for the quick kill.

  The women’s shields crunched together and Hildreth lifted her sword, thrusting over the top of Lysandra’s scutum, catching the taller woman on the shoulder.

  ‘Just a wound!’ bellowed Titus. ‘Continue!’

  Hildreth backed off, catching her breath, and Balbus leant forwards in his seat. He had seen Lysandra in the arena and knew she liked to let her foe tire before she herself took the initiative.

  But no such attack came, the two merely circled each other warily, each moment that passed lending Hildreth more confidence.

  Balbus flinched as one of Greta’s young scrubs screeched high-pitched support for Lysandra. He cast an annoyed glance at her, but she did not seem to notice. Hers was a lone voice, he realised; all the cheers were for Hildreth. Urged on by the crowd, Hildreth yelled and attacked once again, bearing down mercilessly on her foe.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Balbus asked Nastasen.

  The big Nubian raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s not as good as Stick said,’ he declared, glancing apologetically at the Parthian who was seated next to Catuvolcos behind the lanista. ‘Sorry, but she’s nothing special. And there’s the proof.’

  ‘She’s sick today,’ Catuvolcos cut in. ‘Running a fever.’

  ‘She looked well enough this morning,’ Nastasen said with a wolfish grin. ‘I don’t think she’s good enough. All talk and little return. I recommend the blocks for that one.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ Catuvolcos spat. Balbus raised a hand abruptly, cutting the argument short, and returned his attention to the contest.

  She was too fast. Hildreth was too fast. Lysandra found she could not breathe properly in the oppressive, full-faced helm. Her chest heaved and sweat ran into her eyes continually, blinding her. It was all she could do to raise her shield and deflect the lightning-quick strikes of the German. She tried to dig deep, to retaliate, but it was useless: all her attacks were battered contemptuously aside, giving her no respite. The German was too good and Lysandra could feel herself tiring swiftly.

  She saw the strike coming but could not defend against it.

  Hildreth’s sword crashed into the side of her helmet and Lysandra’s vision was filled with a bright, white light. She felt herself stagger and tried to raise her shield but she was hit again.

  Lysandra blinked and pain exploded through her, as Hildreth rammed her sword into her abdomen. She doubled over, bile rushing to her throat. The wooden rudis fell from her hand, the sound of it hitting the ground strangely loud in her ears. There was sharp pain at the back of her head and the world tilted crazily before turning to black.

  Balbus’s mouth was agape. The Spartan lay prostrate on the ground before her triumphantly screaming foe.

  ‘ Habet, lanista,’ Nastasen said. ‘She’s had it.’

  This could not be. Balbus himself had seen the woman in combat and knew her worth. This was not the same gladiatrix that had so consummately dispatched her foe in Halicarnassus.

  She was a shadow of that, her movements stiff and disjointed, her attacks feeble.

  He felt a clutching at his calf, and looked down to see the child slave that had been screaming for Lysandra. She was on her knees before him.

  ‘Master, please.’ The girl’s eyes were full of tears, her voice anguished. ‘ Missio, I beg of you. She is the best, I swear it.’

  ‘Get off my foot.’ Balbus shook his leg as one would to dislodge an over-affectionate dog. The girl released him but would not relent. ‘Master, spare her!’ She was cut off as Stick leapt up from his bench and clouted her around the head.

  ‘Get away, Varia.’ He kicked her in the rear, sending the little slave sprawling.

  Titus approached, shaking his head, his lips tight.

  ‘Well, Titus,’ Balbus demanded archly. ‘How do you explain that?’ He pointed furiously to the unmoving Spartan. ‘Your training methods have blunted this girl.’

  Titus flinched, his eyes narrowing at this maligning of his skills.

  It was Nastasen who had beaten the girl, but he was the head trainer, and thus ultimate responsibility for a fighter’s performance lay with him. Yet he knew that the Spartan’s failure had little to do with the Nubian’s bullying. It went deeper. ‘ Lanista,’ he said respectfully. ‘Something has changed the girl. I cannot say what.

