Yet, in the darkest hours, she began to wonder if she could consider herself Spartan at all.
The crash of the cell doors being flung open brought Lysandra to wakefulness. She sat up on her pallet and stretched, wincing as the recent stripes on her back pulled slightly. In time the door to her own prison was unlocked to reveal the huge form of Nastasen, his grinning face full of contempt.
‘Why is it your cell stinks worse than any of these other animals?’ he sneered.
Lysandra got to her feet and shrugged. ‘Perhaps because the stench you leave in here never seems to fade.’
The big Nubian took a menacing step forward. ‘You must like me taking my rod to your back. Maybe a different rod in a different place might teach you some respect,’ he said, fondling himself lewdly.
‘I’m sure Balbus would have something to say about that, Nubian.’ As Stick had demonstrated on their first day, it was apparent that groping and debasing comments were tolerated, but there could be no question of the trainers forcing themselves sexually on the women. This, she had overheard, was a simple economic consideration: pregnant gladiatrices could not fight.
Nastasen grunted, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘Get outside, you Greek bitch, and be thankful I don’t make an example of you.’
Lysandra could not resist. ‘Another one?’ she said blandly, arching an eyebrow.
The Nubian’s temper snapped and, with a growl, he advanced on her. Lysandra dropped back into a fighting stance, determined to cause at least some damage to the big man. He had initiated this away from the ludus and she considered it a personal issue.
‘Nastasen!’ Titus’s gruff voice sounded from outside the cell.
The Nubian paused, his eyes still fixed on Lysandra. ‘Leave it and assemble the novices.’ His demeanour broached no argument.
Nastasen hesitated, then turned sharply away, shouldering past the grizzled Roman. The older trainer shook his head. ‘Come on, Spartan. Get moving.’ Lysandra nodded and followed him out to the training area.
The women had been drawn into rank and file and Lysandra swiftly found herself a place next to Hildreth. She had not spoken to the German since their first day at the ludus but had noted during the exercises that her fellow captive had coped well.
‘Good morning, Lysandra, how are you today?’ Hildreth’s Latin, though weirdly accented, seemed to be improving.
‘I would be better if I were out of this place,’ she responded.
Hildreth looked blankly at her. Lysandra tried again. ‘I am very well, Hildreth, how are you?’
The German smiled broadly. ‘I am very well.’
Lysandra resisted the urge to grin. Instead she faced the front and waited for the daily grind to start.
With Stick, Nastasen and Catuvolcos standing to one side, Titus began to pace up and down the front line, pausing every so often to scrutinise one of the women. This went on for some time but he turned to address them all at last.
‘You are, without doubt, the most useless novices it has ever been my misfortune to train. Cripples would perform better. If you think your training has been tough so far, it is nothing compared to what lies ahead.’ He glared balefully at them, daring them to groan, but was greeted only by silence. All the women knew that to voice their displeasure was to invite a thrashing.
Satisfied he had their attention, he went on. ‘However, that can wait a little. Many of you soft-bodied whores are carrying injuries, either earned in training or self-inflicted through lack of effort.’
He held up his vine staff, indicating that a self-inflicted injury was, in fact, a beating administered by a trainer. ‘Therefore, it is my decision to give you three days of rest. That is ample time to heal any hurts you pathetic specimens might believe you have.
‘In three days, you begin the second and final stage of your training: your training with sword and shield, net and trident, the immortal arts of gladiatorial combat. Only when this is done will you take the Gladiatrix Oath.’
Titus ceased to pace and stood directly at the front and centre of the first rank. ‘I have to tell you now that it is not given that you will succeed. If any one of you fails to make the standards set by the trainers, you will be sold on. That might not sound so terrible, you may think. But if you are sold from this place, you will be a slave forever. Whether you toil with your hands at the loom, your back in the mines, or your cunnus in the whore-house, you will end your days as slaves and your children will be born slaves.
