Domitian was a handsome man in his own way. Not broad and muscled like a warrior, he had a softer look to him, yet a seductively attractive one.
‘Your strategy was well executed,’ he had said to her. ‘I salute you.’ She bowed, flattered despite the fact that it was true.
They were in the magnificent palace of Sextus Julius Frontinus, Lysandra’s sponsor, the governor of Asia Minor and the editor of the spectacle. The old man was a little drunk and extremely pleased with the way things had gone. ‘She is a genius, Caesar,’ he enthused.
Domitian smiled indulgently at him before turning his attention back to Lysandra. ‘Great performers should be rewarded,’ he said to her. ‘Ask of me a prize, and if it is within my power to grant it, I shall.’ He paused. ‘Within reason.’
‘I wish only to ordain a temple in honour of the gods on the site of my ludus,’ she replied. ‘Some of my women wish to return to their homes, some do not. They feel more free within my walls than without. And I feel it is my duty to provide for those that chose to fight.’
Domitian arched an eyebrow. ‘ Chose?’
‘Yes, Caesar,’ Frontinus put in. ‘Lysandra and all those women who fought on her side today were freed slaves. They were here not because they were compelled but because they were asked.’
‘And the ‘amazons’ you were fighting were not?’ The theme of the spectacle had been the ancient Battle of Athens where the Hellenes had defeated an Amazonian army; it was well known that Domitian was a student of history and the idea had delighted him.
‘That is so, Caesar,’ Lysandra responded.
‘Another reason for their defeat,’ Domitian observed. ‘The freed man – or woman – is superior to the slave. I grant your request, Achillia.’ He referred to her by her arena name. ‘And further, I will grant monies and craftsmen to aid you in your noble effort.’
Frontinus shook his head. ‘You Spartans are a strange people, Lysandra. You could have asked for riches, slaves and a palace grander than my own. Are you sure there is nothing else? I will try, in my small way, to reward you as well. After all, your temple will be in my province, and you have served me well these past two years.’
‘There is one thing, sir,’ she had said.
‘Name it. It shall be yours.’ Frontinus was caught up in the mood of magnanimity.
‘I would like to be exempt from taxation. Forever.’
His expression had been a picture, and she recalled also the musical sound of Domitian’s laugh at the old man’s self-made predicament.
Frontinus had sputtered for a few moments before seeing the funny side of it himself.
Lysandra missed the old governor. A few months after the battle, he had been reassigned overseas, and in him she had lost a powerful sponsor and protector. Nevertheless, his successor had honoured the terms of Frontinus’s agreement and the Deiopolis was still free from that most ruthless arm of imperial power – the tax office.
‘Thinking deep thoughts?’
Lysandra turned as Varia joined her on the balcony. ‘Not really,’
she smiled. ‘I am just giving my eyes a rest,’ she gestured to the pile of paperwork.
Varia made a face and then lifted her hands. A krater of wine dangled from one, in the other she held two cups. ‘You really should let the scribes do their job, Lysandra,’ she said, pouring for them both. They touched cups and Varia drained hers as Lysandra tipped a small libation to the ground below. ‘You don’t have to do all the tasks yourself. And you’re making more work for them – leave business to the business people. You’re too Spartan for commerce.’
‘You have mentioned that more than once,’ Lysandra commented.
Both of them knew that it was a pointless argument; Varia was always going to think that Lysandra did too much and knew too little, and Lysandra knew that of the hundreds of women that lived in the temple compound, she was the most capable. As such, she had to oversee everything. ‘I have not seen you for a few days,’ she said.
Varia moved inside and sprawled onto a couch. ‘I’ve been training hard. Living the Spartan lifestyle.’
‘Then you should have watered this wine,’ Lysandra observed primly.
‘You don’t water your wine anymore,’ Varia observed.
