Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

  For the rest of the journey, Lysandra narrated the great works to the women, deciding that oratory was perhaps the best way to introduce them to literature. It was not tiresome, as she enjoyed singing. A good voice was prized in the Temple of Athene and Lysandra reckoned hers to be of excellent quality. As she sang she offered silent thanks to the goddess for endowing her with so many gifts.

  These tales helped the days pass quickly for the women but, as they drew closer to the city, Lysandra noted that there was less chatter amongst her companions, a tension and gloom falling upon them. The caravan halted some two miles from the walls of Halicarnassus and the guards began to pitch camp. As the sun was still high in the sky this seemed ridiculous in the extreme, a fact Lysandra pointed out to the Macedonian guardsman she recognised.

  The guard paused as he walked past her cage, and grinned at her. ‘Have you any idea of the hubbub the arrival of a gladiatorial famillia causes?’ he asked her.

  ‘Obviously not.’ Lysandra gave him her most imperious stare.

  It was demeaning to seek knowledge from such an imbecile.

  ‘Well…’ The Macedonian stooped and plucked a blade of grass to chew on. Lysandra thought it befitting as it gave him the appearance of a hayseed, which all Macedonians were. ‘It’s mad,’ he said after some time.

  ‘Your powers of description are epic,’ Lysandra sneered.

  Irony was above the man. ‘What I mean is the people go mad.

  It’s like the Emperor himself has arrived. Causes all sorts of traffic chaos, as you can imagine. People crowding round the carriages, nothing can move for hours. You’re new, you’ve never seen the furore — they absolutely love gladiators. And gladiatrices,’ he added quickly. ‘So we go in at night.’

  ‘I see.’ If that was the case, then it was wise to avoid attracting undue attention. There was nothing worse than people acting in a disorderly manner.

  ‘We cover the carriages in cloth, too, just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘How considerate.’

  ‘See you then, Lysandra.’ The man smiled, and she noticed with distaste that he had a gap in his front teeth. He ambled away, still chewing his stalk of grass.

  Lysandra relayed the reason for their journey’s interruption to the other women. She told them the tale of Orion the Hunter to while away the time, and soon the day dimmed to twilight.

  With little else to do, the women laid out their blankets, seeking to catch a few hours’ sleep. Resting when the carts were on the move would be impossible.

  ‘Thank you for the stories,’ Thebe said as she lay down.

  ‘It was nothing.’ Lysandra sounded slightly lofty, even to herself.

  ‘It kept our minds busy, at least. We are all scared, aren’t we?

  Of the arena. Of what might happen.’

  ‘Spartans fear nothing,’ Lysandra intoned, her response instinctive.

  Thebe snorted derisively. ‘Horse dung. You know, Lysandra, none of us believes this impassive act you put on. You’re like us and we are all scared.’

  Lysandra sat up, coming to a decision. These women were not as she. Despite what they thought, they needed leadership and were incredibly fortunate that she was among them. Again, she realised the truth of Telemachus’s words; indeed, there was a divine purpose to her being here. ‘Gather round,’ she said.

  The Hellene women formed a circle, cross-legged. They could hear the soft sounds of the guards’ chatter, the crack of the fires lit around the caravan and, somewhere, the mournful sound of a flute being played. In the dim twilight, Lysandra fancied that this must be akin to the eve of the Battle of Thermopylae, when Leonidas had gathered his warriors about him.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘Fear is a thought, not a feeling. It exists only up here.’ She tapped her head. ‘Forget fear. It stiffens the limbs and numbs the sinews, and if it takes a hold of you, all that you have learned in the ludus will be for naught. You all know that I was a priestess, trained since youth to fight.’ She paused, looking around the dim, frightened faces, holding each gaze for a few moments. ‘I can tell you this. I have seen you train, and all of you could hold your own in the Temple of Athene.’ This was a blatant falsehood but Lysandra considered it a necessary one. These words had the desired effect and she felt a measurable lapse in the tension around her.

  ‘My experience tells me that the training we have received from Stick, Catuvolcos and yes, even Nastasen, is excellent. It has been hard and gruelling, and often cruel. But this is necessary.

