‘I think the gods laugh at us, Sorina.’
She sniffed. ‘She will be dead soon; her blight will be cut from the earth, and then perhaps you will get your head straight. There can be no friendship between us and the likes of her.’
Catuvolcos shrugged. ‘Perhaps it will be as you say,’ he said and moved away. The Amazon knew that he lied but did not care. Joy coursed through her as the reality became apparent.
Lysandra would face her in the arena.
And Lysandra would die.
Lysandra did not look back. She was pleased that she had buried her elation deep within; she had revealed nothing to Sorina and this lack of emotion would infuriate and confound her.
Whether the Amazon realised it or not, the fight had already begun, but Lysandra suspected that the barbarian would be in blissful ignorance of the fact. The key to victory would be in preparedness, in beating the old woman before they had set foot in the arena. The mind was the most effective weapon and one that barbarians overlooked. Perhaps, Lysandra thought, it was because most of them simply lacked the capability for higher levels of comprehension.
One thing she promised herself was that her victory would not be a quick one. No thrusts to the throat to end the old crone’s life quickly. She would draw the bout out, make Sorina suffer as Danae had suffered.
As Eirianwen had suffered.
As she herself had suffered.
Sorina would go to her barbarian gods torn and broken, cut to bloody pieces. Lysandra regarded the statue of Roman-Athene that was at the far side of the training area. She raised both her hands and made a vow of her thoughts.
XLVII
Halicarnassus was alive with anticipation. The streets, usually crowded, were packed to overflowing. Every wall was adorned with parchments advertising the forthcoming Games of Trajan, the events the only topic of conversation in the city’s many taverns. Betting amongst the professional gamblers had reached a fever pitch, vast wagers being placed on every bout; some would become rich from the event, but more would find themselves destitute. The betting fraternity aside, it seemed that every inhabitant of the city had staked money on the event.
When the inns became full, a metropolis of tents sprang up around the Carian capital. Industry boomed as taxable goods flooded into the city and so enriched the treasury. All manner of entrepreneurs flocked to Halicarnassus: slavers and food sellers; fine goods merchants and whoremasters with their retinues. It was as if everyone in the province and beyond wanted a piece of the profits generated by the enterprise.
Frontinus himself could scarcely believe the figures Diocles had shown him.
‘A huge increase, my lord,’ the deadpan secretary assured him.
‘Despite your recent investment in next year’s events, the treasury is much recovered. Actually, it is the healthiest it has been in years.’
Frontinus beamed at the freedman. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You know, Diocles, I had misgivings about Trajanus, but I have to admit that his unscheduled arrival really has brought out the best in me.’
‘Of course,’ Diocles agreed. ‘Speaking of which, you must ready yourself. It would be unseemly to miss the opening ceremony of such an extravaganza — especially as you are its architect.’
‘Quite right, Diocles, quite right.’ Frontinus set his half-finished wine cup aside. ‘Military attire or toga, do you think?’
The freedman stepped back and folded his arms, looking at him thoughtfully. ‘Toga, I think, my lord. It will be hot, and you want to enjoy your spectacle, not cook in a set of armour.’
‘Yes, but what if Trajanus wears his armour? I don’t want him thinking that I can’t take a bit of hardship.’
‘Then Trajanus is a very silly boy, Lord. He will faint by midday.’
Frontinus grunted. ‘That would be worth seeing. I like the lad, but he’s a little too ambitious, I think.’
‘You are an astute judge of character, Governor. Shall I summon the dress slaves?’
‘Eh?’ Frontinus asked. ‘Oh yes, the toga. See to it, Diocles.’ He reached out for his wine cup but the freedman deftly swiped it away. ‘My wine!’
‘It has become stale, my lord,’ Diocles said primly. ‘I shall have more brought.’ He bowed and retreated, both men knowing that no more wine would be forthcoming.
Diocles could be such a curmudgeon, Frontinus thought sourly.