‘I am not training these days – I have no time for it. But we are not talking about me,’ she smiled. ‘You look fit. Strong.’ It was true. Varia had grown in more than stature since they had first met six years ago. The scrawny, waifish slave girl had long gone, and in her place was the confident, self-assured woman that stood before her. Lysandra took credit for that – following her example, the young Roman could not fail to become a better person. She had also blossomed into quite the beauty, her elfin features framed by lustrous dark curls, her eyes as dark as night. ‘Have you been working with Thebe?’ she asked after a few moments
‘Yes. And I have been working on some new moves of my own design.’
‘So I have seen,’ Lysandra commented. ‘Sword spinning and leaping about might well look impressive, Varia, but in a real bout it would just get you killed.’
‘Then you think I’m ready for my first bout? Thebe will not say as much but she knows I am.’
Lysandra put her cup down on the balcony. ‘We have been through this, Varia. I do not want you fighting in the arena. There is no point to it anymore. Thebe no longer fights. I no longer fight – if there was cause for it, yes, I could agree. But it serves no purpose.’
‘There are no slaves here, isn’t that what you keep telling everyone?’
Varia shot back, a hint of anger in her voice. ‘All the gladiatrices here fight by choice. And I have been training longer than any of them. You started training me when I was thirteen years old!’
‘You are still too young,’ Lysandra said, sternly.
‘I’m nearly twenty – a grown woman and older than you were in your first bout.’
‘That was different.’ The Spartan felt the cords that held her temper in place begin to fray. ‘I had no choice. You do. And the women that fight for us now, do so for pay. You do not need money, Varia. All your needs are provided for. You have had the best education and physical training a young lady can receive outside of Sparta. This desire to test yourself in the arena is foolish at best and vainglorious at worst. I would have thought that you would have learned something of humility.’
‘And where would I have learned that? From you, I suppose?’
Varia rose to her feet. ‘Lysandra, I love and respect you, but you are only my friend – not my mother. You have no right to tell me what I can and can’t do. I want to be a fighter.’
Lysandra sighed, forcing the anger out of herself. ‘If you love and respect me, then respect my wisdom in this matter. You are strong and fast, but the game has moved on since I started. We – the gladiatrices of Lucius Balbus – set a new standard and women stepping onto the sands nowadays are far better than they were five or six years ago. One more year, Varia, and you might be ready.’
‘That,’ Varia set her cup down, ‘is what you said last year. And the year before that. I will not wait much longer, Lysandra.’ She strode away, her anger evident in every step.
Lysandra considered calling her back to argue her case in more depth, but dismissed the idea – it would appear weak. In any event, Varia had no right to challenge her. She provided for the girl; she had given her her freedom. And, having trained her, she was well aware of Varia’s capabilities and, more importantly, her limitations.
The fact was that Varia, for all her strength and skill, was not a killer. One more year would not make the girl any more ready than she was now, but Lysandra thought that the decisive battle in this particular campaign could be put off till then. Though Varia might bluster, she would not dare defy her.
Lysandra glanced guiltily at the pile of paperwork. The row had drained the desire to work from her and she decided to take a walk in the grounds to clear her head, hoping that a short break would prove invigorating.
Dusk was drawing its balmy veil over the sun as she left her villa and began to walk the compound. It was strange to think that what had once been a gaol was now a place of worship and, if she was honest with herself, a tourist attraction. Lysandra had consciously modelled the Deiopolis on Athene’s temple in Sparta where she had spent her youth. The buildings were functional and plain in the Spartan fashion; not for Lysandra the gaudy trappings of Attic pomposity. Besides, ostentatious decoration cost money and served no purpose. Frugality was, after all, a virtue that the gods admired.
The practicality of the old ludus’s design worked well – the Deiopolis was divided into blocks, each area dedicated to one of the twelve Olympians. Naturally, the centrepiece was the large temple of Athene which housed the Deiopolis’s sole extravagance: a beautifully wrought marble statue of the goddess. Created at vast expense by the up-and-coming artist, Apollodorus of Damascus, the icon was magnificent. Though smaller in scale, Lysandra reckoned that it rivalled the image in the Parthenon. Modelled on the sisterhood that Lysandra had been part of in Sparta, the goddess was served by priestesses valuing the tenets of both wisdom and war. Many were veterans of Domitian’s spectacle and took to the life easily enough; though worshipful observance was part of their duty, marching and parading for the visitors took up much of their time and they all enjoyed the performance.
