Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

  Lysandra was taken aback. ‘That would be a dereliction of duty,’ she retorted.

  ‘A duty to whom, Lysandra? To Balbus, your owner?’

  ‘To those people out there.’ She gestured towards the doorway.

  ‘The people who come here to hear me. The people that take pride in what I do in the arena. And to Athene herself. Did you not say that to fight for the goddess was my true path?’

  Telemachus flushed. ‘Yes, but that was before I had come to know you. Then, you were just another arena slave to me and Balbus paid me well to speak to you, to encourage you in your hour of need.’

  Lysandra was silent for a moment. ‘I did not know that you had been paid to be my friend,’ she said, unsure of how she felt about it.

  ‘I was not paid to be your friend, money cannot buy that,’ he said at once and in her heart Lysandra was relieved. She would have felt a terrible sense of betrayal if one of the few people she felt she could trust had been revealed as false. ‘Balbus is not a cruel man, Lysandra, but he trades in people’s lives,’ the priest continued. ‘There is an ambiguity in all of us when it comes to slaves. There must be slavery, after all, yet it is difficult to look at you as a slave now that we have spent time together and become friends.’ He sighed. ‘I would not wish to see you die in the arena.’

  ‘Have no fear,’ Lysandra said. ‘There is little possibility of that happening. I am extremely skilled and, though your first words to me may have been bought, they rang true for me. You were right in many things,’ she hesitated, ‘and as such, I do not judge you harshly. Furthermore, I am slave only in legal terms. When thousands of people scream your name, it is difficult to perceive oneself as subservient.’

  Telemachus smiled at her, a little sadly, she thought. ‘Balbus has been writing to me, enquiring as to your health and state of mind,’ he said. ‘Till now, I have put him off, yet I can see that you are healed in body and spirit.’

  ‘That is so, Telemachus.’ Lysandra nodded. ‘I would return to my rightful place.’

  ‘I will miss you.’

  He was being honest and this pleased her. ‘You make it sound as if you will not see me again,’ she responded brusquely. ‘I am not a prisoner in the ludus, Telemachus, and you may visit me when it suits you. It may be that I will be allowed out alone as I have shown myself trustworthy in your care.’ She grinned at him. ‘In that I did not flee and start a new life for myself.’

  ‘You will stay till he responds to me?’

  ‘Of course. The people must know that I am to depart. I would feel as though I had betrayed them if I just upped and left.’

  ‘You’re most considerate,’ he mocked gently.

  ‘And you are most disappointed,’ she countered. ‘Your coffers will no longer be as full after my departure. Evidence, if it was ever needed, of the superiority of Spartan religious doctrine.’

  ‘We all enjoy an oration on self-sacrifice and discipline, Priestess,’

  Telemachus said, his face solemn. ‘I prefer some largesse in my themes, however. Perhaps, outside of Sparta, your thematic content might be considered dull, boring, and perhaps even pompous.’

  Lysandra sat upright, her eyes dancing with mirth. ‘Pompous!

  I? Do not be absurd, Athenian. Pomposity is not the province of Spartans; it is rather an art form perfected by the effete democracy of Athens.’

  Telemachus laughed then, and she joined him. It was some time since she had indulged herself thus and she enjoyed the moment’s lack of decorum. ‘Come.’ The priest stood. ‘We should share a few drinks in the town tonight.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘That would be most pleasant.’

  XXXVIII

  It was Catuvolcos who came for her. She could tell he was nervous, shifting from foot to foot, unwilling to meet her gaze. And well he might feel uncomfortable, Lysandra decided.

  He had acted abominably towards her and that he felt guilty at her suffering was just reward.

  She was inwardly delighted at the turnout for her departure.

  The expatriate community had gathered in force, wishing her well and bringing many gifts for her to take back to the ludus.

  Some were practical, others not so but she received all the offerings with good grace and had Catuvolcos load them onto the low-backed wagon in which they were to travel.

