‘In the blue you get a cripple,’ he said. He smeared uneven lines down Lysandra’s pale arms and thighs. ‘Second rule. Go for the cripple before the slow kill. Here is the slow kill on the yellow.’ He swapped staves once again. ‘Here, here and here,’ he said as he drew across her stomach and sides. ‘Remember, a slow kill might have enough left in her and kill you before she dies.
With a cripple, you know you’ve got her if you keep your distance and wear her down.’ He thrust a towel at Lysandra. ‘Clean up, get dressed and get back in line!’
As she returned to her place, Catuvolcos now took his turn, casting a wry glance at Nastasen. He shook his head whilst the black giant’s eyes were not on him, causing some of the women to grin in response.
‘Go and get yourselves a sword each and make it quick!’ he said. This done, he regarded them for a moment. ‘Yes, heavy, aren’t they?’ Some assented with a nod. ‘These are called rudis. They’re twice as heavy as any iron blade you’ll ever carry — so when it comes to the real thing, your weapon will feel as light as a feather.
Watch, and copy me. This is the basic thrust.’ He lunged forward with the weapon. Raggedly, the women complied. ‘Pathetic,’ he said. ‘Try again…’
Titus watched as the Gaul took the novices through a funda-mental drill, assessing their moves. His eyes were drawn to the Spartan and the fiery-haired German, Hildreth. These two moved with a practised ease, the exercises familiar to them. Yet he saw a disconcerting look in Lysandra’s eyes as she worked. Increasingly, she was becoming more detached. He knew that she could fight, that much Stick had told him, and the fact that she had been trained was evident. Yet as each day passed, her effort, her will to continue, seemed to be leeching away from her.
‘What do you think about Lysandra,’ he said to Nastasen. ‘You seem to have beaten the fight out of her.’
Nastasen grunted. ‘She is an arrogant bitch. She looks at each of us as if we are but dirt beneath her feet.’
Titus looked straight at him. ‘Stick said she knew how to fight, Nastasen. If she deserves a beating, then administer one. But from now on you leave your hatred of her away from my training ground. I don’t need damaged goods. Is that clear?’
‘Of course.’ The big Nubian shrugged, trying to assume an air of nonchalance, but Titus could see the rage seething behind his eyes. Thrashing the haughty Greek gave Nastasen altogether too much pleasure.
‘Go and work with the veterans today,’ Titus said. Nastasen nodded and made off without another word.
Catuvolcos kept the novices working hard, teaching them the rudiments of swordplay. ‘Everything starts and stops at the same time,’ he repeated over and over, attempting to commit this to their memories. ‘It’s no good to strike, then move in. Everything starts and stops at the same time. The body moves as one.’
As the Gaul looked after the overall drills, Titus moved amongst the novices, correcting stances and form with a word here and there, often punctuating his remarks with a swat from the vine staff.
His eye fell upon Lysandra as she performed Catuvolcos’s commands. Her movements were perfect but he could tell her mind was elsewhere. He walked up and slapped her on the rump with his staff. ‘Come, Spartan! Keep your mind here, not in the clouds!’
The strange ice-coloured eyes flicked towards him for the fraction of an instant. ‘My name is Lysandra,’ she said, her voice strangely subdued. ‘Not Spartan.’
‘Put some effort into it, girl.’ He ignored the statement.
‘Concentrate on your task at hand.’
Lysandra frowned and continued, putting more vigour into her movements. Titus could tell that the increased effort was a facade. He shook his head and moved off, bawling at one of the Germans.
For Lysandra, the day passed slowly. The exercises were tiresome for her, and the hours passed in a haze as she moved from one drill to the next, not really hearing anything that Catuvolcos said.
It was enough for her to catch a glance of his initial demonstration to ascertain the pattern the work would follow.
There was no honour in this she told herself. It was a waste of time. At least in the Temple her training had been in worship of the goddess. Bringing Sparta to mind caused her to flush with shame; she was a slave, and unworthy to console herself with daydreams of a home that was no longer hers.
