As they approached, a man emerged from the cabin, raising his hand in welcome.
‘Greetings, friends,’ his weathered face creased into a smile. ‘I am Mundus, your agent here in Paestum.’
‘Mundus,’ Lysandra climbed from the saddle and handed him the reins. ‘Lysandra – my bodyguards, Cappa and Murco.’
‘I’ve been expecting you, lady. Everything is prepared as per my instructions,’ he said as he let her mount into the paddock.
Lysandra arched an interested eyebrow. ‘Show me.’
Clearly pleased to be given the opportunity to do so, Mundus led her to the back of the cabin. Here, the local foliage had been stripped away and a palaestra cleared. Lysandra was impressed: the exercise area featured many training tools including a pallus, chin-bar, iron weights and sandbags. ‘Impressive,’ she said to Mundus who inclined his head in acknowledgement.
‘I have contracted reputable men to guard the cabin,’ he said as Cappa and Murco joined them.
‘We’ll need to meet them,’ Cappa said. ‘The lady is our responsibility and we can’t afford to have any local wastrels with their brains in their arses.’
Mundus looked a little affronted. ‘That can be arranged, of course.
Now,’ his smile returned. ‘My slave has prepared a meal in anticipation of your arrival. It awaits you within.’
The cabin was spacious and Lysandra was pleased to smell the familiar odour of cooking barley mingled with roasting meat. In contrast to the rustic surroundings and smells, several plush couches were arranged in the centre of the living area, looking utterly out of place. Mundus’s slave was a pretty blonde thing who was of Gaulish or Germanic stock and Lysandra saw both Cappa and Murco eyeing her as she busied herself finalising their meal.
‘Meat and barley,’ Mundus said as they sat to eat. ‘Wine?’ he gestured to the slave. Murco’s grin was enthusiastic and he made a show of smelling the liquid once it was poured, frowning and nodding as he appreciated the vapours. Cappa wasted no time in diving into a drink, but Lysandra held up her hand.
‘Just water,’ she said. The slave nodded and made off to fetch a jug. ‘Tell me, Mundus, what god resides in the temple here?’
‘Athene, my lady: it was dedicated by the Greeks on the founding of this city and has not been changed since.’
Lysandra chuckled despite herself. ‘Athene indeed?’ she said quietly. ‘Who would have thought it.’ She said no more and the silence was filled by a uncharacteristically prolonged oration from Murco on the quality of the local wine. Lysandra did not really hear any of it. Lost in thought, she could not help but think that once again the goddess had taken a hand in her life. Whenever she fell, Athene always seemed to be there to pick her up again and propel her on with her Mission. A Mission that the comfortable years had caused her to forget. Just seeing the training panoply at the rear of the cabin had excited her, filling her with a strange kind of strength, both physical and that of purpose.
She rose to her feet. ‘I will take some air,’ she announced. Without waiting for a response, she made her way to the door and walked outside. The night was quiet and balmy, a cooling breeze wafting across the heights every so often. Lysandra looked down at Paestum below, the yellowish flickers of lamplight from homes and businesses twinkling. And there, at the edge of town, was the obsidian circle of the amphitheatre, itself ringed with torchlight. Lysandra fancied that she could hear the faint roar of the crowd carried to her on the breeze and the distant report of steel on steel. The gladiators at their work.
Footsteps from behind made her look round to see the reassuring form of Cappa striding towards her. ‘Sorry to intrude, but –’ he began.
‘— you are just doing your job,’ she finished for him.
‘It’s why you’re paying us the big sesterces. Look,’ he pointed.
‘You can see the arena from up here.’
‘Yes,’ Lysandra breathed in deeply through her nose.
‘You’ll be fighting there soon.’
‘There’s much to be done before that,’ she replied.
‘Always break a big task down into the sum of its smaller parts,’ he advised. ‘What are you going to do tomorrow?’
Lysandra turned to him. ‘Make an offering at the Temple of Athene. And then I will run.’
‘Run?’
‘Yes, Cappa. Run.’
