Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

  It was a hollow thought, and forgotten at once as the gore-drenched Briton entered the tunnel. Lysandra rushed forwards and embraced her, congratulating her on her win, ignoring the mire that soaked into her tunic. Eirianwen’s smile was a white slash against the crimson and blue darkness of her face as she returned the embrace, both women heedless of who saw them.

  Lysandra understood now that life was all the more sweet when death waited close by.

  XXIII

  Day in, day out, the ritualised slaughter of the arena continued. Hundreds of men, women and beasts died for the amusement of the mob, the candidacy of Aeschylus and the ambition of Sextus Julius Frontinus.

  The governor of Asia Minor was not a young man, but was possessed of a strength and vigour that belied his age. It was by force of will that he held back the encroachment of time, refusing to retire and reap the benefits of decades in the service of Rome.

  Frontinus knew that he was not unique in this regard: the Empire was full of such men. How else could Rome maintain her place as the ultimate power in the world?

  The governor was a connoisseur of the arena and its spectacles and, though he despised the mincing Aeschylus, he had to admit that the fat man had put on a grand show. His idea of pitting different schools against one another was not exceptional in Rome, but here in the provinces it was almost unheard of and the promotion of the women’s game to something more than a sideshow was inspired.

  Frontinus, like most discerning enthusiasts, had never taken the gladiatrices seriously. They were a novelty act, a joke. But the women of this Lucius Balbus were deadly in the extreme, their beauty adding a heady intoxicant to their allure. Indeed, as he watched the bare breasts and buttocks cavorting past in their deadly dance, Frontinus found himself shifting uncomfortably in his toga, lest his excitement be all too obvious.

  He found himself arriving at the games earlier than usual just to catch all of the women’s combats. He was well taken with one or two from Balbus’s school, and decided he would grant the man an audience to acknowledge his skill as a trainer.

  Thus it was that he welcomed the swarthy, sweating Balbus to the dignitaries’ box.

  ‘I am most impressed by your troupe, lanista,’ he said. ‘You have brought a diversity and dimension to these games that may well ensure a political post for my esteemed colleague, Aeschylus.’

  He indicated the Greek who was sitting close by.

  ‘Your Honour is too kind.’ Balbus bobbed his head up and down in deference. ‘We do our meagre best, and your words mean very much to a lowly man such as I.’

  Frontinus laughed. ‘Come, lanista. You are as rich as Midas and all know it.’ Waving away Balbus’s denial before it could be spoken he turned his attention to the arena. ‘Who is that girl?’ he enquired.

  Though Lucius Balbus was overjoyed with his summons he was more than a little nervous. It seemed, however, that his anxiety was without foundation, the governor merely wishing to acknowledge his troupe’s skill. And his latest addition.

  ‘That is Achillia, sir,’ said Balbus, wincing slightly as Lysandra sliced the hand from the Thracian she was facing. Evidently, Spartan toughness was no myth and he was well pleased with the girl.

  Wounded in the first days of the games, she had recovered quickly, and as the spectacle entered its second moon, she was ready to fight again. It seemed also that she had forged the Hellene women who had performed so poorly before the games into a close-knit group of killers. The death of the fat fisher girl, whose name he had forgotten, had gone a long way to making the rest of the miserable bunch profitable.

  ‘No, I meant who is she really?’ Frontinus said. ‘Achillia is not her real name, is it?’

  ‘She is a slave, sir, nothing more.’ Balbus felt small droplets of sweat break out over his body, suddenly fearful that Lysandra’s outlandish Sisterhood had tracked her down and petitioned the governor for her release.

  ‘But she has a name?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, her name is Lysandra.’ Balbus swallowed, wondering where the line of enquiry was going.

  ‘And she is a Spartan, or is that just a piece of theatre that you have invented?’

  Balbus hesitated. He desperately wanted to lie to Frontinus but, if the man knew more than he was letting on, lying to him could be ruinous — and potentially fatal. ‘She is indeed, sir. The Genuine Article, so to speak.’

