Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

  As he approached, Catuvolcos could smell the Nubian’s sweat and, beneath his loincloth, the vestiges of his arousal showed plainly. He felt his face grow hot as his blood burned with anger.

  The thought of Nastasen’s hands on the Spartan sickened him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Catuvolcos realised his whisper was harsh and too loud.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Nastasen’s voice trembled with a nervous tension. He seemed to be on the border of hysterical laughter.

  ‘I saw you come in here and wondered what you were up to,’

  Catuvolcos lied.

  Nastasen inhaled deeply, causing his massive chest to expand.

  ‘I needed some medication,’ he whispered. ‘The hemp, Catuvolcos.

  I know that Quintus has a supply and I am running low.’

  ‘Does he keep it by Lysandra’s bed?’

  ‘She called out in her sleep.’ The Nubian shrugged. ‘It caught my attention and I stopped to look at her.’ He paused, the hugely dilated pupils regarding Catuvolcos. ‘What do you care, anyway?

  You seem to be sweet on this girl. Saying she’s ill when she performs badly. And now, out in the middle of the night, just turning up where she happens to be.’ His face split into a smile, his teeth starkly white against the ebony of his flesh.

  Catuvolcos swallowed. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said, hoping his intonation was glib. ‘Like I said, I saw you and wondered what you were up to.’ The Nubian nodded.

  ‘Join me in a snort or two, Gaul?’

  Catuvolcos was appalled that Nastasen had even suspected his true motivation for being in the infirmary. He cursed himself a fool for putting himself in this position, but now he had no choice other than to accept the Nubian’s offer. Not to do so would give the black giant time alone, time to think about what had transpired. Catuvolcos hoped that a night on the hemp would dull his fellow trainer’s suspicions. Forcing himself to smile, he nodded wordlessly and turned away, leaving the infirmary on cat’s feet.

  He did not see Nastasen glare hatred at his back.

  XIV

  Lysandra awoke slowly, aware instantly of the dull ache in her head. She felt nauseous and disorientated, as if all the strength had been leeched from her body. Blinking, she realised that she was in the ludus’s infirmary, a fact reinforced by the sudden appearance of Quintus by her bedside. The surgeon pulled up a stool and sat, putting a cup of water to her lips. She was parched, and tried to gulp the cool liquid down but Quintus pulled the cup away, tutting.

  ‘Not too much, my girl,’ he said. ‘It will make you sick. Just small sips.’ He offered her the cup again. She took it from him and nodded.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Quintus said. ‘You have a thick skull.’ Lysandra shot him a venomous look, but the surgeon grinned at her. ‘It didn’t crack at least,’ he went on. ‘Whether what you had in there has turned to mush is still to be seen however.’

  ‘Thank you so much for your observation, Hippocrates,’ she muttered, handing the cup back.

  Quintus shrugged and then winked at her. ‘My bedside manner does leave something to be desired,’ he said. He rose and poured her more water from a pitcher. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Sick,’ she responded. ‘Dizzy and weak.’ It was senseless to lie to a physician.

  Quintus made a noise at the back of his throat. ‘You’ve had a concussion,’ he said. ‘It occurs, obviously, when a blow is received…’

  ‘I know what a concussion is,’ Lysandra cut him off. ‘I am not an idiot.’

  ‘Hippocrates recommends trepanation as a treatment,’ the surgeon retorted dryly. He smirked as Lysandra’s hand flew to her head, seeking a hole. ‘But I did not think your condition serious enough to warrant it.’

  ‘That is reasonable,’ Lysandra agreed, her own lips twisting in an answering grin.

  ‘You should smile more often, Spartan. You are pretty when you do so.’ He held up his hand, cutting off any response. ‘You must stay here and rest, at least for a few days. You cannot risk further injury to your head, it’s not safe.’

  ‘It does not matter,’ Lysandra told him. ‘I am to be sold, as I am fully aware that my performance was not up to standard. I doubt if my next owner will require me to fight for him.’ Her tone was bitter and self-reproaching.

  ‘I’m afraid you don’t get away from here quite that easily. It seems as if Balbus has given you another chance. None of the women are to be sold.’

