Eirianwen smiled her beautiful smile. ‘Oh, my match will not be for some days yet, but all will be well. Britannica is a fearsome warrior.’ She referred to herself by her arena name.
Lysandra laughed. ‘Britannica has competition. Achillia the Spartan will be more famous.’
‘Achillia the Spartan is soft underneath her armour,’ Eirianwen said, and winked. ‘I know all her vulnerable parts.’
Lysandra desperately wanted to kiss her then, but held back, aware that there were too many eyes about. She saw Eirianwen wanted it too, but they stepped apart. ‘Good luck, Eirianwen.’
‘And to you.’ Eirianwen paused. ‘Spartan.’ With that she turned away, and was gone.
Lysandra watched her until she was lost in the crowd before turning her attention back to the arena where elaborate, forest-themed scenery was being set up.
‘You scratched your itch then.’ Sorina’s tone was scathing.
The more experienced gladiatrices had gathered together in a large cell. Well used to the arena itinerary, they had long since lost the desire to watch all the proceedings. Eirianwen looked up from tying her sandals, and nodded.
‘Indeed. But I think the itch will not go away.’
‘Pah!’ Sorina spat. ‘She is a Greek, and they are worse than Romans. I will not have one of the tribe consorting with those animals. Use her body, druid’s daughter, but that must be as far as it goes.’
Eirianwen got to her feet, her blue eyes blazing. ‘You might be chieftain in this place, Sorina, but you do not own me.’
‘No,’ Sorina said. ‘I do not. Balbus does, and he is from the same type as her who you now are so eager to pleasure.’
‘Your hatred has made you bitter. I take my joy where I can find it, and I find joy in Lysandra.’
‘Oh, Lysandra, is it? Not Spartan. Not Greek.’ Sorina shook her head in disgust. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’
Eirianwen burned with the desire to lash out at the older woman but tribal custom forbade it; Sorina was the chieftain and her word was law. She shook her head and sat down, her attention fixed on her sandals.
‘I hope she dies,’ Sorina said. ‘Then perhaps you will remember where your true loyalties lie.’ She stalked out without another word.
Lysandra was joined in her watching by Hildreth.
‘Hello, Lysandra, how are you today?’ The German spoke their ritual greeting.
‘I am well, Hildreth, how are you?’
‘I am well,’ Hildreth responded gravely, her eyes turning to the sands. A bizarre tableau was being played out, as a dozen or more horsewomen plunged through the staged forest scenery.
‘What is this?’
‘Criminal executions,’ Lysandra said. ‘Those women on horses are hunting men in the ‘forest’. It is an unusual turn for the games, I think.’
‘How so?’
‘Usually, there are wild beast hunts followed by criminal executions. It seems as though the editor has decided to mix the two.
By all accounts, Hildreth, these games in which we make our first marks are special and unusual.’
‘They are excellent riders,’ the German noted.
‘They are from Thessaly. It is in the north of Hellas. The people there are noted for their horsemanship.’
Hildreth grunted appreciatively as one of the Thessalian women speared a hapless youth to encouraging applause from the thick-ening crowd. ‘You are ready for your fight?’ she asked, her eyes not moving from the arena.
‘Of course.’ Lysandra’s reply was haughty. Hildreth’s consistent arrogance about their first encounter was becoming insufferable.
That she had fought badly was one thing, but that Hildreth was acting as if she were somehow superior was patently outrageous.
She turned her attention back to the drama being played out in the forest.
One of the Thessalian horsewomen had been taken down by a group of the ‘prey’ and the men were extracting a grisly revenge on her prone form, hacking into her with her own sword. The woman howled for aid and was derided by the crowd. With a final slash, however, one of the condemned chopped the rider’s head from her neck cutting her cries short.
The prisoners exulted, but their joy was short-lived as other mounted warriors, alerted by their now fallen comrade, galloped into view.
Lysandra was shocked as the men were dispatched like so many animals; it offended her that they were scarcely given a fighting chance. No matter what their transgressions, it seemed barbaric in the extreme to butcher them so. Perhaps, at times, Sorina’s view of Rome was not so awry.
‘Don’t fight shit again!’ Hildreth said, interrupting her thoughts.
‘It is for real out there,’ she added as another of the unfortunate prey in the forest was skewered.
‘I will not, of that I can assure you,’ Lysandra replied tersely.
She spun on her heel and left Hildreth to her watching.
Lysandra returned to find the Hellene women. They sat in silence, each lost in thought. She thought to say some encouraging words but held her tongue. Perhaps they needed this time to reflect, to steel themselves for the coming trials. With little else to do, Lysandra sat, and her mind turned to Eirianwen. She shook her head, irritated with herself. She too had to focus on her combat.
It was not the Spartan way to err towards distraction. Despite her feelings for the tribeswoman, she must cast her from her mind. She once again considered that she was blessed: Hellene by birth, Spartan by the grace of the Gods as the saying went.
Only a Spartan could have such control of her emotions, she knew. It was what made them superior to all others.
Stick emerged from the gloom of the catacombs, his ugly face twisted in a grin. In his hand he carried a bucket of oil. ‘It’s almost time,’ he said. ‘The executions are about to finish.’ This pronouncement caused a stir among the women. ‘You had better start to get ready.’
‘Who is to fight first?’ Thebe wanted to know. There was a crack in her voice that Lysandra recognised as the beginning of fear.
‘Why, our Spartan, of course,’ Stick said. He set down the oil and left with a small wave.
Lysandra smiled tightly, and pulled her tunic away, tossing it to Danae. The Spartan rolled her head, loosening the muscles in her neck, casting all thought from her mind. Victory lay in preparedness, in training. The mind must be given over to reaction, not thought. Thus, she performed her callisthenics without being aware of her routine. Her body began to sweat and her muscles relaxed — she felt no tension as she worked, her mind clear and prepared.
She stooped and took a handful of the oil Stick had left them and slicked it through her hair, scraping the raven locks back severely. As if by unspoken order, Thebe approached and tied back her hair. The Corinthian took some oil, and began to work it into the scarred muscles of Lysandra’s back, whilst Danae came forward and, kneeling, began to apply the unguent to her legs and torso. As the two worked on her, Lysandra found that the application of the oil was somehow cathartic. It was as if with each pass of her companion’s hands she was less Lysandra and more Achillia, that the unguent was somehow an armour that protected her true self from the arena fighter that was Achillia.
Danae and Thebe stepped back admiring their handiwork, nodding appreciatively at Lysandra’s body gleaming slightly in the torchlight. Clad only in the subligaculum loincloth, her pale skin gave her the appearance of a marble statue.
‘You are as ready as you’ll ever be,’ Danae said.
Lysandra stepped forward and, flanked by Thebe and Danae, made her way towards the Gate of Life.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Thebe whispered as they walked. ‘All will be well.’
‘Do not be absurd,’ Lysandra murmured. ‘Spartans fear nothing.’
‘Well, I’m afraid.’ Thebe was waspish. ‘How can you be so calm?’
Lysandra glanced at her. ‘Because I know I am going to win.’
