Both gladiatrices scrabbled to gain a grip on the other, but their oil-slicked bodies would not allow purchase. As they writhed against each other, Lysandra felt her hold on her shield break and it was lost to her as they fought on. With a desperate effort, she scrambled on top of her foe, her blade spinning round in a dagger-like grip. She caught Albina’s sword arm with her left hand, now free of the buckler, and made to ram her sword into Albina’s chest; but the Caledonian, seeing her danger thrust her shield arm straight up before Lysandra could strike, the hide of the buckler slamming into her face with a stunning force.
Dazed, Lysandra fell back, regaining only enough of her facul-ties to roll away. The titanic Albina got to her feet, her huge chest heaving. Both women were bloodied and sand mired, the grit of the arena floor clinging to their bodies. The barbarian came in, and a furious flurry of blows was exchanged, Lysandra’s sword moving like lightning to deflect both blade and buckler, which was at once weapon and defence.
She was fast, but could not avoid a horizontal slash, and the tip of Albina’s sword sliced across her belly. She hissed in pain, but no respite was afforded her. Albina’s buckler swung round, catching her in the side of the head, slamming her from her feet.
Blood pounded in her ears as she crashed to the sand. White spots exploded before her eyes, and the world tilted crazily. Through the haze she saw Albina walking in, her sword raised for the killing blow.
No! It could not end thus.
Lysandra surged upwards, rolling towards the onrushing Albina.
The move caught the Caledonian off guard, but even so, she was fast enough to bring her shield down to protect her exposed stomach. Too late she realised Lysandra’s gambit.
Lysandra, crouching before her enemy, stabbed downwards with her sword, the blade cutting cleanly through the top of Albina’s foot, shearing through bone and gristle, to pin the screaming gladiatrix to the sand. Lysandra heard the dull thud as Albina cast her weapon aside, trying with both hand to dislodge the blade that had transfixed her. Lysandra lurched unsteadily to her feet, holding her hand to her injured shoulder. Around her she could hear the crowd screaming at the sight of her. Albina had ceased her struggle, and instead raised her finger, imploring for the missio. Lysandra stooped, and grasped the barbarian’s fallen sword, her eyes flicking to the governor’s box.
The mob howled with glee, their hands cutting downwards in the motion for the kill. The editor had set them against the Caledonian from the start and they were eager for the sight of her blood. That she had fought well was of consequence. Sextus Julius Frontinus was evidently a man of the people; he would not disappoint them. Grimly, he turned his thumb, this one gesture signalling the end of a life.
Lysandra moved behind her vanquished opponent. She felt no remorse. If she had not been victorious, the barbarian would have spared her no such thought. Holding Albina’s own weapon in both hands, she brought it savagely downwards, spearing the back of the massive Caledonian’s neck, severing her spine from her brain. Lysandra twisted the blade twice as her foe’s blood gouted, drenching her subligaculum and belly. She heaved and dragged the crimsoned iron free. Like a felled oak, Albina toppled forward and smashed into the earth. The sand around her darkened with blood and shit, as her body defecated in the spasms of death.
For a moment, Lysandra stared, stunned at her action. But then, the adulation of the crowd washed over her in rapturous waves. She heard her own voice scream in triumph as she raised her arms skywards, brandishing the dripping sword above her head. Her eyes swept around the stadium, falling upon the statues of the pantheon. She pointed her bloody blade at the statue of Minerva, the Roman Athene, letting all know in whose name she fought.
This show of piety after such ferocity caused an eruption in the stands and, as Lysandra marched back to the Gate of Life, the masses chanted the name ‘ Achillia, Achillia ’ over and over.
It was the sweetest music she had ever heard.
XIX
The Hellene women were dancing about and screaming with joy as Lysandra returned. Danae embraced her enthusiastically, heedless of her wounds.
‘You did it, you did it!’ she shouted, spinning Lysandra about.
