Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

  Eirianwen had seen Frontinus many times, the image of his lined, weather-beaten face branded onto her mind’s eye and the thought of his hands and lips on Lysandra’s skin turned her stomach.

  Sorina had hit a nerve with her and she now harboured a doubt that she could look on her lover in the same light. But she would not discard her at Sorina’s say so; she and Lysandra shared too much for it to be so easily cast aside.

  Sorina.

  Thinking of the Clan Chief caused her fresh pain. The older woman was friend, sister and mother to her, her kin through the blood of the Tribes. When she had first come to the ludus it had been Sorina who had allayed her fears, Sorina who had given her the courage to fight on, Sorina who had taught her the tricks of the arena, the skills needed to survive. To win.

  Yet Sorina’s eyes were skewed when it came to Lysandra. She was not of the Tribes, true, but Eirianwen knew there must be more to the hatred than that. It was blinding, all consuming, and that in itself was an evil. The Morrigan was playing her game, even here in far off Asia, setting those that loved against each other so that another love might survive.

  Eirianwen cursed the goddess with all her heart for she knew that Dark Fate laughed at them all.

  Catuvolcos took the girl from the warehouse and led her through the dark streets of Halicarnassus. A slight rain was falling, masking the usual rotting odour for the warehouse district. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, he put his arm round her shoulder, feeling her snuggle against him as they walked.

  ‘I’m available for anything,’ she said. ‘I don’t normally take more than one man at a time, but I’m told that I must if the trainers want it. I can also sing and play the lyre, but people hardly ever want that.’

  ‘I’m not going to do anything with you, girl,’ Catuvolcos said gruffly.

  ‘Oh.’ The prostitute was taken aback. ‘You’d like to watch me with others then? Or shall I just put on a show for you?’

  ‘No… no.’ Catuvolcos was appalled. ‘I just wanted to get you away from Nastasen. He can become strange when he’s been inhaling that stuff of his.’

  ‘Yes, opiates do that,’ the girl said. ‘They prolong the act of sex, but they affect people in odd ways.’ She paused, looking up at him. ‘Thank you.’

  Catuvolcos gave her a slight smile. ‘It is well,’ he said. ‘You are very young, and I doubt that anyone deserves to be treated in that manner.’

  ‘Oh, you get used to it,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘It’s not as if I like it, you know, but we are paid well enough. Well, the owner of the brothel is paid and we earn a little. I am not on the streets and my belly is not hungry. Most of the time.’

  ‘You are hungry now?’ Catuvolcos asked, realising that the beer he had drunk had made him ravenous.

  ‘Starving,’ she said. ‘But I never eat before a party. I could be sick if someone puts it too far…’ she trailed off. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’

  He grunted, knowing all too well. ‘I could eat too.’

  The girl pulled away suddenly, looking up at him. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she demanded.

  ‘Because…’ He trailed off, looking at her. In truth, she did resemble Lysandra but there was a youthful softness to her face the Spartan did not possess, even though only a few years separated the two girls. Certainly, the prostitute was streetwise and accustomed to being used, but her pathetic attempts to feign enjoyment at the degradation that Nastasen had subjected her to had sickened him. Indeed it had wrenched his heart to see so young a girl forced to act in such a manner. He realised he had not answered her question and shrugged with a grin. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Well,’ the girl lowered her eyes, toeing the pavement, ‘they call me Venus at the brothel. But my real name is Doris.’

  ‘Doris?’

  ‘It’s Greek. I’m named after my mother,’ she said defensively.

  ‘It’s very pretty,’ he lied. ‘I am called Catuvolcos.’

  ‘Well then, Catuvolcos,’ she smiled and offered him her hand,

  ‘shall we eat? I know a few places nearby.’

  Catuvolcos encased her tiny hand in his big paw. It felt good, he realised.

  Lysandra ignored the sly looks and muttered comments as she followed the Roman governor from the triclinium. Everyone who saw knew that she could only be accompanying him for one reason. It was humiliating in the extreme but she was too nervous to be as outraged as she should be.

  ‘These formal parties are such a bore,’ the Roman said as they walked through his abode. His voice echoed slightly on the marble walls. ‘I must apologise for Valerian. He is a good boy normally but turns ugly with drink.’

