The Egyptian cast her net early in the match, but Thebe had avoided the entangling ropes, and pressed close to the other woman, forcing her to use the trident as a staff not a stabbing weapon, thus negating the advantage in reach the pole arm was supposed to give.
It proved decisive.
In the midst of a vicious exchange, Thebe succeeded in breaking through her opponent’s guard, and plunged her sword into the other woman’s chest, ending the contest abruptly. The Egyptian fell back, dead before she hit the sands.
The crowd erupted at the clean kill, hailing ‘Heraclea’ loudly, though, Lysandra noted, not as loudly as they had hailed herself.
That was not surprising, she thought, as she knew she was the superior fighter. Still she screamed in delight along with the rest of them.
On visibly shaking legs, Thebe walked back through the Gate of Life, her face ashen.
‘Well?’ Lysandra asked jubilantly.
Thebe’s response was to be suddenly sick.
The contests continued into the afternoon, with Balbus’s fighters performing well, suffering no fatalities. As dusk began to fall, torches were lit around the arena, signalling the end of the female combats, and the real business of the male gladiators began. The Hellene women took no interest in this. They had had their fill of excitement for the day, which was exhausting both for those who had fought and those who had watched.
Lysandra had expected that she and her companions would be confined to their cells, but was surprised to find this was not the case. Since the arena and its adjoining gaol complex was heavily guarded by legionaries and hired ex-gladiators, both the editor and the owners of the different famillia’s were content to let their warriors wander about the enclosed areas.
Thebe recovered from her bout of shock with some care and attention from Danae. The Athenian was fast becoming the soft ear for the Hellene women. Whilst Lysandra considered that her own presence was an inspiration to her comrades, she was not as sensitive as Danae to the more emotional needs of the gladiatrices.
It was hardly their own fault that they had such weaknesses — not everyone could be Spartan.
With little else to do, Lysandra decided to go in search of Eirianwen. Though the initial rush of victory was beginning to wane, the nearness of death had awakened other needs in her and she knew that the Briton’s touch would sate the slow burn of sexual desire she now felt. She threaded her way through the crowded corridors of the gaol, noting that despite the lenience the organisers had afforded the fighters, the male and female competitors had been separated. This would be frustrating to Penelope, she knew, as the fisher girl had not ceased to elucidate all and sundry on the erotic prowess of her gladiator, who, for lack of knowing his name, she had come to call ‘Horse’.
‘Lysandra!’ Catuvolcos’s voice rang out from the throng. The Spartan stopped and looked about, seeking the friendly face. The handsome Gaul was shouldering his way through the crowd of gladiatrices, smiling and laughing as he was groped and propositioned outrageously by the women. As a trainer, he was not subject to the segregation rules and that he was walking around bare-chested only added to the attention he was receiving. As he approached Lysandra, she was regaled by insults from the gladiatrices, as they now believed that she was to be the object of the big man’s much sought after attentions.
‘I am glad you are all right,’ he said to her.
‘I was never concerned,’ she told him honestly. She turned, dragged a drink-sodden barbarian from a stone bench and sat down. The barbarian hit the ground with a groan and passed wind loudly.
‘You should be,’ Catuvolcos said as he joined her. ‘It’s not a game.’
Lysandra bit down an angry retort. She was getting somewhat frustrated with being admonished by the trainers. It was not as if she had performed badly. ‘I am aware of overconfidence,’ she said with a civility that was somewhat less than heartfelt. ‘I am also aware of my own abilities and have faith in them. I have been trained since youth for this, Catuvolcos.’ He met her gaze for a moment.
‘I was worried for you, Lysandra. You are not like those others, you are special.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I have come to think so. Of course, I do not tell the others this: humility is to be admired.
However, it cannot be denied that I am indeed fortunate. The gods have gifted me well and it is in their honour that I fight.’
‘No, I meant you are special to me. I have never felt this way for anyone before.’
Lysandra frowned. She had not thought that he would blurt out his feelings to her. Of course, she realised that he was enamoured of her. She knew her beauty and charisma had had an effect on him but hoped that his discipline would keep him from speaking of his attraction. That he had chosen to mention it was embarrassing: there was a brief moment in the past when she may have considered his advances, but she knew now that had been merely a fancy.
‘I have saved money,’ Catuvolcos went on. ‘Not much, but in a year or two I will have enough to buy us free from Balbus. We could leave Caria and return to Gaul. I would be a good man for you, Lysandra, if you would have me. I am young and strong, and know how to raise cattle, and to build. You would want for nothing.’
‘Catuvolcos…’ She put her hand on his arm — and saw hope and love flare in his eyes, the beginnings of a smile playing about his lips. This would be difficult, she thought, having had no experience in this kind of arena. ‘I do not love you,’ she said bluntly.
It was the Spartan way, after all. But Lysandra was not prepared for how so simple a statement could affect someone. She could see the pain in his face as she spoke and felt his hurt almost as keenly as if it were her own. ‘I am sorry,’ she added, trying to be gentle. ‘You are a friend to me, a compatriot, a brother in arms. But I do not feel that way about you.’
Catuvolcos looked down and shook his head. ‘I should not have spoken so,’ he said, a crack in his voice. She hoped he was not about to burst into tears, for such action would make her despise him. ‘I have embarrassed you.’
That was true, but Lysandra thought it impolitic to mention.
‘I would not be any good as a wife,’ she said, trying to make light of what had become an excruciating situation. ‘You have heard of Spartan cooking, haven’t you?’
Catuvolcos shook his head glumly, refusing to meet her gaze.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘In the agoge we had a diet of what is called blood soup. It is black in colour, made of pork, vinegar and pig’s blood. Once, a visitor came to Sparta and, after tasting the soup, declared that now he knew why Spartan warriors were so eager to die. It is the only food I know how to make and this, I think, would not make you happy.’
‘I would eat it every day if it meant we could be together,’ he said, which Lysandra felt was rather pathetic. Men, it seemed, were like children: when they could not have what they wanted, they sulked. ‘Do not dwell on it, my friend,’ she offered. ‘I have an affection for you, but it is not love.’
‘But this affection can grow.’ He turned to look at her then.
‘Many times a man and woman are put together in youth and love grows between them. It could be so for us.’
That was enough. ‘I said no. If you felt as you say, you would not continue in this manner,’ she said tightly. ‘My place is here.
In the arena. I will not be any man’s wife, Catuvolcos.’
She saw his face redden as anger took the place of petulance.
Lysandra raised her eyebrows, curtailing any outburst from the wounded Gaul. She did not wish there to be harsh words between them. She got to her feet, and smiled tightly. ‘You are a good friend, Catuvolcos. I would put these words behind us, if you would.’
He nodded and shrugged and then looked back to the floor.
Lysandra turned away without further comment. She had done what she could to spare his feelings; it was his own fault for coming to her in the first place, certainly she could not be held accountable for his desires. Let him sulk.
She was confident he would get over it in time.
