‘champion’ soon. Or haven’t you heard?’
‘The emperor’s command performance?’ Laenus scratched his ear. ‘Everyone in the business has heard about it except your would-be opponent it seems. Not a word from her, or Maro would have told me,’ he referred to the Magnus’s lanista. ‘You know what these fucking provincials are like,’ he went on. ‘It’s all very well when they’re fighting half-starved tribals from the back of beyond. But put them up against a Roman and they find out it’s a different story altogether. Probably this… champion doesn’t want any part of it and is in the process of cutting off her thumb so she can’t fight.’
‘Are you appealing to my ego, Laenus?’
‘Naturally. But you really are the best.’
‘Come, then,’ she indicated that he lead on.
Despite its location in the heart of the Capital where space was at a premium, the Magnus was still an impressively sized construc-tion and it took some time for gladiatrix and trainer to weave their way across the palaestra, avoiding gladiators and trainers as they worked. As always a crowd of citizens had gathered to watch the day’s training and Illeana stopped and waved to a few devotees who called out to her before trotting after Laenus to where the new recruits waited.
There were nine of them and it was easy to separate the slaves from the auctoratae; the six slaves were scrawny, filth-mired and sullen, the would-be contractors young, foolish or desperate. Except the one that Laenus has brought her to see. She stood apart from the rest and Illeana could tell at once what the trainer had been refering to. This one had a look about her, exuding a confidence and surety that belied her youth. Illeana could always read an opponent’s eyes, and this one was well aware she had the beating of all the women around her. There was an arrogance there – perhaps a debilitating one if she was going to make a success of herself in the arena. Yet it was strange – despite the confidence she exuded, it was almost as though this was a cloak she was unused to wearing.
Illeana glanced at Laenus and nodded. He had made a wise decision bringing her into this. If this girl – she could not be more than twenty – was allowed to win too easily, overconfidence might consume her and that would not be the ideal start to her life in a ludus.
‘Get your clothes off,’ Laenus barked at the group. ‘I need to see what you look like underneath. We only have the most beautiful women fighting here in Rome, so I’m not yet convinced that you lot are of acceptable quality.’
There was little reluctance from the slaves who did as they were told at once, as did, Illeana noted, Laenus’s girl. The other two hung back seemingly shocked by the order.
‘You two are probably freedwomen,’ she spoke out, causing all eyes to fall upon her. ‘You are unused to obeying orders as these slaves here. This the first and only time you will be told this. Despite your status as auctoratae, you are still bound to obey every order you are given, be it by the lanista, one of his trainers or the senior fighters here. If you are accepted into this ludus, you will take an oath that binds you to that on pain of death. If you cannot accept that, you should go now.’
The two women looked at each other and then by unspoken agreement, stripped off their clothes so they stood naked with the others. They looked acutely embarrassed which, Illeana knew, would soon wear off. Female arena fighters were expected to show their bodies to the largely male crowd. It was one of the things that made the gladiatrix events so popular.
Laenus went over to them, running his hands over flanks, legs and breasts, checking teeth and pulling down the skin under the women’s eyes, much as one would when examining a horse. ‘Illeana,’ he said. ‘You look over that one on the end, will you?’
The girl stood proudly, her eyes locked straight ahead. She was a pretty thing, with dainty freckled features framed by a mass of dark curly hair. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black. She was not as tall as Illeana herself, the top of her head reaching to Illeana’s nose, but her physique was good. It had been worked on – more than worked on, she realised as she squatted down, squeezing the tight muscles in the girl’s calves and thighs. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Pyrrha,’ she answered at once.
Illeana stood. ‘And your real name?’
‘Pyrrha,’ the girl said again.
Illeana was prepared to let that drop: she was not being insubordinate after all, even though the name was evidently prepared. It was an excellent fighting name, a feminised one from history and myth that the crowds would recognise and remember. ‘You’ve had some training, Pyrrha. I can tell.’
‘I’ve had some training, yes.’
‘Fought in the arena before?’
