‘Yeah,’ Murco put in. ‘No point in training for the Marathon if you’re going to run a mile, is that what you’re saying, Kleandrias?’
He smiled then and Lysandra marvelled at how he could be a monster during the day and this kind, knowledgeable man at night.
He was a true Spartan, she thought once again, and the tests he was putting her through were only for her own good. ‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘In a manner of speaking. But when we are done, Lysandra will be able to win the sprint, the mile and the Marathon.’
‘Too bad there isn’t a race up a hill, eh, Lysandra?’ Cappa chuckled.
‘Hill?’ Kleandrias looked inquisitive.
‘There’s a big hill outside of town…’ Cappa began.
‘Like a small mountain really,’ Murco interrupted, receiving an annoyed look from Cappa for his pains.
‘Before Lysandra joined the ludus here, she was unable to make it to the top at the run,’ the bodyguard finished.
Kleandrias smiled again, but this time with a playful malevolence as he looked at her. ‘Is that so?’ he said, and then laughed.
Lysandra flushed, embarrassed by this reminder of her failure.
‘Hills are one thing, Kleandrias,’ she said. ‘But I need to fight as well. I need more sparring.’
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘Your fitness is not where it needs to be but that will come. Tomorrow, we begin the training in earnest. You should get some rest.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Lysandra realised that this made sense. She drank down her cup of water and made her way back to the women’s quarters.
‘You look exhausted,’ Ankhsy commented as Lysandra came in.
‘I am a little tired,’ she conceded. ‘Training is always the same, is it not? You seldom realise just how fit you are getting because you are always too tired to feel good.’
Olwydd snorted. ‘There’s truth in that.’
Lysandra started at the expression: it must have been a Britannic saying, because Eirianwen often said the same thing.
‘Come on, it’s not that bad,’ Olwydd laughed.
‘What do you mean?’ Lysandra asked as she sat on her bunk.
‘You looked really sad for a moment,’ Varda said.
‘I was just thinking about someone I loved once. She’s dead now.’
‘ She?’ Varda raised a disapproving eyebrow and looked as though she was about to launch into a pious speech.
‘That’s awful, Lysandra,’ Ankhsy interjected before the Judaean could speak.
‘It was a long time ago,’ Lysandra took off her tunic and sandals, and lay back, staring up at the ceiling. ‘She was from Britannia, Olwydd. Born of the Brigantes but raised with the Silures – she said that the Brigantian queen went across to the Romans and her father – a druid – would not countenance that, so he fled to Siluria.’
‘Huh,’ Olwydd grunted. ‘Even we Iceni think the Silures are savages.’
‘She was very beautiful and kind,’ Lysandra murmured. ‘Except in the arena, then yes – she was savage…’ She trailed off: thoughts of Eirianwen brought thoughts of Varia with them, both women she had loved in different ways, both women were dead because of her selfishness. Her love for Eirianwen had caused her to be ostracised from her clanswomen and her overprotectiveness of Varia had made her hate her in the end, and that hatred had driven her to her death.
It was bitter to think that Varia so despised her and that she had not had the chance to make things right between them.
A part of her wanted to hate Aesalon Nocturna for training Varia and allowing her to step into the arena, but she could not. Aesalon was a fighter and she had seen potential in the girl – it was that simple. She could not have known Varia in the way Lysandra did – that she would never be a killer.
Varia had not been like them – Lysandra and Aesalon were moulded from different clay. It was a perverse thought, but Lysandra realised that, in a different life, she might have been friends – perhaps more – with the beautiful Roman. They had much in common, more so than even she and Eirianwen. But the goddess would not allow that, Lysandra knew.
If Lysandra of Sparta was to find peace it could only be in the service of her goddess. She felt herself drifting off to sleep, knowing that her dreams would be of blood and the screams of the mob.
Ankhsy had once asked her where her home was and, as Morpheus claimed her, Lysandra realised that it was not Sparta or even Asia Minor. Her home was in the arena: it was the only place that she felt truly alive. Her destiny was to fight for Athene. There was nothing else now.
