It was right that this should be so.
They entered the city quietly, the caravan winding its way through the narrow streets of Halicarnassus. The night air had turned chill and not a few of the women, roused into wakefulness by the movement of the carts, shivered quietly. Time crawled by slowly in the netherworld between dusk and dawn, but eventually the train reached the great arena and, with almost military precision, the women were ensconced in purpose-built gaols, which were situated around and beneath the arena complex. The cells were large and, the women were surprised to discover, comfortable.
Certainly the accommodation was preferable to the tiny cells they slept in at the ludus. Exhausted by the uncomfortable journey, they fell into slumber. A few of Lysandra’s compatriots stayed awake, chatting into the night, before she admonished them to sleep. It would, she told them, be a testing day to come.
Nastasen and Stick roused them much later than was usual, and hustled them into a large courtyard; they were ordered to strip their dirty tunics and were sluiced down with water. The morning was already warm and the cold water served to revive and invigorate.
‘Not as good as a bath,’ Nastasen laughed. ‘But we have to have you looking your best for the parade.’
‘Parade?’ Lysandra glanced at Danae, who shrugged.
‘Not that you’ll be leaving for some time yet. Obviously, the people have come to see the male fighters. You women will walk behind them.’ Lysandra caught sight of Sorina, who spat on the ground at these words. Nastasen began to walk down the line of women, thrusting clean clothing into their hands. ‘One size fits all,’ he said. ‘We’ve even brought your sandals so your delicate little toes don’t get stubbed.’ The Nubian gave Lysandra a greenish tunic which she held up critically.
‘Do you have a red one?’ she asked.
Nastasen stopped in his tracks and turned back. ‘Why?’ he said after some time, his dark eyes glittering.
‘Spartans wear red, Nastasen.’
The trainer seemed to mull that over. ‘Do they, now?’ He jerked his chin, indicating that Lysandra toss the green tunic back to him. ‘Fucking Spartans!’ he muttered and continued doling out his supply of clothing, leaving Lysandra standing naked.
It took some time but, with Stick’s aid, all the women were given new attire, save Lysandra who was left without. Though there was no shame in nakedness, she knew that this action had been taken to humiliate her and she felt it keenly.
‘You see,’ Nastasen swaggered past her, his voice loud. ‘Our Spartan here didn’t like my choice of tunic. That’s too bad.’ He turned and leered at her. ‘Still, I will not be called unreasonable.’
This caused derisive laughter from all those women who were not in his direct line of sight. The enmity between trainer and fighter was well known amongst the famillia. ‘So our Spartan will walk the streets naked. Gymnos,’ he added in Hellenic. He stepped in closer to her. ‘Unless you want to give me something to change my mind,’ he whispered, his big hand reaching out to stoke her thigh. His nostrils flared as Lysandra flinched at his touch and he moved his hand upward.
‘Do not.’ Lysandra’s voice was cold.
‘I think you might like it,’ Nastasen grunted, stroking her sparse pubic hair beneath his fingers.
It was too much. Lysandra felt her temper snap, and she lunged forward, her forehead smashing into the trainer’s face, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone as his nose shattered. Nastasen bellowed in pain and staggered back clutching his face, blood pouring from between his fingers. The women cheered enthusiastically at this rebellion.
‘I’ll kill you!’ the Nubian hissed, drawing his vine staff. Lysandra moved from her rank, finding herself eager for the confrontation. Nastasen screamed and lunged at her, the vine staff hissing through the air. Lysandra stepped back, avoiding the wild swings, and countered by lashing out with a kick, catching the rage-blinded trainer in the midriff. But the strike did not slow the powerful warrior. In a rush he was on top of her, his great weight bearing her to the ground, the vine staff at her throat. ‘Now!’ he screamed, spittle foaming on his lips.
Lysandra could not move, Nastasen had her pinned, immobile.
She tried to thrust her hips up to dislodge him, but his weight was too great. Blood pounded in her ears and white sparks began to burst in front of her eyes.