  To forge the superior fighter from flesh, flesh needs to be beaten hard. Your training has made your responses natural to you.

  Remember: fighting, from single combat to the clash of mighty armies, is not an art. It is a science. It has its theorems, its truths, its applications. In the end, superior tactics will always win out against brute force. Your lessons, well learned, will keep you all alive and send your foes to Hades.’

  ‘Do you really think so, Lysandra?’ Penelope, the fisher girl, whispered.

  ‘I know it to be true,’ Lysandra said softly, nodding her head, once again meeting the eyes of the women around her.

  ‘It is the arena, Lysandra,’ Danae stated grimly. ‘The people we are to fight are unknown to us. We may be killed.’

  ‘We may,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘But only if it is our time and nothing can alter that. But certainly, we shall not fail because we were afraid,’ she added scornfully. ‘We will fall only if the gods have marked us to die, and then we shall fall in their honour.

  But I do not believe that will be so. I believe we will cut down our enemies like wheat before the scythe.’ She fell quiet, letting her words sink in, allowing the women to mull over what she had imparted to them. ‘Sleep now,’ she ordered. ‘And think not of what the future will bring. Trust in the goddess.’

  Lysandra broke the circle and moved back to her corner, throwing the blanket over herself. One by one, the others lay down, seemingly calmed by her words. She smiled slightly as sleep crept over her; if there was any doubt as to who was pre-eminent among them, it had now been dispelled. Come what may, she knew that they would now regard her as leader and that, soon, others would too.

  It was right that this should be so.

  They entered the city quietly, the caravan winding its way through the narrow streets of Halicarnassus. The night air had turned chill and not a few of the women, roused into wakefulness by the movement of the carts, shivered quietly. Time crawled by slowly in the netherworld between dusk and dawn, but eventually the train reached the great arena and, with almost military precision, the women were ensconced in purpose-built gaols, which were situated around and beneath the arena complex. The cells were large and, the women were surprised to discover, comfortable.

  Certainly the accommodation was preferable to the tiny cells they slept in at the ludus. Exhausted by the uncomfortable journey, they fell into slumber. A few of Lysandra’s compatriots stayed awake, chatting into the night, before she admonished them to sleep. It would, she told them, be a testing day to come.

  Nastasen and Stick roused them much later than was usual, and hustled them into a large courtyard; they were ordered to strip their dirty tunics and were sluiced down with water. The morning was already warm and the cold water served to revive and invigorate.

  ‘Not as good as a bath,’ Nastasen laughed. ‘But we have to have you looking your best for the parade.’

  ‘Parade?’ Lysandra glanced at Danae, who shrugged.

  ‘Not that you’ll be leaving for some time yet. Obviously, the people have come to see the male fighters. You women will walk behind them.’ Lysandra caught sight of Sorina, who spat on the ground at these words. Nastasen began to walk down the line of women, thrusting clean clothing into their hands. ‘One size fits all,’ he said. ‘We’ve even brought your sandals so your delicate little toes don’t get stubbed.’ The Nubian gave Lysandra a greenish tunic which she held up critically.

  ‘Do you have a red one?’ she asked.
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  Nastasen stopped in his tracks and turned back. ‘Why?’ he said after some time, his dark eyes glittering.

  ‘Spartans wear red, Nastasen.’

  The trainer seemed to mull that over. ‘Do they, now?’ He jerked his chin, indicating that Lysandra toss the green tunic back to him. ‘Fucking Spartans!’ he muttered and continued doling out his supply of clothing, leaving Lysandra standing naked.

  It took some time but, with Stick’s aid, all the women were given new attire, save Lysandra who was left without. Though there was no shame in nakedness, she knew that this action had been taken to humiliate her and she felt it keenly.

  ‘You see,’ Nastasen swaggered past her, his voice loud. ‘Our Spartan here didn’t like my choice of tunic. That’s too bad.’ He turned and leered at her. ‘Still, I will not be called unreasonable.’