  Telemachus was somewhat misty-eyed at their parting, embracing her warmly and promising that he would visit her soon. She hoped he would. In truth, she was most grateful to the priest for his help and his friendship. It had been twice now that the man had aided her: admittedly the first time for pay, but the second was out of genuine concern for her welfare. Whilst she could not look upon him as any sort of father figure, she did feel as though she had an older brother living in Halicarnassus.

  The farewells said, and to the sound of her name being hailed loudly by the Hellenes, the wagon began to wind its way through the city’s narrow streets. Catuvolcos looked uncomfortable in the extreme and Lysandra found herself taking a vindictive pleasure in this. Certainly, she made no effort to speak to him, apart from perfunctory necessities. This was of no concern to her. She knew she could be loquacious if the occasion demanded it, but Spartans were famed for the sparse use of words. Besides which, she doubted if Catuvolcos could give her anything in the way of intelligent conversation.

  She was sure her time in the company of her fellow Hellenes may have spoiled her somewhat. Even if Telemachus was an Athenian, her discourse with him had been much more interesting than the banter of the ludus.

  Some hours into their journey, with Halicarnassus retreating into the distance, Catuvolcos broke the stony silence.

  ‘I wanted to apologise,’ he said. ‘I was wrong.’

  Lysandra turned to face him. ‘Yes,’ she said at length. ‘You were.’

  There was no point in being magnanimous. Catuvolcos deserved to squirm. She remained silent, fixing him with a cold eye.

  The trainer cleared his throat. ‘I shouldn’t have acted towards you in such a way after our… talk. I should have taken what you said at your word. But I was hurt by your refusal, though I can see now that you were right in what you said.’

  ‘Better if you had listened to me in the first place,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘I did not intend to hurt your feelings, of course.’

  ‘I know that now.’ He shrugged. ‘I was not thinking clearly at the time.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Lysandra saw him flush and decided to relent, perhaps a little earlier than she had originally intended. ‘But it is past. I hope we can put the incident behind us.’

  Catuvolcos looked somewhat relieved and smiled at her, if somewhat tentatively. ‘How have you been after… after what happened?’

  Lysandra looked away, her eyes on the arid landscape. ‘Angry,’ she said after some thought. ‘I continue to feel a sense of helplessness that is foreign to me: that I was powerless to prevent them from doing what they did. They have not been caught, then?’ She looked back at him.

  ‘No. Though every effort was made.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Lysandra snorted. Catuvolcos seemed that he was about to protest, and she waved this away. ‘It does not matter.

  Again, this is past, and the goddess will decide whether I am to be vindicated. How are things at the ludus?’ she asked, changing the subject abruptly, not wishing to dwell on her lack of ability to deal with Nastasen.

  ‘The same, but different. Your friends have been moved to the bigger houses now, as Balbus promised. Of course, he takes a maintenance cut from their profits, but they earn more from each bout as their ranking has increased. They seem happy enough.’

  ‘And Sorina?’ Lysandra arched a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘She trains harder than ever,’ Catuvolcos said. ‘I have heard about your challenge.’

  ‘Typical of Sorina to publicise it.’ Lysandra said derisively.

  ‘She has told no one but me. She knows that if word of this gets to Balbus, he will put paid to it. That he let
her fight Eirianwen was one thing but he will not permit a contest between the two of you. You are his rising star; she a tried and tested champion.

  He will not risk you both in a match so soon after Eirianwen’s death and well Sorina knows it. She will keep her mouth shut.’

  Lysandra flinched at the mention of Eirianwen. It was not that Catuvolcos was being cold but that there was an awful finality in what he said. She pushed sadness from her mind and considered his words for a moment. The thought was bitter, but she decided that Sorina had the rights of the situation. ‘She can train as much as she likes,’ she muttered. ‘Your friend she may be, Catuvolcos, but she has little time left. You can tell her I said so.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing! I’ve had my fill of these little wars between you. I like you both and wish there was an end to it.’

  ‘You can blame her for all of this.’ Lysandra did not raise her voice, but merely thinking of Sorina brought her to anger. ‘If she had held her peace in the first place, none of this would have happened. Her blind prejudice is the cause of the trouble. Her hatred of me sent Eirianwen to an early death, and Sorina must pay in full for her crime.’