Indeed, in many of the blocks, cottage industries had sprung up, all of which served to generate more profit for the temple. The fine metalwork of the Hephaestian women was highly prized as were the delicacies created by the servants of the Hestia. The Priestesses of Aphrodite commanded huge fees from their supplicants and brought in the most revenue aside from the Sisters of Ares and after them, the Sisters of Athene – these were the Deiopolis’ s elite gladiatrices.
Lysandra could not fail to be impressed by her own efforts as she walked through the reality of her vision. She recalled a conversation she had had long ago with the Athenian priest, Telemachus.
He told her that her work on the sands of the arena was divinely inspired, that the hand of Athene herself must have guided her there. His words had lifted her at a time when she had begun to doubt her faith but, more than that, she had realised the truth in them and had carried her Mission out to its ultimate conclusion – the Deiopolis itself.
She decided to go to Athene’s temple and make an offering to the goddess. The last of the supplicants should have left as the sun was down and the temple closed to the public; despite the fact that she had retired, Lysandra knew she was still regarded by many as the Gladiatrix Prima and her fame meant constant interruptions from well-wishers and admirers.
She could not suppress a shiver of anticipation as she made her way across the courtyard to the temple proper – only the heady rush of victory could compare with the ecstasy she felt when communing with the goddess. Several priestesses were sweeping up as she passed and they paused in their work to salute her. She acknowledged them and made her way to the dove-cages, selecting a pure white bird for the sacrifice. It cooed, almost in anticipation, as she lifted it gently from the pen and entered the sanctuary.
The air was heavy with incense, wreathing the beautiful statue with ethereal strands. With great care, Lysandra bore the dove to the altar and, taking the sacrificial knife in her hand, she whispered the prayer taught to her in her childhood:
‘I begin my song of Pallas Athena, Illustrious goddess with peerless grey eyes.
She, with a heart relentless,
Modest Virgin, Protectress of the city!
The valiant Tritogeneia, roused by Zeus the wise From his own awesome brow, the tools of battle on her arm, Glittering and gold: all the immortals were stunned.
Without delay she leapt from the ever-living skull To come before Zeus, master of the aegis, And the sharp spear shook in her hand.
Eternal Olympus was sent spinning
By the might of the Grey-eyed one.’
As she went on, her voice lifted in song and she drew the blade across the throat of the dove, letting its blood splash into the font, its warmth spreading from her hands throughout her body. The tang of the incense filled her nostrils as the prayer continued and Lysandra felt her spirit lifting free with the soul of the dove.
‘From every direction the earth let loose a chilling scream.
Waves, deep and dark, stirred up in the seething ocean, And all at once spray jetted from the sea.
The shining son of Hyperion brought his swift steeds to rest, waiting long,
Until she shed the godlike armour...
She, Pallas Athena! Wise Zeus laughed!
That is why I say it too: Hail to you, Daughter of aegis-wielding Zeus!
I always remember you!’
Lysandra’s vision tunnelled as she called out the last words of the prayer; she felt a lurch in her stomach so powerful that her legs went from beneath her. Gasping for breath, she clung to the altar, the face of the statue seeming to shift and come alive. The grey eyes of Athene bored into the ice-blue of her own, and in that moment she was lost. Visions swam in her mind – of herself, drowning on the wine-dark sea, an eagle crippled on a bloody field, a horse trampling on the fallen bird of prey. Then, there was a faceless god roaring with fifty thousand different voices, and a bloodied fist raised to the heavens as the god screamed its approval. The marble floor rushed up to her and suddenly all was black.