‘No.’
That was intriguing. ‘How so?’ she asked.
‘My former owner was a gladiator. He taught me.’
‘Really,’ Illeana arched an eyebrow. ‘What was his name? Perhaps I have heard of him.’
‘If you know the gladiators of Greece, you will have,’ the girl tried to inject some bluster into her voice. ‘His fighting name was Aristodemus. When he was granted the wooden sword, he moved here from Greece and bought me. He wanted to enter me into the games when I was old enough. Which I am now. Unfortunately, Aristodemus fell in love with the drink a little too much. A fight in the Subura and that was the end of him. First I knew about it was when the quaestor’s men came and took everything for the Imperial treasury. All I have is a few sesterces, the clothes on my back and what he taught me. ’
The story seemed to have a ring of accuracy to it but there was something in Pyrrha’s eyes that told Illeana that she was not hearing the full truth. She noted the girl’s dark eyes flare in defiance as she realised that she herself was being read in return. That almost false arrogance had returned. It was, she realised, time to knock it out of her.
‘What style did this Aristodemus teach you, Pyrrha ?’ she asked.
‘I can fight as a thraex and dimachaeria,’ she responded with a slight smile.
Illeana raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘ Dimachaeria,’ she repeated.
‘That’s a rare skill. The double swords are difficult to become proficient with.’
‘Yes,’ Pyrrha agreed. ‘They are. But I had a very good teacher.’
The gladiatrix could not resist chuckling at that. Forced or not, Pyrrha’s cockiness had an endearing quality. ‘Come then,’ she gestured to a rack of wooden training swords. ‘Put on your tunic and we’ll see how good you are. Do well and you stay here. Do badly and you’ll be sent to one of the schools outside Rome – which really don’t have the facilities of the Magnus if you take my meaning.
Life is hard – and often short.’
As Pyrrha made her way to the swords, Laenus finished with his examination. ‘Well?’ he asked quietly as he approached her.
Illeana’s green eyes narrowed as she watched the younger woman stretching and warming herself up. ‘No doubt about it. This one knows what she’s doing.’
‘But you can beat her, right?’
Her responding glance was withering.
‘I was just making sure.’
‘Get me two swords, Laenus.’
This was the reason that – day in, day out – the crowds gathered around the Magnus. It was an endless fascination for the Roman populace to watch gladiators at their work, training, exercising and light sparring. But often there would be a mock battle between two fighters. There would be no blood spilled but to be this close to the action was something that most people could never hope for in the Flavian. It was something that they could boast about in the taverns and some of the cannier would hope to use what they had seen to gain advantage from the bookmakers.
As Laenus marked out an area in the sand, work on the palaestra began to slow down as gladiators and trainers watched with grinning interest, nudging one another as Illeana made her way to the circle.
She glanced over at her male peers, knowing precisely what they thought of her. Despite the emperor’s support, they believed that
gladiatrices were a fad of his reign and not to be taken seriously.
Rome was for men and the world was Rome. It did not matter that, a few scant years before, the champion, Aristos, had been defeated by the Germanian tribeswoman, Auriana, before their very eyes. They had called her a sorceress and a witch and claimed that she used magic on their champion. Magic or not, Aristos was dead and Auriana had walked away alive, but it was a bout that was deemed churlish to mention these days. Aristos’s end had been less than honourable – Auriana had strangled him with her hair, which was both unique and humiliating.
Illeana switched her attention to back to the miniature arena that Laenus had marked out. Pyrrha was now striding purposefully towards the fighting area, training swords held loosely in her hands.
All work had stopped now. The other gladiatrices who trained at the Magnus were shoving their way to the front, their interest in the bout the keenest. Illeana noted that the new slaves and auctoratae, now clothed, were loitering at the periphery of the crowd unsure of where they should be.
