‘I would be happy if my friend went to the party,’ Varia added.
‘If only to show Catuvolcos he was wrong about you being too proud.’
Lysandra folded her arms across her chest, tapping her chin with her index finger. ‘There is wisdom in what you say,’ she conceded. ‘It would be wrong to let him think that his outrageous accusation was correct.’
‘So you’ll go then?’
Lysandra nodded. ‘Yes. I think I will.’
VII
Night had fallen over the ludus, replacing the harsh burning heat of the day with a pleasant, balmy warmth.
Lysandra could hear the sound of laughter, muted by the thick stone walls of her prison, as women passed by her cell on their way to Titus’s gathering. The celebrations had to be in full swing by now as the hour had already grown late. She sat on her cot, forearms resting on her knees, hands idly toying with the laces of her sandal. She had one on already; all that remained was to put the other on her foot and join the festivities.
Lysandra hesitated, deciding if she would go through with it.
After all, she was not interested in drunken revelry and she asked herself over and over if the opinion of Catuvolcos mattered. She decided it did not, but then reasoned that it would be churlish not to attend. She placed her foot into the sandal and tied the laces.
She stood, put her hand to the door and froze. Perhaps it was not such a good idea. Had Catuvolcos not said she was unpopular with the women? It could be that excess of wine amongst her detractors could lead to cattiness and possibly worse.
She told herself that she was being ridiculous. No one would even notice her presence or absence; it had been weeks since anybody had passed even a cursory comment to her outside of what was necessary in training. She decided she would stay long enough to be noticed by Catuvolcos, thus proving him wrong, and then she would leave.
She yanked the door open before she could change her mind.
The training ground had been transformed in the hours she had spent in the silence of the cell. At the far end, nearest the baths, many tables had been arrayed, moved from the dining area to the grounds to provide more room for the women. She glanced up at the walls and noted that they were thick with guards and a heavy detail had also been placed around the armoury. A barricade of sorts cordoned off the area where the gathering was being held. Despite Titus’s magnanimity he was evidently taking no chances with security. She patted down her hair self- consciously and made her way towards the barricade.
Stick, Catuvolcos and several guards were standing by a small gap in the makeshift construction. She felt the Gaul’s eyes upon her as she approached.
‘Halt!’ said one of the guards. She recognised him as the Macedonian she had spoken with on her first day in the ludus.
He stepped forward and instructed her to lift her arms, giving her a rudimentary search.
‘Is all this really necessary?’ She directed the question at Catuvolcos.
He looked at her with an odd expression on his face. Obviously still bearing a grudge, she thought. Then he grinned at her, which only served to annoy her further. She hated to be mistaken in her assessment of another’s mood.
‘Yes, Lysa, it is,’ he said.
‘Will you stop calling me that!’ she snapped. ‘My name is Lysandra.’
‘Less of your lip, bitch!’ Stick cut in. He drew his vine staff.
‘Show some respect or, by the gods, I’ll beat it into you!’ He bristled when Lysandra regarded him as if he were something she had stepped in.
‘It’s all right, Stick,’ Catuvolcos soothed. ‘The women have a free night — and so do we, more or less. Let’s not have any unpleasantness.’ He turned his attention back to her. ‘There are over a hundred women back there.’ He jerked his thumb towards the gathering. As if to punctuate his words, there was a scream of raucous laughter. ‘Most of them are trained killers and some are feuding with each other. The search is just a precaution. You know what women are like. Can’t take their liquor and then they get tetchy. So we can’t risk someone smuggling in a weapon, that’s all.’
Lysandra sniffed, considering that reasonable. ‘Like as not, you’ll be proving your doubtless titanic capacity for wine at the earliest opportunity.’
‘Not a chance. We’re not allowed back there. I told you, we can’t afford to let the women get their hands on weapons of any sort, you know what I mean?’ He moved his eyebrows up and down several times. ‘You all find me irresistible, and when the grape takes hold of a girl, she wants to get romantic with me.’
‘I find you more irritating than irresistible,’ Lysandra told him.
Catuvolcos clutched his hand to his heart and feigned a stagger.
‘I’m crushed!’
‘Very amusing,’ she commented as she made her way past him; she did not fail to notice Stick’s malevolent glare. Moving off to the feast, she heard the wiry Parthian berating Catuvolcos for being too familiar with her but the Gaul’s response was lost to her in the general hubbub of the revels.
The gathering was in full swing, with many women already slumped over the trestles, the worst for drink. An assortment of food had been laid out, which had been attacked with gusto.
There was the usual barley stew but Titus had arranged meat for the festivities to satisfy the barbarian women. The smell of roasting pork and lamb wafted from many spits, the sweet smoke spiralling into the night sky. The mood was buoyant, with laughter and songs sung in a myriad of languages. She picked out smatterings of the words here and there and the subjects were not to her liking, referring to either lost love or the joys of sexual inter-course, neither of which she had experienced. Indeed, she prided herself that she had never given in to such emotional or physical weakness.
Lysandra kept to the periphery, making her way to one of several wine casks that were stacked about the training area. She poured herself a cup and looked around in vain for water to mix with it. She shrugged and sipped the strong liquor, wincing at its full-bodied taste. She started as a hand landed forcefully on her shoulder.
Lysandra whirled about — only to be confronted by Hildreth.
The German was holding a jug of beer, the foamy moustache she sported mute evidence that she was drinking the vile stuff straight from the container.
‘Hello, Lysandra!’ she shouted boisterously in Latin. ‘How are you today?’
‘I am very well, Hildreth. How are you?’ This, Lysandra mused, was fast becoming a ritual between them.
‘I am very well!’ Hildreth laughed. ‘I am — ,’ she looked up, trying to think. ‘How do I say it? Ah, yes. I am drunk as a sack!’
The Spartan arched an eyebrow. ‘I can tell,’ she said dryly.
‘ What?’ Hildreth hollered.
Lysandra had noticed that when the barbarians could not understand a phrase or could not make themselves understood, they thought that shouting would convey their meaning. She tried again. ‘Yes, you are.’
Hildreth laughed and clapped Lysandra on the shoulder, causing her wine to slosh over her hand. The German failed to notice and stumbled off, singing a song in her own rough language. Lysandra watched her go, a slight smile playing about her lips. Hildreth, she conceded, was a good enough sort. For a barbarian.
She wandered aimlessly among the revellers for some time, enjoying the celebratory atmosphere. Despite her earlier outburst to Varia, she was impressed by Titus’s concession of a feast. Letting the women gather in such a manner was excellent for morale and relieved the pressure of the daily toil in the ludus. She stood apart from the others, watching their ribald antics with amusement. Women stumbled about, a score of dances from different nations taking place around the compound. Lysandra rather thought that the ludus itself was like the Roman Empire in miniature: different creeds coming together in servitude to Rome. She congratulated herself on her own astuteness.
