Teuta stood and put a placating hand on Sorina’s shoulder.
‘She may win. Have you yourself not killed many men?’
Sorina jerked away from her touch. ‘That was different. That was in the heat of battle, where all is chaos. But this,’ she gestured in the direction of the arena above. ‘There is no way she can beat him. You’ve seen him, Teuta. How strong he is. She does this to go to her death and cheat me of my chance.’
There was a tapping, and the cell door opened. Varia was there, bearing a tray with wine and sweetmeats upon it. ‘I have brought you some refreshment,’ the child announced.
‘Get out! Get out!’ Sorina screamed at her, finding another vent for her rage.
‘But I was told to bring…’
Sorina raised her hand but Teuta stepped between the two, deftly lifting the tray from the girl’s hands. ‘Go,’ she said. Varia took to her heels and Teuta put the tray down. ‘There’s no need to take it out on her, Sorina. Just be calm. There is nothing to be done about it.’ She took a swig from the wine jug and smacked her lips. ‘Balbus has given us the good stuff,’ she said. ‘Have some.’
She patted the bunk, indicating that Sorina join her.
Still angered she sat, trembling with suppressed rage. She snatched the jug, and drank deeply, the red liquid sliding from the lip of the jug down her cheeks.
Teuta’s eyes did not leave her as she drank her fill. ‘There,’ she said as Sorina wiped her mouth. ‘Better?’
‘If not for her, Eirianwen would still be alive. I hate her so much.’
‘I know you do,’ Teuta sighed. ‘But don’t let it destroy you inside, Sorina. When it comes down to it, Lysandra will die and you will see her corpse. The gods will accept the sacrifice in whatever form it comes.’ She reached out tentatively and put her hand on Sorina’s thigh. ‘Let us not think of Lysandra now.’
Sorina eased back on the bunk, opening her legs. Teuta knelt between them, her tongue gentle and probing. Sorina grasped her hair, dragging her in roughly. ‘It is not loving I want,’ she hissed. ‘Give me release!’
Varia weaved her way through the crowded corridors of the gaol, avoiding the gladiatrices who milled about. She was the happiest she could remember being. This was her first time at the games; the first time she could remember being away from the ludus.
And what was more, she was allowed to serve Lysandra and the other Hellene women.
Lysandra was not in her cell nor was she with the other women. Varia found her in the training ground, duelling with Catuvolcos. She knew better than to interrupt her, so she prepared a jug of water for her Mistress — the word sounded grand even in her mind — and sat down to wait.
Lysandra’s movements were as quick as snake’s and Varia marvelled at her speed and power. She knew that no one, not even Nastasen, could defeat her. Catuvolcos wielded a long stave, the length cut to that of a barbarian sword, whereas Lysandra held two wooden training swords; she would fight as the dimachaera, the two-knife girl.
‘He’s bigger and stronger,’ Catuvolcos said, his breathing laboured. ‘So you must be fast. Faster than you have ever been.’
Lysandra nodded, her eyes flat and focused only on her opponent. He yelled and attacked furiously, the stave blurring and hissing as he swung it at the lithe Spartan. Lysandra moved back and away but Catuvolcos pressed in and the hiss of the wood was interrupted by the staccato clack of wood on wood as Lysandra parried.
‘No!’ Catuvolcos shouted at her. ‘You must evade!’
‘I cannot run from him forever,’ Lysandra snapped. ‘I must engage him at some stage.’
Catuvolcos cast the stave aside. ‘Only when he is worn down and exhausted. You don’t stand a chance against him when he is fresh. He will overpower you in moments.’
‘I am tired of hearing that! You have said little else all day.’
‘Because it’s true!’ Catuvolcos exploded. ‘If you are set on this insane course, you must at least try to survive. And to survive you must stay away and pick him apart.’
‘Insane?’ Lysandra arched an eyebrow. ‘It is insane to seek vengeance?’
‘No, it is not insane to seek vengeance,’ he muttered, hating that she was using her small knowledge of Clan lore against him: vengeance was a holy thing. ‘But there are other ways. We can arrange…’
‘No,’ she cut him off. ‘He must die before the crowd. At my hand. He must go to his death knowing humiliation.’
