wryly. They understood that the derision was not directed at them personally but rather at those who ruled the empire that had enslaved them.
‘Lysandra!’ Catuvolcos called.
Lysandra set her shield and held her sword close to her right hip, its tip pointing upwards at a precise angle. The shield covered her body from eye to knee as she marched deliberately towards the mannequin. When she was only five paces from the mark she suddenly accelerated and the sword thrust out like a viper, the point sinking three inches into the breast of the straw man.
She glanced at Catuvolcos, who merely nodded once, and she returned to the back of the line. It was pointless to charge wildly into the fight, she knew. Slashing strokes with the sword may look more impressive, but her ‘opponent’ was as dead as Hildreth’s and she had expended none of the effort the German had. It was an example of the difference in their psyche, she supposed.
As the sun began to set, Catuvolcos called halt to the day’s proceedings, instructing the women to stack their gear and go for their evening meal. He watched Lysandra, who as always detached herself from the main group, engaging in none of the chatter and camaraderie that the shared learning of new skills had built up among the women. He too had noticed a change in her over the past weeks. The arrogance had gone from her walk and, whilst she performed all exercises and drills adequately, there was a slump in her shoulders. He decided to call her to him, telling himself that she needed his counsel.
‘Your training is progressing well,’ he said as she approached.
She nodded briefly while he found himself becoming distracted by the way the sun had cast a reddish gold tint to her pale, beautiful face. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, but not as well as you could do.’
‘Have I failed in any of the tasks you have set me?’
‘No. But neither have you excelled,’ he said quietly. ‘We know that you are a trained warrior, Lysandra. Where is your fire?’
Catuvolcos felt his throat catch as she smiled at him, realising that this was the only time he had seen her do so with genuine feeling, her face bereft of the usual ironic, sneering cast.
‘I have nothing to fight for,’ she said.
He took a step towards her — too close, he knew, but he could not help himself. ‘Your dignity, Lysandra. You are fighting for your dignity. Soon you will begin your first mock contests and you’ll be judged on them. Those that fail will be sold on. You will become a slave. A true slave. Here, at least there is some semblance of freedom, some chance at regaining a life.’
‘Dignity.’ The cruel mask hardened over her face once more.
‘I have none. This place has stripped it from me. It is better that I go to a life of drudgery than continue on here. Can you not see that wielding weapons is making a mockery of me? I have dishonoured my people,’ she added softly. ‘No Spartan would submit to slavery. I am Spartan no longer. Without that, I am nothing.’
‘You are wrong, Lysandra’ Catuvolcos began, but she jerked her chin up, her pale eyes locking with his, causing the words to die on his tongue.
‘Good evening to you, Catuvolcos.’ She turned and walked away.
He watched her as she made her way to the kitchens, his heart in turmoil. It was only then that he realised that it was the first time he had heard his name spoken from her lips.
XI
The brief conversation with Catuvolcos stayed with Lysandra over the next days. Again she wondered why the trainer was concerning himself with her. Certainly, there were other women more in need of his guidance. This became even more evident when the trainers had them begin sparring sessions.
Weeks of hitting sacks and straw mannequins was one thing, but putting the lessons into practice against a living opponent was a somewhat different matter. For her part, Lysandra found her mind not really on the task at hand, hating the mockery of herself that she had become. Her opponents were trying hard, but their attacks were slow and clumsy to her experienced eye and she was able to dispatch them with a ‘killing’ strike almost at will. Long years in the agoge had taught her body to respond, even if her heart was not in it. Hildreth too, she saw, was cutting a swathe through all set against her. The German was evidently enjoying herself, whooping and shouting with each victory.
In the midst of one of Hildreth’s celebrations, Titus gave the order to cease work. The women stopped, confused. It was nowhere near the noon break and they had only just begun to work up a sweat. Even the veterans had stopped their training and were making their way over to the novices’ area. They sat on the ground, watching as some of Greta’s women brought up some chairs and several long benches. More of the scrubs, including Varia, were marking out a ring in the sand with ropes — Lysandra estimated it was about twenty feet in diameter.
She saw the little slave pause in her work to wave at her, and she inclined her head in greeting. They had seen and spoken to each other often during the second period of the training and the child had come to regard Lysandra as a confidante of sorts.
If she was honest with herself, Lysandra enjoyed the girl’s company too, as it was a diversion from her own thoughts.
‘Today will be different,’ Titus shouted. ‘Today you will fight for the crowd.’ He indicated the veterans. ‘And you will be judged.’ Even as he said this, Lucius Balbus, approached with Eros, his catamite. The lanista sat on one of the chairs and Titus continued.
‘You are fighting for more than practice from now on,’ he said.
‘You are fighting to stay in this ludus.’ The women gasped. This was unexpected. They had had no time to prepare themselves for this test.
‘Those of you that perform well in this arena,’ he gestured to the roped area that Varia and her fellows had marked out, ‘will stay and take the Oath. Those of you that slacken will be gone.
We are looking for effort,’ he went on. ‘Fight well and, even in defeat, you may be spared.’ He thrust his fist towards his chest.
‘That is the sign for the missio, meaning you will have survived.
This,’ he thrust the fist out, his thumb held horizontally, ‘in the arena would mean death. Here, it means you are to go to the blocks. In defeat, to entreat mercy, you turn to the lanista and hold up your finger. It is his decision if you go or stay. He may be influenced by the veterans if they think you will be worthy to take the Oath. That is all. First to fight will be Decia and Sunia.’ The two women looked at each other, stunned by this pronouncement. ‘Next will be Thebe and Galatia. Stay warm,’ he advised them.
On stiff legs, the first chosen stepped up. Nastasen placed helmets upon their heads and moved away.
‘Begin!’ Titus’s voice was sharp. The women moved together, and the cheering started.
Lucius Balbus settled comfortably into his seat, and took a sip of wine from his goblet. Eros stood behind him, holding a shade over his head to shield him from the sun. Balbus always enjoyed these contests: it was good to see first hand which of his acquisitions were worth keeping and which were a bad investment.
Experience had taught him that giving the women time to prepare for these bouts was detrimental to their performance. It was better to thrust the news upon them before they had time to dwell on it and allow nerves to set in.
The first two combatants had begun awkwardly enough but, roared on first by the veterans and then their fellow novices, they laid into each other with gusto. Their high-pitched cries of effort punctuated the air, mixed with the clacking of their wooden blades as the two attacked and countered. After a furious flurry of blows, Sunia struck home with a vicious thrust to Decia’s sternum, knocking the wind from her. She fell back, tearing the helmet from her head, gasping for breath. Balbus had already made up his mind: the two had fought well and, as soon as the girl’s finger went up, he signalled the missio.
The watchers cheered and the next two women made their way the fighting area.
Lysandra watched the combats with a sick feeling of dread welling up inside her. Now, it became apparent why she and Hildreth had not been paired together before. The trainers had planned it all along. They had kept them back, knowing that they were the superior warriors amongst the novices.
Despite the heat of the day, Lysandra felt a cold sweat break out on her brow. Her stomach churned and, on