XXXVIII
‘Nice to see you back in training, Illeana,’ Laenus’s voice echoed around the empty Flavian. ‘Now that your little provincial excursion is over, maybe you’ll get down to some work.’
His words made her cheeks grow a little hot. ‘I lost a friend on that ‘excursion,’ Laenus,’ she snapped.
He chuckled. ‘Yes, I heard. Who was to know that your Greek nemesis would be waiting for you in Paestum? The gods, probably.
Anyway, that’s in the past. Pyrrha may have been a fine girl, but she’s now supping it up with Pluto and you have more pressing things to worry about – so get that ‘oh-its-all-my-fault’ crap out of your head. Fighters die all the time – you’ve sent enough across the River, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but it’s a little different when you’ve trained them yourself…’ she trailed off, meeting Laenus’s gaze. ‘Of course you know all about that.’
‘Yes, I do. And I hate it when it happens. So let’s make sure that you’re not the next one I have to make an offering for. Go on, then.’ He smacked her gently on the thigh with his vine staff. ‘Run.
And don’t forget the steps, eh?’
Illeana took off, running easily around the arena as she had done thousands of time before. Doing laps on the sand helped the body become accustomed to fighting on the soft, yeilding surface that could sap the strength of the unprepared fighter as quickly as a deep wound.
‘A little faster, please!’ Laenus had seated himself in the imperial box and was drinking wine from a flask. She grinned and threw him an obscene gesture before picking up the pace – two fast laps and she would start the step-run.
Taurus the Numidian was not a handsome man. His face was pockmarked from a childhood illness and he bore a deep scar that ran across one cheek – Illeana had seen that bout. Taurus’s opponent had nearly cut his face away with that blow but the Numidian had fought on, beating both the pain and the man in front of him. It was one of the reasons why he was the finest gladiator in Rome.
Tall and lean, he fought with two swords and was as quick – if not quicker – than the Spartan Achillia.
Illeana stood across from him, stripped down to her subligaricum: Taurus made no secret of the fact that he was ogling her breasts, his eyes full of suggestion, but he cried out in angry surprise when Laenus slapped him across the stomach with his vine staff.
‘Yes, she is beautiful,’ he said. ‘Magnificent – we know this, Taurus. But all of Rome has seen her tits, so can you put your tongue back in your mouth.’
‘All of Rome hasn’t seen them up this close,’ Taurus’s grin was lewd.
Illeana bore it with good humour, well-used to this sort of talk.
‘My opponent is a woman, Taurus. It’s unlikely she’ll be interested in my tits – magnificent as they are.’
‘Quite right,’ Laenus said. ‘Now – you two may consider yourselves the best but this is sparring, not a death match. And…’ he fixed Taurus with a hard look, ‘she’s fighting next, you’re not. Any injuries and I’ll have you down with Settus and the others shovelling shit or whatever it is they do. I mean it, Taurus – you’ve got nothing to prove here, and neither have you, Illeana. So no egos –
I want to see speed, accuracy, aggression… take the angles if you can.’ He put his vine staff in the space between them. ‘Ready?’ his eyes flicked to them both. ‘ Pugnate! ’
Illeana skipp
ed into her stance and began to move, circling Taurus who responded in kind: he could not take her lightly and they both knew it. ‘Come on,’ she grinned, ‘let’s see what you’ve got, Taurus.’
‘I’ll give it to you,’ he teased back. ‘Laenus said you wanted it hard, fast and aggressive. I can manage that.’
‘Not from the graffiti I’ve read, Cupid.’
His eyes widened in surprise and it was all the opening Illeana needed, her lead sword stabbing out like a viper’s tongue. But Taurus was not Gladiator Primus for no reason and he deflected the strike and struck back hard. With abrupt suddenness, the game had turned to deadly earnest, their wooden swords blurring as they attacked, parried and countered. The sound of wood on wood echoed around the empty arena as they fought and, even from the early exchanges, Illeana could tell he was trying to keep her at range and bring his longer reach into play.