He sighed and retrieved his weapon. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go again.’
Lysandra’s smile was fierce.
The routine was punishing but Lysandra pushed herself to her limit. Catuvolcos was extremely skilled and she was at her best to match him. Time and time again when she tried to push an advantage he ploughed into her, using his great strength to bowl her from her feet. It was frustrating and infuriating but she knew it was the correct manner in which to train for Nastasen.
Lysandra was surprised at how the old feelings of fear as well as the more sickening ones of inadequacy and shame had been awakened at the sight of the Nubian. She knew logically that she had nothing of which to be ashamed. She had done nothing wrong, yet she felt a terrible sense of guilt, the reason for which she could not explain. Each night since she had seen him in the cell, the nightmares were more intense, dreams of the trainer and his men and the violation they had committed to her person.
Outwardly, she maintained a facade of confidence, but inside she was gripped with fear — not for her life, but of failure. To face his great strength and skill might be foolhardy but how else could her guilt be assuaged? How else could she lay the fear to rest? She had to meet him on his own ground, match him and defeat him.
Catuvolcos, at least, was doing his best to help and, on her part, she threw her all into the training. She was bruised and battered but she had learned much. After some hours he called a halt, himself hurt and exhausted.
‘Again, tomorrow?’ she queried.
Catuvolcos was bent, resting his hands on his thighs, gasping for air. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We’ll see how you’ve progressed.’
Lysandra nodded and walked away. Varia, the slave girl trotted towards her, bearing the water jug.
‘I got this for you!’ she announced. ‘You fought well,’ she added as Lysandra drank deeply.
‘Not well enough yet. You did as I instructed?’
‘Oh yes.’ Varia nodded enthusiastically. ‘She was very angry, shouting about how you were only fighting Nastasen so he would kill you and she wouldn’t have her revenge on you!’
‘Not quite the correct assessment on her part,’ Lysandra said wryly. ‘She took the wine?’
‘I don’t know. I fled before she could hit me.’
Lysandra smiled slightly. ‘If she was angry enough to try to hit you and yet she took it… Good. I would see her in her cups as often as possible. Her hatred of me will grow and she will lose her focus.’ Focus was something she herself would have to be aware of, she thought. Nastasen first, Sorina second. Then the ghosts would all be gone. ‘You have done very well, Varia,’ she nodded. ‘I am pleased with you.’
Varia blushed. ‘Mistress?’ she said hesitantly.
Lysandra was already moving away, but halted. ‘Yes,’ she turned.
‘What is it?’
The girl seemed to gather herself for a moment. ‘I want to be a gladiatrix like you. To be a heroine like you. You could teach me to be the best, couldn’t you? Then I wouldn’t have to fetch and carry like I do now — not that I mind serving you because that’s an honour but I don’t want to go back to just being a slave.’ It came out in a huge rush, and Lysandra had to force herself to concentrate on the tirade.
‘Balbus has no plans to make you into a fighter,’ she said shortly, and the girl’s face fell. Lysandra frowned; she did not need juve-nile peevishness now. ‘I cannot train you,’ she went on firmly. ‘It is forbidden for me to do so.’ She did not know if that were the case, but it seemed expedient so
say so. Varia was useful in so far as her insignificance made her the perfect tool for gathering information on Sorina’s state of mind. No one took any notice of the girl.
Varia looked as though she would burst into tears and, though Lysandra was about to admonish her, the words died on her tongue. She could not now risk her ‘spy’ turning against her.
Guiltily, she realised that she also did not want to hurt the girl’s feelings overmuch. In her early days at the ludus, they had come to be friends. Moreover Varia had remained loyal to her, and that was a trait to be admired.
‘But then again,’ she said, ‘Balbus doesn’t have to know everything, does he?’
‘No.’ Varia toed the sand, looking down.
Lysandra nodded. ‘Very well. I will train you.’ Varia looked as though she would cheer. ‘ After my bouts with Nastasen and Sorina,’ she said quickly. ‘And not before. You must understand, Varia, that I risk my life each time I step out there.’