  Catuvolcos raised his hands. ‘As I say, I wish there was an end to it. But you are both set on your course, it seems.’

  ‘Quite correct.’ Lysandra wanted to say more but knew it would be superfluous. Catuvolcos had made an effort, and apologised to her as was right and proper. But Sorina was his friend, however misguided he may be in that choice and she saw little point in aggravating what must be a difficult situation for him.

  That would be beneath her. She scrambled into the back of the cart to retrieve one of the new books she had taken from the shrine, indicating that the conversation was over.

  It took several days to travel to the ludus, and the journey had been for the most part pleasant enough. They had skirted the issues of Sorina and Nastasen, confining their conversations to the mundane. Lysandra considered that, if not completely repaired, their friendship was patched up somewhat.

  Catuvolcos, of course, did most of the talking, extolling the virtues of his new lady friend. That someone else had caught his eye caused Lysandra to feel a stab of jealousy. Intelligence told her that this was unwarranted and indeed unfair, as she had no interest in him whatsoever. However, inexplicable as it was, she was slightly put out that another now ruled his affections. She masked her initial fit of pique well and soon, the feeling passed.

  Indeed, she found Catuvolcos’s inept attempts at using poetic terminology to describe his cheap little tart amusing.

  ‘It’s not the most glamorous of professions of course,’ he said, as though trying to defend whoring as an acceptable career choice ‘but it’s an honest one. She’s no beggar, I can tell you that.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ she said levelly. Inwardly, she seethed with the desire to take the rise out of him, but decided that it would be unfair to do so. Catuvolcos was probably trying to be delicate as he knew that she was a former-priestess of a virgin goddess. The fact that his woman made her living on her back evidently did not bother him in the slightest.

  ‘You’d like her, Lysandra, I’m sure,’ he went on. ‘She’s Greek, like you, and very intelligent as well.’

  Lysandra could well imagine what sort of intellect Catuvolcos’s paramour was versed in. Her lip curled in contempt but she saw the Gaul waiting for a response so she turned it into a half-smile, remaining silent till the wagon passed through the gates of the school.

  ‘Well, here we are then,’ he said.

  Lysandra climbed down from the wagon and looked about, drinking in the familiar surroundings. The clatter of the practice swords, the grunts of exertion, the shouts of the trainers that made the music of the ludus were sweet to her ears. It was, she decided, good to be home.

  ‘Lysandra!’

  She turned to see Varia running towards her, arms outstretched.

  Before she could protest, the little slave girl had embraced her enthusiastically, the dark curls buried in her chest. Somewhat awkwardly, Lysandra patted the girl’s scrawny shoulders.

  ‘It is good to see you!’ Varia exclaimed.

  Lysandra’s smile was somewhat forced; such a display of emotion in public was unseemly and there was indeed quite a gathering to watch the reunion in progress. ‘Yes, well, quite,’ she said, disengaging herself. ‘It is good to see you as well, Varia.’

  ‘Let me show you your new quarters.’ Varia took her by the hand. Feeling somewhat helpless, Lysandra could only follow.

  She was impressed.

  Certainly, her new domicile was far superior to the tiny cell she lived in before the Games of Aeschylus. Varia had also given the place a homely feel, adding flowers, whatever furniture she could scavenge and some dubious artwork, painted by her own hand.

  Lysandra decided that it would be hurtful to the child to throw the hideous stuff away. Overall though, there was little in the way of luxury and this was in keeping with the Spartan way.

  ‘I hope you like what I have done,’ Varia said, interrupting Lysandra’s train of thought. ‘All of this,’ she indicated the furniture, ‘is from Eirianwen’s place. I know she was your friend and thought you would want her things. Sorina tried to stop me but I managed to get this much away first.’

  Lysandra sighed, fighting back her emotions — the wound she had thought nearly healed was still raw. She picked a blanket from one of the couches and held it to her face, breathing in the scent. She imagined she could still taste Eirianwen. ‘That was very considerate, Varia. My thanks.’ The child positively glowed under her praise.