  Frontinus acknowledged Lysandra who was standing with her opponent’s neck under her blade. He thrust his thumb out, indicating that the Spartan put the woman to death. A one-handed ex-gladiatrix was useful to no one. Nonchalantly, Lysandra slit the Thracian’s throat and was on her way back to the Gate of Life before the woman had finished her death throes. ‘I want to meet her.’ He turned back to Balbus.

  ‘Yes, of course, Excellency.’ Balbus felt something inside him fall over. Frontinus had not heard from any Spartan Embassy!

  The old goat merely wanted to be pleasured by a gladiatrix. That he had chosen one so frigid she could have been made of marble was a situation that the lanista could have done without. Why had the old man not chosen someone who would have willingly fucked him senseless? Balbus could only assume this to be a manifestation of the other gods’ jealousy at all the favours Fortuna had shown him of late. He gave Frontinus a sickly smile. ‘I shall have her sent to you at the end of today’s spectacle, my lord,’ he added.

  ‘Excellent.’ Frontinus regaled him with a smile. ‘You may go.’

  ‘You wanted to see me, lanista?’

  Balbus had had Lysandra conveyed by litter to his rented offices outside the arena. She was fast becoming popular with the mob and could not be allowed to travel openly. He regarded her critically, wondering if she would cause a stir in his loins. Despite his preference for men, Balbus had enjoyed females as his bed partners in the past. But, as she stood before him, tall, pale, and undeniably beautiful, he came to the conclusion that she was just not his type. ‘Indeed.’ He smiled at her in what he hoped was a genuine fashion. ‘Please,’ he gestured to a couch, ‘sit.’

  Balbus clapped his hands and ordered slaves to bring wine. If she was at all taken aback by this show of hospitality, she gave no sign. Her cold gaze did not leave him and, though he could not be certain, Balbus thought there was the merest hint of an ironic half-smile playing about her lips. ‘You have been fighting extremely well,’ he told her as they sipped the local vintage.

  Lysandra shrugged at the compliment. ‘Of course. I hope to be matched against more competent opponents. These we face currently are somewhat beneath me.’

  Balbus resisted the urge to laugh at her casual arrogance. Or, he mused, was it more than mere superciliousness. He had the distinct impression that Lysandra’s bluster was heartfelt. ‘You underestimate the other schools, Lysandra,’ he offered. ‘There are some good fighters out there.’

  ‘I underestimate nothing, Lucius Balbus,’ she said. ‘That is folly.

  However, I am aware of my own skills and have seen nothing in this competition to trouble me.’

  ‘You have not yet seen Sorina take to the sands.’ Balbus wanted to know just what Lysandra thought of his Gladiatrix Prima.

  ‘That is not a concern. We will not fight each other in these games. If the gods will that we are to meet on some other occasion, I shall have no compunction in sending your most profitable asset to Hades. But,’ she added, ‘you have not summoned me here to discuss my opinions on the games.’

  ‘No,’ Balbus agreed. There was little point in stalling matters any further. ‘The governor is quite taken with you,’ he went on.

  ‘He wants to meet you.’

  ‘He is an admirer of gladiatrices? Of women fighters?’ Lysandra raised a quizzical brow.

  ‘Well, as you say,’ Balbus smiled at her, ‘you are extremely good.’

  Lysandra seemed to mull that over for a few moments. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That would be most pleasant. I fail to see why Frontinus would want a slave at his dinner table, however.’ She sai
d this with a sarcastic lilt in her voice.

  ‘Well…’ Balbus spread his hands. ‘Everybody loves the games.

  Frontinus is a connoisseur and his position affords him the opportunity to meet the best fighters. You should be honoured,’ he added, appealing to her ego.

  ‘Slaves have no honour, Balbus,’ she told him mildly.

  ‘Yes, well,’ he brushed over that. ‘Have a good time.’

  Lysandra rose to her feet and made to go to the door. She paused, and turned back to him. ‘Balbus… the governor wishes to talk to me. And that is all?’

