And she wanted to kill her so much she could taste it.
‘Are you all right?’ Teuta’s voice brought Sorina’s attention away from her fantasy of impaling the Spartan on her blade.
‘Look at them.’ The Clan Chief shook her head as the Greeks spoke amongst themselves. ‘Rhetoric, no doubt,’ she sneered. ‘They make me sick.’
Teuta grunted. ‘So ignore them.’
‘Get away, girl.’ Sorina pushed at the slave, Varia, as she offered her more wine. Varia stumbled back, dropping the krater on the ground. She felt guilty at the action: despite the fact that the child was the spawn of Italy she was harmless enough.
She was just about to help the girl to her feet, when she noticed that the dining area had fallen silent. One of the Greeks, an Athenian she knew to be called Danae, had broached the border between the two camps.
‘There’s no need for that, barbarian,’ Danae helped Varia up.
‘The girl was just doing her job.’
‘Don’t call me barbarian,’ Sorina spat.
Danae arched an eyebrow — a gesture so reminiscent of Lysandra it infuriated Sorina. ‘It is an act of barbarity to bully a child,’ she said shortly.
Rage coursed through Sorina. Her body acted of its own volition and she was on her feet, wine cup in her hand. There was a crunching sound and a scream. Danae was falling, her face a ruined mass of blood. In her hand, Sorina felt the broken crockery of the wine cup.
As one, the Greeks and Romans across the dining area rose to their feet, and began to move across to the Tribeswomen’s section. They were, Sorina thought, so passionless. Here, she had insulted and physically abused one of their number but there was no battle rage about them. That they came to settle the matter in blood was one thing; that they approached as would a colony of ants was an abomination to the War Goddess.
Her own kind were on their feet, knowing that combat was come upon them, and with a scream they lunged towards the hated women of the middle-sea, intent on hammering the arrogance out of them. Chaos reigned then, as the gladiatrices hurled themselves at one another. With no weapons to speak of it was a clash of flesh against flesh, strength against strength.
It was the element of the Tribal warrior. Sorina felt a power unknown surge through her as she dived into the fray, punching and kicking, her blows pulping flesh and breaking bone.
Above the milling heads she could see the tall form of Lysandra pushing her way towards her. She grinned savagely, her hands forming claws. Now she would have her reckoning.
‘ Lanista!’
Balbus looked up from his work to see Stick careering into his office. The Parthian was in a state of panic. ‘What is it, Stick?’ he said, becoming alarmed. Stick was unflappable for the most part.
‘Riot!’ the trainer screeched.
‘Call the guards!’ Balbus propelled himself up and out of his chair as fast as his chunky body would allow.
‘I have.’ Stick began to run back towards the training ground.
‘Titus is out there now, leading them in.’
The lanista chased him outside and wrung his hands at the scene before him. His guards — all of them — had waded into a brawl, desperate to separate the two camps that had formed in the ludus.
On the one side were Lysandra and the women of the middle sea; on the other, Sorina and her barbarians. The women were tearing into each other with fury, screaming and shouting as they rained blows upon each other. Hildreth, he noted, was shoving her German women back, seemingly unwilling to become involved.
Balbus winced as she saw one of the Roman women dragged from her feet and slammed into a table by two barbarians and he cried aloud as they tipped the table over, crushing her beneath.
‘Stop them!’ he screamed, rushing forward. Stick grabbed him about the waist, and dragged him back.
‘Are you mad?’ the Parthian shouted. ‘You’ll be killed. Let the guards handle it.’
Protected by armour and shields, the hired men were having some success in forging a path between the two embattled antag-onists; their attentions were none too gentle and batons rose and fell with alarming force. Balbus could see a fortune being wasted in broken bones and incapacitated fighters; nevertheless, he silently admitted to himself that this was partially his fault. But Lysandra’s Greeks were winning — fighting together, and winning. Balbus considered that a sign from Fortuna.
