She was confident he would get over it in time.
XX
‘What is the matter, Sorina?’ Teuta offered the older woman a drink from her sack of beer. ‘You look angry.’
‘I am angry,’ Sorina snapped, then tilted her head back to let the liquor pour down her throat. ‘The Greek lives.’ She had watched Lysandra fight from the stalls, and her disappointment was keen at the Spartan’s survival. More, she had shown skill and resourcefulness that belied her inexperience.
‘You should not let it play on your mind so,’ Teuta said gently.
‘She will ruin Eirianwen. She will corrupt her.’
‘Eirianwen is not a child. She knows well who she is getting into bed with.’
‘You cannot see it either! The Greek carries the taint of her ‘civilisation,’Teuta. It is disease, and with it she corrupts Eirianwen.
And more of us, if she has her way.’ Sorina cursed and hurled the beer sack away, where it splashed wetly against the wall.
‘I think you are making too much of it.’ Teuta baulked at her rising fury, but the Amazon did not care.
‘That is just how it works!’ Sorina shouted, rounding on her.
‘Lysandra’s lust for Eirianwen is the beginning of a cancer that will destroy her. The Greek’s wickedness will spread to Eirianwen and be passed on to others!’ The civilisation of the middle sea was a disease, but a seductive one; Sorina knew this all too well.
Its arms would engulf anyone who chose to stray too close, blinding them with comforts, but all the while leeching their freedom. To be ‘civilised’ here was to be controlled. It infuriated her that no one but she could see what was happening. ‘Only I am not blind to Lysandra and her evils, it seems,’ she muttered, putting the thought to voice.
‘Sorina…’
‘Leave me be!’ She jerked away from Teuta’s outstretched hand.
Furious, she stalked off, knowing she had hurt the other, but too angry to care.
Though the corridors of the gaol were crowded, all made a path for her; she was well known outside the confines of Balbus’s ludus and the other warriors respected her seniority and, more, the look of rage etched onto her face. She wandered aimlessly, the Greek’s hated visage swimming before her eyes. For a moment, she seriously considered asking Balbus for a match with her but, as swiftly as the thought came, she dismissed it. He would never agree to such a bout, as Lysandra was only a junior fighter. Exasperated, she looked for somewhere to rest and calm herself. She was surprised to see Catuvolcos sitting nearby on a stone bench. The trainer was clutching a sack of beer, his face wrapped in gloom.
‘What’s amiss?’ she asked as she joined him.
Catuvolcos regarded her with glassy eyes. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered, handing her the beer sack.
‘Come on,’ she said, taking a swig. ‘You look as if your best friend just died.’
‘It’s Lysandra,’ he moaned, causing Sorina to bristle at the sound of the despised name. ‘I love her.’
Sorina sighed, keeping the simmering fury inside. She hated to be proven aright in this, but the Greek’s disease had taken hold of another close to her. ‘Put her from your mind,’ she advised meaningfully. ‘She’s just a Greek — not one of us, Catuvolcos.’
‘It’s not about where you come from.’ Catuvolcos sighed mournfully, full of beer-induced melancholy. ‘When two people meet, sometimes it is just meant to be. I am sure this is the case. Sorina, I have been with many girls but I have never felt this way before.’
He tilted the beer sack. ‘And I have not even lain with Lysandra.
It is just a feeling I have in my heart.’
‘She is an evil woman. She is heartless, and I would not see you hurt.’
‘No, she’s not heartless,’ he argued. ‘She just has a way about her. She’s special, Sorina, and it must be hell being put in a place like the ludus. With the type of women that we get.’
‘Thank you very much,’ Sorina muttered.
‘I didn’t mean you.’
Sorina forced herself to smile. What she must do was distasteful but necessary if the taint of the Greek woman was to be washed from Catuvolcos’s soul. ‘I know, I was joking. Much as Lysandra does about you.’ She could see that these words had penetrated the boozy fog that enshrouded the Gaul’s mind. He sat straighter, and frowned at her.
‘Lysandra does not laugh at me, Sorina,’ he slurred sternly.
‘That she does not love me doesn’t mean she despises me.’