Suddenly, his hands left her and she rolled away, retching and choking. She looked about, seeking the trainer, and saw that he too had fallen to the ground, holding the side of his face. Catuvolcos was there, his own vine staff in his hand. Somewhere she could hear Stick screaming for the guards.
‘Leave her be!’ Catuvolcos shouted, stepping between her and the Nubian. Nastasen surged to his feet and was about to advance on his fellow trainer. The prison guards had come running and, though none could match either Catuvolcos or Nastasen in size and strength, they were of sufficient numbers to drag the two apart.
Stick was furious, hopping from foot to foot. ‘What do you think you are doing!’ He was beside himself. ‘You stupid bastard!’
This he levelled at Nastasen. Still held by the guards, the Nubian roared and tried to break free. That was enough for Stick. ‘Bind him!’ he ordered the guards. There was no way to subdue the huge warrior, save for the most basic: the guards began to rain blows down on their captive, knocking the fight from him before hurling him to the ground and slapping manacles into place.
Catuvolcos broke free of his own captors and rushed to Lysandra’s side. Gently, he lifted her head from the ground, cradling it as softly as he would a child’s. ‘Are you all right?’ he said, his green eyes full of concern.
‘I just wanted a red tunic,’ Lysandra croaked, gingerly rubbing her throat.
‘Get away from her!’ Stick aimed a kick at Catuvolcos’s rump.
The Gaul turned angrily but Stick held up his hand. ‘Don’t! We have enough troubles now.’ At this he began screaming at the guards to get both Nastasen and the women into cells.
‘I am uninjured,’ Lysandra said. ‘Really, Catuvolcos, I am well.’
Catuvolcos smiled gently at her, and helped her to her feet. When they stood, he did not let her go, seemingly reluctant to break the contact of her skin on his own. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
Stick thrust them apart. ‘What the fuck is this?’ Catuvolcos began to speak, but the Stick cut him off. ‘No, I don’t want to hear it. Get out of here, Catuvolcos! I mean it.’ The Gaul glowered at him but moved off. ‘And you…’ Stick turned to Lysandra, placing his vine staff on her chest. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble.
Come with me!’
Lucius Balbus steepled his fingers and regarded the naked Spartan standing before him. Stick had taken the precaution of having her arms and legs manacled and she appeared very much the defiant warrior captured.
‘She head-butted Nastasen,’ Stick said. ‘She’s a troublemaker, Balbus, and well you know it. This sort of defiance can spread and, before you know it, we’ll have a riot on our hands.’
Balbus motioned Stick to silence. ‘Why?’ he asked her directly.
‘He was trying to touch me. In my private place. We are not whores, lanista, and I resented his familiarity.’
‘One of the guards says that you refused to wear clothing offered you, Lysandra. Is that not so?’
‘It is so,’ she agreed. ‘I asked Nastasen if I could wear a red tunic. I did not think that this would be an issue. It is the colour of Sparta.’
Balbus leant back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. It was a trifling matter, but Titus had told him of the Nubian’s dislike for Lysandra. A simple request that should have had no consequence had now escalated into a brawl between trainer and gladiatrix. Proud Lysandra and stupid Nastasen. By rights, he should have the girl crucified before the entire famillia for her insubordination.
Should, but could not. She had just cost him twenty thousand denarii, and he could not simply nail that investment to a chunk of wood to watch it wither and die. Aside from which, Falco’s promotion had billed her on the under card as Achillia of Sparta and Lysandra was quite correct: everyone knew that Spartan warriors wore red. Balbus’s head throbbed. He could not even punish her, as she was to fight on the morrow and would certainly be killed if fresh lash wounds hampered her. He toyed with the idea of pulling her from the contest and replacing her with another but quickly dismissed it. He had to see if the girl was worth his indulgence.
He turned his gaze to Lysandra once again. ‘You will fight tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘On return to the ludus, you will be given twenty lashes for your disobedience. Guards!’ Two of his men came trotting at his call. ‘Take her to her cell!’ he ordered. ‘And get her a red tunic!’
Stick sat down opposite the lanista. ‘I don’t know what to do about her,’ he said when Lysandra had been led