The tide swept Lysandra from her path. Sorina screamed in rage and frustration, trying to claw her way through the throng to reach her. But each step she took, she realised that there was another Greek, another Roman to deal with. Even with the battle rage coursing through her she realised that, though fewer in number, Lysandra’s women were gaining the upper hand in the brawl. They had formed a line across the dining area and, where one fell so another moved forward to take her place, hammering the tired Tribeswomen from their feet.
She must call her people back, so that they might gather for a charge that would snap the spine of Lysandra’s women. But as she looked about, she felt a sharp blow to her head from behind.
Turning, she struck out furiously, only to encounter the unyielding wood of a guard’s shield. He hit her again, and twice more before she felt her legs go beneath her and the darkness closed in.
‘I’ve had everyone locked down.’ Titus’s voice was tired. He ran a hand across his sweating forehead. ‘No one gave much trouble,’ he went on. ‘The fight has been knocked out of them.’
‘Good, good.’ Balbus nodded. ‘What’s the damage?’
The older Roman sighed. ‘Three dead, sixteen in the infirmary with Quintus. A healthy brawl indeed, lanista.’
‘But it could have been much worse.’ Lucius Balbus was feeling much more himself after the initial shock of the riot had worn off. ‘The ringleaders?’
‘Lysandra and Sorina.’ Titus sat down. ‘Who else?’ The question was rhetorical. The trainer paused, and Balbus could tell he was about to receive some advice from the veteran. ‘ Lanista,’ Titus said at length. ‘I’ve noticed that the women have become separate from each other in a way that I’ve never seen before.’
‘Yes.’ Balbus decided to share his plans with him. ‘I know. I’ve allowed this to happen — in fact I positively encourage it to continue.’ He could tell that he had shocked Titus and took a moment to savour the reaction. Titus was a good man, but his self-perceived older and wiser head sometimes made him forget just who knew best. An excellent trainer he may be, but Lucius Balbus was lanista.
Titus cleared his throat. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? The situation can only worsen.’
Eros arrived with wine for the two men, and winked at Titus suggestively; Balbus had to suppress a grin. He knew that the trainer loathed the boy, whom he referred to as ‘that mincing catamite.’ He dismissed the slave, however, as he wanted Titus’s full attention. ‘Things are going to change around here,’ he said.
‘If we play this right, we could be stinking rich. All of us,’ he added meaningfully. ‘I’ve been approached by the governor to organise a spectacle. A spectacle the like of which has never been seen outside of Rome.’
‘I’ve heard that sort of claim before,’ Titus said, the jaded ‘voice of experience’ grating with Balbus somewhat.
‘Not like this.’ Balbus allowed himself to be smug. He went on to relate the details of his conversation with Frontinus and Aeschylus regarding the grand battle they had envisaged for Domitian’s birthday. When he was finished, he could see that Titus was suitably impressed. ‘This is why I have allowed the Greek and Roman women to form their faction around Lysandra. If she is to lead them in battle, it is good that they are gravitating towards her.’
‘But you’ve not told her of your plans yet?’ Titus grunted.
‘Not yet, but today’s little spat means I will have to hurry matters along. You all know that we’re expanding the ludus. My plan is to move the Greeks and the others to the new wing and let them train as one group there. I’ll be importing as many slav
es as I can get my hands on — and that Frontinus’s money can buy — as quickly as I can.’
‘Makes sense,’ Titus agreed. ‘Who will be training this ‘army’ of Lysandra’s?’
Balbus grinned. ‘She will. But I’d imagine she’ll need some help, Titus. You’re the man they call the Centurion after all.
Look…’ He leaned forward. ‘You can help her… and by helping her, you’ll be helping me. When all this is over, you’ll have a huge reputation and you’ll be as rich as Croesus — the world will be at your feet. Everybody wins.’
‘Not everybody,’ Titus said. ‘There will be many dead after this, Balbus.’
