Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

  Slaves, Lysandra knew, were to be neither heard nor seen.

  Much like the helots of old Sparta, they existed merely to provide a service. She had come to realise that, whilst in principle she was a slave herself, she was far superior to the domestic chattel.

  Her skills and her heritage made this so. Calling a Spartan a slave and her being one were two different things entirely.

  Of course, the forthcoming encounter with Frontinus might impress slavery upon a lesser woman but, Lysandra thought suddenly, it was her beauty and presence that had inspired lust in the man. Whilst this was distasteful, it was perfectly understandable. That men admired her was an undeniable fact. Had Catuvolcos not professed his love, and then fallen to depression at her refusal? She had seen, too, the hungry looks from the men in the crowds at the amphitheatre and heard their declarations of love and other more unsavoury suggestions. As she moved into the room, she realised that Frontinus was merely acting in a Roman manner, exercising his power, taking for himself what he wished. It was the way of the Empire, in microcosm.

  Her reverie was interrupted as an elderly man stepped up to her, smiling openly.

  ‘Achillia of Sparta,’ he said. He was somewhat shorter than she, his face lined by age and the elements. ‘I am Sextus Julius Frontinus.’

  ‘Greetings,’ Lysandra nodded.

  ‘You are as beautiful as Venus,’ he said, using the irritatingly incorrect Roman name for Aphrodite. It was Lysandra’s view that if their plagiarism of the Hellenistic pantheon was so blatant, why did Romans bother with the farcical name-altering. ‘Or, perhaps Minerva would be more apt,’ he went on. ‘The warrior goddess come from Olympus to grace us with her presence.’

  Comparing her to the goddess to whom she was once a priestess was ironic in the extreme; however, she suppressed a grin at the man’s unintended witticism. ‘You are most gracious,’ she acknowledged, with a tilt of her head. ‘I thank you for your words, Sextus Julius Frontinus.’

  ‘Sextus, please,’ he smiled disarmingly. ‘I find trinomen awfully stuffy, don’t you?’

  ‘They are a very Roman thing,’ she responded.

  ‘You have no love for Rome or Romans, I can tell.’ Frontinus led her to a section of couches arranged in a semi-circle. Had the governor’s intentions been anything other than what they were, this would be a place of extreme honour. ‘Your current situation would make that understandable,’ he added.

  ‘You are mistaken, Governor,’ she said, deliberately using his formal title. She would not cause a scene, for it was not the Spartan way to act without decorum, but she felt no desire to endear herself to the man. ‘I admire Rome and view her as a natural, if somewhat crass successor to the Hellenistic ideal.’ He raised his eyebrows and gestured for wine to be brought.

  ‘Crass? That could be called rich, coming from a Spartan, my dear. It is said of Sparta that she is the most uncultured city in all Hellas.’

  Lysandra sipped her wine, regarding him over the rim of her cup. ‘If one thinks of culture as statues, droning rhetoric and the rule of the demos, then your observation would be correct. These are Athenian ‘qualities,’ so called. If one views the precepts of honour, virtue, forthright speech and prowess in war as culture, then you shall find no polis more sophisticated than my own.’

  She was rather pleased with that answer, for Rome was, by nature, a martial society.

  Evidently, Frontinus was pleased by it also; raising his cup, he smiled and drank. ‘ Ave, Victrix,’ he said. ‘I can see why you are so dangerous in the arena, for your tongue is as skilful as your blade.’

  ‘I find it somewhat offensive,’ a younger man broke in.

  ‘Gaius Minervinus Valerian,’ Frontinus introduced him. ‘Tribune of the Second Augusta.’

  ‘What do you find offensive, Tribune?’ Lysandra asked.

  ‘That a woman has opinions on things that are no concern of hers.’

  Lysandra bristled. ‘The governor has invited me to his couch, Tribune, and engaged in discourse on matters upon which I have knowledge. I will not sit and bat my eyes, giggling like a fool in the pretence that I have no understanding.’ Her eyes flicked towards Frontinus momentarily, as she tried to judge his mood. The governor was watching them both and seemed to be revelling in their disagreement.