  Lysandra was about to respond, when the door to the infirmary opened. Varia peered into the room and, seeing Lysandra sitting up, she squeaked with delight and bounded towards the bed.

  ‘She’s been here every free moment she’s had,’ Quintus whispered before announcing more loudly, ‘I’ll be in my office!’

  ‘Lysandra!’ Varia skidded to a halt by the bed, her face wreathed with smiles. ‘It is good to see you awake! I knew you would be well.’

  Lysandra smiled back at the youngster, and held out her hand.

  Tentatively, the little slave reached out and clasped her fingers with her own. ‘It is good to see you too, Varia,’ she said. ‘The face of a friend is the best sight when one has woken from a long sleep.’ Lysandra realised that this was the first time she had called the child her friend. It was the first time she had admitted it to herself. Varia beamed at her.

  ‘You are not to go to the blocks,’ she said.

  ‘So Quintus tells me.’

  ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’Varia was enthusiastic. ‘We can be friends forever,’ she added with childish hope. Lysandra did not respond, unwilling to dampen the girl’s spirits. In her heart, she knew that nothing had changed, that she had lost the will and desire to fight. Her next bout would carry the same result.

  Varia chatted on, oblivious to the dark turn in her mood. She spoke of a child’s matters: that she had adopted a kitten she had found, an offspring of one of the cats that so plagued the kitchens.

  ‘I’ve called her Sparta, after your home,’ Varia confided. ‘I know she will grow to be the best hunter of mice ever.’ Lysandra nodded and smiled, hoping that she kept a bitter cast from her face. Varia continued in a similar tone, updating Lysandra on the gossip from the recent bouts, but much of what she said was lost to her. Lysandra’s thoughts turned to what her future held.

  Balbus had arranged to meet the priest at daybreak and was pleased to find the man punctual. The lanista had ensured his business matters were closed and, as promised, had made an offering at Fortuna’s temple. He wanted to be on his way, and Telemachus too seemed eager to get their journey started. For some reason the priest had brought with him several leather buckets, each full of scrolls.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be on the road long enough for you to read all of those,’ Balbus commented.

  Telemachus grinned at him. ‘I like to be prepared for all eventualities.’ Balbus grunted, and the little group got under way.

  The lanista found the priest to be a witty and engaging travelling companion, the journey becoming increasingly enjoyable as they went. Telemachus had what seemed to be an endless supply of stories and fables with which he regaled Balbus and his guards. The Greek had no shortage of the more ribald tales too and the men laughed long into the night at his retellings of the myths with his inimitable earthy slant. Interspersed with the stories, Balbus told the priest what he knew of Lysandra: how she had been found amidst the wreckage of a destroyed ship and of her self-proclaimed title of Mission Priestess.

  The days passed quickly, thanks to Telemachus’s incessant chatter, and soon the ludus came into sight. Balbus always felt a sense of pride as he approached the complex, knowing that he had built up his empire with his own sweat.

  ‘Impressive,’ Telemachus acknowledged.

  Balbus spread his hands, affecting a modest expression. ‘Things can always be better, but we are in profit and that’s the main thing.’

  ‘I should like to bathe and change before I speak to your Spartan,’ Telemachus said as the
y drew closer to the ludus. ‘It would be unseemly for a priest of the goddess to meet one of her handmaidens covered in road grime.’

  ‘My home is yours,’ Balbus said.

  Balbus’s facilities were excellent, rivalling the city-based baths that Telemachus frequented. After they had bathed and enjoyed a massage, the lanista gave him a short tour of the ludus. Telemachus was surprised at the good conditions that these fighters lived in.

  To see inside a ludus was an opportunity not often afforded to a common member of the populace, but he had heard that arena fighters were often treated in a shameful manner.

  ‘That is largely a myth,’ Balbus told him when Telemachus broached the subject. ‘These slaves are expensive to buy, and they only really fetch a good return if they perform well. It’s like owning a team of racing horses,’ he elucidated. ‘One treats one’s horses well, gives them the best food, attention and training in order that they will produce results on the day of the race.

  These women are prized assets, and I should go out of business very soon if by the time they came to fight they were so broken that they were killed in their first bouts. That is not to say I am not an advocate of discipline, but I see little sense in ruining a fighter by oppression. I find that giving the women a sense of worth increases their efforts. One needs spirit to survive in the arena.’