  Balbus sighed. He wanted to lie to her, but he realised that if Lysandra went into the situation unknowing, her reaction to wandering hands from Frontinus could be violent, as she had proven when Nastasen had manhandled her. That would certainly spell death for her, and a mountain of trouble for him and the repercussions. ‘You had better sit down,’ he said. He watched her return to her seat, wondering how she was going to react to the unspoken truth. ‘Lysandra. It may be that he wants more than talk.’

  ‘I will not lay with him,’ she affirmed, ice in her voice. ‘We are not whores, I have told you this. I am, or was, a Priestess of Athene. It is forbidden for me to be known by a man.’

  Balbus had not known that, but part of the girl’s enigma was revealed to him; this, then, was why she reacted so to Nastasen’s attentions. ‘Look, I said it may be that he wants to…’ the lanista cleared his throat, ‘you know. Do it. But maybe not. I just thought I would say something in case he… you know…’ Balbus trailed off, feeling somewhat like a mouse under the gaze of a snake.

  ‘In that case, it is impossible for me to attend. Balbus, you must tell him I am unwell.’

  ‘Lysandra, you cannot refuse a summons from the governor.’

  The lanista hated to implore, but the ramifications of snubbing an influential man like Frontinus would be huge.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look.’ Balbus became all business. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

  ‘There is nothing you can offer me that will make me change my mind.’ Lysandra said loftily. ‘Unless you offer me freedom, which I sincerely doubt.’

  ‘No, I can’t offer you that,’ he agreed. ‘But I can cancel the twenty lashes you are to receive when you return to the ludus.

  And,’ he added, ‘I can also forget about the complaints from the surgeon that you knocked him out cold to steal drugs for an already dead companion.’

  ‘I am used to the lash, Balbus. It was common to receive it in the agoge. Or have you failed to notice how much my back is scarred already?’

  ‘I can also have you and your Greeks moved from the barracks cells into the houses,’ Balbus offered, his eyes not leaving hers.

  She wavered, he could see it. ‘And ensure that Nastasen is assigned duties that keep him away from you.’ He pressed his advantage.

  ‘In effect, you would be responsible for training the Greek women.

  Though of course, you would have to muster with the others.

  You must have seen that the more senior gladiatrices do not have the same regime as you currently do. I can elevate you and your women,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘like that.’

  ‘ If I go.’

  ‘Yes. If you go.’

  Lysandra got to her feet and commenced pacing up and down her arms folded across her chest, finger tapping her chin. Balbus watched, fancying he could read her thoughts by her expression. Intelligent she may be, but he was the master of making deals, his experience spanning years. She stopped suddenly. ‘Very well. I shall go, if you swear that you will not renege on your promise.’

  ‘I swear,’ Balbus said at once, raising his hands piously.

  Lysandra rolled her eyes. ‘You make oaths too swiftly, Balbus.’

  ‘I am a religious man,’ he retorted. ‘You may not think it, but it is the truth.’ Lysandra stared at him for too long and Balbus had to fight down the urge to fidget under her cold, ice coloured gaze. There was something commanding about her, he realised.

  Guile she may not possess, but nevertheless she would be a formidable woman in years to come.

  ‘I hope matters do not transpire as you have foreseen,’ she said quietly. ‘But if the lives of my sister Hellenes can be made better by my…’ she trailed off. ‘By my giving myself to this man, then it shall be done.’

  ‘I hope so too.’ Balbus was surprised that he actually meant it. He did, however, feel no guilt that he had bargained with gifts that Lysandra and her women had earned already. Their performances had warranted that they be elevated, but it would have been senseless to let her know that. Better to let her think that her self-sacrifice was duly noble.

  And he was pleased that, along with their toughness, Spartan gullibility was no myth either.

  Lysandra returned to the amphitheatre, her face a controlled mask.

  Inside she was in turmoil, her stomach in knots at what she may have to do. But it would be churlish of her to burden the women with her concerns. She desperately wanted to see Eirianwen, to seek her counsel, but there was no time. Balbus had instructed her to go straight to the baths and have herself ‘made present-able’ for Frontinus, but she felt she must share her news, at least the good part of it, with her confederates.

