yourself for me but I haven’t got the time to pleasure you now.’ She did not respond, looking resolutely to the front as she tossed her tunic to the ground.
‘You are going to learn how to fight and move with skill.’
Nastasen indicated the pile of swords. ‘In time it will become instinctive to you. But always remember that there are but three rules to gladiatorial combat.’ He stooped and retrieved a stave from one of the buckets, its sponge tip was coated in red paint.
‘First rule.’ Nastasen pointed the stave towards Lysandra. ‘You get an instant kill on the red. Here, here.’ He daubed a liberal amount of the fluid between her breasts and at the hollow of her neck. ‘Always remember, go for the red first. Because if you don’t your opponent will.’ He replaced the red stave and picked another. This time the tip was blue.
‘In the blue you get a cripple,’ he said. He smeared uneven lines down Lysandra’s pale arms and thighs. ‘Second rule. Go for the cripple before the slow kill. Here is the slow kill on the yellow.’ He swapped staves once again. ‘Here, here and here,’ he said as he drew across her stomach and sides. ‘Remember, a slow kill might have enough left in her and kill you before she dies.
With a cripple, you know you’ve got her if you keep your distance and wear her down.’ He thrust a towel at Lysandra. ‘Clean up, get dressed and get back in line!’
As she returned to her place, Catuvolcos now took his turn, casting a wry glance at Nastasen. He shook his head whilst the black giant’s eyes were not on him, causing some of the women to grin in response.
‘Go and get yourselves a sword each and make it quick!’ he said. This done, he regarded them for a moment. ‘Yes, heavy, aren’t they?’ Some assented with a nod. ‘These are called rudis. They’re twice as heavy as any iron blade you’ll ever carry — so when it comes to the real thing, your weapon will feel as light as a feather.
Watch, and copy me. This is the basic thrust.’ He lunged forward with the weapon. Raggedly, the women complied. ‘Pathetic,’ he said. ‘Try again…’
Titus watched as the Gaul took the novices through a funda-mental drill, assessing their moves. His eyes were drawn to the Spartan and the fiery-haired German, Hildreth. These two moved with a practised ease, the exercises familiar to them. Yet he saw a disconcerting look in Lysandra’s eyes as she worked. Increasingly, she was becoming more detached. He knew that she could fight, that much Stick had told him, and the fact that she had been trained was evident. Yet as each day passed, her effort, her will to continue, seemed to be leeching away from her.
‘What do you think about Lysandra,’ he said to Nastasen. ‘You seem to have beaten the fight out of her.’
Nastasen grunted. ‘She is an arrogant bitch. She looks at each of us as if we are but dirt beneath her feet.’
Titus looked straight at him. ‘Stick said she knew how to fight, Nastasen. If she deserves a beating, then administer one. But from now on you leave your hatred of her away from my training ground. I don’t need damaged goods. Is that clear?’
‘Of course.’ The big Nubian shrugged, trying to assume an air of nonchalance, but Titus could see the rage seething behind his eyes. Thrashing the haughty Greek gave Nastasen altogether too much pleasure.
‘Go and work with the veterans today,’ Titus said. Nastasen nodded and made off without another word.
Catuvolcos kept the novices working hard, teaching them the rudiments of swordplay. ‘Everything starts and stops at the same time,’ he repeated over and over, attempting to commit this to their memories. ‘It’s no good to strike, then move in. Everything starts and stops at the same time. The body moves as one.’
As the Gaul looked after the overall drills, Titus moved amongst the novices, correcting stances and form with a word here and there, often punctuating his remarks with a swat from the vine staff.
His eye fell upon Lysandra as she performed Catuvolcos’s commands. Her movements were perfect but he could tell her mind was elsewhere. He walked up and slapped her on the rump with his staff. ‘Come, Spartan! Keep your mind here, not in the clouds!’
The strange ice-coloured eyes flicked towards him for the fraction of an instant. ‘My name is Lysandra,’ she said, her voice strangely subdued. ‘Not Spartan.’
‘Put some effort into it, girl.’ He ignored the statement.
‘Concentrate on your task at hand.’
Lysandra frowned and continued, putting more vigour into her movements. Titus could tell that the increased effort was a facade. He shook his head and moved off, bawling at one of the Germans.
For Lysandra, the day passed slowly. The exercises were tiresome for her, and the hours passed in a haze as she moved from one drill to the next, not really hearing anything that Catuvolcos said.
It was enough for her to catch a glance of his initial demonstration to ascertain the pattern the work would follow.
There was no honour in this she told herself. It was a waste of time. At least in the Temple her training had been in worship of the goddess. Bringing Sparta to mind caused her to flush with shame; she was a slave, and unworthy to console herself with daydreams of a home that was no longer hers.
She was just Lysandra now.
X
They were drilled unceasingly each day, the trainers becoming ever more critical of their efforts, demanding perfection from each movement. And as their skill increased, so their exercises became more complex. From merely standing and executing strikes they advanced to moving forwards, backwards; they were taught to change the angle of their attack; to turn with speed and efficiency.
From striking empty air they moved to the sandbags. The trainers would set the heavy canvas sacks swinging and the novices were to strike the moving targets.
‘It’s simple,’ Stick bawled at them. ‘Hit the mark or be hit yourselves.’ A miss would result in a sharp blow from his vine staff. Even as Stick hurled abuse supplemented by physical threat, Catuvolcos played accompaniment to him, constantly exhorting the women that ‘Everything starts and stops at the same time.
You must flow around your opponent. Lose the tension in your bodies.’
As the weeks passed the novices learned quickly, even gaining the grudging approval of Titus. From hitting the sandbags, they advanced to running the gauntlet, weaving their way through the wooden avenues as the canvass bags were swung at them. Satisfied with their coordination, Titus gave the order that they were ready to move on to the more complex combination drills, using the sword and shield in concert.
They were given the scutum, the shield common to the Legions of Rome. As Lysandra hefted the unfamiliar item, she noted it was much lighter than the Hellene hoplon she was used to. The scutum was tall, protecting one’s own body, whereas the round, bowl-shaped hoplon was designed primarily to defend the person to one’s left in the Hellene phalanx.
It made sense, she thought to herself. The ancient Hellene phalanx was a massed formation, using the spear as the primary weapon of attack. The legionary relied on the sword and thus needed more personal protection. In single combat, she knew, the weight of the hoplon would prove more of a hindrance than a help.
Catuvolcos bade them form lines in front of the straw mannequins. ‘This,’ he told them, ‘is your enemy. You must see this in your mind. Strike hard and fast, as you would against a real opponent.’
Lysandra stood behind Hildreth. Having seen the German perform her drills, she knew that the redhead was an accomplished swordswoman.
‘Treat that as your enemy?’ Hildreth called out in her thickly accented Latin, gesturing with her sword.
Catuvolcos nodded, and at that Hildreth took off at a run towards one of the straw men screaming, ‘Death to the Romans!’ which provoked scattered laughter from the barbarian tribeswomen.
Hildreth’s wooden blade whistled as it cut through the air in a broad strike, hitting the mannequin’s head, causing hanks of straw to explode skywards. Not content with decapitating her inanimate foe, she bashed her shield into it, hacking down with her weapon in a frenzy.
Catuvolcos laughed. ‘Brutal, but effective, Hildreth! Good work.
The Roman is dead!’ The barbarian women cheered at that, and even the Romans among the novices grinned