  This caused derisive laughter from all those women who were not in his direct line of sight. The enmity between trainer and fighter was well known amongst the famillia. ‘So our Spartan will walk the streets naked. Gymnos,’ he added in Hellenic. He stepped in closer to her. ‘Unless you want to give me something to change my mind,’ he whispered, his big hand reaching out to stoke her thigh. His nostrils flared as Lysandra flinched at his touch and he moved his hand upward.

  ‘Do not.’ Lysandra’s voice was cold.

  ‘I think you might like it,’ Nastasen grunted, stroking her sparse pubic hair beneath his fingers.

  It was too much. Lysandra felt her temper snap, and she lunged forward, her forehead smashing into the trainer’s face, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone as his nose shattered. Nastasen bellowed in pain and staggered back clutching his face, blood pouring from between his fingers. The women cheered enthusiastically at this rebellion.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ the Nubian hissed, drawing his vine staff. Lysandra moved from her rank, finding herself eager for the confrontation. Nastasen screamed and lunged at her, the vine staff hissing through the air. Lysandra stepped back, avoiding the wild swings, and countered by lashing out with a kick, catching the rage-blinded trainer in the midriff. But the strike did not slow the powerful warrior. In a rush he was on top of her, his great weight bearing her to the ground, the vine staff at her throat. ‘Now!’ he screamed, spittle foaming on his lips.

  Lysandra could not move, Nastasen had her pinned, immobile.

  She tried to thrust her hips up to dislodge him, but his weight was too great. Blood pounded in her ears and white sparks began to burst in front of her eyes.

  Suddenly, his hands left her and she rolled away, retching and choking. She looked about, seeking the trainer, and saw that he too had fallen to the ground, holding the side of his face. Catuvolcos was there, his own vine staff in his hand. Somewhere she could hear Stick screaming for the guards.

  ‘Leave her be!’ Catuvolcos shouted, stepping between her and the Nubian. Nastasen surged to his feet and was about to advance on his fellow trainer. The prison guards had come running and, though none could match either Catuvolcos or Nastasen in size and strength, they were of sufficient numbers to drag the two apart.

  Stick was furious, hopping from foot to foot. ‘What do you think you are doing!’ He was beside himself. ‘You stupid bastard!’

  This he levelled at Nastasen. Still held by the guards, the Nubian roared and tried to break free. That was enough for Stick. ‘Bind him!’ he ordered the guards. There was no way to subdue the huge warrior, save for the most basic: the guards began to rain blows down on their captive, knocking the fight from him before hurling him to the ground and slapping manacles into place.

  Catuvolcos broke free of his own captors and rushed to Lysandra’s side. Gently, he lifted her head from the ground, cradling it as softly as he would a child’s. ‘Are you all right?’ he said, his green eyes full of concern.

  ‘I just wanted a red tunic,’ Lysandra croaked, gingerly rubbing her throat.

  ‘Get away from her!’ Stick aimed a kick at Catuvolcos’s rump.

  The Gaul turned angrily but Stick held up his hand. ‘Don’t! We have enough troubles now.’ At this he began screaming at the guards to get both Nastasen and the women into cells.

  ‘I am uninjured,’ Lysandra said. ‘Really, Catuvolcos, I am well.’

  Catuvolcos smiled gently at her, and helped her to her feet. When they stood, he did not let her go, seemingly reluctant to break the contact of her skin on his own. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

  Stick thrust them apart. ‘What the fuck is this?’ Catuvolcos began to speak, but the Stick cut him off. ‘No, I don’t want to hear it. Get out of here, Catuvolcos! I mean it.’ The Gaul glowered at him but moved off. ‘And you…’ Stick turned to Lysandra, placing his vine staff on her chest. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble.

  Come with me!’

  Lucius Balbus steepled his fingers and regarded the naked Spartan standing before him. Stick had taken the precaution of having her arms and legs manacled and she appeared very much the defiant warrior captured.

  ‘She head-butted Nastasen,’ Stick said. ‘She’s a troublemaker, Balbus, and well you know it. This sort of defiance can spread and, before you know it, we’ll have a riot on our hands.’

  Balbus motioned Stick to silence. ‘Why?’ he asked her directly.

  ‘He was trying to touch me. In my private place. We are not whores, lanista, and I resented his familiarity.’

