‘Peace, Sorina.’ Eirianwen put a calming hand on the older warrior’s arm as the Amazon’s face darkened in anger. ‘The drink is in us all. Let’s have no more of this talk.’
Lysandra was about to speak again but decided against it; she did not want to distress Eirianwen. Sorina sat, but would not let the matter drop. ‘How can you be so sure of a Roman victory?’ she asked.
Lysandra ran her hand through her hair. She looked around and saw a long wooden ladle on the ground by a pot of barley stew. She stumbled up, retrieved it, and returned to the table.
‘Here.’ She tossed the implement to Sorina. ‘Can you break that?’
‘Of course,’ the Dacian responded, snapping the wood with ease.
‘Now take the two halves and break them at the same time.’
This time, the task was much harder but the Amazon persevered.
With a loud crack, the staves broke. Sorina triumphantly met the Spartan’s gaze. ‘You are very strong,’ Lysandra observed. ‘Now break the four.’
Sorina cast the wood to the ground in disgust. ‘That would be impossible. What are you trying to prove?’
‘Simple. That is how civilised people fight. In close units, you see. For the Hellene or the Roman, personal valour is honoured but discipline and training count for much more on the battlefield. A barbarian fights for glory, charging to battle, swinging a big sword round his head… her head, in this case. And achieves what? On foot, she needs space around her to wield her sword, lest she kill the compatriots by her side. Instantly, she is outnumbered three to one, for civilised troops lock shields and fight as a unit. On horseback, she charges into a hedge of spears and swords. And dies.’
‘You talk a good fight, Spartan,’ Sorina said. ‘For one who has never set foot on the battlefield.’
‘Have it your own way, Amazon.’ Lysandra found that for once she did not wish to pursue an argument. Better to end the conversation. ‘You are just like every other barbarian. Too proud and too stupid to learn from your betters.’
Sorina sprang across the table, crashing into Lysandra. The two women fell to the ground, rolling over several times. Sorina emerged on top and slammed her fist into Lysandra’s face, sending a sharp message of pain through her wine-fogged head. A few onlookers saw the brawl erupt and called to their fellows. Soon a crowd had gathered around the two struggling women and began chanting rhythmically, ‘Fight, fight, fight!’
Lysandra thrust her hips upwards, causing her furious assailant to overbalance and topple forwards. She rolled away and sprang to her feet but the liquor had made her clumsy and she stumbled. Sorina was charging towards her, spitting hate, and it was only by long-learnt reflex that Lysandra was able to lash out with her foot, catching the onrushing Amazon in the pit of the stomach.
Sorina doubled over in pain and Lysandra moved in quickly, seeking to grasp her foe’s head and smash her face to pulp with her knee. But Sorina’s reaction was swift: she lunged forwards, butting her shoulder into Lysandra’s midriff. Jerking upright, Sorina carried Lysandra with her, flipping her skywards.
She crashed painfully to the ground, cracking the back of her head as she landed. Head spinning, she staggered to her feet, barely in time to meet Sorina’s attack; the Amazon’s fist connected with the side of her face and Lysandra responded in kind, her own blow snapping back her opponent’s head. She surged in, but suddenly, she was being dragged back, as was Sorina, cursing and kicking.
Eirianwen had hold of the furiously struggling Gladiatrix Prima.
‘That’s enough,’ she shouted. ‘Sorina, enough!’
Teuta grasped Lysandra around the middle, lifting her from the ground and heaving her away. ‘Gods, Spartan! Leave it!’ Lysandra ceased to struggle and the Illyrian let go, dumping her uncere-moniously onto her bottom.
The crowd around the fracas had dispersed as quickly as it had gathered. Lysandra touched her cheek ruefully, feeling a large bruise beginning to swell up. She puffed out her cheeks, trying to clear her head, which spun both for the wine and the forceful blows landed by the Amazon.
She looked up to see Sorina standing over her.
They regarded each other in silence for some moments, then the older woman extended her hand and pulled Lysandra to her feet. ‘You fight well,’ she acknowledged.
‘As do you.’
‘But not well enough.’ Sorina turned away before Lysandra could respond. Feeling somewhat foolish, she made to leave, but Eirianwen stepped up to her.
‘Don’t worry. That will be an end to it for tonight,’ she said.
‘Come. Let’s have another drink.’
VIII
Sorina awoke, her head thick and pounding. Her mouth was gummy, her eyes full of sand. Sitting up, she groaned as her stomach lurched. Teuta lay next to her, snoring softly, her arm resting across her eyes. Sorina smiled and swung her legs out of the bed. Their lovemaking had been unrestrained and passionate, a perfect end to an entertaining evening. She had even enjoyed the fight with the arrogant Spartan.
She made her way to a full-length bronze mirror, a gift from one of her supporters. Leaning close, she saw that Lysandra had blackened her eye. Three years ago and she would have put her down before she had had the chance. She stepped back and regarded herself. Her body was still lean and tight, her breasts still firm. But that belied the passage of years. Thirty six was no age to most in the Empire, with their doctors and medicines.
But on the plains of Dacia, her home, she would be classed as an older woman now.
Six years, she mused. Had it really been six years since her capture and imprisonment? Six years of death in the arena, six years of slavery. She looked around her room. She had more than most freeborn Romans could ever hope to possess: a house, wealth, the adoration of the mob. She dimly recalled accusing Eirianwen of getting used to Roman luxuries the previous evening.
For a moment she wondered if the accusation was in fact her own conscience speaking. Was she too becoming what she hated?
She shook her head and dismissed the thought.
Without her liberty it was all fool’s gold. She had long since given up believing Balbus’s lies that she would one day buy her freedom. There would never be enough money for him. She knew there were only two chances for her: to be freed during the games by a benevolent editor, impressed enough by her prowess to deem her worthy of the wooden sword; or escape. She had come up with many plans, but none seemed feasible. And if she were caught escaping, the penalty for runaway slaves was a slow, agonising death by crucifixion.
She slipped a tunic over her head and made her way to the baths. The training area was a hive of activity as the domestic slaves cleared the debris from the previous night’s celebration, looking none too happy that they had had no part in the revels.
But, she thought to herself, a banquet was small reward for those risking life and limb on the sands, something the scrubs did not have to bear.
She was unsurprised to see the baths virtually empty. The entire famillia would no doubt be sleeping off the effects of the evening.
Only Eirianwen, a famous early riser, was there enjoying her routine swim. Sorina disrobed and slipped into the pool, not wishing to disturb her friend until she had finished her laps.
She watched with pleasure as the Silurian’s perfect body sliced through the water. Eirianwen was a living embodiment of the universal mystery, a balance of opposites. So beautiful and yet so deadly. She had been at the ludus merely two years and had already slaughtered her way to become Gladiatrix Secunda. Sorina prayed that they would never be matched against one another.
But she knew Balbus. If the price was right they would be compelled to meet on the sands and only one would walk away.
She saw Eirianwen swimming towards her and the smile she gave her served to break her melancholy.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Eirianwen said in the language of the Celts. Though their two lands were separated by many thousands of leagues, their tongues were surprisingly similar.
Eirianwen had learned enough of Sorina’s native Getic and they conversed in a jumble of both.
‘I thought a dip might clear my head,’ said Sorina.
