‘You did overdo it.’
‘It was that sort of evening. Good fight too,’ she commented.
‘I should have taken her earlier.’
‘You don’t like her, do you?’
‘There is nothing to like.’ Sorina threw up her hands, trying to put into words what she felt in her heart. ‘These Greeks and Romans revel in their achievements but what have their kind brought to the world? The cancer of stone, and the fire of war. Was not the greatest of all Greeks, Alexander, a conqueror, a slayer of nations?
The Romans have their Caesar and have made him a god. Lysandra is a child of this culture and she represents everything I despise.’
Eirianwen sighed. ‘She is just a woman, like you and me, Sorina. She has no wish to be here either.’
Sorina’s laugh was sour. ‘Have you seen her train? She loves it. It is as if she has been doing it for years. Even the beatings she takes. It is like a contest to her. And yet I sense she is still not giving it her all.’
‘Perhaps it is the Greek mindset,’ Eirianwen offered after some thought. ‘Perhaps she too is trying to make the best of her lot.’
‘You sound like a Greek. Mindset!’ she mimicked. ‘Next you will be talking philosophy.’ She used Latin for the word, as there was no Celtic equivalent.
‘Maybe I am becoming a little too civilised for my own good, Sorina!’
‘I am sorry for what I said last night,’ Sorina said earnestly. ‘I was drunk.’
‘As were we all; beer makes bad talk sometimes.’
They rested in companionable silence for a while, enjoying the shared feeling of sisterhood with each other. Neither had set foot in the other’s land, yet the blood of the Tribes stretched over oceans. Truly, it was an empire greater than that forged by the Romans, for it was made whole by kinship, not carved by the sword. Sorina knew the Tribes would endure when the Romans and their stone cities turned to dust. The Earth Mother would not permit their atrocities forever. Indeed, just over ten years since, she had spat her defiance at them, and turned their great city of Pompeii to molten rock. It was a warning the Romans failed to heed, and it would bring them low.
‘Why did you bring Lysandra to our table?’ Sorina asked after some time.
Eirianwen did not respond immediately. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘There is something that draws me to her. I cannot say what it is.’
‘Perhaps you should take her to your bed and get whatever it is out of your system.’ Sorina laughed. ‘Can you imagine it?’ the Dacian hooted. ‘She’s as dry as a bone, that one!’ She wiped her tears of mirth away, noticing that Eirianwen had not joined in the laughter. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘You probably have the rights of it, Sorina. She’d be affronted at the mention of bedding someone. But I don’t feel comfortable mocking her.’
Sorina snickered. ‘Sweet on her, are you?’
‘Of course not,’ Eirianwen said quickly. She seemed to lose herself in thought for long moments, and when she spoke again, her voice was low. ‘But there is something about her, Sorina. I know it.’
Sorina sobered. Eirianwen’s father had been a Druid, a religious leader of the Britons, and in his blood ran the power of that mystical brotherhood. Some of his magic flowed through his daughter, of that she was certain.
‘I feel that our paths are intertwined,’ Eirianwen said. ‘Yours, hers and mine. The Morrigan has had a hand in this.’ Sorina made a sign to ward off evil at the mention of the dark goddess of Fate.
Eirianwen blinked and came back to herself. ‘Fate is her own mistress, Sorina. She will do what she will, and we must follow.
Come,’ she clambered out of the water. ‘Let us find some food.’
Sorina nodded, her thoughts still on Eirianwen’s mention of Morrigan Dark Fate. A Druid’s daughter would not say such things unless the Sight had come through her. That Eirianwen was able to say it was testament only to her youth. Fate was nothing to the young, she thought ruefully. Whilst the body still possessed youth and strength, even the gods themselves could be challenged. Only in the later years did one realise that the greener days would soon turn to autumn.
She looked upon Eirianwen’s faultless, youthful body as she made her way to dry herself. Then she too heaved herself out of the water, her mood sombre once more.
IX
Never in her life had Lysandra been so ill. She had awoken in her cell, face down on the floor, her face and hair crusted with her own vomit, with no memory of how she had got there. It had been all she could do to claw herself on to her cot where she had lain for some hours unable to move.
Her stomach churned, her hands shook and it was as if Hephaestus himself were using her head for an anvil.
Her mood was as sour as her stomach. It was, she told herself, just further evidence that she was unworthy to call herself Spartan.
Were Spartans not famed for their sobriety, disdaining strong drink and rich food? Yet there she had been, drunk as a sack with the barbarians.
And then there was the fight.
Although trained from childhood in the pankration, the Hellenic art of unarmed fighting, Lysandra had failed to win against an old woman. She could blame the drink, blame the fact that she had been unprepared for the assault, but the stark truth of the matter was that she had failed. Failed her Sisterhood, failed her Spartan heritage and failed herself.
She was lost.
The goddess had turned her face away from her, of this she was now certain. She was destined to die a slave, an ignominious end witnessed by a slavering mob. Perhaps she was unworthy of even facing death with a sword in her hand. She might fail in meeting Titus’s exacting standards and be sold on from the ludus.
The sun was at its noon zenith by the time Lysandra felt well enough to even contemplate leaving her cell. The first order of the day was to clean herself and then to clean the cell. As she scrubbed the floor she could not help thinking that this was the sort of work she was destined to do from now on.
The bell for the afternoon meal was sounded and the women gathered for a bowl of brown barley. Lysandra sat with the Hellene women, embarrassed to face either Eirianwen or Sorina: Eirianwen, because she had broken the law of hospitality by causing an argument with her friend; Sorina, because the woman was her better in combat. Though no final blow had been struck, the young Spartan knew the truth of it. The thought surprised her as it came to mind. Never before had she admitted another’s superiority to her own. She left her meal unfinished and returned to her cell, and decided to remain there till the usual regime recommenced the following day. She had no wish to speak to anyone.
Dawn had cast a pink hue to the sky as the women assembled in their usual places, their shuffling feet kicking up a haze of dust. None could contain their curiosity at the transformation that their area of the training ground had undergone. Straw mannequins had been set up at regular intervals, as had wooden crossbeams, from which swung many sandbags. Set at a parallel to this was a long ‘avenue’ with sandbags on both sides. Wooden practice swords were stacked up ominously, a mute testament that the most exacting part of the training was about to begin.
Titus strode up, flanked by Catuvolcos and Nastasen, each of them carrying a bucket and stave. They set these down and Titus gave the women plenty of time to take in the new surroundings before speaking.
‘You all know what is at stake.’ His gravelled voice sounded harsh in the dawn. ‘Your last hope of one day attaining your freedom rests upon how well you learn what we are about to teach you.’ His eyes swept down the lines as they shifted slightly.
Nastasen stepped to the front. ‘Lysandra, come forward!’ he barked.
Lysandra’s lip curled and she glanced at Hildreth who stood next to her. The red-haired German smiled tightly in sympathy.
‘Take off your tunic!’ His teeth showed up impossibly white against his ebony face as it split into a cruel grin. As Lysandra made to comply, the Nubian leant close to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I know you love to display