Laenus picked up on this. ‘They tell me your Achillia is a tall one,’ he called. ‘See how Taurus is using that… that’s it, mate,’ he encouraged the gladiator. ‘Keep her away, pick her to pieces… Ow!’
Taurus had landed a painful blow to Illeana’s forearm.
She cursed as one sword spun from her grip and she retreated, trying to fend Taurus off with the other. But he was as aggressive as he had promised, cutting off her angles till he had her back to the arena wall and his sword under her chin. Illeana swore again and pushed the weapon away, anger rising in her. She threw her second sword to the ground and turned her back on both trainer and gladiator, clasping her fingers behind her head.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Laenus shouted. ‘What did you expect him to do? Roll over and have his belly tickled? He’s fucking Gladiator Primus, Illeana!’
‘I saw it coming but I couldn’t stop it!’ she shouted, frustration bursting over. She hated to lose – she should have won! ‘Achillia would have had me too. Jupiter!’ she exploded, whirling on an altogether-too-pleased-with-himself-looking Taurus. ‘Come. Let’s go again.’
‘Don’t fight with the hump,’ Laenus cautioned and almost withered at the glare she gave him. He shrugged then. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
She would show them both. Illeana stooped and retrieved her swords, forcing the fury back down to boil in the pit of her stomach.
Laenus was right: fighting angry only resulted in a swift defeat.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
No sooner had he nodded and raised his swords than Illeana attacked. She guessed that Taurus would have been expecting her to charge in and in this she did not disappoint, but she controlled her aggression, letting her fury fuel it rather than consume her utterly. Using the circle-step, she moved in close, forcing him to fight her fight. At this range, it was impossible for him to get leverage and bring his greater strength into play. She thrust low with her right, going for the groin shot, but Taurus anticipated this and intercepted and countered, cutting high to take her neck. She blocked the swipe and their blades were locked together.
Illeana felt the pressure lessen on each of her swords and she went back a half-step: this was an old gladiatorial drill. When two blades became locked together the worst thing to do was force the issue – Taurus would only have to allow her to push too hard and he would take her balance. It was now about footwork, speed and sensitivity. Blades barely touching, they circled almost like dancers, each of them seeking that slight wavering in defences that would allow them to push through the other’s guard and win.
Taurus stamped on her foot.
Illeana’s eyes widened in surprise at the move but it was already too late and, with ease, he twisted his blade and tapped between her breasts with his sword. ‘Sorry,’ he winked at her.
‘There are no rules, Illeana, you know that,’ Laenus approached them, nodding at Taurus to step back.
Illeana knew what was coming and decided to curtail it there and then. ‘I don’t need a lecture from you, Laenus…’
‘Then stop fighting like a fucking tiro!’ he screamed at her, putting his face so close to hers she could smell wine and food on his breath.
‘This woman has got you so worked up that you’re trying too hard.
You’re Gladiatrix Prima for fuck’s sake – I don’t care how good this grecula is.’ He used the Roman derogative ‘silly little Greekling’.
‘You’re better. You are Aesalon Nocturna! Is she in there?’ He tapped her forehead with a rock-hard fingernail. ‘Is she?’
He was right and she knew it. Thinking back over the last two bouts, she realised that Achillia had been lurking in her subconscious mind, affecting her confidence. She was not fighting her natural fight but was overcompensating with too much aggression or too little.
‘I need to focus,’ she said. ‘But, Laenus… she was so fast.’
‘So is Taurus,’ Laenus stepped back. ‘And so are you. Forget her – she’s just another… victim.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘All right?’
Illeana nodded. ‘All right.’
‘Good,’ Laenus looked at her for a moment longer before nodding, satisfied. ‘Let’s go again.’
Lysandra eyed the little man that stood before her. He was compact, handsome as the Italians measured it, dark eyed with straight black hair. ‘This is Faustinus,’ Kleandrias introduced him. ‘He’s an athlete.’
They were away from the ludus, on the flats beneath her hilltop home. Some distance away from them, Lysandra reckoned about a hundred yards, Cappa and Murco were stretching a rope between them. ‘That is a finishing line?’ she turned to Kleandrias. ‘You want me to race against this man?’