XXIII
Illeana could not suppress a grin at Pyrrha’s expression as the cart creaked its ponderous way down the road to Capua. The young tiro was ensconced with several other novice fighters in this traditional mode of gladiatorial transport and Illeana knew from experience that it was uncomfortable in the extreme. But it was something the girl had to live with – talented as she may be, she had not yet proven herself and should be treated like any other fighter.
Like the other girls in the cart, she stared out disconsolately through the bars, watching the countryside roll past, clearly wondering when the journey would end. For her part, Illeana was riding – she enjoyed being in the saddle and had grasped the opportunity to escape from the claustrophobic city with both hands.
Maro had taken a dim view of things at first, but she had sworn on every god she could think of that her own training would not suffer: indeed, she had told him, sparring with fighters from different ludi would only sharpen her skills. The lanista was too long in the tooth to believe that was her real motivation for wanting to escape for a few days, but she had never let him down before and she knew that he was indulging her.
Not that she would take this trip lightly; Illeana loved to train and, with the prospect of this ‘champion’ coming across the sea to face her, she could not afford to become lax because of her side project with Pyrrha. ‘Cheer up, girls,’ she called to the tiros. ‘Capua is not far now.’
‘ How far?’ Pyrrha voiced the question for everyone.
‘A couple of hours, no more. It’s a singular honour to fight there,’ she added. ‘It’s known as one of the best training schools in the empire.’
‘Doesn’t that mean that the best fighters come from there?’ Pyrrha cocked her head to one side, closing an eye against the bright sun.
Illeana chuckled. ‘No, the best fighters are in Rome, Pyrrha. You should know that.’ She winked at her young charge before digging her heels into her pony’s flanks, setting off at the run; whooping as the beast made it to full gallop. She could feel the baleful stares of the tiros on her back as she sped away from their creaking vehicle.
It was such good sport to tease them.
Capua was a piece of gladiatorial history; it was from here, of course, that Spartacus had begun his revolt. Every fighter that trained at this place had to feel his ghost watching them, Illeana thought as she walked around the quiet palaestra, the silence only broken by the slow creak of the sandbag ropes as they moved in the night breeze.
She wanted what he had. A legend. For people to speak of her, years after her death, not of course with the notoriety of the rebel but at as the greatest gladiatrix Rome had ever seen – or ever would see. After all, life was short but fame was enduring.
She had trained hard that day, sparring with the best females the ludus could offer and they had fought all the harder when they found out she was the Aesalon Nocturna, wanting to get one over on the great champion from Rome. That was to the good as it kept her focused and at her peak.
The girls from Rome did not train; their work was done, the preparations had been completed back in the captial. Freed from the incarceration of their journey they were now enjoying the gladiatorial privilege of the feast. It was a tradition that on the night before a bout the fighters could indulge in the finest food and drink that could be provided. Whores and willing women were supplied for the men, but it was frowned upon for female fighters to participate in that sort of behaviour: a gladiatrix with child was no use to anyone. Illeana herself had always been careful and she had admonished her young charges to do the same.
‘You’re not joining us?�
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It was Pyrrha. Illeana was pleased to hear no slurring in her voice, evidence that even if she was holding a cup of wine she had not overindulged. ‘I’m not fighting tomorrow,’ she smiled. ‘Call it a superstition – I just think me being there would bring me bad luck.’
‘Here then,’ Pyrrha handed her the cup. ‘Enjoy.’
Illeana took it and found the wine to be of fine quality. ‘They’ve given you good stuff,’ she commented.
‘Yes, and some of our girls are going over the top. But they’re barbarians, and barbarians always get really drunk before they fight.’
‘That’s true,’ Illeana took another sip and handed the wine back.
As she watched the younger woman drink, she felt as though this sharing was bringing them even closer together.
‘It’s a fatalistic approach they have. They think that if they are marked to die then they’ll die, hungover or not. The gods are implacable.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think that the gods help those who help themselves.’
Illeana chuckled at this. ‘Such a wise head on young shoulders, Pyrrha. Tell me now. Do you fear what will happen tomorrow?’
As was her custom, Pyrrha paused to think about the question.