‘The arena offers you a way out. An opportunity to fight for nd earn your freedom. In the weeks to come you must prove to me that you are worthy of this right. That your yet unborn children are worthy to be free. You compete not only against your own pain but against each other.’ He paused for a while, letting that sink in. ‘That is all.’
Titus watched as the novices hesitated a moment before breaking up into their usual groups. The tall Spartan priestess, of course, turned on her heel and separated from the pack. He shook his head. It seemed she had everything she needed to be a ruthless and skilled fighter. But Titus could sense that the fire that somehow managed to burn behind her ice-coloured eyes was being doused little by little.
Varia struggled under the weight of the damp sheets, her thin arms shaking with the effort of carrying so many. Stupid, she thought to herself. She could not manage so many. Her efforts were inspired by fear; Greta drove her scrubs as hard as Nastasen drove the fighters. She had tried her best to complete her quota of work but there was always so much to do. The slave girl tried to pick up her pace but, so doing, overbalanced the precariously stacked cotton.
She fell, the sheets landing with a thud in the dust. Varia bit her lip, tears of frustration and not a little fear welling up in her eyes. Greta would be furious. Frantically, she began gathering the ruined washing when a shadow fell across her. Without even having to look, she knew it was Greta. The German always seemed to know when she had failed; was always on hand to chastise her.
‘You stupid little fool!’ Greta shrieked, kicking the sheets away from Varia’s scrabbling hands. ‘It’s all ruined! I’ll tan your worthless hide!’
Varia cowered, holding her hands over her head, waiting for the stinging blows to land. ‘I’m sorry, Greta, I’m sorry!’ she cried, her voice breaking as her tears spilled forth, desperate, but knowing that mercy was not in the German’s nature. She waited, her eyes squeezed tight shut. There was a sharp snap of flesh on flesh, but no blow landed. Slowly, she turned her head to see why Greta had spared her. She could scarcely believe what she saw.
Greta struggled, her wrist gripped in the hand of a tall goddess; a goddess who had come to save her. The bulky German tried to pull away but could not break free. Varia brushed the tears from her eyes and saw that it was Lysandra, one of the novices. Her heart leapt. Never before had anyone intervened on her behalf!
‘There will be no punishment today,’ Lysandra said, releasing her grip contemptuously.
Greta’s eyes bulged, a mixture of fear and fury. ‘You take your own beatings well enough, Spartan. And never once have I seen you lift a finger to defend your fellow arena fodder.’ She drew herself up. ‘This is not your concern.’
‘Beating hardens a warrior against fear and pain.’ Lysandra sounded as if she were reciting a well-learned phrase. ‘This girl is no warrior.’
‘It is still not your concern,’ Greta recovered herself somewhat. ‘She has failed in her duties, and must be disciplined.’
‘I have just made it my concern.’ Lysandra’s voice was low and calm. But Varia trembled somewhat at its sound. ‘I would hate for us to argue, Greta.’ She took a step forward and Varia swelled with glee as her tormentor gave ground. ‘I require this girl’s services,’ Lysandra went on, her eyes fixed upon Greta’s. ‘The wishes of the fighting women go beyond any paltry domestic concerns of yours.’
Greta snorted and turned to go. Her stamping feet had not taken her more than two yards when Lysandra called her back.
Scarle
t faced, she turned about.
‘You have forgotten the sheets,’ she indicated the crumpled laundry. Fuming, Greta gathered the ragged pile and stormed off.
She had got a little further this time before Lysandra spoke again.
There was ice enough in her voice to cause Greta to stop in her tracks. ‘If you take vengeance on this child for my actions, I will kill you.’ It was stated so calmly, so quietly, yet it was the more chilling for its utter blandness. The tension drained out of Greta, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. She nodded once, and walked away.
Varia waited till Greta was out of earshot and then turned to face Lysandra. There was a strange feeling in her chest, a warmth felt never before as she looked upon her rescuer. She was so tall, so beautiful — so magnificent!
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for helping me.’
Lysandra’s lips curled in the slightest of smiles. She extended her hand and helped Varia to her feet.
