before, but had always shunned them.
It was forbidden for a Spartan priestess to engage in congress with a man.
Lysandra stripped off her tunic and lay on her cot, staring into the blackness. Obscured by the heavy door, she could hear the now familiar sounds of the ludus preparing for slumber: doors slammed shut; women called endearments to each other before sleeping; the guttural male voices of guards and trainers hurried them to their cells. She found herself straining to hear Catuvolcos’s lilting accent among them.
She could not help but bring the Gaul’s face to mind. He was, in his barbaric way, handsome. And, as Thebe had pointed out, very muscular. The way a man should be. Lysandra felt a warmth in her stomach as she thought of him then. Self consciously, she ran a hand over her breasts, trying to imagine it was Catuvolcos touching her. Her nipples hardened at her caress and her skin became hot, tingling with a delicious sensation. Her hand crept guiltily to between her thighs and she began to stroke herself, her mind swimming with images of flesh on flesh. She moaned softly in the dark, biting her lip lest anyone hear her at this iniquitous self-pleasuring. She let her mind drift, swimming in images of desire. But as her passion heightened it was not Catuvolcos she saw. Her climax burst through her with powerful suddenness at this realisation, the chains of her well-learned restraint breaking as wave upon wave of joy flooded through her.
She lay still, her heart pounding. As the glow of her orgasm faded, the image in her mind did not. As she drifted into sleep, the face behind her eyes was Eirianwen’s.
XVI
‘Well, well, well,’ Sorina grunted as she and Eirianwen pulled themselves up on the chin bar.
‘What?’ The Briton was trying to blow a sweat-slicked strand of hair from her mouth.
‘The Spartan has woken up.’ Sorina released her grip and dropped to the ground, flexing her wrists and fingers. ‘Look over at the novices.’
‘You’ve made me lose count,’ Eirianwen complained, she too letting go. She tilted her head, her eyes following the Amazon’s gaze. Through the throng she picked out the raven-haired Lysandra sparring with a German novice. Her moves were assured, economical and, Eirianwen noticed, dangerously quick. ‘She’s toying with her,’ she murmured.
‘Aye.’ Sorina nodded. ‘That she is.’ She winced as Lysandra felled her opponent with a vicious strike to the stomach. ‘See that? She fights like a Roman. Rarely swings the blade, stab, stab, always stabbing.’
Eirianwen shrugged. ‘It takes discipline but lacks power. I couldn’t do it. The sword is an art, not…’ She looked at Sorina, gesturing.
‘Science?’ the Amazon finished for her in Latin.
‘Yes.’ Eirianwen smiled. ‘She is good, but she will never understand the spirit of combat. A Roman and Greek trait.’
‘Having a breather, girls?’ Catuvolcos’s voice cut through their conversation.
Sorina glanced at him. ‘We were just admiring Balbus’s pet Spartan.’ She jerked her chin as Lysandra began to assail another German.
‘Lysandra?’ Catuvolcos turned too fast, craning his neck to see across the crowded training area. He flushed when he turned back, noticing the arch gaze of both women upon him. ‘I am glad to see she is on her feet,’ he muttered.
‘Your concern is too keen,’ Eirianwen said. ‘Your eyes betray you.’
Catuvolcos cleared his throat. ‘I don’t like to see a good fighter finished by the head wound. It would have been a waste.’
Eirianwen gave him a meaningful look.
‘Shouldn’t you two be working?’ The big Gaul began to bluster. ‘There is a spectacle coming soon,’ he added. ‘Rather sweat now than bleed later! Come, to the swords with you!’
Sorina moved off, but Eirianwen regarded Catuvolcos, suddenly angered for reasons she could not understand. ‘You should stay away from her!’ she snapped, and followed Sorina.
They made their way to the armoury, Sorina expressing a desire to fight as the heavily armed secutorix. To complement her, Eirianwen chose the net and trident of the retiaria as the two styles were often pitted against each other.
‘What do you think?’ Sorina asked as the Briton assisted her with her armour.
Eirianwen snorted. ‘He’s pining for Lysandra,’ she said. ‘It’s written all over his face.’
‘That’s typical of men,’ Sorina spat. ‘They’re always thinking with their pricks.’
‘I think it might be a little deeper than that as far as he’s concerned,’ Eirianwen muttered.
‘I doubt it. All men are pigs. They only want one thing, and to get it they will run in circles. Once it’s been attained, they revert back into swine. Besides,’ she flexed her arms, testing the tightness of the leather protection Eirianwen had tied in place.
‘The lanista will have his balls for breakfast if he tries anything with her. Catuvolcos knows the rules.’
‘You’ve never had much time for men, Sorina.’ Eirianwen put her hands on her hips, admiring her handiwork.
‘Of course not. I am Chieftain of the Horse Clan. We take men only to replenish the tribe. Once their purpose is served, what use are they? I certainly wouldn’t want one lying around my tent, farting and scratching himself all day long.’
Eirianwen retrieved a wooden trident and hefted it. ‘There is more to men than scratching and farting,’ she said, laughing.
Sorina’s mock dourness had broken her own fit of pique, she realised.
‘Yes.’ Sorina’s voice was solemn, but her eyes sparkled with mirth. ‘They think both actions are amusing and look for approval when they do it.’
Eirianwen shook her head. ‘Come!’ she said, waving the trident lightly at the older woman. ‘Let us see if these are some pricks you can handle.’
Sorina grinned at the quip and picked up one of the heavy shileds. The two women moved away from the armoury and all banter between them ceased. Combat was not a game. The time for friendship was over. The Amazon raised her wooden sword, indicating she was ready, and Eirianwen moved in to the attack.
At the day’s end, Titus and trainers called the novices together.
As they assembled, Lysandra noted Catuvolcos watching her, but she looked away quickly, the jibes of her Hellene compatriots still fresh in her mind. The trainers had set up a small table behind which sat Eros, Balbus’s catamite. The youth had a stylus in his hand.
Hildreth sat on the ground next to her. ‘Hello, Lysandra. How are you today?’ she ritualised. Lysandra grinned tightly at her, not knowing how Hildreth would act towards her now that they had fought.
‘I am well, Hildreth. How are you?’
‘I am very well. My Latin is well. How is your head?’
‘Still on my shoulders, apparently,’ Lysandra muttered.
‘What?’ Hildreth shouted.
‘My head is well, thank you.’
‘That is good,’ Hildreth grinned, a little condescendingly for Lysandra’s liking. ‘You fought shit.’
Lysandra grimaced; of course Hildreth’s Latin was learned by hearsay, but there was no need to resort to vulgarity. ‘Yes, you are correct, I did.’
‘Never mind,’ the German punched her on the arm — too hard. ‘We all have shit days.’ Lysandra nodded, and turned away, rolling her eyes. She did not need to be reminded.
‘Shut up, all of you!’ Titus bawled. Instantly, all chatter ceased.
Responses to orders, Lysandra noted, were now becoming second nature to the women.
‘Penelope,’ Lysandra heard Thebe whisper from somewhere behind her. ‘It’s your boyfriend. Look how handsome he is. And so mature.’ There was some tittering, and Penelope’s response was so obscene it boarded on the blasphemous.
‘Your training is coming to an end,’ Titus’s harsh voice rang out. ‘The lanista has secured a contract for this