She had no idea how long she had been there. Lysandra felt sick and disoriented as though she had drunk too much. Confused, she gripped the altar and hauled herself to her feet. Her hands were tacky with dried blood and the incense holders had long since burned out. Not even a wisp of smoke escaped them and the air was now cold – she must have lain on the floor for some hours. No one had come to check on her as the priestesses knew well that she liked to worship alone. She tried to recall her dream – her vision – but like trying to grasp wisps of smoke, the memories were already fading.
Thinking quickly, she dipped a finger into the ash from the altar and scrawled what she could remember on the marble floor. She was no oracle like the Delphic Pythia, but she knew well that animals were powerful omens – and Athene had spoken: it was her duty to bring some meaning to these portents.
Outside, she ordered the night guards to ensure that her words were copied down and delivered to her in the morning. Both women on duty kept their expressions neutral, and that made Lysandra wonder if she had been shouting and raving in a goddess-inspired frenzy whilst she knelt at the altar. Certainly, she must have looked less than regal, her hair wild and her forearms as red as an augur’s; but then, despite the devotions of the temple women, there had been little reported in the way of actual communion with the goddess.
Perhaps it was only she who was worthy of Olympian notice. It was a pleasing realisation and she would meditate on it later. But, for now, she needed a drink.
II
Lysandra could not spend as much time contemplating her experience as she would have liked. Managing the Deiopolis was a constant battle and, though it troubled her, the truth of it was that she did not have time to allocate to her religious devotions. Athene, she reasoned, could well send her a clearer portent when her mind was calm; and so Lysandra resolved to disencumber her thoughts the following morning. But the news Titus, her former trainer, brought – coupled with the thick head she had from the previous night’s wine – was hardly conducive to a meditative state.
‘Who can say what happened,’ the old man offered. ‘Could have been a storm. Could have been a less-than-honest-captain. Or even pirates.’
‘Pirates! Do not be absurd, Titus. Everyone knows that Pompeius Magnus rid the seas of their filth a century and a half ago.’
‘That,’ Titus observed, ‘is a bit like the governor of Judaea claiming that all resistance in the province has been crushed forever.’
Lysandra bit back a sharp retort. It was hardly Titus’s fault that their latest shipment was now decorating the palace of Poseidon.
She ought to go and make an offering to the capricious sea god but she could barely bring herself to enter his temple – which she had only included in the Deiopolis because it would invite bad luck otherwise. She should have trusted her instincts in the first place and just left him out.
‘The risks were explained to you over and over again.’ Titus sat down without being asked, and poured himself a drink. ‘Trading is a huge investment – we’ve lost a lot of money on this one. On the bright side, the chances of this happening again are rare. We’ve got the capital to ride out our misfortune, and the next voyage should more than compensate us. Think of it as a sacrifice to Neptune.’
‘Poseidon,’ Lysandra corrected half-heartedly. She regarded Titus for a few moments: the years had not changed ‘the centurion’ and he seemed no older now than when they first met – tough as leather cuirass and unyielding as a shield wall. ‘What other news do you have for me?’ she asked.
‘Aside from the shipping losses, we’re in good shape. Really, we’ll recoup on the shipment in no time. It helps that we don’t pay tax, mind. Anyway, I’d best be about the place… Gods know how the training has been run whilst my back has been turned. You’re the only other person I can trust to train the girls properly, but I can tell you aren’t out in the palaestra as much as before,’ he added, jerking his chin in the direction of the training ground. ‘You’re looking more womanly than ever I’ve seen you.’
‘What?’ Lysandra felt her cheeks go pink. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What I said. Don’t let it go to your head, Lysandra, but aside from me, you’re one of the best trainers in the province. And you were the regina of the sands in your time.’ Titus placed a scroll down on the table in front of her. ‘You have a letter from Rome. It looks official.’
‘Yes,’ Lysandra ignored the parchment. ‘But what did you mean, womanly?’
Titus began an orderly withdrawal. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, the word sounding odd in his gravelled baritone. ‘That’s what I meant.’
Roma Victrix Page 2