It was only a training bout, but Illeana still felt a thrill coursing through her as the contest neared. There was nothing to compare it to: alcohol, narcotics, even sex – nothing came close to the heady buzz of combat. The shouts and jibes coming from the crowd around her faded to a distant hum as the would-be gladiatrix Pyrrha became her sole focus. Sweat beaded on the girl’s forehead and Illeana was certain it was not from her brief warm-up: Pyrrha was nervous and was right to be. She was about to face Aesalon Nocturna before the eyes of those she would call her peers and the people of Rome.
Training bout or no, it was a harsh test.
Pyrrha stretched her neck from side to side and dropped back into a fighting stance. She held her swords in guard position, leading with her left, the right held back to counter strike. So far, Illeana thought, so good. She had not yet adopted her own stance, preferring instead to stalk around her opponent, seeking to make her even more edgy than she was. But to her credit, Pyrrha would not be drawn at this stage. Her narrowed eyes followed Illeana as she circled, shifting her stance to ensure that she was always face on.
‘Are you going to attack me or just stand looking aggressive all day?’ Illeana asked, her voice light and mocking.
‘I’m not a barbarian to chase you round the palaestra waving my swords,’ came the taut reply. ‘You want to fight, get into the arena.’
Illeana chuckled. ‘I think this kitten has claws,’ she said, winking at Laenus who looked as though he was enjoying this immensely.
‘Come, Aesalon,’ he said. ‘Enough posing. Pugnate!’
Illeana dropped into her stance, raising her wooden blades. Like Laenus, she was having fun with the situation and she smiled through her guard at Pyrrha. ‘Ready?’
Pyrrha’s speed took her by complete surprise. Viper-quick, the tiro’s blade lanced out, spearing straight for Illeana’s throat. Her leading weapon parried the blow by instinct alone and the automatic riposte was met with the unyielding wood of Pyrrha’s rudis.
The younger woman disengaged and stepped to Illeana’s left, striking out with a double attack, the left sword cutting towards her temple, the right aiming for her side. Again, Illeana parried the assault but this time Pyrrha gave her no chance to respond, upping the intensity of her attack, forcing the gladiatrix to retreat.
Illeana was impressed.
Pyrrha’s footwork was excellent as she pressed her attack. Most novice dimachaeria could not change their leading leg as they moved forward, but Pyrrha had clearly mastered the ‘circle-step’ as it was called. She bore down on Illeana at pace, her face fierce and alive with concentration. Using the momentum provided by her footwork she exploded into a violent attack, alternating between left and right hand blows that Illeana was hard-pressed to deflect.
The girl, she decided, was almost the finished product.
Almost.
As Pyrrha tore in again, this time it was Illeana who stepped off to one side. The movement was only slight as she pivoted away from the other fighter’s blades but it was enough. Now it was she who owned the centre-line of attack and she decided to end the contest before it got out of hand. Pyrrha must have known that she was in trouble and Illeana fully expected her to try to fight her way out of it, but the younger woman surprised her again by hurling herself away and executing a wrestler’s shoulder roll to carry her out of harm’s reach.
Resisting the urge to grin at the audacity of the move, Illeana pursued her, allowing her no time to readjust as she regained her footing.
Now it was Illeana who had the initiative and she was not about the relinquish it. Her attack was relentless as she lashed out at the tiro with both swords. She was aware only of the thrill coursing through her body, the staccato clack of their weapons as Pyrrha worked desperately to stave off the inevitable. The girl was good, but she was not the Gladiatrix Prima and Illeana determined it was now time to put an end to the bout. Like the cat toying with the mouse, she let her assault falter, offering Pyrrha an angle of attack which she took. The girl’s sword once again sought Illeana’s throat, but this time she stepped inside the attack as she parried it, bringing her close in. Too late Pyrrha realised her error and she froze as the tip of Illeana’s wooden sword pressed under her chin. The gladiatrix forced the issue a little and pushed her rudis up and making Pyrrha stand on tiptoe before she stepped away.
Her body was wet with sweat and tingled with the singularly unique pleasure that she always felt after battle. The applause of the onlookers washed over her and she raised her arms in victory. It did not matter that this had just been a training bout against an untried novice. It had been a contest and she had emerged as victrix.