‘Well fought, Lysandra!’This from Penelope. Other such encouragements followed and Lysandra was caught in the euphoric flush of victory. She did not feel the pain in her wounds, nor did fatigue weigh at her limbs. Rather, she felt more alive than ever before. Success was heady wine, an addictive narcotic which she knew she must taste again.
‘All right, all right, break it up.’ Stick appeared, interrupting the women. ‘Get yourself to the surgeon,’ he told Lysandra. ‘No telling what diseases that Caledonian has. Had,’ he corrected himself. ‘And the rest of you,’ he brandished his vine staff, ‘get back away from here!’ Throwing a few half-hearted jibes at Stick, the women began to disperse and make their way to their cell.
Stick watched as they departed, his eyes fixing on the lash-scarred back of the Spartan. ‘Lysandra!’ he called out. She stopped and turned back. ‘You fought well.’
Lysandra gave him a rare smile. ‘Thank you, Stick. I know.’
The Parthian looked down for a moment, seeming to come to a decision. ‘Listen,’ he said, approaching her. ‘I’ll make no secret of it, I urged Balbus to send you to the blocks. But I was mistaken, I think. I know you are talented. But curb your arrogance. It rubs people the wrong way. And more, you’ve made an enemy in Nastasen and he gets crazy at times.’ Stick whirled his finger at his temple.
Lysandra cocked an eyebrow. ‘Nastasen is the one who needs to be careful, Stick. If he touches me again, I will kill him.’
Stick sighed. ‘You are still a slave. Remember that.’
‘Am I?’ Lysandra jerked her chin at the Gate of Life, from where the chanting of her arena name could still be heard. She spoke no more but turned on her heel and made off.
Lysandra did not spend long in the infirmary; the surgeons were well skilled and well practised. A bitter-smelling, stinging unguent was applied to her wounds, which were bound swiftly. After a brief instruction to keep the wounds clean, she was given a small pot of the stuff and told to apply it three times a day. Thereafter, she might as well have ceased to exist as far as her jaded carer was concerned.
On her way back to the Hellene cell, she encountered Hildreth clanking her way towards the Gate of Life. The tall German was clad as secutorix, heavily armoured with helm and shield.
‘You fought shit again,’ Hildreth commented as she saw Lysandra.
‘But at least you won. You should watch me now, you will learn how a true warrior fights.’
Lysandra felt a brief rush of anger. If Stick was going to give speeches about encroaching arrogance, he would do well to direct his comments to the barbarian. She was not about to let Hildreth ruin her good mood, however, so she bit down a catty response, settling for giving the German an expression that was half grin; half sneer. She doubted if the thick-skinned warrior would even notice.
The women in the Hellene cell were still chattering about Lysandra’s victory as she entered.
‘What was it like?’ Penelope wanted to know.
Lysandra sat on her bunk. She thought before responding, but the truth was undeniable. ‘It was good,’ she said simply. ‘Of course, I was not afraid before the combat. A little tense perhaps,’ she acknowledged. ‘But when you are out there…’ she trailed off, reliving the battle in her mind. ‘I have never felt so exhilarated. It was as if I had finally found a purpose. I will tell you this…’ — she met the gazes of her companions in turn, ‘you have nothing to fear.’
‘You enjoyed it?’Thebe seemed both incredulous and disgusted.
‘Yes,’ Lysandra admitted. ‘I did.’
Further conversation was curtailed as an arena slave appeared in their doorway. He referred to a scroll he was carrying. ‘Is there a Heraclea in here?’
All eyes turned to Thebe, who had won the argument to use the august name. ‘That would b
e me,’ she said, raising her hand.
The slave nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why they can’t keep these rosters in some sort of order. I’ve been running about all over the place looking for you. It’s more complicated today, because there are many schools here. You know what it’s like. Each show has to be bigger and better than the last. Not that anyone ever thinks about the organisation that goes into this whole spectacle.’
‘You were looking for Heraclea,’ Thebe broke in as the man paused for breath.
‘Oh,’ he was evidently disappointed that his captive audience was not willing to listen to more of his problems. ‘You must prepare,’ he said. ‘You are to fight next.’