The parade was Dionysian in its frenzy. Lysandra had seen the crowd driven mad by blood and lust before but this was startling, even to her. Clad in her scarlet tunic, she marched at the head of the procession with Sorina by her side, stunned at the multitudes that packed the streets. The screaming was deafening, a roaring tumult that crashed about the marching gladiatrices.
Lysandra was reminded of her first time in the arena, but whereas then she had been overawed, she now welcomed the fury and the passion. She heard her name called out many times by the onlookers and she could not suppress a slight smile.
‘They call for me now, Sorina,’ she said from the side of her mouth. ‘Where are your admirers?’
‘They’ll be singing a different tune come four moons, Spartan.’
Sorina’s grin was savage. ‘Enjoy these days, for they are your last.’
‘If the gods will it.’ Lysandra said evenly. ‘But, still — I think the people are bored with you.’
‘Think what you like!’ Sorina snapped, and Lysandra was gratified to see a vein pulse in her forehead.
She refrained from further comment. Turning to the crowd she acknowledged them with a wave and they roared their enthusiasm in return.
It was not the same in the gaol complex.
Lysandra was offered a room to herself, away from the other Hellene women, which she accepted. She realised that the public, the sponsors and indeed her own women acknowledged that there was a widening gulf between them now. There were many reasons for this, not least of all her upbringing. There was the matter of the army: a leader should be held in respect by her troops. She would act as Alexander had, sharing their trials with them, but always remaining a step above.
They still needed her influence, after all. Thebe was becoming a leader in her own right, but Lysandra was all too aware of the Corinthian’s limitations. She had learned much in her time as gladiatrix and benefited from the military training, but she could not hope to compare with the lifetime of learning she herself had garnered.
‘You will defeat her,’ Thebe told her at the feast that evening.
‘Of course,’ Lysandra responded. ‘Look at her,’ she jerked her head disdainfully at the barbarian coterie. ‘Drunk, as usual.’
‘Well, I might follow her example. I don’t fight for some days,’
Thebe said, eying the wine jug.
Lysandra was about to upbraid her, as she disapproved of drunkenness, but the retort died on her tongue. The eyes of the women were upon her. She forced a smile to her lips. ‘That is so, Thebe. It should be that you celebrate with our friends,’ her gaze swept the table, ‘new and old.’ Indeed, there were new faces amongst them, replacements for the fallen.
‘You’ll join us, Lysandra? A drink for the General?’ one of the new girls, a pretty Argive called Helena shouted out.
Lysandra narrowed her eyes as she tried to place her. Helena was one of the phalangites, a ranker of good reputation as far as Thebe reported it. ‘I will join you in a cup or two,’ she responded.
‘But any of you new girls that fight tomorrow will stay sober, and remain focused. Pass the word,’ she added.
Helena got to her feet enthusiastically, bounding down the lines of tables, informing the Hellene women of Lysandra’s orders. There were a few disgruntled expressions but, in the main, the new girls looked afraid and out of sorts. Even with the training, the knowledge that soon one would have to fight or die for the pleasure of the mob was unsettling for them.
She recalled Danae as she had once been and the memory saddened her.
‘You’re all right?’ Thebe asked, ev
idently noting her change in expression.
‘I was thinking of Danae,’ Lysandra responded. ‘When she was like those others.’ She jerked her head at the new girls.
‘We were all like that once,’ Thebe commented, draining her cup. ‘Well, most of us, anyway,’ she amended.
Lysandra allowed her this slip. ‘Helena seems not to be affected overmuch.’
‘Helena is a good girl,’ Thebe nodded. ‘Tough as old boots, as the saying goes. Knows her place in line, does as she’s told when she’s told. Titus marked her out early for the arena. She has potential, whereas many of the other girls are good for soldiering in the battle, but not for this,’ she gestured, encompassing the arena.
‘Truth,’ Lysandra concurred. ‘There is a difference in training the soldier and the gladiatrix. So few of us are gifted enough to do both.’
Thebe’s expression darkened for a moment. ‘We can’t all be like you, Lysandra.’
‘No,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘But I did not mean only myself, Thebe.