‘But you are the best, you will win.’
‘That is true,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘But the superior warrior never underestimates her opponent.’ She paused. ‘Your first lesson for free. Never take Nike — Victory — for granted for that is the surest way to send her favour from you.’
‘Yes.’ Varia nodded, her face full of studious intent. ‘Can I watch you as you train? To learn?’
‘Of course. You do, anyway, do you not? I will tell the other women that you are now my personal slave and not subject to their orders. Is that fair?’
‘Oh yes, Mistress!’ Varia beamed. ‘I will do everything you say.’
The girl’s friendship was, as always, earnest and Lysandra could not help but smile at her enthusiasm. ‘Very well then,’ she said.
‘Follow me.’
It was only as they walked away that Lysandra realised that she had referred to Varia as her slave. The realisation that she had done so was shocking but she could not bring herself to retract the comment; it would have shown weakness. She decided she would think of Varia as her helot; not only did this suit the girl’s purpose, it also reminded her of her Spartan heritage.
It was, she decided, an agreeable solution.
XLIX
Nastasen flexed his fist, feeling the muscles in his forearm bunch. He had lost some weight during his incarceration but he could still feel the power latent in his flesh.
It had not been long since they had taken him — not for his rape of Lysandra, but for petty thievery and murder. He had spent his money on hemp and thus was unable to book passage on a ship.
He had headed for the countryside, intent on pushing hard to the east, but his habit had drawn him back to the drug dens of the city, forcing him to rob and steal. One of victims had put up too much of a fight and he had killed the man. It was an accident but it made no difference. The urbanae captured him and the magistrates marked him for execution in the great Games of Trajan.
It was, he thought, ironic, that he who had once been the trainer of those about to die on the sands would go to his own death in the arena — and with no sword in hand. It was a cruel way for a man to die, not in honour, but in shame.
The first days in the cells had been hellish: deprived of the drugs that sustained him, he had moaned and raved maniacally, lost in delirium as the need for them coursed through his very soul. The other prisoners had stayed well clear of him, for all knew that lunatics were dangerous in the extreme. Yet, like all things, the pain had passed and, for the first time in years, the Nubian saw the world through eyes that were unclouded. It was a pity, he thought, that his last clear look at the world should be in such a place.
A shadow fell across him and he looked up, squinting into the light of a torch. Slowly, the bearer came into focus. ‘Catuvolcos?’
‘Aye.’ The Gaul’s voice was cold. Several burly slaves flanked him, each holding a cudgel. The trainer himself bore a set of manacles, which he dropped through the bars of the cage. ‘Put them on,’ he ordered.
Nastasen complied, his heart pounding. ‘Am I to be released?’ he asked, not daring to hope.
Catuvolcos grimaced. ‘No. You are to fight, though.’
‘Until I am killed.’ He put the bindings on and jerked his arms apart, showing his captors that they were secure.
‘I don’t know,’ Catuvolcos growled as he unlocked the cage.
He glared at Nastasen, his eyes black in the torchlight. ‘But I hope so. If it were up to me, I would kill you myself.’
‘Jealous, Gaul? You’ve not fucked her then? Maybe after me, she wants no other man. I know she loved the feel of my prick up…’
Catuvolcos leapt upon him, raining blows into his face and body. Bound as he was the Nubian was unable to defend himself and collapsed to the ground. The Gaul came in with the boot before being dragged off by the guards. Nastasen struggled to a sitting position and spat out a glob of blood. ‘Maybe she’ll come and visit me one last time,’ he leered. As he struggled to his feet he savoured the look of impotent hatred on Catuvolcos’s face.
‘And I’ll have that sweet piece that you are so desperate to enjoy.’
‘Get moving.’ One of the guards shoved him away, putting himself between them.
Nastasen could scarcely believe that he had been delivered; yet, as the guards led him from the stinking cell and through the tunnels, he began to hope. They would not allow Catuvolcos to harm him. Not if he were to fight. And if he were allowed to fight, he could win free.
There was justice after all.
‘He’s been moved,’ Catuvolcos advised Lysandra the following day.
