She saw Eirianwen walking towards her from the crowd. The beautiful Silurian raised her hand in greeting and Lysandra cast a glance behind her to see whose attention the gladiatrix was seeking. There was no one.
Eirianwen smiled as she drew closer; she wore a tunic of white cotton and Lysandra was surprised at how so simple a garment could emphasise her beauty, clinging to her hips and accentuating the curve of her breasts. Lysandra had always been proud of her height, but now, in front of Eirianwen, she suddenly felt ungainly and clumsy.
‘Greetings.’ Eirianwen’s voice was light, almost musical it seemed to Lysandra.
She took a healthy draft of her wine to moisten her suddenly dry throat. Why was the barbarian affecting her in such a manner?
Perhaps she was a sorceress, who was skilled in enchantments — like Calypso who so befuddled Odysseus. She dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. More likely she was feeling the effects of the un-watered wine. ‘Eirianwen.’ She nodded.
‘You are alone,’ Eirianwen observed. ‘That is not the way things should be on such a night.’
‘Oh, I am quite fine,’ she said, and drained her cup.
Eirianwen cocked her head to one side and Lysandra marvelled at the way the light of the torches reflected on her blue eyes.
‘Nonsense,’ she said and held out her hand. ‘Come.’
Mutely, Lysandra let Eirianwen lead her through the throng, her mind whirling. She felt as if she were walking on air, her heart beating fast in her chest; the flesh of her fingers tingling at Eirianwen’s touch.
The Silurian looked over her shoulder and smiled. ‘Here we are.’ She indicated a table, releasing Lysandra’s hand. Several other women were sitting together, including Sorina, the Gladiatrix Prima. ‘Sit,’ Eirianwen bade her.
Two of the women shuffled up on their bench to make room and the Spartan sat between them. Eirianwen moved to sit opposite her. Wordlessly, she refilled Lysandra’s cup.
‘Greetings, friends,’ Lysandra said formally. A chorus answered her. ‘I am honoured to join you,’ she added, raising her cup in toast to the women. The honour was of course theirs, for it was doubtful that they had ever been in the presence of a Priestess of Athene — a former priestess, she corrected herself.
‘You’re the Spartan,’ the woman next to her said. ‘Eirianwen reckons that you have potential. Only veterans may sit at this table,’ she added.
‘Lysandra is a veteran,’ Eirianwen interjected. ‘Though she has not yet taken the Oath she has already fought and won her first bout. That gives her the right.’
The woman shrugged. ‘I’m Teuta,’ she said. She was dark haired, her almond-shaped eyes and flattish features betraying her as either Illyrian or Pannonian. ‘That’s my real name. In the arena, I’m called Thana. Maybe you’ve heard of me?’ This last was said with not a little amount of hope.
‘The Illyrian goddess of hunting,’ Lysandra identified, ignoring the question. ‘A good choice of name.’ She had learned that arena fighters were given or chose names from legend. It made them recognisable to the crowds and added drama to an event — or so Titus believed. ‘You all have such impressive titles.’ She glanced around the table.
‘Yes,’ Teuta said before anyone else could answer. ‘Eirianwen is called Britannica. Soucana over there,’ she gestured to a fair, shorthaired woman, ‘is Vercengetoria.’
‘Yes,’ Soucana shouted, evidently a little the worse for wear.
‘Scourge of Caesar, I am named for the hero of the Gauls!’ The other women cheered good-naturedly.
‘And Sorina is Amazona, correct?’ Lysandra inclined her head at the Gladiatrix Prima. She kept her expression neutral but was shocked at how old the Dacian was. The tanned face showed signs of time’s march. She must be well past thirty already, Lysandra thought. ‘Your given name carries history, does it not?’
‘That is so, Spartan,’ she agreed. ‘I am from Penthesilea’s line.’
She too kept her face expressionless.