  ‘It is of no matter, Governor. I am well accustomed to abuse.

  I hear it all the time from the crowds.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you do,’ he acknowledged, leading her to a small anteroom. It was well furnished with three couches and a table, draped resplendently in red coverings. Many scrolls adorned the walls and there was a desk and chair set up in one corner near a small window. ‘My study,’ he said.

  ‘It is very lavish.’ Lysandra hesitated as he walked through, easing himself onto a couch. She did not now know what to do and felt vaguely foolish standing in the doorway. Perhaps she should merely disrobe and get the whole sordid business over with quickly. Suddenly, she realised that getting out of the raiment in which she was clad would be no easy undertaking.

  ‘What are you doing there?’ Frontinus smiled at her. He poured wine for them both, with his own hand, from a krater. ‘Please, do sit.’ He gestured to the couch opposite his own. Lysandra was relieved. Evidently the time was not now and she would have died of embarrassment if she had cast her clothes aside before the moment was upon her.

  ‘So tell me,’ he said as she sat. ‘Do you think the retiarius superior to the murmillo? I am always fascinated by those bouts, as they say so much. Two opposites, each affording the fighting man or,’ he inclined his head, ‘woman, different advantages and weaknesses. One would have thought the armour of the murmillo would afford heavy odds in favour over the net and trident of the retiarius. Yet these bouts are always closely fought.’

  ‘I am not trained as a retiaria,’ Lysandra said after a moment’s thought. ‘But I should hazard that it takes much skill to fight as one. In my view, skill should prevail over brute force. But, it depends on the fighter,’ she added. ‘There really are no superior styles of gladiator. It is the individual and how he or she applies the training of the ludus when in the arena.’

  Frontinus continued in this manner for some time, quizzing Lysandra on her knowledge of the games, her opinions on different fighters she had seen and their particular merits. In time the conversation turned to war and strategy as it had in the triclinium. Yet Frontinus was not confrontational as Valerian had been. Indeed, she found his discourse engaging and his tactical knowledge superior even to her own. Then again, he had had the benefit of practical experience. In her turn, she queried him, applying his know-how to the gaps in her theo-retical training.

  For hours, they debated the battle of Cynoscephalae, regarded as the classic legion against phalanx clash, this and the campaigns of Caesar in Gaul, the Marian Wars and more. Frontinus refilled the oil lamp several times and, though they both partook of the wine, sobriety and dialogue not drunken revelry was the order of the night. She found herself almost liking the man. He was witty, engaging, and possessed of an awesome knowledge of all things martial. Lysandra was also gratified that he, the great general, even conceded to some of her points.

  The hours passed into the next day and Lysandra found herself growing tired. Nevertheless, she considered it would be crass in the extreme to show this so she continued, matching the old night owl, point for point. But, during a particularly interesting discussion on Leuctra and the Spartan tactics employed there, she could not help stifling a yawn.

  Frontinus broke off in mid-sentence. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘The n
ight has almost passed us by.’

  Lysandra swallowed, her heart beginning to pound anew. ‘Yes, Governor,’ she said. The debate had disarmed her, but now she had to steel herself once again for the ordeal to come. At least, she thought, he was not as hateful as she had supposed. She considered that the Roman’s lovemaking would in all likelihood be straightforward, and uncomplicated. She counted herself an excellent judge of character and the lengthy conversation had revealed much about him. Though she knew she would not enjoy it, at least it would not be the nightmare rape she had envisioned and, for that, she was thankful. She reached to her shoulder, and began to tug the soft silk of the chiton away.

  Frontinus sat up quickly. ‘Whatever are you doing?’ he asked, looking vaguely perplexed.

  She blushed furiously. Removing the garment was as difficult as she had imagined. ‘You would prefer me to keep this on?’ she asked. ‘I am sorry, I have never done this before, and am unused to pleasing the male sex.’

  ‘I did not invite you here for that!’ Frontinus’s smile was kindly.

  ‘I will not deny that if you came to me willingly, I would be honoured, for you are extremely beautiful… not to mention intelligent, which is rare amongst women.’