  ‘A wise policy, lanista.’ Telemachus saw sense in the Roman’s methods. ‘Talking of lack of spirit, it is about time I saw your Lysandra.’

  Balbus rubbed his hands together. ‘Excellent. I shall have her brought to the main house and we can interview her there.’

  Telemachus shook his head. ‘With respect, I should see her alone.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Balbus shrugged. ‘She is in the infirmary. I shall take you there and ensure that you are not disturbed.’

  Dusk had begun to darken the sky as Telemachus entered the infirmary. The Spartan sat on her bunk, staring into space. The priest was at once struck by her beauty as the half light fell upon her. She turned slowly as he approached her and he saw that her eyes were the colour of ice.

  ‘Greetings, Lysandra of Sparta, Handmaiden of Athene, Priestess of the Mission,’ Telemachus raised his hand. ‘I am Telemachus, and I too am in her service.’

  The Spartan cocked an eyebrow. ‘Greetings, Athenian.’

  Telemachus resisted the urge to grin both at her rustic accent and her instant recognition of his own. ‘Have you come to take me from here?’

  ‘No.’ Telemachus sat at the foot of her bed. ‘That is not within my powers, and even if it were, I would not.’

  ‘So you have come to gawp at me?’

  Telemachus ignored that. ‘I have brought you some books.’ He placed the buckets on the bed. He could tell that she was interested, despite herself. ‘Homer, of course, and Herodotus. Xenophon, Caesar, Gaius Marius, and other manuals of tactics. I know that the Spartan Priestesses covet such reading.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Lysandra pulled one of the scrolls out and inspected it. ‘ The Gallic Wars,’ she read aloud. ‘To what do I owe all this, then?’ She snapped the scroll closed. ‘Are you merely concerned for one of the Sisterhood who has fallen on evil times?’

  Telemachus scratched his beard. It had been a long time since he had spoken with a Spartan and he had forgotten how blunt they could be. ‘No. I am here because Lucius Balbus asked me to speak with you. There are concerns that you are not performing here as you should.’

  Lysandra’s smile held no humour. ‘He is disappointed that I am not worthy to fight and die in the arena. A pity. But the fact that I am here is ample proof that Athene has turned her face from me. It is better that I am sold, for I have done nothing but dishonour my Order and my people.’

  Telemachus fixed the girl with a cold stare. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’ He could tell that this had taken her aback.

  ‘You call yourself a Spartan? It is not the Spartan way to hold oneself locked in gloom and self-pity.’

  ‘What would you know about it, Athenian? You have no right to come and speak of matters of which you have no comprehension.’

  ‘I know enough to see that you are right when you say you dishonour your Order. You dishonour the goddess by your refusal to accept the gifts she has given you. Instead you sit and sulk like a petulant child.’

  ‘Gifts!’ Lysandra exploded. ‘To consign her Priestess to slavery is a gift? I think not.’

  Telemachus got to his feet. ‘Look about you and think to where you came from. Your life in the Temple has been dedi-cated to what? The practise of martial skills in honour of the goddess!’ He threw up his hands. ‘And what a waste! To what end do you learn these skills? To parade on the festival days in hoplite panoply before once again shutting yourself off from the world in your little temple.’

  ‘It is not the Spartan way to be ostentatious,’ Lysandra replied loftily. ‘We need no Parthenon, for we worship with our hearts.’

  ‘You are avoiding the issue, Priestess. To what end has your training been? Is it merely to pay the goddess lip service?’

  ‘For a priest, you are poorly educated. Our Order was founded after the invasion of Pyrrhus…’

  Telemachus made a sharp gesture, cutting her off. ‘Yes, I know all that! Do you honestly think that your Sisterhood will be called on to defend Sparta again? Rome has outlasted all other Empires, Lysandra. The Pax Romana keeps us safe, the frontiers are marked, and there is no foreign threat. No,’ he shook his head, his expression mocking, ‘you practise the empty ritual of combat, harking back to days when Sparta was a great power, not a rural back-water of Hellas.’ He had hit a mark by design and was pleased to see anger burn in her eyes. As a Hellene, Telemachus understood the Spartan psyche and knew that laying insult at the gates of her polis would not fail to move her from the lethargy that Balbus had described.