  ‘One of the guards says that you refused to wear clothing offered you, Lysandra. Is that not so?’

  ‘It is so,’ she agreed. ‘I asked Nastasen if I could wear a red tunic. I did not think that this would be an issue. It is the colour of Sparta.’

  Balbus leant back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. It was a trifling matter, but Titus had told him of the Nubian’s dislike for Lysandra. A simple request that should have had no consequence had now escalated into a brawl between trainer and gladiatrix. Proud Lysandra and stupid Nastasen. By rights, he should have the girl crucified before the entire famillia for her insubordination.

  Should, but could not. She had just cost him twenty thousand denarii, and he could not simply nail that investment to a chunk of wood to watch it wither and die. Aside from which, Falco’s promotion had billed her on the under card as Achillia of Sparta and Lysandra was quite correct: everyone knew that Spartan warriors wore red. Balbus’s head throbbed. He could not even punish her, as she was to fight on the morrow and would certainly be killed if fresh lash wounds hampered her. He toyed with the idea of pulling her from the contest and replacing her with another but quickly dismissed it. He had to see if the girl was worth his indulgence.

  He turned his gaze to Lysandra once again. ‘You will fight tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘On return to the ludus, you will be given twenty lashes for your disobedience. Guards!’ Two of his men came trotting at his call. ‘Take her to her cell!’ he ordered. ‘And get her a red tunic!’

  Stick sat down opposite the lanista. ‘I don’t know what to do about her,’ he said when Lysandra had been led away. ‘I think Nastasen was asking for it, though. He detests her.’

  ‘And you do not? You are free with the staff when it comes to her. And groping the women is one of your prime humiliation techniques.’

  ‘I detest everyone, you know that. As for the other, that only happens at the beginning, to let them know they are property.’

  Balbus inclined his head in acquiescence. ‘And Nastasen?’

  ‘I had him put in a cell to cool down.’ Stick shrugged. ‘He took a bit of a kicking but I think it’s his pride that will be more bruised. It’s Catuvolcos that is my concern.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He has a thing for Lysandra. I think he cares for her.’ This last was said with distaste.

  Balbus sighed heavily. Indeed Lysandra was close to becoming more trouble than she was worth. ‘Has he been with her?’

  Stick’s cackle was lewd. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think she has anything to get into, if you know what I mean. Might as wel
l try to prod a statue. But the way Catuvolcos acts towards her I can tell he’s carrying a torch. We don’t need that, lanista.

  There will be more trouble between him and Nastasen over her and next time I might not be around to stop it.’

  ‘Stick,’ Balbus said heavily, ‘these are problems I don’t need the day before a spectacle.’

  ‘Maybe we should put her on the blocks.’

  Irritated, Balbus waved this away. ‘What’s done is done. She stays for now, Stick, but the punishment stands. I want you to keep an eye on Catuvolcos, however. He’s too soft on the women as it is, and if he’s getting sweet on one of my possessions it’ll be him that goes to the blocks.’

  It was an artificial freedom, but it was freedom nevertheless. For the first time since her capture Lysandra looked upon the world without confines. There were guards, to be sure, but no walls enclosed her and it was liberating to see as far as her eyes would let her.

  The Macedonian guard had told her that the arrival of a famillia caused a furore but she had been unprepared for the public hysteria that accompanied their parade through the city. The editor of the games had hired several troupes which, though not unprecedented, was certainly a rarity. As such, the interest aroused was spectacular.

  The day had become blistering hot, but even the scorching eye of Helios had not deterred the people from thronging the streets to catch a glimpse of their favourites. Thousands of citizens lined the route of the parade, pitching and roaring against the thin dam of legionaries who had been assigned to crowd control by Halicarnassus’s urban praetor. Still, despite the throngs, Lysandra was able to catch small glimpses of the city. To her eye, Halicarnassus had a jumbled look to it, the original architecture of the Carians improved upon by Hellene expatriates, and this in its turn ruined by inferior Roman styling. The great Mausoleum, named for the ancient Carian King, Mausolos, was the city’s centrepiece and a beautiful building, to be sure. Yet it looked sadly out of place amidst the muddled array of architectural styles.