  ‘Anyone may be taught a few well-learned phrases, lady,’ Valerian sneered, ‘and Greek slaves are much valued for their retention of knowledge.’

  ‘It is true there are few Romans who possess our wisdom.’

  Lysandra’s lips twisted in the slightest of smiles.

  Valerian’s face flushed in anger. ‘I overheard you speak of Spartan battle prowess,’ he said. ‘If Sparta is so mighty, how then is she merely part of Rome’s Empire?’

  ‘Sparta is a client-state, Tribune,’ Lysandra corrected. ‘But, the answer to your question is Poseidon’s will and technology.’

  ‘How so?’ Frontinus raised a hand, cutting off further comment from Valerian.

  ‘Poseidon’s will, Governor, came in the form of an earthquake.

  After the war with Athens, Sparta was pre-eminent in Hellas which, at the time, meant pre-eminence on the world stage. But Sparta was never a greatly numerous population and the loss of life by the Earth Shaker’s hand, coupled with the numerous wars she fought, was irreplaceable. It was impossible for Sparta to retain her position. Though, as all know, our warriors are the finest to ever grace a battlefield.’

  ‘And technology?’ Frontinus prompted. Lysandra had the feeling that to him her display of wisdom was akin to watching a dog speak.

  ‘Technology drives war, governor. The Hellene phalanx was becoming archaic as generals drew more upon the resources of manpower in the country. It was no longer enough to have merely men of landed status bearing arms. Lesser men became lighter infantry and cavalry became more widely used. Philip of Macedon took the phalanx to its next, and natural stage of development, producing the finest military machine the world has ever known. That his son carried his torch to the Persian barbarians is both testament to Alexander’s genius and the skill of his father in moulding the army.’ Despite herself, Lysandra too was enjoying the conversation. It had been a long time since she had been able to discuss such matters with anyone who would have the remotest chance of understanding her.

  ‘But,’ Valerian cut in once again. ‘How can you say that the Macedonian phalanx was the finest military machine, when it was consistently beaten by us Romans?’ His smile was triumphant; history was the final arbiter.

  ‘Technology, Tribune.’ She spoke as one would to a child. ‘The phalanx had been adapted continually, as it only had to face armies of similar disposition. Thus, the sarissa — or pike,’ she translated the Hellenic word to Latin, ‘was lengthened to ridiculous extremes. Indeed it became the primary weapon of the army, a task for which it had never been intended.’

  Valerian waved this away. ‘A gap in your knowledge, lady. The Macedonian pike would grind the enemy before it. How then is this not the primary weapon?’

  ‘The task of the phalangite — the pike-man — was to engage the enemy. It was the task of the heavy cavalry to deliver the hammer-blow that ended the battle. Thus it was at Chaeronaea and indeed all of Alexander and Philip’s victories.’

  ‘This does not explain the pathetic failure of the phalanx against our Legions,’ Valerian declared hotly. ‘You evade the point, gladiatrix.’

  Lysandra regarded him as though he was something she had trodden in. ‘I have already told you, the phalanx that faced Rome was a mere shadow of its former self. Had the fledgling Roman republic faced the army of Philip or Alexander, I think we might have found our roles reversed at this table.’

  ‘You insult me!’

  ‘No, your lack of military knowledge and persistence in pursuing the argument insults you… Tribune. Rome’s officers ought to know their history: Hannibal and Pyrrhus both brought Rome close to defeat using an inferior phalanx to Alexander’s.’

  ‘W
hat an amazing slave you are.’ Valerian sneered, gesticu-lating for more to drink. ‘You are a tactician as well as a histo-rian then?’

  ‘Of course.’ Lysandra allowed herself to be smug. ‘In the Temple of Athene, we are well educated.’ She let the word hang, fixing Valerian with her gaze. She hoped she made it plain that she thought him anything but.

  ‘You were a priestess?’ Frontinus interrupted, evidently deciding to intervene before the argument degenerated to insult-hurling.

  ‘Yes, Governor.’ Lysandra turned her attention back to him.

  ‘Before I came to this, I lived all my life in the auspices of Athene.’

  ‘I have heard of your Order.’ Frontinus said, surprising her. ‘A very Spartan thing,’ he added. ‘They train you as they do their men. This then, would explain your knowledge of all things martial, as well your skill in the fight.’