  ‘What happened?’ Thebe was full of concern when she entered the cell.

  ‘It is nothing bad.’ Lysandra forced herself to smile. ‘In fact, it is all good,’ she went on. ‘As the best amongst you, I have been asked to attend a dinner tonight held by the governor of all Asia Minor. It seems that Sextus Julius Frontinus is an admirer of mine and the lanista is keen to pander to his whims.’ Lysandra assumed that Thebe’s roll of the eyes and sour expression was pure jealousy; little did the Corinthian know that more than dinner would be on Frontinus’s menu. ‘The other news,’ she continued, ‘concerns us all. Balbus is impressed with us and has ordered that, on our return from the games, we are to be elevated from the novice class.’ This was greeted by nods and grins from the women. ‘We are to be moved from our cells to the main houses. I shall be in command, of course.’

  ‘Command?’ Thebe cocked her head to one side.

  ‘Yes. Of our training. As I am best qualified for the task. You people cannot be expected to be as competent as me when it comes to the use of weapons and the application of discipline. I have had the benefit of the agoge.’

  ‘Oh, that is good news,’ Thebe muttered.

  ‘But now, I must go,’ Lysandra said. ‘No doubt I shall be able to regale you all with a few stories of the Roman high life when I return.’ Her sardonic twist was missed by Thebe and the others.

  They were not as overjoyed as they should be by her news. She supposed that they were a little fearful that they would have to live up to her example when they trained and that would be no easy task.

  But for now, she had to pay for the boon.

  XXIV

  Lysandra hardly recognised herself when they had finished.

  A small army of slave girls swarmed around her, erasing the Spartan and obscuring her with some other woman she did not know. Her face was painted with chalk and then her cheeks rouged with red ochre. This same substance, but of thicker constitution, was applied to her lips. Khol had been applied to her eyebrows to accentuate them, whilst the lids were decorated with a shadow of saffron. Her hair had been piled on top of her head in what the slave girls assured her was the latest fashion.

  This arrangement was held together with pins which Lysandra found extremely irritating, maddened by the urge to pull the fastenings away.

  They dressed her in a long, white chiton, after the Hellene style, her arms bedecked with expensive-looking bracelets. The girls cooed and gasped at their handiwork but, when they held out a bronze mirror for her, she could only comment that she looked ridiculous.

  Her cheeks burning with the shame of it, she got to her feet to find that she felt almost off balance. Her hair felt as though it were suspended from the ceiling by wires that t
hreatened to pull her off her feet. No one should be subjected to this, she thought angrily.

  ‘I resemble a painted doll,’ she complained to one of the girls.

  ‘Perhaps I should attend as myself and not some… flute girl.’

  The girl, much to Lysandra’s annoyance, merely giggled. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she chided. ‘You look beautiful.’

  ‘I look like an idiot.’ Lysandra looked into her big, limpid eyes, and saw only confusion. She shook her head in disgust, realising that all these women thought about was hairstyles, makeup and gossiping about who was sleeping with whom. ‘Come, feather-brain,’ she hissed. ‘I must be about it.’

  ‘Featherbrain!’ the slave exclaimed, and her compatriots tittered.

  ‘Lysandra, you’re so funny.’ In her mind’s eye, she saw herself gleefully throttling the imbecilic little slut.

  The slave girls escorted her through the gaol, in full few of her fellow gladiatrices who screamed abuse at her the moment she came into view. It must be very amusing to them, Lysandra seethed inwardly, to see someone as respected as she trussed up in such frippery. She thought she would die of embarrassment.

  To compound matters, as they drew near the exit, she spied Catuvolcos, sitting with Sorina. The Gaul looked up at her and blinked, squinting through the gloom. She did her best to ignore him but he knew she had seen him.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, approaching her. ‘What have we here?’

  Sorina was at his shoulder, smirking.