‘No?’ Sorina turned her mouth down as if contemplating this for a moment. ‘You are wrong, Catuvolcos.’
‘What do you mean?’ The big man’s bleary eyes focused on her briefly before he again sought solace in the beer sack.
‘Well, I don’t want to speak out of turn,’ Sorina injected just the right amount of hesitancy into her voice, ‘but you must know she is only for women.’
Catuvolcos was stunned. ‘No,’ he admitted slowly. ‘I did not.’
‘Oh, yes. She and Eirianwen are quite the young lovers. They find your so obvious attentions very droll. It’s all over the ludus!’ she added vehemently. ‘All the women are laughing at you behind your back, because of this infatuation with the Greek. But it is Lysandra who laughs hardest. She has a need in her, Catuvolcos.
A need to control others, a need to have them at her beck and call. She finds it most amusing that you, a trainer, should be so smitten by her.’
Catuvolcos lurched to his feet. ‘I will speak to her on this,’ he declared with drink-inspired earnestness. ‘Where is she?’
‘With Eirianwen, I should imagine.’ Sorina was disgusted with herself but considered that she acted for the good not only of the young Gaul, but of Eirianwen too. She had not lied overmuch; Lysandra did indeed have a need to control others, like all of her goddess-cursed race. This was evidenced in her rise amongst her own kin, and now they all deferred to her. ‘I wish I could open Eirianwen’s eyes as I have yours, but she will not hear of it,’ she went on. ‘I beg you not tell her of my words, Catuvolcos. If she hears I have spoken against her lover, she will be lost to us forever. And Lysandra will ruin her as surely as she tried to ruin you. At least, if she and I are still friends, I have a chance of helping her.’
Catuvolcos grunted his acquiescence, swaying slightly on his feet, eyes staring straight ahead. ‘I will find her,’ he said, and stalked off, clutching the beer sack.
Sorina watched his broad back disappear through the crowd, her emotions a mixture of self-loathing and satisfaction.
‘Did you see my fight?’ Lysandra and Eirianwen had found a relatively secluded corner of the catacombs, and were sharing a sack of wine.
‘Of course.’ Eirianwen smiled. ‘I was with Balbus at the time.
He is beside himself with glee at your performance.’
‘But what did you think?’ Lysandra pressed, the need for Eirianwen’s approval suddenly urgent.
‘I thought you were wonderful, Lysandra. Truly, a brilliant display.’
‘Really?’ Absurdly, Lysandra found herself blushing. Eirianwen leant forward and kissed her softly, her hand briefly caressing Lysandra’s face.
‘You are a fearsome gladiatrix,’ she whispered. They gazed at each other for a moment, when the sheer banality of the statement became suddenly apparent to them both: Eirianwen sniggered and Lysandra’s lips turned up in a grin. The Silurian mimicked the blaring of trumpets that always accompanied a fighter’s entry to the arena. ‘You’re so scary!’ she added, tears of mirth in her eyes.
Lysandra gave her a soft punch on the shoulder. ‘You!’ she said, full of mock anger. She paused, gazing at Eirianwen. She was so beautiful, so perfect. Lysandra felt a sudden rush of love. She wanted to say something, but could not. It was not the Spartan way to blurt out soft words.
‘It is possible to speak your heart now and again, Lysandra.’
Eirianwen’s eyes met hers, their deep, blue gaze suddenly so wise and knowing; it was as if her thoughts w
ere an open book to Eirianwen.
Lysandra felt herself colouring again. ‘I was just wondering if any of your tribe are as fair as you.’ It was a ridiculous question, but she was desperate to please Eirianwen and it was the first thing that came to mind.
‘Actually, no one in my tribe is as fair as me,’ Eirianwen replied.
‘Fair skinned, I mean. The Silures are dark — it’s funny but they resemble the Romans more than Britons. The truth of it is, Lysandra, I am not of the Silures at all. I grew up with them, yes, but my father was a druid of the Brigante tribe. The Brigantes are ‘typical’ of Britannia — tall, blonde and fair. Their queen, a traitor called Cartimandua, submitted to the Roman invaders and became their whore.’ Eirianwen’s eyes glittered with a malevolence that Lysandra had never seen before. ‘It was not the Druid way to treat with Romans,’ Eirianwen continued, ‘so my father took me far from Brigante lands to the west, where the Silures still fought the Empire. So I grew up as one of them, and it became my honour to call myself Silurian. In the end, my tribe was conquered by Frontinus — but at least we fought to the last. Not like the Brigante filth who capitulated so easily.’
