It was, she thought, a place at odds with itself.
Lysandra knew that the women fighters commanded nowhere near the interest that the men aroused, but it did not seem to be so as she marched with the others. Each step of the way, she was deafened by shouts of both encouragement and derision as the crowd saw the fighters they had wagered on — or against.
Like the others, she carried a placard bearing her name, and her arena tally — one victory. Thus, the devotees had a name for a face, and they gave voice to their raw feelings. As well as this, Lysandra heard many marriage proposals on her walk and countless other more intimate suggestions.
She was not the only one to be subject to such interest. At the front of their column, Eirianwen was hailed as a goddess. It was not surprising, Lysandra thought. Certainly, the Silurian would have aroused envy in Helen of Sparta herself. There were calls for Sorina as well: many times the victrix, she had her own solid core of devotees. It was exhausting, but exhilarating. The adulation of so many people was a heady wine, so much so that Lysandra barely reflected on her confrontation with Nastasen. She would bear her punishment and try to put the incident behind her.
The parade ended at the great arena where the traditional pre-games feast for the competitors would be held. The custom was ancient, affording the fighters a last sip of life’s pleasures before the inevitability of combat. Lysandra thought it ironic that this pleasure was to be taken on the very sands that would taste the blood of many of the revellers. Yet, the editor, Aeschylus, had spared no expense and the fare laid out was lavish. Trestles had been arrayed in neat rows, almost groaning with the weight of food and wine. Fruits and sweetmeats, many of which Lysandra could not identify, were in abundance and the air was heavy with the delicious tang of cooking meat. Barrel upon barrel of wine and other alcoholic drinks were also in evidence and it was to these that most of the fighters headed.
Lysandra was amazed to see that the sponsor had even gone to the expense of providing musicians. Flute girls wound their way through the tables and though their tunes were rarely in harmony, the shrill discord somehow seemed to suit the revels. Much thought had also gone into security. Each school had a clearly marked area to keep any over-eager or over-liquored competitors from settling their arranged disputes before the day of competition. Though segregated, the male gladiators were also present, a fact that delighted Penelope.
The Hellene women had found a free table and had gathered together as was now their custom.
‘I’m telling you,’ Penelope enthused, chewing on a chicken leg. ‘It’s been my bleeding time for days. I’m going to get some action tonight if it kills me. No risk fun.’
‘It might kill you,’ Danae commented. ‘You know it’s forbidden.’
The Athenian wrinkled her nose as she bit into a stuffed dormouse, which, they had been told by one of the Italian girls, was a popular Roman delicacy.
‘I don’t care.’ Penelope shrugged. ‘Just because most of you are happy with a licking, doesn’t mean it’s satisfying me. You’ve been snacking for months. I want the whole meal — meat and vegeta-bles.’ The women fell about laughing and Lysandra found that this last comment brought a slight smile to her face.
‘More wine?’ Thebe reached for a carafe. Lysandra’s hand snaked out, and slapped her away. Thebe flushed angrily.
‘Do not be foolish, Thebe,’ Lysandra admonished.
The Corinthian gestured to Eirianwen and her coterie, who were indulging in the foul-tasting beer that they craved. ‘They’re drinking and we should too.’
‘They are barbarians!’ Lysandra snapped haughtily. ‘ We are Hellene. It is enough to take wine in small quantities, with water, especially tonight. I would not see you with a sword in your guts because your head was heavy with wine.’ She felt slightly hypo-critical saying this, as it was well known that she had been carried insensible from the gathering at the ludus. None saw fit to bring that up, however.
At the end of their repast, Lysandra excused herself and made her way to Eirianwen’s table. She nodded at Sorina, who regarded her coldly as she sat. For her part, Eirianwen’s eyes were somewhat glazed from imbibing her vile liquor.
‘Lysandra.’ She grinned. ‘It is good to see you!’ Her enthusiastic embrace caused Lysandra to stiffen a little. She was unused to affection and the barbarian habit of constantly touching one another was unsettling.
‘I came to wish you luck.’ Lysandra’s eyes swept around the table. ‘All of you.’
Sorina took her cup away from her lips. ‘We don’t need it,’ she said shortly. ‘We are not novices like you and your friends.’