Lysandra’s lip curled. It was in the barbarian nature to lie, making extravagant claims as to their linage. Penthesilea was the Amazon queen who was slain by Achilles. That none in the entire ludus had the benefit of Spartan education was indeed fortunate for the aging warrior, or this probable falsehood would have been called into question long ago. The Amazons of old never took husbands for life, so it was impossible to say who was from whose line. And they were incapable of writing anything down, so they could make up whatever nonsense they liked. She refrained from making an issue of it, however, for it would have been impolite.
Instead she changed the subject. ‘This is certainly not what I expected from slavery.’
‘It is a better life than most can expect,’ Eirianwen said.
‘Though we are slaves, we are valuable to Balbus. It makes sense for him to see that we are treated well.’ She paused, looking straight at Lysandra. ‘The trainers are very harsh at the beginning,’ she said. ‘This is done to break the spirit of the weaker ones, to see who cannot take the pressure. If a woman breaks in training she will die in the arena.’
Lysandra nodded. It was so in the agoge.
‘To train a fighter costs a lot of money,’ Eirianwen went on.
‘We have good food, good physicians and, if we survive long enough, a decent place to live.’ She gestured to the houses set far back from the training grounds.
‘You sound like you are getting to like it,’ Sorina cut in, her voice harsh.
‘I hate it,’ Eirianwen responded. ‘But what would you have me do? Waste away in grief or accept my lot and hope to win my freedom one day?’
Sorina spat on the ground. ‘Roman bastards. At best they will see you dead. At worst they make you one of them. I will never be corrupted.’
Lysandra watched the exchange, realising she had finished her wine. Feeling somewhat light-headed, she refilled the cup and was pleased to find that the bite had gone and now the liquor was going down much easier.
‘I am not corrupted,’ Eirianwen said. ‘Really, Sorina, you should not burden yourself with so much hatred.’
‘How can you say that?’ Sorina drained her own cup. ‘Did Frontinus not defeat your tribe, slay your warriors and cast the others into slavery? What now of the Silures, Eirianwen? What of your land?
Is Britannia not showing the signs of the Roman disease? Growths of stone infecting the fields, roads like swords cut through the heart of the Great Mother. Pah!’ She threw up her hand in disgust.
Eirianwen cast her eyes down, and shook her head. ‘You speak the truth, Sorina, but I do not hate the Romans for what they have done. They did not invent war, or its consequences.’
‘They are raping the world!’ Sorina’s voice was heavy with wine-induced malice. ‘They call it civilisation, but it is an abomination. Let them live in their towns of stone, but do not force the freeborn to do likewise. Since the First Days, the Dacians have ridden free on the plains, beholden to no Emperor, no man.’
This last was said with utter contempt. ‘Then the Romans came, burning and killing the innocents of my land. When the tribes rose against them, we fought hard and well. Well enough to force them back across the Danube. They were afraid.’
There was silence around the table at her outburst.
‘Actually, they were not,’ Lysandra said. All eyes turned to her.
‘Really, Dacia is not worth the effort in manpower to placate.’
She shook as she cleared her throat, annoyed that her words were slurred slightly. She knew the wine was taking effect but she found that she did not care and poured herself some more. ‘There is nothing there of value, is there? Except slaves,’ she said as an afterthought, gesturing to Sorina. ‘It would take a long and costly campaign to subjugate such a wide territory, which is why there have only been minor Roman operations there.’
‘When I am finished in this place, I will gather the warriors of the plains, and bring them to war against the Romans!’ Sorina said vehemently.
‘And you will be crushed.’ Lysandra shrugged. ‘No barbarian army can stand against disciplined troops.’
Sorina got to her feet, swaying slightly. ‘Who are you calling a barbarian, you arrogant whore?’
‘Anyone who cannot speak Hellenic is a barbarian.’ Lysandra stated the obvious, letting Sorina’s insult pass. ‘It is the sound of your language… like sheep… baa, baa!’ She laughed at this. It was an ancient truism, but never failed to bring her to mirth.