Lysandra wished she had kept her mouth shut as this turn in the conversation had darkened Eirianwen’s mood. ‘I am sorry for asking such a question,’ she said. ‘It is just that it is difficult for me to say pleasing words.’
‘There is no shame in saying what you want to say, in showing a loved one how you feel. It is unnatural to keep all emotion locked inside you.’
‘It is how I have been taught,’ Lysandra responded sounding somewhat helpless even to herself. Eirianwen kissed the end of Lysandra’s nose, her mood seeming to lighten at once.
‘We, none of us, are what once we were. The ludus and what we do here changes us. It is a hard place most of the time, Lysandra. There is always a need for gentleness, especially between lovers.’
Lysandra swallowed, her mind racing — she must try again to say something that would evoke her feelings. There was a moment of silence, and then she spoke. ‘For some — it is horsemen; for others — it is infantry; for some others — it is ships which are, on this black earth, visibly constant in their beauty. But for me, it is that which you desire.’ When Eirianwen smiled in response, Lysandra’s heart leapt, but she knew not whether it was from relief or joy.
‘Did you make that up?’ Eirianwen asked. ‘It seems very you, with its infantry and horsemen.’
Lysandra hesitated. ‘Well… I… well. No, actually, I did not make it up. The poet Sappho wrote it.’
‘Lysandra!’ Eirianwen laughed. ‘You are hopeless!’
‘And I suppose you can quote the classics, Eirianwen,’ she shot back, but there too was mirth in her voice. The two women embraced, each loving the foibles of the other. When she had spoken the poetry to the beautiful Silurian, Lysandra had felt something inside her overflow, like the bursting of a riverbank.
For the first time, emotion coursed through her, unchecked and unabated. It was frightening, terrifying in its intensity. It felt unsafe, maddeningly uncontrollable; but she found that she would not let the feeling go.
They held each other thus for a few moments, before Lysandra broke away. She looked about, and saw Catuvolcos standing not far from where they were sitting. She raised her hand in greeting, but suddenly stilled it as she saw his face. It was contorted, a mix of anger and grief. Slowly, her hand lowered, her head cocking to one side. She opened her mouth to call out to him, but he spat on the floor before him, and stalked away.
‘What is it?’ Eirianwen turned her head, following Lysandra’s gaze.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she said. ‘Come, the night is still before us.’
XXI
‘You’re such a slut, Penelope,’ Thebe said caustically.
The former fisher-girl had been waddling around the cell all morning, regaling her compatriots with lurid tales of her nightly adventure with Horse. The previous evening, the titanically endowed gladiator had invited a friend to share the gifts Penelope was so eagerly bestowing.
Lysandra listened with amusement. It occurred to her that before Eirianwen, she would have been scandalised by Penelope’s commentary. Now, she found that with each passing day her soul, and with it her cares, grew lighter.
‘Of course, I didn’t know what they meant when they said they wanted to do it Greek.’ Penelope had obviously decided to ignore Thebe and continued playing to her audience. ‘I mean, I am Greek!’ She shook her head. ‘I found out soon enough, I can tell you. I was like the meat between two hunks of bread! I won’t have any problems with my movements after that little encounter if you know what I mean…’
‘That’s enough!’ Thebe shouted, hurling a pillow at the island girl who was now gesturing obscenely with her forearm and fist.
She retained enough presence of mind to duck the pillow, however.
Penelope sat down with exaggerated gingerness and tossed the pillow back. ‘Prude,’ she said, and stuck out her tongue.
The women all looked around as the door to the cell scraped open, revealing Stick’s skinny silhouette. The Parthian sauntered in, carrying the oil bucket.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said gaily. ‘How are we feeling today?’