‘I do have need of you,’ she said. Varia nodded and she smiled too, her heart overflowing with gratitude.
VI
Lysandra led Varia to the school’s infirmary. As there had been no bouts during the recent weeks of training, the small compound was virtually deserted save for a few fighters with minor injuries. She reasoned that would soon change once her fellow novices began to feel the strains and cuts of their morning exercise. She was determined to get ahead of everyone else.
The chief physician, an irrepressible old satyr of a man named Quintus, looked up as they entered his small office to the rear of the main hospital.
‘Ah, the Spartan and young Varia,’ he said mildly, putting down his stylus. ‘What can I do for you today?’
‘Myrrh,’ Lysandra answered shortly.
‘It’s expensive stuff, Lysandra,’ he grunted. ‘Nevertheless, I’ve seen them take the lash to you more than they should.’ He got to his feet. ‘Just take your clothes off and I’ll apply some to your wounds.’
Lysandra cocked her head to one side. She had heard all about Quintus and his roving hands. ‘Just give me the myrrh.’
Quintus made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, but moved to a side room to find the balm. There was much clattering of ceramics and cursing but, after a short time, the old man emerged with a small pot. ‘Here.’ He slapped it into Lysandra’s outstretched palm. ‘Not too much at a time.’
‘I am well aware of how the salve is applied,’ she replied loftily, and exited the small room without another word, Varia in tow.
Quintus watched her retreating back and mimicked her last words to himself soundlessly, a sour expression on his face.
From the infirmary, Lysandra went straight to the baths. Ignoring the warm water, she marched purposefully to the cold pool, tossed her tunic to one side and plunged in.
The water was not as cold as she would have liked but would suffice for her purposes. This was an often-used practice in the priestesses’ agoge. After receiving punishment the girls would bathe in the icy waters of the Eurotas River to take the swelling from their painful injuries.
Slowly, she felt her body becoming accustomed to the chill of the pool. She stayed still, not wanting to give her muscles cause for any warmth. She glanced up, and noted Varia’s aghast expression.
‘What is the matter with you?’ she asked
‘You must be freezing,’ the girl responded.
‘Cold is a feeling,’ Lysandra said, reciting the lessons of her youth. ‘You feel hot, you feel cold, you feel pain. All such things are merely a state of mind.’
‘I wish I could be like you.’ Varia’s voice was awed.
‘Naturally,’ Lysandra agreed. It was, she thought, unsurprising: having been used to barbarians, Romans and lesser Hellenes, the young slave could not fail to be impressed by a true Spartan.
This thought caused her mind to take a bitter course. She was a slave, and therefore a true Spartan no longer. She hauled herself from the water and sat on the side of the pool, her feet paddling.
‘Pat my back dry and apply the myrrh to my cuts,’ she ordered sharply, wondering if she had made the right choice in aiding the child. It was an act of charity that would doubtless have ramifications. This, she thought, is what I have come to. Impressing children and bullying washerwomen. A fine end for a Mission Priestess.
Varia did as she bade her, gently administering the salve. Lysandra breathed deeply through her nose as she felt the sting lift from the lash marks on her back.
‘Is that enough?’ Varia asked.
Lysandra flexed her shoulders, feeling only a slight pull on the wounds. ‘Yes. That is good.’
‘I’ll get you a clean tunic,’ Varia said, evidently delighted that she had done well. She ran off without waiting for a reply but returned quickly, clutching a scarlet chiton. ‘Here.’ She thrust the garment into Lysandra’s hands.
She held it for a moment before slipping it over her head, almost grinning at the irony of Varia’s choice. She had not worn the red of Sparta since the shipwreck and here, of all places, she found herself sporting it once more. She felt unworthy, but was not mean-spirited enough to demand another tunic from her newfound companion.
‘What would you like to do now?’ Varia enquired.
Lysandra was at a loss. From agoge to Temple, through to the Legion and even here, her life had been dominated by routine and work. Free time was an unfamiliar commodity. She shrugged.