She was just Lysandra now.
X
They were drilled unceasingly each day, the trainers becoming ever more critical of their efforts, demanding perfection from each movement. And as their skill increased, so their exercises became more complex. From merely standing and executing strikes they advanced to moving forwards, backwards; they were taught to change the angle of their attack; to turn with speed and efficiency.
From striking empty air they moved to the sandbags. The trainers would set the heavy canvas sacks swinging and the novices were to strike the moving targets.
‘It’s simple,’ Stick bawled at them. ‘Hit the mark or be hit yourselves.’ A miss would result in a sharp blow from his vine staff. Even as Stick hurled abuse supplemented by physical threat, Catuvolcos played accompaniment to him, constantly exhorting the women that ‘Everything starts and stops at the same time.
You must flow around your opponent. Lose the tension in your bodies.’
As the weeks passed the novices learned quickly, even gaining the grudging approval of Titus. From hitting the sandbags, they advanced to running the gauntlet, weaving their way through the wooden avenues as the canvass bags were swung at them. Satisfied with their coordination, Titus gave the order that they were ready to move on to the more complex combination drills, using the sword and shield in concert.
They were given the scutum, the shield common to the Legions of Rome. As Lysandra hefted the unfamiliar item, she noted it was much lighter than the Hellene hoplon she was used to. The scutum was tall, protecting one’s own body, whereas the round, bowl-shaped hoplon was designed primarily to defend the person to one’s left in the Hellene phalanx.
It made sense, she thought to herself. The ancient Hellene phalanx was a massed formation, using the spear as the primary weapon of attack. The legionary relied on the sword and thus needed more personal protection. In single combat, she knew, the weight of the hoplon would prove more of a hindrance than a help.
Catuvolcos bade them form lines in front of the straw mannequins. ‘This,’ he told them, ‘is your enemy. You must see this in your mind. Strike hard and fast, as you would against a real opponent.’
Lysandra stood behind Hildreth. Having seen the German perform her drills, she knew that the redhead was an accomplished swordswoman.
‘Treat that as your enemy?’ Hildreth called out in her thickly accented Latin, gesturing with her sword.
Catuvolcos nodded, and at that Hildreth took off at a run towards one of the straw men screaming, ‘Death to the Romans!’ which provoked scattered laughter from the barbarian tribeswomen.
Hildreth’s wooden blade whistled as it cut through the air in a broad strike, hitting the mannequin’s head, causing hanks of straw to explode skywards. Not content with decapitating her inanimate foe, she bashed her shield into it, hacking down with her weapon in a frenzy.
Catuvolcos laughed. ‘Brutal, but effective, Hildreth! Good work.
The Roman is dead!’ The barbarian women cheered at that, and even the Romans among the novices grinned wryly. They understood that the derision was not directed at them personally but rather at those who ruled the empire that had enslaved them.
‘Lysandra!’ Catuvolcos called.
Lysandra set her shield and held her sword close to her right hip, its tip pointing upwards at a precise angle. The shield covered her body from eye to knee as she marched deliberately towards the mannequin. When she was only five paces from the mark she suddenly accelerated and the sword thrust out like a viper, the point sinking three inches into the breast of the straw man.
She glanced at Catuvolcos, who merely nodded once, and she re
turned to the back of the line. It was pointless to charge wildly into the fight, she knew. Slashing strokes with the sword may look more impressive, but her ‘opponent’ was as dead as Hildreth’s and she had expended none of the effort the German had. It was an example of the difference in their psyche, she supposed.
As the sun began to set, Catuvolcos called halt to the day’s proceedings, instructing the women to stack their gear and go for their evening meal. He watched Lysandra, who as always detached herself from the main group, engaging in none of the chatter and camaraderie that the shared learning of new skills had built up among the women. He too had noticed a change in her over the past weeks. The arrogance had gone from her walk and, whilst she performed all exercises and drills adequately, there was a slump in her shoulders. He decided to call her to him, telling himself that she needed his counsel.