‘Sprinting will teach your muscles to move faster,’ he replied.
‘To be fair,’ Faustinus rose from touching his toes, ‘it won’t really be a race. Just try to keep up with me.’
Lysandra gave him a dirty look which made Kleandrias laugh.
‘Take your marks, you go on three.’ he chuckled. She and Faustinus walked to stand adjacent to the big Spartan and adopted their starting positions. If this Faustinus thought that she had never run a foot race before, he was in for a surprise: in the priestesses’ agoge, athletics was something the girls practiced every day and she – as in all things – had excelled at it. She was tall, her long legs always giving her the advantage as they would here. ‘One,’ Kleandrias raised his hand, ‘two… three!’ Like an arrow from a bow, Lysandra sprang forward, arms pumping hard, feet thumping on the soft grass.
‘Come on.’ She heard Faustinus call from her left. ‘Run faster!’
Gritting her teeth, Lysandra pushed harder but, as they came within ten yards of the finishing line, Faustinus streaked in front, passing the rope way ahead of her; he continued running for some distance as he slowed to a trot and finally turned around.
To her surprise, Lysandra found herself a little winded. ‘You run well,’ she acknowledged.
‘It’s a living,’ Faustinus acknowledged with wink as he strolled back towards her. ‘Keep your head up,’ he advised. ‘And use your toes. Here, run on the spot.’
She did as she was told as he eyed her critically, crouching by her side. Faustinus stuck a hand out. ‘Get your knees up to there…
no, on your toes… that’s right. That’s good. Enough.’
Lysandra stopped and took a breath. ‘Knees high, run on my toes.’
‘It’ll make you faster,’ he said. ‘I know you’re a fighter, not an athlete, but what your trainer says is right. You have to train your whole body to make it like a…’ He looked skywards. ‘…like a ballista. Muscles are taut like the ropes and then –’ He clapped his hands with a sharp retort. ‘… you fly.’
Lysandra chuckled. ‘A ballista bolt. If you were a gladiator, that would be your name – Ballista.’
‘Catchy,’ he smiled back. ‘Listen, I was thinking… after your training is over, maybe I could show you around Paestum?’
‘She’s leaving for Rome soon,’ Kleandrias strode up, his expression dark. ‘She has no time for sightseeing. Or an
ything else.’
‘It wouldn’t take long,’ Faustinus pushed back. ‘It’s a lovely town, you know.’
‘I am sure that would be…’ Lysandra began.
‘I said no and that is the end of it!’ Kleandrias interrupted, rather harshly she thought. Faustinus was only being friendly – a professional courtesy as she was a fellow athlete of sorts. ‘No more talking,’
Kleandrias barked. ‘Back to your marks! You will run again.’
She was pushed hard. Every afternoon, she started with the biathlon and, as each day passed, she found that she came to look forward to the swim. What had begun as a torture was now something that revived and strengthened her. From there, she would run back to the flats for sprints against Faustinus, and then back into the woodlands to chop down trees and dig ditches. Cappa and Murco were making a handy profit selling firewood to the notables of Paestum.
She should be charging them a percentage, she mused, as another giant crashed to the ground. Let Thebe argue with her business sense on that issue.
Only as the sun sank did she begin her sparring. Varda had been drafted in to train with her since the Judaean slave was trained as a dimachaeria, but it soon became apparent she was not in Lysandra’s class.
‘Just use her to practice on,’ Kleandrias advised her. ‘Try things out to see if they will work. I will get you better partners.’
True to his word, he managed to convince Hister to allow some of the men to train with her. The fee the wily lanista asked for was exorbitant but Lysandra was pleased to pay it, even if she knew that she was being exploited. One of the gladiators, a Thracian who went by the ostentatious fighting name ‘Superbus,’ proved to be the best of the lot and it was to him that Lysandra went when she wanted to be severely tested. His big nose and buck teeth reminded her of Stick, the Parthian trainer from Balbus’s ludus: though, unlike Stick, Superbus had kept his hair – if the thick, clumpy substance on his head could be identified as such. Lysandra thought that it would look better if he had gone bald.
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