  I know she has it in her to make good, but she has lost her fire.’

  ‘She was lucky that first time,’ Nastasen said. ‘Look at her now.

  Lose her,’ he advised Balbus. ‘She’s damaged goods. Anyone can see that she doesn’t have it in her.’

  Balbus felt the eyes of all upon him, awaiting his decision. On this showing, she should go. Could he have been wrong about her? After all, anyone could be lucky in the arena. Many times he himself had seen a superior fighter taken down through sheer bad luck. Perhaps it had been so with Lysandra’s first opponent.

  Perhaps her poor performance had flattered the Spartan too much. He raised his arm, ready to deliver his final judgement.

  ‘She feels the gods have abandoned her,’ Catuvolcos said quietly.

  Balbus paused, recalling his first conversation with Lysandra.

  She was rather straightforward and unimaginative in her manner, he thought. Perhaps a crisis of faith might cause this display. He weighed up her performance in the arena against what he had just seen. Could he afford to lose her?

  ‘One last chance,’ he said quietly, and thrust his fist towards himself, indicating the sheathing of a sword. ‘ Missio!’

  He got to his feet and whirled away. He was aware of an angry muttering amongst both the veterans and the novices. He realised it would not be seen as fair to free one who had performed so poorly and yet send more worthy fighters to the blocks. To show favouritism could cause havoc in the ludus if the women thought one of their number was receiving good treatment that they had not earned. He glanced at the women already condemned, who looked on sullenly. Some of them were no-hopers, extra mouths to feed, and that meant more overheads. But he had made his own bed. He turned back.

  ‘I understand from Catuvolcos that there is an illness amongst the novices,’ he called loudly, causing the hubbub to quieten instantly. ‘I was unaware of such before the day’s contests. This might be a reason for your pathetic displays today. However, I am not an unreasonable man.’ He glared at the women, silencing any contradiction. ‘I shall not be so lenient again.’ He raised his arm to the condemned. ‘ Missio!’ he said.

  A cheer erupted from all the women, veterans and novices both. As one they rose to their feet, whooping and shouting, for none enjoyed the sight of those they had come to know being expelled from the ludus. As he walked away, they began to chant his name, showing their appreciation of his clemency.

  He jerked his head in Lysandra’s direction. ‘Have her taken to the infirmary.’

  XII

  Balbus had a slave wake him before dawn the following day and bring him a hot cup of mint tisane: the lanista found he could not face the day without his morning brew. Even so, rising at such an unearthly hour was far from pleasant. He sipped the herbal infusion, his hand idly playing with the sleeping Eros’ golden hair. The youth stirred and opened his eyes blearily.

  ‘Must you go?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Business is business.’ Balbus said gently. ‘I want to ride to Halicarnassus and I know how you hate horses. I shan’t be gone long.’

 
‘Just make sure you are not.’ Eros’s hand moved under the cotton sheet, stroking the lanista’s thigh and began moving inwards languidly. ‘You know what you’ll be missing.’

  Balbus felt himself jerk in response, swelling into life. He chuckled. ‘I have appointments,’ he said, placing his cup to one side. ‘I must get going.’

  ‘Feels like I’ve got you going already.’ Eros disappeared beneath the covers.

  Balbus sighed, and gave in to the delicious warmth as Eros took him in his mouth. Time enough for business later.

  It took a day and a half for Balbus and his bodyguards to ride to the city of Halicarnassus, leaving the lanista somewhat saddle sore. Still, for all that, he usually enjoyed his time on the road, finding that the occasional foray away from the comforts of home had an invigorating effect.

  Balbus loved the city. As he and his guards stabled their horses, he recalled with fondness his early days in the place that had made him his fortune. Living on a small inheritance, he had invested wisely and had made enough money to buy a share in a small but profitable inner-city ludus. From there, he had never looked back. He reminded himself to make a donation at the shrine of the goddess, Fortuna. Balbus was always careful to honour her, as she had always looked out for him.