‘Thanks,’ Thebe said shortly. She glanced over at Lysandra who grinned at her. ‘Well then,’ the Corinthian murmured. ‘Let’s be about it.’
It was only once the combat had begun that Lysandra truly understood why the gladiatorial games were such a huge and compulsive phenomenon to people all over Rome’s Empire. It was utterly thrilling to watch two people fight when the stakes were highest. The excitement was, of course, different when one was not participating in the battle, yet it was no less compelling — perhaps even more so. Now she realised why people supported certain fighters, following their careers to the point of obsession.
Though she saw herself as reserved by nature, Lysandra found herself screaming encouragement and advice to Thebe along with the others. She parried each cut, winced at every near miss and yelled at each hit that Thebe made.
Thebe was fighting as a Thraex, matched against a thin Egyptian retiaria, armed with net and trident. It was a contest of speed, both women lightly armed and able to skip over the sands, unhampered by heavy armour and encumbering helm. The contest was disputed with furious rapidity, the women’s limbs blurring as each fought to mark the other.
The Egyptian cast her net early in the match, but Thebe had avoided the entangling ropes, and pressed close to the other woman, forcing her to use the trident as a staff not a stabbing weapon, thus negating the advantage in reach the pole arm was supposed to give.
It proved decisive.
In the midst of a vicious exchange, Thebe succeeded in breaking through her opponent’s guard, and plunged her sword into the other woman’s chest, ending the contest abruptly. The Egyptian fell back, dead before she hit the sands.
The crowd erupted at the clean kill, hailing ‘Heraclea’ loudly, though, Lysandra noted, not as loudly as they had hailed herself.
That was not surprising, she thought, as she knew she was the superior fighter. Still she screamed in delight along with the rest of them.
On visibly shaking legs, Thebe walked back through the Gate of Life, her face ashen.
‘Well?’ Lysandra asked jubilantly.
Thebe’s response was to be suddenly sick.
The contests continued into the afternoon, with Balbus’s fighters performing well, suffering no fatalities. As dusk began to fall, torches were lit around the arena, signalling the end of the female combats, and the real business of the male gladiators began. The Hellene women took no interest in this. They had had their fill of excitement for the day, which was exhausting both for those who had fought and those who had watched.
Lysandra had expected that she and her companions would be confined to their cells, but was surprised to find this was not the case. Since the arena and its adjoining gaol complex was heavily guarded by legionaries and hired ex-gladiators, both the editor and the owners of the different famillia’s were content to let their warriors wander about the enclosed areas.
Thebe recovered from her bout of shock with some care and attention from Danae. The Athenian was fast becoming the soft ear for the Hellene women. Whilst Lysandra considered that her own presence was an inspiration to her comrades, she was not as sensitive as Danae to the more emotional needs of the gladiatrices.
It was hardly their own fault that they had such weaknesses — not everyone could be Spartan.
With little else to do, Lysandra decided to go in search of Eirianwen. Though the initial rush of victory was beginning to wane, the nearness of death had awakened other needs in her and she knew that the Briton’s touch would sate the slow burn of sexual desire she now felt. She threaded her way through the crowded corridors of the gaol, noting that despite the lenience the organisers had afforded the fighters, the male and female competitors had been separated. This would be frustrating to Penelope, she knew, as the fisher girl had not ceased to elucidate all and sundry on the erotic prowess of her gladiator, who, for lack of knowing his name, she had come to call ‘Horse’.
‘Lysandra!’ Catuvolcos’s voice rang out from the throng. The Spartan stopped and looked about, seeking the friendly face. The handsome Gaul was shouldering his way through the crowd of gladiatrices, smiling and laughing as he was groped and propositioned outrageously by the women. As a trainer, he was not subject to the segregation rules and that he was walking around bare-chested only added to the attention he was receiving. As he approached Lysandra, she was regaled by insults from the gladiatrices, as they now believed that she was to be the object of the big man’s much sought after attentions.
‘I am glad you are all right,’ he said to her.