You are a good leader for those women in your charge. And you fight well alone. Extremely well.’
‘Really?’ Thebe almost gagged on her wine.
‘Yes. I would not train with you, nor work with you if this were not so.’
‘I…’ Thebe trailed off. ‘Thank you, Lysandra.’
Lysandra got to her feet, and placed her wine cup on the table.
‘Enjoy yourself,’ she said, and moved away. It was, she thought, a good thing to praise at times. It inspired confidence, not only in her charges, but also in her leadership. Feeling rather pleased with herself, she made her way to her cell.
She was unfamiliar with the new route through the gaol, and made several wrong turns, almost losing herself entirely. Irritated, she trudged through the darkened tunnels, trying to retrace her steps.
A foul stench reached her nostrils and she realised that she had stumbled upon the condemned prisoners’ section. These malcontents were kept in appalling conditions, living in their own filth, fed the slops and leftovers from the meals of their betters as they waited for certain death. And rightly so, for they were the dregs of humanity. Laws existed for a reason and should not be broken. Despite herself, she paused to look into one of the barred cells and her heart flew to her throat.
There, asleep in a corner, was the unmistakeable bulk of Nastasen.
XLVIII
‘You are sure it was him?’ Balbus was not at his best. His secretary, Nikos, had woken him too early, advising him that Lysandra was demanding to see him. Irritated, he had thrown on a tunic, muttering about fighters getting above themselves. It was not as if she owned him, it was the other way around.
But, when Lysandra told him of her discovery, he was astounded.
‘Of course I am sure,’ she snapped.
‘Well,’ Balbus pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger, ‘he is in there with the condemned. I can arrange that he dies today, if you like. I assume you’ll want to see it?’
The Spartan’s ice-coloured eyes bored into his own. ‘I want to kill him myself,’ she said.
Balbus grunted. ‘Yes, I can understand that,’ he said. ‘No problem, I’ll see to it. Actually,’ he added, ‘the spectators will love it. The attacker trussed and helpless before the victim who takes her revenge will appeal to them.’
‘I’m not sure you understand me, Balbus. I want to fight him, not murder him.’
Balbus was taken aback, but could see that Lysandra was deadly earnest. ‘That’s absurd,’ he said after a moment. ‘Lysandra, you are a very good fighter, but you’re only a woman. Nastasen, even if he is in bad shape, would eat you alive.’
Lysandra cocked an eyebrow. ‘I think you are mistaken. And I must fight him.’
‘Lysandra,’ Balbus sighed. ‘I have too much riding on this — on you — to let you fight a man. You are topping the bill with Sorina; if you were killed…’ he spread his hands.
‘I must fight him!’ Lysandra slammed the palms of her hands down on Balbus’s desk. He jumped at the sudden action, feeling the beginnings of anger at her presumption. But the emotion died in him as he looked at her face. The pale skin had reddened, but not through irritation. Tears brimmed in her eyes and began to spill down her cheeks.
‘You cannot understand,’ she said. ‘The humiliation, the pain, the rage I feel. I live it again every night. The cell… those men all over me. What they did. Balbus, you cannot know my torment…’
‘Lysandra…’ Balbus thought to get up from behind the desk and comfort the girl, but decided against it. ‘It must have been a terrible thing.’
‘I must fight him,’ she said again. ‘I cannot carry this inside me, Balbus. Not now that I have seen him again. I see his face in my mind… I can feel him on me…’ She hesitated, angrily wiping tears from her face. ‘I can feel him in me. His stinking breath, the abuse…’ she trailed off, gathering herself. ‘I must make him feel what I have felt. He must suffer as I have suffered. I must beat him. To be free.’
Think of the money, Balbus told himself. Don’t think with your heart — think of the investment. Lysandra cannot beat Nastasen. ‘I understand how you feel, but no woman has ever fought a man in the arena, Lysandra. It’s… well… indecent.’
‘Indecent!’ she screamed at him. ‘And his rape and buggery of me was not?’
Balbus blanched at the blunt terminology. ‘Well, of course. But consider this — what if I allow this, and you lose. Your last sight will be of your rapist taking your life.’