Balbus thought that the sentiment had merit. But money bought toughness. In the end, arena fighters got killed, a fact he elucidated to the trainer. ‘That, Titus, is the name of the game.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘In the meantime, it’s business as usual. I want Lysandra out there and fighting. I want maximum public exposure. Falco will have to work his balls off for the next two years.’ Balbus considered that the promoter would relish the prospect. ‘Keep the women segregated as much as possible, till I can move the Greeks to the new wing. Once they are out of here, things will return to normal.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Titus raised his cup.
XL
Lysandra’s respect for Lucius Balbus’s judgement increased when he told her of his plans. The lanista was correct in his assessment that she was the ideal person to lead and train an army. Now, she knew, Athene’s plan for her was revealed. All her training, her excellence in combat and her understanding of matters military had led her to this task.
Though excited, she had relayed the news calmly to her women and they had received it with an equanimity that was worthy of their association with her. Even Danae, who once had quailed at the prospect of blood, seemed inspired. The Athenian bore a livid scar from her encounter with Sorina and she burned for revenge.
‘Any chance to rid the earth of their filth is to be welcomed,’ she told Lysandra. ‘These barbarians grow arrogant in their success on the sands. It is for us to cull their number.’
Lysandra started at the comment. Before Eirianwen, she would have fully endorsed such a statement, yet now she could not bring herself to hate the barbarians merely because of their unfortunate birth. Perhaps Eirianwen was rare and special: she was spawned of the most savage of tribes and yet there had been much beauty in her soul as well as in her body. But, she knew that to mention it would be bad for morale, and her duty to the women came before her personal considerations.
‘It is good that you are keen for the fight, Danae,’ she acknowledged with what she felt was convincing enthusiasm.
It was not only Danae who displayed an extra degree of confidence in her own abilities. After the confrontation in the dining area, the Hellene and Roman women were buoyed as a whole.
They assumed themselves correctly to be victors of the confrontation, despite barbarian claims to the contrary. The fact that Balbus had let it be known that Lysandra’s women, as they had now come to be known, were to be moved to the new wing re-enforced that view.
Yet, now that she was to command the women as an army, Lysandra kept a tight rein over them. She forbade conflict with the barbarians, ordering her women to stay well away from them.
They had proven themselves once and that was, in her view, enough. There was little to be gained by constant brawling and squabbling. She knew well that aside from the military training to come, each of her charges had to maintain their gladiatorial skills as there would be many returns to the arena before Balbus’s great spectacle.
As soon as the lanista had revealed his designs, Lysandra’s mind had begun to work. Though he probably did not realise it, Balbus was, in fact, emulating Gaius Marius. Marius had revitalised the Roman army, turning it into a motivated professional force. To train his men in close combat, the politician-general had recruited trainers from gladiatorial schools.
Lysandra considered that if she could train the current group of Hellene and Roman women to proficiency in marching, drill and tactics, they, in their turn, could pass this on to the untried slaves that Balbus would be drafting in ever increasing numbers.
As things stood, the combat skills of her core women were adequate, if nowhere near her own standard, but she was confident that this would be more than enough to turn her recruits into fearsome fighters.
She had to impress on them a sense of leadership, discipline and a degree tactical acumen. This was something of a challenge since, because of their inferior heritage, so few of the women could read. As it was, Lysandra was forced to request trained slaves from Balbus to assist her in teaching the less educated. Nevertheless, these women were Hellene or Roman, and most had an apti-tude and even enthusiasm for learning. Such things had been denied many of them and the possession of letters was a treasure beyond value to all.
Though the barbarians viewed these activities with increasing scorn Lysandra encouraged her women to rise above the jeers and insults. The barbarians, she told her fellows, did not know the value of such learning. It was not their way.
Lysandra did her best to foster a spirit of togetherness amongst her companions. They were slaves in name only: they felt free; were free in their hearts. With sweat and toil, they were forming a bond, not only as gladiatrices now but also as soldiers. This was akin to the sisterhood of the temple and Lysandra knew well that such ties were hard to break.