That was typical of barbarians. Sorina could not be held accountable for her rudeness, she knew no better.
‘Thank you, Lysandra.’ This was from the Illyrian dimachaera, Teuta. She raised her foaming cup in a toast.
‘You are all drinking,’ Lysandra noted the obvious.
‘Of course, do you want some beer?’ Eirianwen smacked her lips. ‘It’s Egyptian, the best.’
‘No, thank you. I do not think it is wise to drink heavily before a combat.’
‘Ha!’ Sorina ejaculated. ‘This from the veteran of one combat and the model of sobriety. Forgive me for not bowing to your great experience.’
‘Have I done something to offend you, Amazon?’ Lysandra asked carefully. She would not cause another brawl between them.
‘You don’t matter enough to have offended me, girl,’ Sorina sneered. ‘You and those others,’ she gestured to the Hellene women,
‘are just fodder for the arena. It’s a rare novice that lasts. And you don’t have what it takes.’
‘You’re drunk.’ Lysandra’s own voice was harsh. ‘But there is no need to insult me.’
‘Of course I’m drunk. To be drunk before battle is to honour one’s gods. You should know that, being a priestess and all.’
‘We do not honour Athene by falling around in a stupor. It is foolish to fight with a thick head.’
‘You trust your goddess, yes?’ Sorina placed her cup on the table between them.
‘Naturally.’
‘Then if you are marked to die it will make no difference if you are drunk or sober, will it? For a priestess, you have remarkably little faith.’
Lysandra stood, her frame rigid. ‘I came to wish you well, but I will not play the whipping girl to a drunken old hag who swims in liquor and past glories.’ She stalked away before Sorina could respond. She breathed out, forcing the anger from her body. Suddenly, she had a headache, and decided to retire for the night.
The cell of course was empty, the other women making the most of the freedom the revels offered. She removed her sandals and sat on her bunk, pulling her knees up to her chin, her thoughts turning inevitably to the morrow and what it might bring. She did not fear the coming of daylight. Rather she felt a keen sense of anticipation. The Athenian priest had been right when he had challenged her. A lifetime of training served no purpose unless that training was tested. What use was the sharpest sword if it were left in its scabbard? How could one truly know the mettle of the blade save for matching it against another? That she would defeat her enemy was undoubted and all would know that it was a Spartan who was victrix. The thought warmed her and she smiled slightly to herself.
The cell door opened, causing Lysandra to start from her reverie.
She turned sharply to see Eirianwen silhouetted in the half-light.
She was holding a carafe idly in her hand, her face turned away as she addressed the guard. A few words were heard exchanged with the unmistakable clink of coin changing hands. Eirianwen moved into the cell, shutting the door behind her.
‘I brought you some wine,’ she said simply. Without waiting for an invitation, she made her way to the bunk and sat opposite Lysandra.
Lysandra felt her mouth go dry and butterflies flitted insanely deep inside her. Her hands suddenly became cold and damp, her heart beating a little faster. ‘I am not drinking tonight,’ she said, emba
rrassed at her feelings.
‘Nonsense!’ Eirianwen handed her the carafe. ‘I have mixed it three parts water, one part wine as you Greeks like it.’
Lysandra smiled at her, finding it easy to forgive her Latin usage. Normally, being referred to as Greek was offensive to her but, from Eirianwen’s lips, it was not so. ‘Well,’ she said, shrugging, ‘why not?’ She felt the tribeswoman’s eyes upon her as she drank and found she could not meet her gaze.
‘You mustn’t mind Sorina,’ Eirianwen said softly. ‘She is spiteful when in her cups. I came to apologise for her. Lysandra, you may think of us as barbarians but we too have our rules of…’ she looked up to the ceiling, gesturing.
‘Etiquette,’ Lysandra finished for her.
‘Yes!’ Eirianwen snapped her fingers. ‘Etiquette. Sorina was rude, but she is drunk. She will regret her words in the morning.’
Lysandra passed her the wine. ‘ In vino veritas, Eirianwen. She holds a dislike for me.’