  ‘That is so.’ Lysandra affirmed.

  ‘But your Sisterhood has made no effort to find you, to buy your freedom?’

  ‘They must think me dead, and to that life I suppose I am dead too.’ She was shocked as the words came from her mouth but realised instantly the truth of them. ‘I could not go back now to what I once was. There was a time when my current circumstance gave me a grave dilemma, but a wise man — a priest — told me that I honour Athene in what I do. I am a slave, yes. But what slave, what woman, may honour her goddess in blood and sit at discourse with the governor of all Asia Minor?

  One of my companions once said that there is a liberation in the arena that no freewoman can know and there is truth in that.’

  ‘You compare yourself to a freewoman, slave?’ Valerian sniped from the sidelines.

  ‘I am at the beck and call of no man,’ she said pointedly, not taking her eyes from Frontinus. ‘I live by my skill and I am extremely good at what I do. My days are not taken with the raising of children or the care of a husband. Instead, they are filled perfecting what I have trained all my life to do. That, to me, is the will of my goddess. In serving her, I cannot consider myself slave.’

  ‘ At the beck and call of no man? That is not so. For you are a slave and I am a Roman. You will decorate my pillow, should I wish it, and then I’ll give you a firm enough lesson.’

  Lysandra had had her fill: it was one thing to maintain decorum, but the insults had now gone beyond a duel of wits. ‘You are drunk, Tribune’ she smirked ‘and I fear that your teaching would be anything but firm enough.’

  Valerian lurched from the couch, his arm poised to slap Lysandra across the face but, even as he moved, Lysandra was on her feet, her eyes burning with a cold fire. The sound of her wine cup smashing on the floor was loud and many heads turned towards the governor’s couch. Feeling the eyes of his peers upon him, the Roman officer hesitated and lowered his hand. Turning to Frontinus he bowed stiffly. ‘Forgive me, Governor. I must leave your gathering; I just recalled an unavoidable appointment.’

  Frontinus smiled coldly and nodded his assent. He kept his gaze on the young officer as he walked away, swaying ever so slightly, before turning back to Lysandra. ‘Come,’ the governor got to his feet. ‘Walk with me.’

  She eyed him for a moment, before nodding her assent, but did not take the hand he extended.

  XXVI

  ‘This has to stop,’ Sorina declared, her eyes fierce.

  Eirianwen shrugged, and turned her attention to her drink. ‘I don’t see what business it is of yours. Clan Chief you may be, but it is my choice with whom I make love.’ The two sat apart from the rest of the tribeswomen; the others wisely decided to leave both Gladiatrix Prima and Secunda to themselves.

  Sorina had decided that now was the time to confront Eirianwen directly regarding her infatuation with Lysandra. The feeling between the two young women was obviously growing and her own disapproval was not enough to discourage Eirianwen from the relationship. A more direct approach was required.

  ‘I say this not from spite, Eirianwen, but to protect you. It is a disaster waiting to happen. You must see this.’

  The beautiful Briton looked up. ‘I can see that you are getting old, Sorina, and are growing bitter in the autumn.’

  Sorina recoiled. ‘Before she came along, you would never have spoken to me like that. She is tainting you, Eirianwen. All can see it but you. Even Catuvolcos, who was once besotted by her, has reckoned her for what she is.’

  ‘Catuvolcos is hurt because she rejected his advances. This, as you have often told me, is the way of men. I no longer wish to speak of Lysandra to you.’ Eirianwen slammed her cup down on the table, causing the others to look around. ‘It is you who have become tainted, not I. Your bitterness is consuming you and you must lay it aside.’

  ‘Do not think to give me advice, whelp,’ Sorina warned, leaning forward on the bench. ‘You are not ready yet to challenge me for leadership of the Clan.’

  Eirianwen sighed, her shoulders slumping as she let the anger drain out of her. ‘I have no wish to challenge you, Sorina. I have found some small happiness. How can you begrudge me that?’

  ‘Because it will destroy you, girl. I seek only to spare you the pain that I foresee coming from this. Even now, your Lysandra is with governor Frontinus, drinking and, aye, parting her legs for him. Think on that, Silurian. Next time you put your lips to her sex, think of what and who has been there.’