‘You fought well,’ she said to Pyrrha. ‘You have a future here, I think.’
‘I had a very good trainer,’ the girl said again.
‘I can tell. Come, we will bathe together and then I will show you around your new home. Laenus!’ she called the trainer who came sauntering over. ‘I trust that you can handle these other girls on your own?’
‘If you can handle this one.’
Illeana ignored that as she led Pyrrha away. The girl had potential and she was determined that it would not be wasted.
XVII
The port of Brundisium was as chaotic as Halicarnassus and, after being used to the clean sea air, Lysandra was painfully aware that it stank even more. She leant on the side rail looking out over the crowded panorama of the docks, marvelling at how so many people could cram themselves into a seemingly small space and continue their work.
‘Well,’ Bedros wandered over to join her. ‘We made it, thanks be to Poseidon. I love the sea, Lysandra, but it is the finest thing to reach your port.’
‘I cannot argue with that, Bedros,’ she turned to face him. ‘Thank you for seeing me to a safe harbour,’ she said, hoping that it sounded nautical enough.
‘Thank you for saving my life,’ he offered her his arm in the warrior’s grip. ‘As I said before: if there is any way I can help you…’
‘I will be sure to take you up on that, Bedros – even if it is just to get home when my work is done.’
He acknowledged that with a nod of his head. ‘Farewell, then.’
‘Farewell, Bedros.’ Lysandra turned away and shouldered her pack of belongings. As she staggered down the gangplank her legs felt as wobbly as a newborn faun’s. Still too used to the roll and pitch of the sea, the sensation of being back on dry land was discon-certing and almost alien.
‘Take it slowly,’ Bedros called. ‘I didn’t get you all the way here to watch you fall and break your neck.’
Lysandra looked back and gave him a sarcastic half-smile which caused him to laugh aloud. He raised his arm, waved once and then turned away. As she forced her way through the crowds, Lysandra promised herself that she would keep her word and use the Galene for her return voyage.
There was a part of her that felt nervous about being in this new place, far from her friends and
the Deiopolis. She had become used to only speaking in Hellenic and hearing the Latin language in all its colourful diversity was unusual. Unlike her own tongue, it was vulgar, direct and lacking in subtlety – much like the Romans themselves.
Not that she could tell who here was Italian and who was not.
The port teemed with different colours and creeds, black skins, brown skins, sun-burned white skins like her own, everyone pushing, shoving and shouting: it was a scene of pure chaos.
Despite the general confusion, however, locating the offices of Memmius Grumio was not difficult; if there was one thing the Romans did well, apart from warfare, it was functional architecture. The merchants’ offices set back from the port were clearly marked by signs written in Latin, Hellenic and several barbarian scripts that Lysandra did not recognise. She made her way along the promenade till she found her agent’s bureau and made her way inside, grateful that it was cool and dark – a welcome relief from the torrid mayhem of the docks.
‘You must be Lysandra!’
Her eyes adjusted to the gloom in time to see a thin, admirably coiffed Roman bearing down on her.
‘I am Memmius Grumio, your agent here in Brundisium!’ he said, deftly sweeping her pack from the floor. He scrutinised her for a moment. ‘You look awfully tired and in need of a bath and some refreshment.’
‘Greetings…’ Lysandra was about to say more, but Grumio had seemed not to have heard her.
‘I will have a lectica brought at once to transport you from here to my home – I have made my slaves aware of your dining preferences which I know from my correspondence with your man, Telemachus. After dinner, I have arranged for a recital – a Greek recital of course…’
‘I am capable of riding to your home, Memmius Grumio,’
Lysandra interjected, taken aback at the aggressive fussiness of the man.
That gave him a moment’s pause. ‘Ride…’ he blinked. ‘Oh, by Venus, Apollo, Jupiter best and greatest, no, we can’t have that! No, no, not at all! You wait there and I’ll have you sorted in a moment.’
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