inspection, she found her hands shaking. It was one matter to defeat those who had never held a sword before setting foot in the ludus; but a blooded killer like Hildreth was a different proposition entirely.
Her spat with Sorina had proved that all her training was nothing compared to the hard-won savvy of a battle-tested warrior. Her own desperate struggle with Stick’s men on the beach, and the subsequent bout in the arena of Halicarnassus was the only real experience she had. It was nothing compared to the years Hildreth had spent battling the Romans on the borders of her savage homeland.
At least, she thought, she would go down to a foe who would finish her quickly. From then, it would be up to the Fates where she ended up. She glanced about, her eyes seeking Hildreth in the throng of novices. The German was looking directly at her, her eyes alive and sparkling. She too had guessed they would be paired against one another. Her fierce smile told Lysandra that she was relishing the opportunity to test herself. She looked away quickly, unwilling to hold her gaze, and instead let it fall on those women who Balbus had already singled out for the blocks. Soon, she knew, she would be among them.
The day wore on and the novices fought with a passion that overcame their inexperience. Lysandra realised that, for all their loathing of slavery, many of them believed what Titus had told them to be true. To live and fight for freedom was preferable to an existence that held no hope of such. For them, perhaps it was acceptable, for the sword and shield were new to them. They had not disgraced themselves or their ancestors the way she had done.
The girl next to her nudged her and she glanced up once more to see Titus looking at her expectantly. ‘You and Hildreth are to fight next,’ the girl told her. ‘You’d better get your kit.’
Balbus rubbed his hands together as Lysandra took her place on the fighting area. He had wanted to see more of his prized new slave in her training but administrative matters had kept him busy of late. She was, he thought, a fascinating creature. Eros, at his behest, had gone through the library, searching for any histories of the strange sisterhood of which the girl claimed to have been a member but there had been nothing. It all added to her mystery.
And then there was the German, Hildreth. A handful, he had been advised, but then she was one of those warrior women that so terrified the legions on the frontiers. The forthcoming contest promised to be of excellent quality.
At Titus’s barked command, the duel began.
Hildreth exploded into action, leaping to the attack, her wooden blade hammering into the Spartan’s shield. Lysandra backed off under the assault, occasionally hitting back with a strike of her own, but Hildreth was relentless. The German ploughed onwards, giving her foe no respite; the watchers roared her on, screaming for the quick kill.
The women’s shields crunched together and Hildreth lifted her sword, thrusting over the top of Lysandra’s scutum, catching the taller woman on the shoulder.
‘Just a wound!’ bellowed Titus. ‘Continue!’
Hildreth backed off, catching her breath, and Balbus leant forwards in his seat. He had seen Lysandra in the arena and knew she liked to let her foe tire before she herself took the initiative.
But no such attack came, the two merely circled each other warily, each moment that passed lending Hildreth more confidence.
Balbus flinched as one of Greta’s young scrubs screeched high-pitched support for Lysandra. He cast an annoyed glance at her, but she did not seem to notice. Hers was a lone voice, he realised; all the cheers were for Hildreth. Urged on by the crowd, Hildreth yelled and attacked once again, bearing down mercilessly on her foe.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Balbus asked Nastasen.
The big Nubian raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s not as good as Stick said,’ he declared, glancing apologetically at the Parthian who was seated next to Catuvolcos behind the lanista. ‘Sorry, but she’s nothing special. And there’s the proof.’
‘She’s sick today,’ Catuvolcos cut in. ‘Running a fever.’
‘She looked well enough this morning,’ Nastasen said with a wolfish grin. ‘I don’t think she’s good enough. All talk and little return. I recommend the blocks for that one.’
‘You know nothing,’ Catuvolcos spat. Balbus raised a hand abruptly, cutting the argument short, and returned his attention to the contest.
She was too fast. Hildreth was too fast. Lysandra found she could not breathe properly in the oppressive, full-faced helm. Her chest heaved and sweat ran into her eyes continually, blinding her. It was all she could do to raise her shield and deflect the lightning-quick strikes of the German. She tried to dig deep, to retaliate, but it was useless: all her attacks were battered contemptuously aside, giving her no respite. The German was too good and Lysandra could feel herself tiring swiftly.
She saw the strike coming but could not defend against it.
Hildreth’s sword crashed into the side of her helmet and Lysandra’s vision was filled with a bright, white light. She felt herself stagger and tried to raise her shield but she was hit again.
Lysandra blinked and pain exploded through her, as Hildreth rammed her sword into her abdomen. She doubled over, bile rushing to her throat. The wooden rudis fell from her hand, the sound of it hitting the ground strangely loud in her ears. There was sharp pain at the back of her head and the world tilted crazily before turning to black.
Balbus’s mouth was agape. The Spartan lay prostrate on the ground before her triumphantly screaming foe.
‘ Habet, lanista,’ Nastasen said. ‘She’s had it.’
This could not be. Balbus himself had seen the woman in combat and knew her worth. This was not the same gladiatrix that had so consummately dispatched her foe in Halicarnassus.
She was a shadow of that, her movements stiff and disjointed, her attacks feeble.
He felt a clutching at his calf, and looked down to see the child slave that had been screaming for Lysandra. She was on her knees before him.
‘Master, please.’ The girl’s eyes were full of tears, her voice anguished. ‘ Missio, I beg of you. She is the best, I swear it.’
‘Get off my foot.’ Balbus shook his leg as one would to dislodge an over-affectionate dog. The girl released him but would not relent. ‘Master, spare her!’ She was cut off as Stick leapt up from his bench and clouted her around the head.
‘Get away, Varia.’ He kicked her in the rear, sending the little slave sprawling.
Titus approached, shaking his head, his lips tight.
‘Well, Titus,’ Balbus demanded archly. ‘How do you explain that?’ He pointed furiously to the unmoving Spartan. ‘Your training methods have blunted this girl.’
Titus flinched, his eyes narrowing at this maligning of his skills.
It was Nastasen who had beaten the girl, but he was the head trainer, and thus ultimate responsibility for a fighter’s performance lay with him. Yet he knew that the Spartan’s failure had little to do with the Nubian’s bullying. It went deeper. ‘ Lanista,’ he said respectfully. ‘Something has changed the girl. I cannot say what.
I know she has it in her to make good, but she has lost her fire.’
‘She was lucky that first time,’ Nastasen said. ‘Look at her now.
Lose her,’ he advised Balbus. ‘She’s damaged goods. Anyone can see that she doesn’t have it in her.’
Balbus felt the eyes of all upon him, awaiting his decision. On this showing, she should go. Could he have been wrong about her? After all, anyone could be lucky in the arena. Many times he himself had seen a superior fighter taken down through sheer bad luck. Perhaps it had been so with Lysandra’s first opponent.
Perhaps her poor performance had flattered the Spartan too much. He raised his arm, ready to deliver his final judgement.
‘She feels the gods have abandoned her,’ Catuvolcos said quietly.
Balbus paused, recalling his first conversation with Lysandra.
She was rather straightforward and unimaginative in her manner, he thought. Perhaps a crisis of faith might cause this display. He weighed up her performance in the arena against what he had just seen. Could he afford to lose her?
‘One last chance,’ he said quietly, and thrust his fist towards himself, indicating the sheathing of a sword. ‘ Missio!’