  There was no time for more discussion, as the Hellene women appeared, wanting to greet Lysandra themselves. They were enthusiastic, but she noted they were not the same women who had departed with her to Halicarnassus. There was a hard look behind their eyes, a look that had been won in the arena. They were the better for it, no longer slaves but warriors. Though they would never be able to match her in skill and natural ability, Lysandra recognised the change in them. Tempered by blood, they could at least be worthy companions.

  It was a pleasing thought.

  XXXIX

  Lysandra trained lightly in her first days back at the ludus.

  Her body was not used to strenuous exercise and to push too hard, too soon would only result in injury and another lay off.

  She was content to let the Hellene women exercise in their accustomed manner for the time being. Though Balbus had given her the right to train them, she would not have felt comfortable giving instruction if she could not match and indeed exceed her students. Instead, she concentrated on her own fitness, running and strength-building routines designed to bring her to full vigour in as short a time as possible.

  As she worked on herself, she found her eyes wandering to what had become the barbarian section of the training ground.

  The Tribeswomen had grown increasingly insular since returning from Aeschylus’s games, mixing less and less with the other women. The effect on the ludus was palpable as each gladiatrix, whether novice or veteran, began to keep to her own ethnic group. Lysandra saw this more keenly than most; Eirianwen was lost to them now and much of the connection she had with the tribal peoples was severed. Of course, there was still Catuvolcos, and even Hildreth, who was in her opinion a decent sort.

  Sorina, Lysandra noted, was indeed pushing herself hard. The older woman was first to the grounds in the morning and last to leave when the trainers called for the evening rest. However, as she had told Catuvolcos, let the barbarian train all that she wished; the result of their fight would not be in doubt. Sorina was old: she herself was young — and such was life.

  It took some weeks for Lysandra to regain her fitness, her speed and her sharpness. She began to exercise with the Hellene women, offering pointers and help, but still not leading them in their sessions. She felt that she must regain their utter confidence in her superiority before she took over in a formal manner. Respect had to be earned and the H
ellenes were no longer green novices.

  However, as time progressed, her position as foremost amongst them became clear. Indeed, she felt that they welcomed her return to form as in her absence they had lacked any real leadership. As she began to train them in earnest, many of the other civilised women in the ludus made it clear that they wished to be part of her coterie. This was unsurprising, of course. Whilst Stick, Catuvolcos and especially Titus’s training methods were good, they were not conceived in Sparta, and naturally were inferior to her own regimen.

  That Balbus allowed this split to happen was, in Lysandra’s view, extremely astute. The lanista was in no doubt that her charges were becoming the fittest and most deadly of his stable.

  ‘Remember,’ she told them after a particularly gruelling session, ‘discipline is the key to victory. Any fool can wave a sword about and batter an opponent into submission with no thought of tactics and strategy.’ She jerked her head disdainfully at the barbarian quarter of the grounds where the fighters there went about their work with the usual unordered gusto. ‘Discipline and fitness are your first weapons. How many times have you seen fighters falter when tiredness sets in? Next time you think I am pushing you too hard think about a sword in your guts. Remember that if you are fitter, more prepared, you will survive. We have all seen our friends die in the arena, choking on their own blood. That could be you. You can never have too much stamina. To go the extra lap is everything in life, not only in the arena. Push yourselves.’

  The women cheered at this and Lysandra allowed herself to smile.

  It turned Sorina’s stomach to have to share her meal times with the hated Greeks. Though both sets of women stuck to their own sides of the dining area, the fact that she had be so close to Lysandra’s sycophants, Greek and Roman both, was almost too much to bear.

  The Amazon knew that she was being mocked in the sibilant Greek tongue, as often they would turn and look at the Tribeswomen, before erupting in laughter. She thought of speaking to Balbus about staggering the evening meals but decided against it. She could not let the lanista realise that the tension between the two camps was so great. She could not afford to let anything stand in the way of her killing Lysandra.