‘I was never concerned,’ she told him honestly. She turned, dragged a drink-sodden barbarian from a stone bench and sat down. The barbarian hit the ground with a groan and passed wind loudly.
‘You should be,’ Catuvolcos said as he joined her. ‘It’s not a game.’
Lysandra bit down an angry retort. She was getting somewhat frustrated with being admonished by the trainers. It was not as if she had performed badly. ‘I am aware of overconfidence,’ she said with a civility that was somewhat less than heartfelt. ‘I am also aware of my own abilities and have faith in them. I have been trained since youth for this, Catuvolcos.’ He met her gaze for a moment.
‘I was worried for you, Lysandra. You are not like those others, you are special.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I have come to think so. Of course, I do not tell the others this: humility is to be admired.
However, it cannot be denied that I am indeed fortunate. The gods have gifted me well and it is in their honour that I fight.’
‘No, I meant you are special to me. I have never felt this way for anyone before.’
Lysandra frowned. She had not thought that he would blurt out his feelings to her. Of course, she realised that he was enamoured of her. She knew her beauty and charisma had had an effect on him but hoped that his discipline would keep him from speaking of his attraction. That he had chosen to mention it was embarrassing: there was a brief moment in the past when she may have considered his advances, but she knew now that had been merely a fancy.
‘I have saved money,’ Catuvolcos went on. ‘Not much, but in a year or two I will have enough to buy us free from Balbus. We could leave Caria and return to Gaul. I would be a good man for you, Lysandra, if you would have me. I am young and strong, and know how to raise cattle, and to build. You would want for nothing.’
‘Catuvolcos…’ She put her hand on his arm — and saw hope and love flare in his eyes, the beginnings of a smile playing about his lips. This would be difficult, she thought, having had no experience in this kind of arena. ‘I do not love you,’ she said bluntly.
It was the Spartan way, after all. But Lysandra was not prepared for how so simple a statement could affect someone. She could see the pain in his face as she spoke and felt his hurt almost as keenly as if it were her own. ‘I am sorry,’ she added, trying to be gentle. ‘You are a friend to me, a compatriot, a brother in arms. But I do not feel that way about you.’
Catuvolcos looked down and shook his head. ‘I should not have spoken so,’ he said, a crack in his voice. She hoped he was not about to burst into tears, for such action would make her despise him. ‘I have embarrassed you.’
That was true, but Lysandra thought it impolitic to mention.
‘I would not be a
ny good as a wife,’ she said, trying to make light of what had become an excruciating situation. ‘You have heard of Spartan cooking, haven’t you?’
Catuvolcos shook his head glumly, refusing to meet her gaze.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘In the agoge we had a diet of what is called blood soup. It is black in colour, made of pork, vinegar and pig’s blood. Once, a visitor came to Sparta and, after tasting the soup, declared that now he knew why Spartan warriors were so eager to die. It is the only food I know how to make and this, I think, would not make you happy.’
‘I would eat it every day if it meant we could be together,’ he said, which Lysandra felt was rather pathetic. Men, it seemed, were like children: when they could not have what they wanted, they sulked. ‘Do not dwell on it, my friend,’ she offered. ‘I have an affection for you, but it is not love.’
‘But this affection can grow.’ He turned to look at her then.
‘Many times a man and woman are put together in youth and love grows between them. It could be so for us.’
That was enough. ‘I said no. If you felt as you say, you would not continue in this manner,’ she said tightly. ‘My place is here.
In the arena. I will not be any man’s wife, Catuvolcos.’
She saw his face redden as anger took the place of petulance.
Lysandra raised her eyebrows, curtailing any outburst from the wounded Gaul. She did not wish there to be harsh words between them. She got to her feet, and smiled tightly. ‘You are a good friend, Catuvolcos. I would put these words behind us, if you would.’
He nodded and shrugged and then looked back to the floor.
Lysandra turned away without further comment. She had done what she could to spare his feelings; it was his own fault for coming to her in the first place, certainly she could not be held accountable for his desires. Let him sulk.
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