  The horses stabled, Balbus booked himself and his entourage into a reasonably priced tavern on the outskirts of the city before going about his business. There were accounts to be settled, supplies to be purchased and a dozen other minutiae that had to be taken care of. Of course, he could delegate tasks, but Balbus prided himself on his business acumen and knew that, whilst Fortuna may have a hand in his success, hard work and the personal touch provided its own reward.

  It took some hours to attend to these matters and it was mid-afternoon by the time Balbus felt that he could indulge himself in a trip to one of Halicarnassus’s excellent public baths. He let the busy cosmopolitan atmosphere wash over him as he threaded his way through the crowded streets. Many of his social standing preferred to travel in a litter, but not Balbus. He had no wish to miss out on the vibrant hum of the city by being encased in a box. And he was big enough to admit to himself that he enjoyed the occasional recognition his work as a successful lanista afforded him.

  As always, the baths were crowded, but not overly so. Balbus liked to visit the more exclusive facilities that, in his view, were well worth the extra expense. There was a time for frugality and a time for extravagance. No use in wealth if one could not enjoy it, he told himself as he languished in the deliciously warm waters. He had lolled luxuriantly for some time, eyes closed, senses soaking in the perfumed air, when his relaxation was interrupted.

  ‘Greetings, Lucius Balbus.’

  The lanista opened his eyes, recognising the voice at once.

  ‘Septimus Falco,’ he said, smiling. ‘Greetings.’ Falco was a young man, not yet in his thirties but, like Balbus, he had made his fortune early in life. They were long-time business associates, the glib younger man a promoter of some repute in Halicarnassus.

  ‘Are you here on business or pleasure?’ Falco asked him.

  ‘A little of both, of course. Do you have anything for me?’

  ‘Always, Balbus, always. You’ll be pleased to hear that Fat Aeschylus is making another bid for government, this time as aedile.’

  Balbus chuckled. Fat Aeschylus was an Asiatic Greek with more money than sense, who had been trying to buy his way up the political ladder for more years than Balbus cared to remember.

  An accepted part of political manoeuvring was to provide games for the public in an attempt to secure votes from the plebs.

  Unfortunately for Aeschylus, the plebs were happy to enjoy his entertainments, but were well aware that he was not taken seriously enough to be considered a viable candidate for office.

  Aeschylus however, was a fan of female combat in his games and Balbus was his preferred supplier. And, if his bid for the office of aedile were successful, it would mean that, alongside supervising public works, Aeschylus would also be responsible for sponsoring the games for the province. ‘Good news for all of us,’ the lanista said, nodding.

  ‘Indeed. But this time Fat Aeschylus is going to the expense of hiring another lanista to provide women to fight. He feels that he can offer the plebs more by pitting one school against another.’

  Balbus was scandalised. ‘That’s absurd,’ he said. ‘My fighters have always provided him with excellent quality.’

  ‘Of course,’ Falco soothed. ‘He’s just looking to increase interest in his spectacle and you can’t really blame him. You know how fast the mob gets jaded; and you have to admit, it’s highly ostentatious. The teams of women together with male fighters — that makes four schools.’

  Balbus mulled that over. He considered it a professional slight, but he had no intention of missing out on the business. He would overlook any bruises to his pride as long as his purse was not similarly dented.

  ‘I understand that you have recently acquired some new stock, Lucius.’ Falco was always well informed. ‘How are they shaping up?’

  ‘Extremely well,’ the lanista responded. Even if some of the latest novices had been extremely poor, Balbus was not about to give any impression other than a good one. ‘As you know, I have an excellent eye for quality merchandise and my recent purchases are no exception.’

  ‘Yes, I saw your new girl at Frontinus’s recent games.’ Falco’s gaze became feline. ‘The dimachaera. She was impressive.’

  ‘Oh, her.’ Balbus grinned at his young countryman. ‘Very dangerous, that one. She’s from Greece.’ He paused for effect.

  ‘Sparta, in fact.’