  She pulled the chiton back into place too relieved at being wrong to be offended by his unconscious arrogance. As she adjusted the dress, she realised it was not she who had erred; Balbus had misled her. Certainly, had the lanista kept his peace, she would not have been so fraught with worry. And, she thought angrily, she had now embarrassed herself, due to him. Had she been given the opportunity to judge the situation for herself, the evening would have passed without incident. Now, as it stood, she felt intolerably foolish. She cleared her throat, now thankful for the make up the slave girls had applied. Frontinus would not know that beneath it she was as scarlet as a Laconian war-cloak.

  ‘Why did you ask me here then?’

  ‘Because I admire skill at arms and I think you have the potential to be great.’ Lysandra nodded; it was not the first time she had heard this, and she believed it was the truth anyway. ‘Certainly, I am an enthusiast of the games,’ he went on, ‘and my eye is well practised. But I wanted to see if there was more to you than merely a good sword arm. And,’ he grinned, ‘governor I may be, but like everyone else, I am star struck by you warriors of the arena. And luckily for me, my position affords me the opportunity to meet those I admire.’ He raised his cup to her. ‘There is indeed much more to you than a good sword arm, Lysandra of Sparta.’

  She lifted her own drink. ‘An astute observation, Governor,’ she said. ‘I salute you.’ Placing her cup on the table she rose to her feet. ‘I bid you good evening, Sextus Julius Frontinus. Vale.’

  ‘ Vale, gladiatrix.’ Frontinus smiled and watched her depart. She was indeed a marvellous creature, he decided. The perfect catalyst for his plans, in fact.

  XXVII

  ‘I won’t have it.’ Balbus glared at Sorina, his tone heavy with finality. This was not what he needed. It was early morning, the sun only just creeping across the desk in his rented Halicarnassus office and already there were problems to deal with.

  ‘You have no real choice in this, lanista,’ Sorina responded evenly. ‘We will fight, regardless. But it is my hope that one of us will survive. And that, in this, you may profit.’

  ‘It’s not a question of profit.’ Balbus slammed his fist onto his desk. ‘It’s a question of hierarchy. I’m the owner of this troupe, in case you had forgotten. You can’t just go arranging your personal feuds because it pleases you to do so.’

  For a moment, sadness flickered across the harsh, weathered features of the Amazon. ‘It does not please me to do so,’ she said.

  ‘But nevertheless, I must fight Eirianwen.’

  Balbus raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure you two can work it out,’ he said placatingly. ‘You’ve always been so close, there must be a way to extricate yourselves from the situation without blood-shed.’

  ‘You do not understand the ways of the Tribes, Balbus.’ Sorina sighed. ‘This is not a contract we can negotiate, or a court in which we can argue. I have been challenged and that challenge must be answered.’

  ‘This is preposterous,’ the lanista spluttered. ‘What am I running here?’ he implored, eyes flying to the heavens.

  ‘I am Gladiatrix Prima; Eirianwen, Gladiatrix Secunda. These games have brought your ludus to prominence. Was Lysandra, a novice fighter, not invited to the seat of the governor himself?’

  Balbus noted the distaste when she mentioned the Spartan but waved her to continue. ‘I admit this match is not planned but it could show you, lanista, as one extremely willing to please the crowd… and the editor. By offering your two best fighters in a death match you show your generosity, risking your greatest assets. Your gladiatrices have, on the whole, outclassed those novelty fighters from the other schools. The crowd will love it. Think of the money in side-betting alone. And I am sure that you and Falco can squeeze some more coin from Fat Aeschylus for this…spectacle.’

  ‘You have a point,’ Balbus conceded, all too aware that avarice was getting the better of him. Then again, he soothed himself, everyone had to make a living. ‘I’m not promising anything, mind,’ he admonished. ‘But if the terms are agreeable, you shall have your fight. Fair enough?’

  The barbarian got to her feet. ‘Fair enough.’ She nodded briefly. ‘I thank you for this, Balbus.’ She turned to leave.

  ‘Sorina,’ he called out as she put her hand to do the door.

  ‘Who should I bet on?’