  At the mention of Frontinus, Eirianwen stiffened once again, and Sorina knew that her barb and sunk deep. ‘Yes,’ she hissed.

  ‘I can see your feelings on your face. You are no longer sure, are you? Sure of her, sure of how you will feel about her. I will guess that she’ll claim that she went unwillingly. I can tell you this is not so, for Catuvolcos and I saw her — painted and perfumed like a Roman whore. Beneath her veneer of chastity, she is a wanton.’ When Eirianwen did not respond, Sorina pressed on. ‘But this you know, as does everyone who passes by whatever dark corner you can find for your lovemaking. Her moans and sobs are loud for all to hear. Does she not please you, Eirianwen? She will please this Roman in the same way, with her mouth and tongue, giving herself and enjoying her debasement…’

  ‘Enough!’ Eirianwen shouted. ‘You do not know her, Sorina.

  Your words strike me as hard as iron, for I am sick that she must go to him of all Romans. But she had no choice. Speak to me no more of this. I have made my choice and you are not a goddess to curse me for it.’

  ‘Then you are not of the tribe.’ Sorina’s voice was low, but the words were heavy with doom.

  Eirianwen went white. ‘You cannot do that.’

  ‘I can and I will, unless you cast her aside.’

  For her part, Sorina had not meant matters to go so far, but now the awful words were pronounced she could not take them back. She loved Eirianwen but the corruption was deep in her and, as Clan Chief, Sorina could not allow its influence to spread amongst the others. But in that moment, she saw that she had erred greatly. Eirianwen’s perfect features began to twist in hatred, the usually soft blue eyes becoming hard and empty.

  ‘Then I do challenge you!’ Eirianwen hissed. ‘Here and now or in the arena. It makes no difference, for the result will be the same.’

  Sorina baulked but could not back down; it was not the way of the Tribes to refuse honourable challenge. She cleared her throat, lest her voice crack. ‘The arena, then,’ she said. ‘Balbus would kill the winner if we fought without his agreement. I shall see him and tell him of our intention.’

  ‘Good.’ Eirianwen got to her feet. ‘I told you, months ago, that her fate, yours and mine were intertwined. Only now do I see the truth of it. Morrigan Dark Fate has decreed this, Sorina.’

  ‘You are sure of your course?’ Sorina set her shoulders, looking up at the younger woman from her bench. ‘You are willing to die for your Spartan?’

  ‘When the Mother becomes the Crone, the dark days draw close, Sorina. I am still yet the Maiden and your day is done.’

  ‘We shall see.’ Sorina forced iron to her voice, though her
heart was breaking. ‘I have fought many battles, child, against better even than you. They are now fled the flesh, whilst I live on. You will go the same way as those others.’

  Eirianwen smiled, but it was bleak with anger. ‘Everyone has her day, Clan Chief,’ she spat. ‘The time for talking is over, then.

  You and I are done… till we are done.’ She turned on her heel without another word and stalked away from her kin.

  She walked aimlessly through the corridors of the gaol, her eyes blurred with tears. Sorina’s mention of the hated Frontinus had twisted in her guts like the cold iron of a blade.

  Eirianwen recalled the coming of the Legions, the fire and sword, and the blood of her tribe. The legionaries were like ants, moving inexorably over the land, swarming over and destroying all that stood against them. The mightiest warriors of the Silures were naught before the slight but iron-disciplined men of Rome.

  Strength meant nothing against their cowards’ organisation; courage futile in the face of such honourless, efficient warfare.

  Eirianwen had known Lysandra had gone to Frontinus. The news of it was common amongst the fighters from Balbus’s ludus but she had had no chance to speak to Lysandra on the matter.

  The Spartan had been whisked away to be prepared for her meeting and Eirianwen had steeled herself for the worst. But she knew Lysandra and knew that she would not go to the Roman with willing enthusiasm. She was well aware that the inexperienced former priestess had come to love her and, having listened to her incessant talk of Spartan virtue and honour, Eirianwen trusted that, in her heart, Lysandra would remain true even if her body was violated by the governor. It was a sickening thought.