  ‘Really?’ Falco’s eyes lit up. Like most Romans he was enamoured with tales of ancient Sparta and its illustrious Three Hundred.

  Already, in his mind’s eye, he was probably creating scenarios where he could use her famous background to the most profitable advantage. ‘We could use that to increase the interest in her.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Balbus was pleased that Lysandra had caught the other’s imagination. On no account was he going to let the promoter know that the Spartan was proving trouble-some. ‘Anything to get them going. You know how cynical the mob can be about new fighters,’ he finished smoothly.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Falco’s sigh was world-weary. ‘It’s a problem always being one step ahead of them, they demand new diversions every games, it seems.’

  ‘Falco, I must be away. I have matters to attend to.’ Balbus said, inwardly wishing that he could spend more time idling with the younger man. ‘You’ll be in touch about Aeschylus’s forthcoming games?’

  ‘Indubitably, my friend. If he has the money, I’ll put on a show none will forget in a hurry. I might even get him voted in this time.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ Balbus laughed, and lifted himself from the pool.

  Even though they lied to each other all the time and often cut each other short in profits, he had a genuine affection for the flashy promoter. ‘Take care of yourself, Falco.’ He tipped a finger to his brow.

  ‘You know me, Lucius.’ Falco kicked out into the water. ‘I always do!’

  Balbus left the baths with a specific purpose; there was, after all, a twofold objective in his visiting the city. Having concluded the usual business earlier in the day, he now made his way to the Greek quarter. Certainly, there was a large population of Asiatic Greeks throughout Halicarnassus, but the suburb he was headed for was renowned as a hive of expatriates from the ‘old country.’

  Balbus could not resist a smile as he made his way into the quarter. Having visited Athens in his youth, he instantly recognised the essential Greekness of the place. Togas had been replaced by chitons and the clean-shaven Roman fashion had no place here; most of the men wore beards, oiled and curled. On every corner there was a debate of some sort going on, philosophies being exchanged, politics being argued.

  He stopped by a street-side vendor to enjoy a cup of wine.

  The man tri
ed to fleece him in the typical Greek manner but Balbus rebuked the fellow flawlessly in his own language.

  ‘I thought you were a tourist,’ the wine vendor apologised.

  ‘Afraid not.’ Balbus’s answered lightly. ‘Tell me, my good man, is there a Temple of Athene hereabouts?’

  ‘Athene?’ The vendor scratched his ear, and examined the residue before answering. ‘I thought you Romans called her Minerva? She has a temple in the city.’

  Balbus did not take offence at his abrupt manner; Greeks were famous for their xenophobic attitude. ‘I promised a Greek — ’ he stopped and corrected himself, knowing that the Greeks preferred to be addressed in their native terminology, ‘a Hellene friend of mine that I would make an offering for him while I was in the city,’ he lied smoothly. ‘He insisted that I make his devotion in a Hellenic temple of the goddess.’

  The vendor sized him up for a moment. ‘Yeah, there’s one down the street. Not much of a temple, though. More of a shrine.’

  He gave Balbus the directions. In return, the lanista flipped him a coin, which vanished with preternatural speed.

  Balbus found the shrine with no difficulty. It was a small building but, as with most Greek architecture, it was quite beautiful. He made his way inside, pausing a moment to let his eyes adjust to the comparative darkness within. Incense hung heavily in the air, giving the interior of the shrine an ethereal atmosphere. At the far end of the room was an altar behind which was a tall statue of Athene, resplendent in her armour and war helm. Her presence dominated the room and Balbus bowed his head in acknowledgement. Like most Romans, he had a healthy respect for the religions of foreign lands.

  ‘Can I help you, brother?’

  Balbus saw a priest approaching him from behind the statue.

  The man moved with an assured grace, his arms and chest were muscular, giving him more the look of an athlete than a cleric.

  ‘You are the High Priest here?’ Balbus asked in a reverential whisper. It always felt wrong to him to speak at normal tenor in a place of worship.