  ‘I will walk away alive, lanista,’ Sorina said, her back to him.

  ‘Eirianwen is young, strong and fast. But she is not Clan Chief and never will be.’ She left before he could phrase another question, slamming the door behind her.

  Balbus sat back heavily in his chair and mulled over the prospect.

  The barbarian was correct, he could make a fortune from this bout. The aging veteran facing the young lioness; the strength of youth versus the wisdom of experience. It had all the makings of a classic confrontation.

  ‘Nikos!’ he screamed, calling a scribe to him. The skinny Greek entered in a rush, looking somewhat dishevelled.

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Get a messenger to Septimus Falco. Tell him that I require his presence with all haste.’

  ‘At once, Master.’ He bowed and left, leaving Balbus to contemplate the money he would soon be counting.

  Lysandra arose early, filled with a desire to see Eirianwen, but her Hellene compatriots were not sensitive to her needs and quizzed her mercilessly about her evening with the governor.

  When none of the details were as lurid as had been expected, they soon lost interest. She could not help thinking of Penelope, and this brought a sad smile to her face. The fisher girl would have been most disappointed by the lack of carnal excesses.

  ‘I do not expect you to understand,’ Lysandra finished disdainfully. ‘We spoke mostly of matters tactical and military. Whilst you are all competent fighters, I fear that such stratagems would be beyond you.’ This was greeted by ironic chuckles from the women. This, Lysandra reckoned, was to cover their own embarrassment. She was only speaking the truth.

  Nevertheless, when they realised there was no gossip to be had, they let her be and she made her way from the cell. The passageways were mostly deserted at the early hour, the fighters still sleeping off their excesses from the previous evening. Lysandra could not get to grips with the need to drink oneself into insensibility after a bout but she had noticed it was the norm for almost everyone else.

  Eirianwen, she knew, was an early riser and, though a prodigious drinker in her own right, she could normally be found in the baths at daybreak. This in mind, Lysandra headed straight for the small facility in the grounds of the amphitheatre, and her heart leapt when she saw Eirianwen sitting by the pool, her feet paddling.

  Lysandra moved behind her and sat, her legs scissoring Eirianwen’s hips, and wrapped her
arms round her belly. Eirianwen started slightly, but relaxed as she kissed her neck and shoulders.

  ‘Good morning,’ she whispered, breathing deeply the scent of Eirianwen’s freshly washed hair. ‘I missed you.’

  ‘How was your night?’ she let her golden head fall back to Lysandra’s shoulder, but there was an edge to her voice.

  ‘Not what I expected,’ she answered quickly, keen to allay any fears Eirianwen may have pertaining to her fidelity. ‘The governor is an admirer of the games,’ she explained. ‘He had no interest in anything else. He merely wished to talk, that is all. I think he is enamoured of us female fighters.’

  ‘A pity he wasn’t enamoured of keeping the Silures free. Roman bastard.’

  Lysandra bit her lip, desperate to appease her. ‘Please do not be angry with me, Eirianwen. I had no choice in this. But I swear to you that nothing happened. We just talked.’ There was a silence, punctuated only by the gentle dripping of condensation and the distant roar of the furnace that kept the waters hot.

  Lysandra pulled Eirianwen closer to her. It was now, she decided, that she must give voice to the truth. ‘I love you.’

  Eirianwen turned her head, and Lysandra saw with shock that her eyes were red rimmed and cracked. She had been crying.

  Full of concern, she touched the tear-streaked face. ‘What is it?’ she whispered, kissing her. ‘What troubles you?’

  ‘Love,’ Eirianwen said simply. She turned about so they faced each other, and pulled Lysandra to her. For long moments they held each other, aware only of the closeness and comfort that embrace gave.

  ‘What is it?’ Lysandra asked again. She felt herself close to tears at Eirianwen’s pain, but she forced them away by effort of will.

  It would be unseemly to cry, she admonished herself. Despite her declaration of love, she still had standards to adhere to.

  Eirianwen broke their embrace, and sat back a little, gazing into her eyes. ‘I do love you, Lysandra,’ she said, and Lysandra’s heart leapt. ‘But this love causes me great pain.’