They were special now; they were the elite, and they knew it.
‘I will need some dispensation for the women,’ Lysandra advised Balbus and Titus as they lounged in his triclinium.
The lanista eyed her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘These women cannot be treated as prisoners, Balbus. The whole project will fail if this is so.’ She turned her attention to the older man. ‘Titus, you were a soldier, were you not?’
Titus grunted an affirmative.
‘Well, then you must know the importance of morale, of spirit.
We cannot be cooped up in here at all times. We must be allowed to make route marches and, as our forces grow, to operate on open ground.’
Titus nodded. ‘She has a point, Balbus. But we must have your word there will be no escape attempt. This is on your honour, Lysandra.’
‘By Athene, I swear it. We want this, Titus,’ she said meaningfully, her eyes alight. ‘This makes us more than mere arena fighters. This has never been done before, we are the first.’
‘What is the world coming to?’ He grinned. ‘Armies of women — like the Amazons.’
Lysandra snorted. ‘Sorina is an Amazon. Savage and undisciplined. Even if they set ten to one odds against us, we will win on the day. Before your Emperor, we will crush our enemies and see them driven before us.’
‘Well, don’t carried away,’ Balbus admonished. ‘All this marching and drilling is well and good but there are bills to be paid and you’ll all be fighting regularly. More than regularly, in fact.’
‘We are well aware of that,’ Lysandra replied loftily.
‘Good, because I have an engagement booked.’
Lysandra inclined her head. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is good training.’
Sorina clenched her toes on the sand, feeling the grains flood over her feet. The leather sword hilt felt familiar and safe in her hands, the sun warm on her skin. Though it was a minor festival, the arena was still packed to bursting point, the mob still insatiable in their desire for spectacle.
Since her combat with Eirianwen, there had been demands to see more of the tribal fighting style so she was armed once again with the long sword. This time, however, there was no blood feud, and she wore her armour. Her opponent was a Gaul who fought under the name of Epona. It mattered little what she called herself. Soon, the she would be dead, and all would see that Sorina was still Queen of the Sands.
Epona was tall, her blonde hair cropped short. This, coupled with her ruddy, pig-like face served to give
her a brutish appearance. Her body was heavily decorated with woad: bright blue on her white skin. She gave Sorina a broken-toothed smile and advanced, hefting the heavy iron blade as if she intended to use it as a club.
Sorina returned the smile coldly, her eyes flat. She set her stance, ready to react to her opponent’s movements. For a moment, the two women shuffled about, measuring the other’s speed and balance. Then, with a shout, Sorina leapt in, her sword arcing towards the other’s neck.
Epona barely got her blade up in time to deflect the blow, but this accomplished, there was little respite for her. Sorina fought like a woman possessed, sweat standing out on her tanned skin as she forced the issue with the bigger woman.
There were no exchanges, no counter blows. After only a few moments fighting it became obvious that the Gaul was hopelessly outclassed. The crowd began to clap their hands slowly, showing their derision at the mismatch.
Sorina heard them, and slowed her assault. It would not do to disappoint the mob by ending the battle too quickly. She realised that she herself was on edge, almost desperate to prove that the gruelling bout with Eirianwen had not robbed her of her sharpness.
But Epona’s heart was no longer in the fight; Sorina could see it in her eyes. The early battering had convinced the big woman that there was no hope for her.
‘Come at me,’ Sorina hissed in Latin. ‘You cannot win this fight, but at least you can try for the missio.’ She said it not from compassion, but rather because Epona was making her own performance look awkward.
It was to no avail. Epona tried gamely to attack but her movements were slow and clumsy. She wielded the sword like an axe, hacking more at Sorina’s blade than making any real effort to hit her. In disgust, Sorina twisted her own weapon and sent the Gaul’s sword flying from her grip. Even as the iron went skywards she spun about, smashing her elbow in the big blonde’s face, sending her crashing to the sand in a spray of blood.
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