‘Yes,’ she said after some moments. ‘The reality is that things can go wrong. Everyone should fear that – a slip, sand in the eyes, a lucky blow… call it the capriciousness of the gods if you will. But I am as prepared as I can be. I’m confident that I have the beating of all of them.’
‘I am too,’ Illeana nodded. ‘Pyrrha – why do you want to fight?
You’re educated, I can see that. I know that your past is your business, but I’d like to know what drives you to do this.’
‘Illeana, you of all people should know the answer to that. I want to be great. To be known in my own right – not to live in anyone’s shadow. Even yours, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘No, I don’t mind you saying. But you have a long way to go before that.’
‘I have time.’
Pyrrha’s smile took the painful truth from her words. She was young, Illeana was older – and that was life. ‘You should get back inside – enjoy the feast.’
‘No,’ Pyrrha replied. ‘I’ve had enough of all that. I’ll ask to be put in my cell now. What about you?’
‘I think I’ll sit with Spartacus’s ghost a while longer.’
In the half-light of the cell, Illeana applied the oil to Pyrrha’s body, kneading her muscles to looseness as she did so – the girl had already done her callisthenics but Illeana was anxious to ensure that she suffered no tightness or cramp. Above them, the muffled roar of the crowd ebbed and swelled like a distant ocean. ‘Be prepared for the noise,’ she advised. ‘It’s a lot different being in the middle than it is being part of the crowd. Don’t let it distract you.’
‘I wasn’t thinking about it till you mentioned it,’ Pyrrha replied with a grin. ‘Now it’s all I can hear.’
‘It’s not a time for jokes, Pyrrha. Focus on what you’re about to do.’
‘You sound more nervous than I am.’
‘Of course I’m not,’ Illeana lied. She eyed the young fighter’s nude body. It was firm, hard and free from blemishes. That, she knew, would change. Most fighters, no matter how good or fast they were, ended up with scars, though she herself had not yet been marked up, save for her forearms. ‘You’re done,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you dressed.’
‘You call going out in nothing but subligaricum dressed?’
‘Getting your tits out is all part of the show, you know that, Pyrrha,’ Illeana laughed, amazed at the girl’s calm demeanour. ‘Not that you’ve much to show.’
‘Thanks. I’ve read the graffiti about yours.’
‘It’s all true – I’m sure they are “gifts of Venus” or whatever it said.’ She sobered then, resting her hands on Pyrrha’s shoulders, looking her in the eyes. ‘ Fortitudo. Contemptio mortis. Cupido victo-riae. ’
Pyrrha nodded. ‘I will not let you – or myself – down, Illeana.
I swear by all the gods. I feel… like I am in the womb. And that when I step out there, I will be reborn.’
Illeana was about to respond when the cell door swung open, revealing the dark form of an arena slave. ‘It’s nearly time.’
Illeana had been invited to sit in Vigilo’s, the Capuan lanista’s, box.
She was at the back of course, but it was an unexpected gesture and one she was grateful for even if the man was probably trying to sweeten a path to lucrative matches with Magnus fighters in the future. She would, she promised herself, say good things about him if Maro asked.
The Capuan arena was nowhere near the size and grandeur of the Flavian, but it was impressive and rustic enough for even the gentry to show their enthusiasm. In Rome, the games were something for many of the upper-class just to be seen at, but here it seemed that everyone in attendance was genuinely excited at the prospect of some quality blood-letting. Well, she thought, they would see quality today.
Illeana saw a slave gesture from the Gate of Life and Vigilo got to his feet. ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘I’m on.’ The sun gleaming on his bald pate, he made his way into the middle of the arena. At the sight of him the noise of the crowd rose to fever pitch. The heavy-set lanista basked in the attention for a moment before lifting the vine staff over his head. At this, roars and shouts dropped to a hubbub and Illeana was impressed. Unlike their unruly Roman counterparts, the Capuan folk had a respect for the poor man who was trying to announce the fighters.
