brawl between them.
‘You don’t matter enough to have offended me, girl,’ Sorina sneered. ‘You and those others,’ she gestured to the Hellene women,
‘are just fodder for the arena. It’s a rare novice that lasts. And you don’t have what it takes.’
‘You’re drunk.’ Lysandra’s own voice was harsh. ‘But there is no need to insult me.’
‘Of course I’m drunk. To be drunk before battle is to honour one’s gods. You should know that, being a priestess and all.’
‘We do not honour Athene by falling around in a stupor. It is foolish to fight with a thick head.’
‘You trust your goddess, yes?’ Sorina placed her cup on the table between them.
‘Naturally.’
‘Then if you are marked to die it will make no difference if you are drunk or sober, will it? For a priestess, you have remarkably little faith.’
Lysandra stood, her frame rigid. ‘I came to wish you well, but I will not play the whipping girl to a drunken old hag who swims in liquor and past glories.’ She stalked away before Sorina could respond. She breathed out, forcing the anger from her body. Suddenly, she had a headache, and decided to retire for the night.
The cell of course was empty, the other women making the most of the freedom the revels offered. She removed her sandals and sat on her bunk, pulling her knees up to her chin, her thoughts turning inevitably to the morrow and what it might bring. She did not fear the coming of daylight. Rather she felt a keen sense of anticipation. The Athenian priest had been right when he had challenged her. A lifetime of training served no purpose unless that training was tested. What use was the sharpest sword if it were left in its scabbard? How could one truly know the mettle of the blade save for matching it against another? That she would defeat her enemy was undoubted and all would know that it was a Spartan who was victrix. The thought warmed her and she smiled slightly to herself.
The cell door opened, causing Lysandra to start from her reverie.
She turned sharply to see Eirianwen silhouetted in the half-light.
She was holding a carafe idly in her hand, her face turned away as she addressed the guard. A few words were heard exchanged with the unmistakable clink of coin changing hands. Eirianwen moved into the cell, shutting the door behind her.
‘I brought you some wine,’ she said simply. Without waiting for an invitation, she made her way to the bunk and sat opposite Lysandra.
Lysandra felt her mouth go dry and butterflies flitted insanely deep inside her. Her hands suddenly became cold and damp, her heart beating a little faster. ‘I am not drinking tonight,’ she said, embarrassed at her feelings.
‘Nonsense!’ Eirianwen handed her the carafe. ‘I have mixed it three parts water, one part wine as you Greeks like it.’
Lysandra smiled at her, finding it easy to forgive her Latin usage. Normally, being referred to as Greek was offensive to her but, from Eirianwen’s lips, it was not so. ‘Well,’ she said, shrugging, ‘why not?’ She felt the tribeswoman’s eyes upon her as she drank and found she could not meet her gaze.
‘You mustn’t mind Sorina,’ Eirianwen said softly. ‘She is spiteful when in her cups. I came to apologise for her. Lysandra, you may think of us as barbarians but we too have our rules of…’ she looked up to the ceiling, gesturing.
‘Etiquette,’ Lysandra finished for her.
‘Yes!’ Eirianwen snapped her fingers. ‘Etiquette. Sorina was rude, but she is drunk. She will regret her words in the morning.’
Lysandra passed her the wine. ‘ In vino veritas, Eirianwen. She holds a dislike for me.’
‘She dislikes all Greeks and Romans… No,’ she shook her head, ‘she dislikes what Greeks and Romans represent. Civilisation, the Law of Man, straight roads and philosophers’ words. All this is against the Earth Mother. It is unnatural and it is wrong to go against the way of the goddess.’
‘I am a Priestess of Athene,’ Lysandra noted. She kept her tone gentle, and was surprised to find she was not affronted by Eirianwen’s theology.