‘I do not know. Perhaps we could watch the senior women at their training?’ It was all she could think of.
Varia seemed pleased with that but then the child looked at her with such adulation that Lysandra was certain that she could have suggested sitting in a cesspit and the youngster would have been more than pleased to accompany her. A weakness in the Roman character was the need for companionship, it was certainly one that she herself did not suffer. She was only providing the child with company as an act of charity, she thought to herself.
Yes, that was obviously what had prompted her action to assist the girl in the first place. Varia was the one in need, not she. She needed no one.
The two made their way to the training grounds; Lysandra’s earlier assumption had been correct — there was indeed a large queue leading from Quintus’s surgery. The women were in good spirits, evidently delighted at their free time. No doubt the afternoon would degenerate into a drunken festival, she thought with disdain.
The training area itself was mostly unoccupied as news of the ‘holiday’ spread. Titus had clearly decided to relax the regime for all the women in the ludus. This made sense to Lysandra: it would only serve to create rifts if one group was seen to be given priv-ileges another was not. Soon, only two women remained training.
She turned to Varia.
‘The blonde woman I know.’ She pointed to the beautiful Eirianwen. ‘Who is the other?’
‘That is Sorina of Dacia,’ Varia responded. ‘She is Gladiatrix Prima. Eirianwen is Gladiatrix Secunda.’
Lysandra watched the auburn-haired woman move and was impressed. The Dacians had been a matriarchal society back in the time of King Theseus, a thousand years before. It was them and their Themiskyran kin whom Homer had dubbed the Amazons in the Iliad. Their culture had changed little since the days of Troy, she knew — yet that was the way of barbarians. They were happy to ignore progress and civilisation in favour of their unstructured, disordered lifestyle.
But, by the Gods, this one could fight. ‘A true Amazon,’ she murmured.
‘Yes,’ Varia said in response to Lysandra’s whispered comment.
‘Sorina was the chieftain of a powerful tribe in her homeland.
She was a great war leader, and speaks of those days often. We Romans defeated her in a battle and she hates us for it. She calls our cities “cancers on the Great Mother”,’ the girl added.
Lysandra nodded, not really listening. She was engrossed in the violent dance Sorina was sharing with Eirianwen. Their wooden swords blurred as the two women attac
ked and countered with savage ferocity. She was so engrossed that she did not see Catuvolcos approach. The handsome Gaul had his reddish hair tied back and wore only a loincloth, showing off his well-muscled body. He carried a wine sack, which he passed to Lysandra as he sat next to them on the ground.
‘You’re in the shit,’ he commented as she took a sip.
‘How so?’
‘For aiding your little friend here.’ He indicated Varia. ‘Greta has complained to Nastasen about you and he means to set an example.’
Lysandra shrugged. The Nubian took perverse pleasure out of inflicting pain. ‘That would make a change,’ she commented blithely.
Catuvolcos chuckled, gesturing for the wine sack. ‘You’re not afraid of him, are you, Lysa?’
Lysandra stiffened at his familiar use of her name in the diminutive. ‘Spartans fear nothing,’ she said.
‘Do you have a book of these things you say? It seems to me that you have an answer for everything, but no answers that are truly yours. Don’t you ever speak from your heart?’
She regarded him haughtily. ‘I speak when it is necessary to do so. A Spartan does not talk for talking’s sake. Our sparing use of words is so admired it has been adopted into common parlance.’
Catuvolcos gestured, indicating her to continue.
‘ Laconic,’ she said. ‘This word comes from Lakedaimonia, the area of Hellas where Sparta is situated.’
‘You must be very proud.’
‘Obviously,’ Lysandra chose to ignore Catuvolcos’s attempt at irony. ‘It is impossible to explain to one who is not Spartan what it means to be Spartan.’ There was, she knew, little sense in sharing with the trainer her conundrum regarding her worthiness to claim this heritage.
The trainer let it drop. ‘Titus has decided that the novices should mingle more with the veterans. There will be a festivity of sorts this evening.’
Gladiatrix Page 4