‘That is my choice. Balbus, please.’
Please. Balbus almost fell from his chair, so much did the word take him aback. He realised that he had never heard her say it to him. Always it was Spartan pride, demands, threats and tantrums. But never please. He shook his head, looking at her through eyes that he often felt were jaded and dimmed. She was not Lysandra of Sparta to him; she was just a commodity, a piece of meat for the abattoir of the arena — mere merchandise. Wasn’t she?
Ah, but he was getting too long in the tooth for this game.
He had become involved with his stock, and could no longer look at her as simply a slave. He had gone soft, he thought ruefully.
Recently, he had given in to demands from Sorina, beautiful Eirianwen and Lysandra herself. Years ago, they would have gone to the blocks for their antics. Years ago, he would have felt no compunction. But now? He hated himself for admitting that it pained him to see one so proud so distraught. Lysandra reduced to tears. He closed his eyes. Who would have thought it? But it was insane. That she risked her life for his profit in the arena was one thing but he had no wish to send her to certain death at the hands of Nastasen.
‘It has never been done,’ he said at length. ‘The public will never accept it.’
‘They will,’ she said firmly. ‘Balbus, they accept women at the top of the billing. Why not this?’
‘It’s simply not done,’ he argued. ‘Women and men are separate — and that’s how it should be.’
‘Think of the money,’ she said suddenly.
‘What money?’ Balbus was not going to allow Lysandra to manipulate him as Sorina had done.
‘The betting would be huge, and all against me. I will defeat him and make you a fortune. Think how it could be promoted.
The virgin warrior priestess has a chance for vengeance on the man who raped her.’
Balbus felt his conviction waver. She was right. ‘You want your rape advertised all over the city?’ he said. ‘Is revenge worth all that?’
‘I do not care how lurid your promoter makes it out to be.’
Lysandra drew herself up, the cold mask falling over her face once again. ‘You have never fought out there, Balbus, but you have been in the crowd. You know that lust drives the games and nothing more. It is base but that is the truth of it. You think that I cannot hear the shouts from the mob? The things that men scream out to me? Gods!’ She threw up her hands. ‘You have us fight naked more than not. And why? For speed?’
Her smile was cruel. ‘Or perhaps to give people a glimpse of that which is pink when we fight for our lives? To watch our faces as we win or die — agony and ecstasy — like copulation?’
And there she had it. Lysandra, in her infuriating way, saw straight to the heart of the matter. How many fortunes had rich men who desired to sleep with a gladiatrix offered him? How many fortunes had he thrown away, because, at the end of it all, he could not see himself as merely a whoremaster? He had given in once: to Frontinus when the governor had asked for Lysandra and, though the old man had had no designs on her, the fact that he himself had thought so shamed him. In that moment, he came to his decision.
‘I will allow it, Lysandra.’ He watched the tension drain from her, a fierce elation in her eyes. ‘But I want you to know that there will be no betting from me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because…’ He trailed off. ‘Because you are doing what is right. I cannot profit from your rape. There was a time when I would have, but no longer. You know,’ he smiled at himself, ‘if you lose, I will be ruined.’
Lysandra lifted her chin. ‘But I will not lose, Lucius Balbus.’
‘There is nothing that bitch will not do to whore herself to the crowds!’ Sorina was furious. The news of the bout between Lysandra and Nastasen had spread through the gaol like the worst sort of plague. It was all anyone could speak of. Sorina raged impotently in her cell, pacing like a caged tigress.
‘Would you have done anything different if the opportunity had been presented to you?’ Teuta, as always, tried to remain the voice of reason but Sorina had no wish to hear it.
‘I would have never been in the situation to be raped by him.’
Sorina whirled on her. ‘She brought it on herself — I think she secretly wanted it and taunted him with her body.’
‘Sorina…’
‘No! She has done this to get at me, that is all. She will rob me of our contest and yet she will die with all honours at the hands of a man. The mob will remember her bravery and I will be denied my chance at vengeance!’
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