‘He’s segregated, but he’s allowed to train as well. It can’t look as though we serve him up to you half dead from gaol, though I’d prefer it that he had no preparation. Do you want to watch him?’
Lysandra paused in her callisthenics. ‘You are joking,’ she snapped.
‘I have no wish to see him until I have to kill him.’
‘You could learn something from watching him, Lysa.’ She did not think he even noticed that his sobriquet for her had slipped out, but she let it pass. ‘You’ll need all the advantages.’ He paused, his gaze seeking her own. ‘And, it might be a shock for you to see him in the open for the first time. After what happened. It would be better to be re-accustomed to the sight of him — I know that it can’t be easy…’
‘There is wisdom in what you say,’ Lysandra interrupted ‘I will not be shocked. What has happened I have dealt with.’ She realised that she might be exaggerating slightly but there was no need to enlighten Catuvolcos as to the fact. ‘We shall watch him then.
After I have finished with you.’ She stooped and grasped the two wooden swords.
Sorina turned away. She had spent hours watching the Spartan at her training and it disturbed her. Though publicly she was dismissive of Lysandra’s chances against her, she was beginning to think that she would be hard pushed to defeat the young Greek. As each day passed, Lysandra seemed to be growing stronger and more focused.
At first, she had believed that the re-emergence of Nastasen would work against Lysandra, wearing her down mentally. Now she realised that her enemy was using the rapist as a catalyst.
Despite her hatred, she was moved to admiration at Lysandra’s training methods. The former priestess pushed Catuvolcos hard, moving with speed and efficiency, striking her stronger opponent almost at will.
Lysandra, she surmised, was facing her fears in the only way she could: by confronting the man who had raped and tortured her in his own arena. Indeed, she realised that, if she survived, she would emerge from the combat even more powerful, and it was beginning to look by all the gods that she could beat the black warrior.
With Catuvolcos’s aid, her fighting repertoire had certainly increased. He not only gave her experience in fighting a larger, heavier opponent, but also had her performing a punishing callisthenic regime that included lifting heavy weights and other rigorous strength-building exercises, all of which she bore without complaint. Even now,
after a gruelling bout with her trainer, Lysandra sprang straight to the heavy iron bars. Red-faced and teeth gritted, she began to lift the weights over her head as Catuvolcos counted out the repetitions.
Sorina looked down at her hand and clenched her fist, as if by such action she could permanently erase the etching on her knuckles that marked the passage of the years. She shook her head; she knew there was no way to tip back the sands of time.
Yet, she thought grimly, there was enough left in her to defeat Lysandra.
She was well aware that Lysandra had tried to play mind games with her in an attempt to unsettle her, but Sorina was too long in the tooth to fall for such obvious ploys. The gamesmanship had stopped however, as soon as Nastasen had been discovered in their midst. It was as if Lysandra had put their own bout out of her mind, concentrating only on the Nubian and her battle for vindication. It was time, Sorina thought, to turn the tables on her enemy. To resort to such mental warfare was not honourable and certainly beneath her. Yet she now realised that she must have all the advantages when the day came to face Lysandra. She would not be robbed of her revenge.
She turned away from the Spartan, her mind set.
L
Nubian and Amazon regarded each other.
‘Why would you offer to help me, Sorina?’ the black giant asked, squinting at her in the sun. He was clad in only a subligaculum, his ebon body glowing with a sheen of sweat. ‘We have never been friends.’
‘True.’ Sorina met his gaze evenly. ‘But I have my reasons.
What you did…’ She paused, measuring her tone. Nastasen’s crime was abhorrent to all women, yet now she deemed it a fitting punishment for the arrogant Spartan. The thought surprised her; that her hatred for the raven-haired Greek had reached such intensity. ‘What you did was wrong,’ she said at length. ‘Yet I cannot help but feel that Lysandra brought it on herself. She acts in an austere way, yet I know well she is aware of her own beauty.
She seduced Eirianwen, and because of that my sister-daughter lies dead. I know Lysandra taunted you in ways only a woman can. It is no wonder that, after the hemp, you lost control.’
Gladiatrix Page 36