‘What do you care?’ Once Danae would have been beaten for addressing him in such a manner but now, as if by unspoken agreement, the women had passed from being novices to veterans and Stick was beginning to treat them so.
‘I’m wounded, Danae. Don’t you know that concern for your welfare is my highest priority? Yours especially,’ he went on. ‘You are fighting today.’ Danae paled slightly, but nodded, her face resolute.
‘But first, Penelope,’ Stick placed the oil bucket on the floor.
‘Or should I say ‘Patrocla, the deadly blade’. Get yourself ready, girl!’
Penelope looked a little taken aback and Stick picked up on it. ‘What, did you think it was all going to be watching, feasting and enjoyment? It’s time for you to start repaying the inordinate amount you cost us.’
Penelope shrugged, and began to remove her tunic. She paused, and raised an eyebrow at Stick, who chuckled and left the cell.
‘I cannot believe that you, of all people, have suddenly acquired modesty,’ Lysandra said. Penelope shrugged.
‘It’s never too late,’ she muttered.
Lysandra got up and scooped a handful of oil into her hand.
‘Maybe you should save some of this,’ she commented, slapping the stuff wetly onto Penelope’s buttocks. ‘I’m sure you could find a use for it.’
‘I’m not sure about this,’ Penelope said, her voice obscured by the murmillo helmet she was wearing. ‘It’s not supposed to be funny.’ That Stick was making her fight as the ‘fish girl’ was a huge joke to everyone, the trainer included. The murmillo fought in medium armour, the head protected by the ornate, full-faced helmet, the right arm and shoulder covered by the distinctive leather manica. The first and best, defence, however, was the large, curved shield that Penelope was hefting about. Her torso was left bare, ensuring that the maximum amount of blood and gore was displayed if the gladiatrix was injured and, of course, revealing her ample breasts for the delight of the crowd.
‘Do not be concerned.’ Lysandra patted her shoulder. ‘You look most threatening.’
Inside the helmet, Penelope flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m sure.’
The announcer was once again going through his tirade, as the Gate of Life opened to the sound of the trumpets. Penelope steeled herself, and passed over the threshold into the arena. She had been matched against another heavily armed fighter, a hoplomacha, the only discernable difference between the two being the round shield the other woman carried and the Corinthian crested helmet that she wore. The helmet was of an archaic type, made famous by the Greek hoplite warriors of ancient times.
The thick nosepiece and flared cheek guards obscured the woman’s face in shadow, and so both fighters were rendered anonymous to th
e crowd. Penelope guessed by the brown cast to the hoplomacha’s skin she was of eastern stock, a fact confirmed when she was announced as Draca of Syria. Both fighters received their swords from the attendant slaves and then made their ritual salute to Frontinus. This done, they faced one another, shields raised.
Penelope’s tongue was dry as she licked parched lips. Despite her usually bombastic demeanour, she was nervous. And with good reason, she told herself as she advanced towards Draca: only a fool would be complacent when entering combat.
She made herself recall one of the first lessons at the ludus, when Catuvolcos had had them charge straw dummies. This, she reasoned, would be a similar exercise. She tensed and lunged forwards, her sturdy legs working at speed, eating up the ground between them. The Syrian, however, was no mannequin, and set herself to receive the charge. The mob screamed in delight as the women collided, their shields crashing together with thunderous report. Penelope’s sword flashed down, only to career off the edge of Draca’s hoplon shield. The eastern woman grunted and struck back, catching her stocky foe with a glancing blow to the side of the head. Though the metal absorbed the strike, Penelope’s ears rang from the ferocity of the blow. She gritted her teeth and butted her shield forward, trying to overpower the lighter woman.
Draca was cunning; instead of trying to match force with force, she angled her body away from Penelope’s shove, causing her to overbalance. She stumbled forward, and Draca’s blade lashed out, scoring a bloody line down her opponent’s back. The crowd shouted with glee at the sight of first blood. Penelope cried out as the pain flashed through her but swung her sword about as she passed, trying to keep Draca away. She turned, sweat pouring down her face in the furnace of her enclosed helmet, whirling around in time to see the Syrian coming at her again. A sudden fury possessed her and, screaming a war cry, she hurled herself forwards.
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