‘Your training is progressing well,’ he said as she approached.
She nodded briefly while he found himself becoming distracted by the way the sun had cast a reddish gold tint to her pale, beautiful face. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, but not as well as you could do.’
‘Have I failed in any of the tasks you have set me?’
‘No. But neither have you excelled,’ he said quietly. ‘We know that you are a trained warrior, Lysandra. Where is your fire?’
Catuvolcos felt his throat catch as she smiled at him, realising that this was the only time he had seen her do so with genuine feeling, her face bereft of the usual ironic, sneering cast.
‘I have nothing to fight for,’ she said.
He took a step towards her — too close, he knew, but he could not help himself. ‘Your dignity, Lysandra. You are fighting for your dignity. Soon you will begin your first mock contests and you’ll be judged on them. Those that fail will be sold on. You will become a slave. A true slave. Here, at least there is some semblance of freedom, some chance at regaining a life.’
‘Dignity.’ The cruel mask hardened over her face once more.
‘I have none. This place has stripped it from me. It is better that I go to a life of drudgery than continue on here. Can you not see that wielding weapons is making a mockery of me? I have dishonoured my people,’ she added softly. ‘No Spartan would submit to slavery. I am Spartan no longer. Without that, I am nothing.’
‘You are wrong, Lysandra’ Catuvolcos began, but she jerked her chin up, her pale eyes locking with his, causing the words to die on his tongue.
‘Good evening to you, Catuvolcos.’ She turned and walked away.
He watched her as she made her way to the kitchens, his heart in turmoil. It was only then that he realised that it was the first time he had heard his name spoken from her lips.
XI
The brief conversation with Catuvolcos stayed with Lysandra over the next days. Again she wondered why the trainer was concerning himself with her. Certainly, there were other women more in need of his guidance. This became even more evident when the trainers had them begin sparring sessions.
Weeks of hitting sacks and straw mannequins was one thing, but putting the lessons into practice against a living opponent was a somewhat different matter. For her part, Lysandra found her mind not really on the task at hand, hating the mockery of herself that she had become. Her opponents were trying hard, but their attacks were slow and clumsy to her experienced eye and she was able to dispatch them with a ‘killing’ strike almost at will. Long years in the agoge had taught her body to respond, even if her heart was not in it. Hildreth too, she saw, was cutting a swathe through all set against her. The German was evidently enjoying herself, whooping and shouting with each victory.
In the midst of one of Hildreth’s celebrations, Titus gave the order to cease work. The women stopped, confused. It was nowhere near the noon break and they had only just begun to work up a sweat. Even the veterans had stopped their training and were making their way over to the novices’ area. They sat on the ground, watching as some of Greta’s women brought up some chairs and several long benches. More of the scrubs, including Varia, were marking out a ring in the sand with ropes — Lysandra estimated it was about twenty feet in diameter.
She saw the little slave pause in her work to wave at her, and she inclined her head in greeting. They had seen and spoken to each other often during the second period of the training and the child had come to regard Lysandra as a confidante of sorts.
If she was honest with herself, Lysandra enjoyed the girl’s company too, as it was a diversion from her own thoughts.
‘Today will be different,’ Titus shouted. ‘Today you will fight for the crowd.’ He indicated the veterans. ‘And you will be judged.’ Even as he said this, Lucius Balbus, approached with Eros, his catamite. The lanista sat on one of the chairs and Titus continued.
‘You are fighting for more than practice from now on,’ he said.
‘You are fighting to stay in this ludus.’ The women gasped. This was unexpected. They had had no time to prepare themselves for this test.
‘Those of you that perform well in this arena,’ he gestured to the roped area that Varia and her fellows had marked out, ‘will stay and take the Oath. Those of you that slacken will be gone.
We are looking for effort,’ he went on. ‘Fight well and, even in defeat, you may be spared.’ He thrust his fist towards his chest.