‘Capuans!’ he bellowed, the voice shockingly powerful even coming from his large frame. ‘You have seen criminals rightly executed! Beasts from all over the empire slain for your pleasure…’ he trailed off as a wave of wholehearted applause washed over him.
‘Worthy entertainments for the noisiest… and best… crowd in the world!’ More cheering. ‘Why, I could visit every arena from Judaea to Britannia and not hear a crowd like this one…’
Illeana grinned at this sycophantic hyperbole – she, like the mob, had heard it all before. But it was expected and added to the fun.
‘Now, my good people,’ Vigilo went on, ‘one last appetizer before we begin our main course of the day. Like all of you, there’s nothing I like more than to see two men fight, toe to toe, blade to blade.
It shows our Roman skill, our Roman courage, our Roman virtus!
But let me say, my friends, that as a man of huge appetites – if you know what I mean…’ he was forced to pause as the mob threw good-natured jeers at him, many of them making obscene gestures,
‘…I like to see a hot, sweaty woman at her work – what do you say to that!’
The lanista got the reaction he wanted as the crowd screamed at him again, punching their fists in the air and hollering abuse and exhortation to begin the bout. He was an accomplished showman, eking out the introductions, building up anticipation till it was at breaking point. ‘What’s that you say?’ He cupped a hand to his ear.
‘ Get on with it, Vigilo? Let’s see the fight, Vigilo? Good people of Capua, I am yours to command! Citizens – I bring you a gladiatrix – trained by my own fair hand, victrix of two bouts... she is brave, she is strong, she is fearless… Capuans, I give you Audaciaaaa!’
He extended the end of her name, roaring it out till it was drowned by the din of applause.
The dark-haired Audacia strode out from the Gate of Life, her arms raised aloft. She was a thraex, armed with short sword and shield. Illeana studied her and was impressed. She was well-muscled and heavier than Pyrrha, her defined physique demonstrating hard training and her gait oozing confidence. The crowd hooted, always enthusiastic at the sight of female flesh – as she had said to Pyrrha, it was all part of the show.
Vigilo allowed his fighter to soak up the applause before he came in again. ‘And her opponent, trained in the great Ludus Magnus of Rome…fighting in her first bout, named for the offspring of Achilles, pe
ople of Capua… the beautiful… the deadly…Pyrrhaaaaa!’
Illeana had never before experienced the agony of a trainer.
Now, for the first time, she felt what her own instructors must have felt when sending her into the arena for her first bout.
It was easy for the fringe lunatics who criticised the games to generalise that all fighters were looked upon as mere kine by their owners, simple fodder for the arena. Nothing could be further from the truth of course: it was as ludicrous to assume that all lanistas and trainers were heartless sadists as it was to suppose that all fighters were criminals deserving of their lot. Ultimately, the bond forged in the sweat and toil of the palaestra was stronger than most friendships outside the ludus. After all – when a potter left the caupona for work, his friends did not wonder if they would see him alive again.
Pyrrha strode out from the Gate of Life, the twin blades of the dimachaeria held loosely in her hands. Opposed to the rapturous welcome for the local fighter, the crowd hurled abuse and curses at her, some going so far as to make the sign of the twin horns – probably those who had bet heavily against her. For her part, Pyrrha looked assured and calm, though Illeana knew well that her stomach would be full of butterflies: there was no way of knowing how the hostile crowd would affect her confidence.
As the thought occurred, Pyrrha answered the question. She stretched her neck from side to side and spun her swords in her hands as was her custom. But she did not stop there: she began to move, increasing the speed of the spinning weapons so they seemed to form a glittering web in the bright sun. Illeana raised an eyebrow as Pyrrha went through the basic advance and retreat drill taught to all tiros – but, with the added complexity of the dimachaeria weapons, she had turned the simple exercise into something of a display that all but silenced the crowd. All eyes in the arena – including her opponent’s – were on her as she danced with the blades. Illeana noted that Pyrrha was adding more steps to the pattern, turning, twisting and finally leaping into the air with a shrill cry. As she landed side on to her opponent, Pyrrha sank down on her right leg, her left extended, one sword held over her head the other pointing straight at Audacia.
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