‘She dislikes all Greeks and Romans… No,’ she shook her head, ‘she dislikes what Greeks and Romans represent. Civilisation, the Law of Man, straight roads and philosophers’ words. All this is against the Earth Mother. It is unnatural and it is wrong to go against the way of the goddess.’
‘I am a Priestess of Athene,’ Lysandra noted. She kept her tone gentle, and was surprised to find she was not affronted by Eirianwen’s theology.
‘ Ath-e-ne,’ Eirianwen repeated the unfamiliar word. ‘That is so Greek.’ She laughed somewhat tipsily. ‘It is the civilised way to put everything in a box. Ath… ene is only an aspect of the Great Mother. As is your Juno, Venus and all those others.’ She used the Roman names for the goddesses, but, Lysandra realised, they were all she would have heard.
‘It is not the night for theological discourse,’ Lysandra said after a moment’s thought. Eirianwen’s views were somewhat offensive and patently incorrect. She was, however, unwilling to put this to voice. She cast her eyes down and her gaze fell upon the Silurian’s feet. They were small, much more so than her own, and exquisitely beautiful. She swallowed. ‘We should focus on tomorrow and the trials it will bring.’ Eirianwen shuffled a little closer to her on the cot. She leant towards the Spartan, so that their faces almost touched.
‘Are you afraid?’ she murmured.
‘Spartans fear nothing.’ Lysandra’s habitual response was a whisper. She looked up, her gaze locked with Eirianwen’s and she found she could not break it.
‘But you are trembling.’
‘No I’m not…’
Her words were cut short as Eirianwen’s lips found her own. The kiss was soft and Lysandra’s mouth yielded to its caress. The trembling inside her melted away at the Silurian’s embrace, fading to a warmth that she had not felt before. She felt herself drifting, surren-dering to bliss. Eirianwen’s mouth brushed slowly downward, paying exquisite attention to Lysandra’s neck, causing her body to tingle.
Somewhere, at the back of her mind, Lysandra knew she must put a stop to this before it went too far. Certainly, she knew her sisters at the temple often practised Sapphic love, considering it was not a breach of their vow. In the ludus too, all the women released their tensions in such a manner. But never before had she been prey to the weakness of her flesh — that she should succumb to her lust so easily shamed her.
But even as she thought this, she found her arms lifting above her head, as Eirianwen pulled her tunic gently from her. She sat before her, naked and suddenly shy of her body in a way she had never been before. She made to cover her breasts with her arm, but Eirianwen’s hand intercepted her movement. Looking into her eyes, she placed her fingers on Lysandra’s shoulders and ran them lightly downwards. Lysandra’s lips parted in anticipation as Eirianwen’s touch drew closer to her almost painfully erect nipples.
‘You are beautiful, Lysandra.’
These words caused a lurch in Lysandra’s heart and she reached out tentatively to touch the tribeswoman. Eirianwen lowered her head, her lips seeking the swell of the Spartan’s breasts. Lysandra let her head fall back, succumbing to this delicious ministration, her whole body, her whole being becoming alive with sensation.
She heard herself sob with pleasure as the warm wetness of Eirianwen’s mouth closed over her nipple, drawing it in, tongue rolling over it with maddening intensity.
When she drew away, a moan of disappointment escaped Lysandra’s lips. But then she looked up to see Eirianwen lifting her own tunic to reveal such magnificence, such faultless beauty that Lysandra thought she would weep. She had thought the large breasts of the Celtic women unattractive but, as her eyes drank in the sight of Eirianwen’s flesh, she knew that she had never seen anything as lovely. A fierce desire seized her and she pulled Eirianwen close, seeking her lips with her own. They kissed, and Lysandra felt a delerious passion flood through her, so strong that it threatened to break her heart.
Then, almost imperceptibly, Eirianwen pushed her onto her back and moved up her body. She lay on top of her, her breasts swaying tantalisingly close to Lysandra’s mouth. She lifted her head to taste the proffered bounty and tried to do as Eirianwen had done to her, alternately teasing the areola with her teeth, then paying soft attention to the delicate bud of her nipple.
‘Am I doing this right?’ she whispered urgently, suddenly fearful.
‘Is it good for you?’