‘ Ath-e-ne,’ Eirianwen repeated the unfamiliar word. ‘That is so Greek.’ She laughed somewhat tipsily. ‘It is the civilised way to put everything in a box. Ath… ene is only an aspect of the Great Mother. As is your Juno, Venus and all those others.’ She used the Roman names for the goddesses, but, Lysandra realised, they were all she would have heard.
‘It is not the night for theological discourse,’ Lysandra said after a moment’s thought. Eirianwen’s views were somewhat offensive and patently incorrect. She was, however, unwilling to put this to voice. She cast her eyes down and her gaze fell upon the Silurian’s feet. They were small, much more so than her own, and exquisitely beautiful. She swallowed. ‘We should focus on tomorrow and the trials it will bring.’ Eirianwen shuffled a little closer to her on the cot. She leant towards the Spartan, so that their faces almost touched.
‘Are you afraid?’ she murmured.
‘Spartans fear nothing.’ Lysandra’s habitual response was a whisper. She looked up, her gaze locked with Eirianwen’s and she found she could not break it.
‘But you are trembling.’
‘No I’m not…’
Her words were cut short as Eirianwen’s lips found her own. The kiss was soft and Lysandra’s mouth yielded to its caress. The trembling inside her melted away at the Silurian’s embrace, fading to a warmth that she had not felt before. She felt herself drifting, surren-dering to bliss. Eirianwen’s mouth brushed slowly downward, paying exquisite attention to Lysandra’s neck, causing her body to tingle.
Somewhere, at the back of her mind, Lysandra knew she must put a stop to this before it went too far. Certainly, she knew her sisters at the temple often practised Sapphic love, considering it was not a breach of their vow. In the ludus too, all the women released their tensions in such a manner. But never before had she been prey to the weakness of her flesh — that she should succumb to her lust so easily shamed her.
But even as she thought this, she found her arms lifting above her head, as Eirianwen pulled her tunic gently from her. She sat before her, naked and suddenly shy of her body in a way she had never been before. She made to cover her breasts with her arm, but Eirianwen’s hand intercepted her movement. Looking into her eyes, she placed her fingers on Lysandra’s shoulders and ran them lightly downwards. Lysandra’s lips parted in anticipation as Eirianwen’s touch drew closer to her almost painfully erect nipples.
‘You are beautiful, Lysandra.’
These words caused a lurch in Lysandra’s heart and she reached out tentatively to touch the tribeswoman. Eirianwen lowered her head, her lips seeking the swell of the Spartan’s breasts. Lysandra let her head fall back, succumbing to this delicious ministration, her whole body, her whole being becoming alive with sensation.
She heard herself sob with pleasure as the warm wetness of Eirianwen’s mouth closed over her nipple, drawing it in, tongue rolling over it with maddening intensity.
When she drew away, a moan of disappointment escaped Lysandra’s lips. But then she looked up to see Eirianwen lifting her own tunic to reveal such magnificence, such faultless beauty that Lysandra thought she would weep. She had thought the large breasts of the Celtic women unattractive but, as her eyes drank in the sight of Eirianwen’s flesh, she knew that she had never seen anything as lovely. A fierce desire seized her and she pulled Eirianwen close, seeking her lips with her own. They kissed, and Lysandra felt a delerious passion flood through her, so strong that it threatened to break her heart.
Then, almost imperceptibly, Eirianwen pushed her onto her back and moved up her body. She lay on top of her, her breasts swaying tantalisingly close to Lysandra’s mouth. She lifted her head to taste the proffered bounty and tried to do as Eirianwen had done to her, alternately teasing the areola with her teeth, then paying soft attention to the delicate bud of her nipple.
‘Am I doing this right?’ she whispered urgently, suddenly fearful.
‘Is it good for you?’
Eirianwen laughed softly. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, easing her body lower so that Lysandra could reach her without lifting her head. ‘You are wonderful.’
They lay like that for some time until Eirianwen began to journey downwards, tracing her tongue ever lower. Lysandra stretched out her arms, tensing the muscles in her shoulders as she felt the tease of teeth on the soft