‘That is the sign for the missio, meaning you will have survived.
This,’ he thrust the fist out, his thumb held horizontally, ‘in the arena would mean death. Here, it means you are to go to the blocks. In defeat, to entreat mercy, you turn to the lanista and hold up your finger. It is his decision if you go or stay. He may be influenced by the veterans if they think you will be worthy to take the Oath. That is all. First to fight will be Decia and Sunia.’ The two women looked at each other, stunned by this pronouncement. ‘Next will be Thebe and Galatia. Stay warm,’ he advised them.
On stiff legs, the first chosen stepped up. Nastasen placed helmets upon their heads and moved away.
‘Begin!’ Titus’s voice was sharp. The women moved together, and the cheering started.
Lucius Balbus settled comfortably into his seat, and took a sip of wine from his goblet. Eros stood behind him, holding a shade over his head to shield him from the sun. Balbus always enjoyed these contests: it was good to see first hand which of his acquisitions were worth keeping and which were a bad investment.
Experience had taught him that giving the women time to prepare for these bouts was detrimental to their performance. It was better to thrust the news upon them before they had time to dwell on it and allow nerves to set in.
The first two combatants had begun awkwardly enough but, roared on first by the veterans and then their fellow novices, they laid into each other with gusto. Their high-pitched cries of effort punctuated the air, mixed with the clacking of their wooden blades as the two attacked and countered. After a furious flurry of blows, Sunia struck home with a vicious thrust to Decia’s sternum, knocking the wind from her. She fell back, tearing the helmet from her head, gasping for breath. Balbus had already made up his mind: the two had fought well and, as soon as the girl’s finger went up, he signalled the missio.
The watchers cheered and the next two women made their way the fighting area.
Lysandra watched the combats with a sick feeling of dread welling up inside her. Now, it became apparent why she and Hildreth had not been paired together before. The trainers had planned it all along. They had kept them back, knowing that they were the superior warriors amongst the novices.
Despite the heat of the day, Lysandra felt a cold sweat break out on her brow. Her stomach churned and, on inspection, she found her hands shaking. It was one matter to defeat those who had never held a sword before setting foot in the ludus; but a blooded killer like Hildreth was a different proposition entirely.
Her spat with Sorina had proved that all her training was nothing compared to the hard-won savvy of a battle-tested warrior. Her own desperate struggle with S
tick’s men on the beach, and the subsequent bout in the arena of Halicarnassus was the only real experience she had. It was nothing compared to the years Hildreth had spent battling the Romans on the borders of her savage homeland.
At least, she thought, she would go down to a foe who would finish her quickly. From then, it would be up to the Fates where she ended up. She glanced about, her eyes seeking Hildreth in the throng of novices. The German was looking directly at her, her eyes alive and sparkling. She too had guessed they would be paired against one another. Her fierce smile told Lysandra that she was relishing the opportunity to test herself. She looked away quickly, unwilling to hold her gaze, and instead let it fall on those women who Balbus had already singled out for the blocks. Soon, she knew, she would be among them.
The day wore on and the novices fought with a passion that overcame their inexperience. Lysandra realised that, for all their loathing of slavery, many of them believed what Titus had told them to be true. To live and fight for freedom was preferable to an existence that held no hope of such. For them, perhaps it was acceptable, for the sword and shield were new to them. They had not disgraced themselves or their ancestors the way she had done.
The girl next to her nudged her and she glanced up once more to see Titus looking at her expectantly. ‘You and Hildreth are to fight next,’ the girl told her. ‘You’d better get your kit.’
Balbus rubbed his hands together as Lysandra took her place on the fighting area. He had wanted to see more of his prized new slave in her training but administrative matters had kept him busy of late. She was, he thought, a fascinating creature. Eros, at his behest, had gone through the library, searching for any histories of the strange sisterhood of which the girl claimed to have been a member but there had been nothing. It all added to her mystery.
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