Eirianwen laughed softly. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, easing her body lower so that Lysandra could reach her without lifting her head. ‘You are wonderful.’
They lay like that for some time until Eirianwen began to journey downwards, tracing her tongue ever lower. Lysandra stretched out her arms, tensing the muscles in her shoulders as she felt the tease of teeth on the soft flesh of her inner thigh.
Her lover’s lips moved slowly, maddeningly inwards, only to brush over the wetness of her sex and then continue onwards. She bit her lower lip and her hips began to move slowly, not of her volition. Eirianwen continued her game, tormenting her with the promise of the ecstasy to come.
‘Eirianwen, please…’
She was silent then, as Eirianwen relented, kissing the wet warmth of her nether lips. Lysandra gritted her teeth, the tendons in her neck standing out in thin cords, her hands clawing at the blanket. Eirianwen moved her tongue languidly up and down her now soaking furrow, making love to it with her mouth.
Lysandra was lost in joy; sweat pearled all over her body, warming her, then cooling her. She cried out as Eirianwen found the sensitive apex of her sex, her tongue circling it, tasting it, each pass more wonderful than the last. She reached down, her hands finding the spun gold of Eirianwen’s hair, twisting it in her fingers. Lysandra felt a pressure, soft at first, on the flesh between her sex and her anus. Eirianwen’s tongue moved faster now, her finger pressing rhythmically, more urgent and firmer than before.
Fire began to burn in Lysandra’s stomach, spreading out to consume her entire body, a breathtaking pressure building inside her. She became rigid, every muscle in her body tense as she teetered on the brink of an unknown abyss. Eirianwen’s finger moved lower, resting on the bud of Lysandra’s anus for a moment, before sliding it into her. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her body threshing and twisting in a paroxysm of lust as this last act sent her tumbling helplessly over the precipice of ecstasy. A sound was loud in her ears, and she dimly realised it was her own cries of pleasure. Wave upon wave of agonising bliss burst through her, years of restraint exploding free in a cleansing fire.
As it subsided so it began anew, each time taking her higher, before finally leaving her quivering and spent.
Her chest heaved with exertion, hair damp and plastered to her forehead. Eirianwen moved up and smiled, her lips glistening.
As they kissed, Lysandra tasted herself there and felt no shame.
Eirianwen kissed her cheek, her neck, before she herself lay back, her legs parting. Her small hand began to stroke herself and, for a moment, Lysandra was mesmerised.
�
��Well,’ Eirianwen’s voice was gently teasing, breaking her gaze,
‘I think I deserve something in return.’ She pulled Lysandra to her and soon it was the sound of the Silurian’s cries that filled the room.
XVIII
Eirianwen left after some hours, though Lysandra entreated her to stay. She had the strangest sensation in her heart, unfelt before. It was as if there was now a physical need within her to have the Silurian close by her. But Eirianwen would not be moved and, with soft words and kisses, she left her alone.
Lysandra lay back on her bunk, forearm across her forehead, her body still tingling with remembered passion. Never before had she felt such abandonment, such lust. It was unseemly to act with such wantonness, but she was suddenly aware of why people so craved the sexual act. She smiled wryly as she realised that it was certainly preferable to self-pleasuring.
The door to the cell swung open with abruptness, and Lysandra looked around sharply, hoping against hope that Eirianwen had returned but was keenly disappointed when her Hellene companions struggled in. They were, despite her admonishments, a little the worse for drink, but at least none were wildly in the clutches of Dionysus.
‘I’m telling you,’ Penelope enthused as she entered. ‘It was like a baby’s arm holding an apple.’
‘Spare me the details.’ Thebe waved her away, but Penelope would not be stayed.
‘Massive.’ She sighed happily. ‘Big balls on him like a bullock, big muscles. A real man.’
‘What was his name?’ Danae wanted to know.
‘What’s in a name?’ Penelope shrugged and made her way to her cot. ‘I was only interested in one thing and I got it. Had me moaning like the lowest whore in an instant.’ She glanced over at Lysandra who had sat up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Did we wake you?’
‘No.’ Lysandra found that even this ribald commentary could not disturb her languid mood. ‘I was awake. You found what you were looking for, I take it.’
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