  ‘It is not for Athenians to speak ill of Sparta. You are nothing but a race of effete snobs.’

  ‘At least we are a race of snobs with some intelligence, Lysandra.

  You have been given a sign, a True Mission by the goddess, and you are too wrapped up in your own ignorance and disgusting self-pity to see it.’

  ‘A Mission? Do not be absurd. I was abandoned to the Earth-Shaker and left to this — ’ she gestured around her, ‘this cesspit.’

  Telemachus softened somewhat. ‘You have a crisis in your faith, Priestess. It is no wonder, finding yourself in this place. But I, as an outsider and a priest, can see it so very clearly.’

  Lysandra looked down and remained silent for a moment.

  When she spoke, her voice was low. ‘I have feared she has turned her face from me.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Telemachus placed his hand over hers and she did not pull away. He was struck, in that moment, by her youth: she was not yet out of her teens. ‘But there is purpose in this. The goddess does nothing without design, Lysandra. Or do you think it is mere coincidence that Balbus travelled to Halicarnassus to seek me out? To see if I could help you. Odd behaviour for a trader of skins, is it not? Or perhaps it was because he was compelled by a higher power.’

  ‘Why?’ Lysandra frowned. ‘I fail to see the purpose you speak of.’

  ‘You were a Mission Priestess, Lysandra. Your Mission was chosen by your Order, not by the goddess. And thus it failed. I know how Balbus’s men found you. The only survivor of shipwreck!

  And the goddess delivered you. Delivered you to the one place that the skills you learned in her honour could be put into practice. That is your Mission, Priestess of Sparta, chosen by the goddess herself. You have been trained from your seventh year to fight for her. She has, in her wisdom, afforded you the opportunity to do something no other of your order has ever done before.’

  ‘I don’t understand!’ Lysandra’s eyes entreated him to give her some meaning to her plight. And Telemachus had been paid well to deliver. It was, he considered, fortunate that the Spartans were amongst the most gullible of people.

  ‘If y
ou fight as you have been taught, you do Athene, your Sisterhood and your polis great honour, Lysandra. I cannot know her reasons, but I have read the signs of your situation clearer than you have. Your shipwreck, your being here, has the touch of the Immortals about it. You feel Athene has turned her face from you but it is just the opposite. You have spurned her, and this is why you feel as you do.’

  ‘I am still a slave.’ Lysandra shook her head.

  ‘No,’ Telemachus said. ‘You are a gladiatrix, and a Spartan. I do not believe Athene would abandon one of her handmaidens to such a fate as this without design. Is it not the Spartan way to make good of hardship, to prove that to endure and win is better than capitulate and die? You have been put in this place to restore honour to your Order and your people, in the Spartan way.’ He clenched his fist, not above a little drama. ‘By the sword.’

  Lysandra did not respond but Telemachus knew that he had got through to her. He stood abruptly. ‘Make sacrifice and read the omens, if you need more confirmation. But look always to your heart. In there you will find the divine purpose.’ She nodded and smiled at him, her eyes full of a light that had been absent when he had first seen her.

  ‘Yes. Thank you for talking to me.’

  ‘A pleasure to serve a fellow servant,’ he said blithely. ‘Enjoy your books, Lysandra. And do the goddess proud.’

  She nodded. ‘I will think carefully on your words, Telemachus, that much I promise.’

  The priest left her to her thoughts, feeling a little guilty. He had been paid too well to counsel the girl to a realisation that she could, and perhaps should, have come to in her own time.

  But Spartans were not renowned for their diversity in thinking and therefore his advice, such as it was, would have rung true with no other save for a Spartan. The truth of it was that the girl had been the victim of unhappy circumstance. Fate was cruel and Lysandra was a mere victim. Yet, he felt he was correct in his tackling of the former priestess’s concerns. She, like most of her kin, could fight. It was that skill, that instinct which would serve her best in the ludus. The money he had received would do well for the shrine, he told himself. But a nagging guilt at exploiting the girl’s circumstances refused to leave him.