Varia looked as though she would burst into tears and, though Lysandra was about to admonish her, the words died on her tongue. She could not now risk her ‘spy’ turning against her.
Guiltily, she realised that she also did not want to hurt the girl’s feelings overmuch. In her early days at the ludus, they had come to be friends. Moreover Varia had remained loyal to her, and that was a trait to be admired.
‘But then again,’ she said, ‘Balbus doesn’t have to know everything, does he?’
‘No.’ Varia toed the sand, looking down.
Lysandra nodded. ‘Very well. I will train you.’ Varia looked as though she would cheer. ‘ After my bouts with Nastasen and Sorina,’ she said quickly. ‘And not before. You must understand, Varia, that I risk my life each time I step out there.’
‘But you are the best, you will win.’
‘That is true,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘But the superior warrior never underestimates her opponent.’ She paused. ‘Your first lesson for free. Never take Nike — Victory — for granted for that is the surest way to send her favour from you.’
‘Yes.’ Varia nodded, her face full of studious intent. ‘Can I watch you as you train? To learn?’
‘Of course. You do, anyway, do you not? I will tell the other women that you are now my personal slave and not subject to their orders. Is that fair?’
‘Oh yes, Mistress!’ Varia beamed. ‘I will do everything you say.’
The girl’s friendship was, as always, earnest and Lysandra could not help but smile at her enthusiasm. ‘Very well then,’ she said.
‘Follow me.’
It was only as they walked away that Lysandra realised that she had referred to Varia as her slave. The realisation that she had done so was shocking but she could not bring herself to retract the comment; it would have shown weakness. She decided she would think of Varia as her helot; not only did this suit the girl’s purpose, it also reminded her of her Spartan heritage.
It was, she decided, an agreeable solution.
XLIX
Nastasen flexed his fist, feeling the muscles in his forearm bunch. He had lost some weight during his incarceration but he could still feel the power latent in his flesh.
It had not been long since they had taken him — not for his rape of Lysandra, but for petty thievery and murder. He had spent his money on hemp and thus was unable to book passage on a ship.
He had headed for the countryside, intent on pushing hard to the east, but his habit had drawn him back to the drug dens of the city, forcing him to rob and steal. One of victims had put up too much of a fight and he had killed the man. It was an accident but it made no difference. The urbanae captured him and the magistrates marked him for execution in the great Games of Trajan.
It was, he thought, ironic, that he who had once been the trainer of those about to die on the sands would go to his own death in the arena — and with no sword in hand. It was a cruel way for a man to die, not in honour, but in shame.
The first days in the cells had been hellish: deprived of the drugs that sustained him, he had moaned and raved maniacally, lost in delirium as the need for them coursed through his very soul. The other prisoners had stayed well clear of him, for all knew that lunatics were dangerous in the extreme. Yet, like all things, the pain had passed and, for the first time in years, the Nubian saw the world through eyes that were unclouded. It was a pity, he thought, that his last clear look at the world should be in such a place.
A shadow fell across him and he looked up, squinting into the light of a torch. Slowly, the bearer came into focus. ‘Catuvolcos?’
‘Aye.’ The Gaul’s voice was cold. Several burly slaves flanked him, each holding a cudgel. The trainer himself bore a set of manacles, which he dropped through the bars of the cage. ‘Put them on,’ he ordered.
Nastasen complied, his heart pounding. ‘Am I to be released?’ he asked, not daring to hope.
Catuvolcos grimaced. ‘No. You are to fight, though.’
‘Until I am killed.’ He put the bindings on and jerked his arms apart, showing his captors that they were secure.
‘I don’t know,’ Catuvolcos growled as he unlocked the cage.
He glared at Nastasen, his eyes black in the torchlight. ‘But I hope so. If it were up to me, I would kill you myself.’
‘Jealous, Gaul? You’ve not fucked her then? Maybe after me, she wants no other man. I know she loved the feel of my prick up…’
Catuvolcos leapt upon him, raining blows into his face and body. Bound as he was the Nubian was unable to defend himself and collapsed to the ground. The Gaul came in with the boot before being dragged off by the guards. Nastasen struggled to a sitting position and spat out a glob of blood. ‘Maybe she’ll come and visit me one last time,’ he leered. As he struggled to his feet he savoured the look of impotent hatred on Catuvolcos’s face.
‘And I’ll have that sweet piece that you are so desperate to enjoy.’
‘Get moving.’ One of the guards shoved him away, putting himself between them.
Nastasen could scarcely believe that he had been delivered; yet, as the guards led him from the stinking cell and through the tunnels, he began to hope. They would not allow Catuvolcos to harm him. Not if he were to fight. And if he were allowed to fight, he could win free.
There was justice after all.
‘He’s been moved,’ Catuvolcos advised Lysandra the following day.
‘He’s segregated, but he’s allowed to train as well. It can’t look as though we serve him up to you half dead from gaol, though I’d prefer it that he had no preparation. Do you want to watch him?’
Lysandra paused in her callisthenics. ‘You are joking,’ she snapped.
‘I have no wish to see him until I have to kill him.’
‘You could learn something from watching him, Lysa.’ She did not think he even noticed that his sobriquet for her had slipped out, but she let it pass. ‘You’ll need all the advantages.’ He paused, his gaze seeking her own. ‘And, it might be a shock for you to see him in the open for the first time. After what happened. It would be better to be re-accustomed to the sight of him — I know that it can’t be easy…’
‘There is wisdom in what you say,’ Lysandra interrupted ‘I will not be shocked. What has happened I have dealt with.’ She realised that she might be exaggerating slightly but there was no need to enlighten Catuvolcos as to the fact. ‘We shall watch him then.
After I have finished with you.’ She stooped and grasped the two wooden swords.
Sorina turned away. She had spent hours watching the Spartan at her training and it disturbed her. Though publicly she was dismissive of Lysandra’s chances against her, she was beginning to think that she would be hard pushed to defeat the young Greek. As each day passed, Lysandra seemed to be growing stronger and more focused.
At first, she had believed that the re-emergence of Nastasen would work against Lysandra, wearing her down mentally. Now she realised that her enemy was using the rapist as a catalyst.
Despite her hatred, she was moved to admiration at Lysandra’s training methods. The former priestess pushed Catuvolcos hard, moving with speed and efficiency, striking her stronger opponent almost at will.
Lysandra, she surmised, was facing her fears in the only way she could: by confronting the man who had raped and tortured her in his own arena. Indeed, she realised that, if she survived, she would emerge from the combat even more powerful, and it was beginning to look by all the gods that she could beat the black warrior.
With Catuvolcos’s aid, her fighting repertoire had certainly increased. He not only gave her experience in fighting a larger, heavier opponent, but also had her performing a punishing callisthenic regime that included lifting heavy weights and other rigorous strength-building exercises, all of which she bore without complaint. Even now, after a gruelling bout with her trainer, Lysandra sprang straight to the heavy iron bars. Red-faced and teeth gritted, she began to lift the weights over her head as Catuvolcos counted out the repetitions.
