Lysandra felt herself colouring again. ‘I was just wondering if any of your tribe are as fair as you.’ It was a ridiculous question, but she was desperate to please Eirianwen and it was the first thing that came to mind.
‘Actually, no one in my tribe is as fair as me,’ Eirianwen replied.
‘Fair skinned, I mean. The Silures are dark — it’s funny but they resemble the Romans more than Britons. The truth of it is, Lysandra, I am not of the Silures at all. I grew up with them, yes, but my father was a druid of the Brigante tribe. The Brigantes are ‘typical’ of Britannia — tall, blonde and fair. Their queen, a traitor called Cartimandua, submitted to the Roman invaders and became their whore.’ Eirianwen’s eyes glittered with a malevolence that Lysandra had never seen before. ‘It was not the Druid way to treat with Romans,’ Eirianwen continued, ‘so my father took me far from Brigante lands to the west, where the Silures still fought the Empire. So I grew up as one of them, and it became my honour to call myself Silurian. In the end, my tribe was conquered by Frontinus — but at least we fought to the last. Not like the Brigante filth who capitulated so easily.’
Lysandra wished she had kept her mouth shut as this turn in the conversation had darkened Eirianwen’s mood. ‘I am sorry for asking such a question,’ she said. ‘It is just that it is difficult for me to say pleasing words.’
‘There is no shame in saying what you want to say, in showing a loved one how you feel. It is unnatural to keep all emotion locked inside you.’
‘It is how I have been taught,’ Lysandra responded sounding somewhat helpless even to herself. Eirianwen kissed the end of Lysandra’s nose, her mood seeming to lighten at once.
‘We, none of us, are what once we were. The ludus and what we do here changes us. It is a hard place most of the time, Lysandra. There is always a need for gentleness, especially between lovers.’
Lysandra swallowed, her mind racing — she must try again to say something that would evoke her feelings. There was a moment of silence, and then she spoke. ‘For some — it is horsemen; for others — it is infantry; for some others — it is ships which are, on this black earth, visibly constant in their beauty. But for me, it is that which you desire.’ When Eirianwen smiled in response, Lysandra’s heart leapt, but she knew not whether it was from relief or joy.
‘Did you make that up?’ Eirianwen asked. ‘It seems very you, with its infantry and horsemen.’
Lysandra hesitated. ‘Well… I… well. No, actually, I did not make it up. The poet Sappho wrote it.’
‘Lysandra!’ Eirianwen laughed. ‘You are hopeless!’
‘And I suppose you can quote the classics, Eirianwen,’ she shot back, but there too was mirth in her voice. The two women embraced, each loving the foibles of the other. When she had spoken the poetry to the beautiful Silurian, Lysandra had felt something inside her overflow, like the bursting of a riverbank.
For the first time, emotion coursed through her, unchecked and unabated. It was frightening, terrifying in its intensity. It felt unsafe, maddeningly uncontrollable; but she found that she would not let the feeling go.
They held each other thus for a few moments, before Lysandra broke away. She looked about, and saw Catuvolcos standing not far from where they were sitting. She raised her hand in greeting, but suddenly stilled it as she saw his face. It was contorted, a mix of anger and grief. Slowly, her hand lowered, her head cocking to one side. She opened her mouth to call out to him, but he spat on the floor before him, and stalked away.
‘What is it?’ Eirianwen turned her head, following Lysandra’s gaze.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she said. ‘Come, the night is still before us.’
XXI
‘You’re such a slut, Penelope,’ Thebe said caustically.
The former fisher-girl had been waddling around the cell all morning, regaling her compatriots with lurid tales of her nightly adventure with Horse. The previous evening, the titanically endowed gladiator had invited a friend to share the gifts Penelope was so eagerly bestowing.
Lysandra listened with amusement. It occurred to her that before Eirianwen, she would have been scandalised by Penelope’s commentary. Now, she found that with each passing day her soul, and with it her cares, grew lighter.
‘Of course, I didn’t know what they meant when they said they wanted to do it Greek.’ Penelope had obviously decided to ignore Thebe and continued playing to her audience. ‘I mean, I am Greek!’ She shook her head. ‘I found out soon enough, I can tell you. I was like the meat between two hunks of bread! I won’t have any problems with my movements after that little encounter if you know what I mean…’
‘That’s enough!’ Thebe shouted, hurling a pillow at the island girl who was now gesturing obscenely with her forearm and fist.
She retained enough presence of mind to duck the pillow, however.
Penelope sat down with exaggerated gingerness and tossed the pillow back. ‘Prude,’ she said, and stuck out her tongue.
The women all looked around as the door to the cell scraped open, revealing Stick’s skinny silhouette. The Parthian sauntered in, carrying the oil bucket.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said gaily. ‘How are we feeling today?’
‘What do you care?’ Once Danae would have been beaten for addressing him in such a manner but now, as if by unspoken agreement, the women had passed from being novices to veterans and Stick was beginning to treat them so.
‘I’m wounded, Danae. Don’t you know that concern for your welfare is my highest priority? Yours especially,’ he went on. ‘You are fighting today.’ Danae paled slightly, but nodded, her face resolute.
‘But first, Penelope,’ Stick placed the oil bucket on the floor.
‘Or should I say ‘Patrocla, the deadly blade’. Get yourself ready, girl!’
Penelope looked a little taken aback and Stick picked up on it. ‘What, did you think it was all going to be watching, feasting and enjoyment? It’s time for you to start repaying the inordinate amount you cost us.’
Penelope shrugged, and began to remove her tunic. She paused, and raised an eyebrow at Stick, who chuckled and left the cell.
‘I cannot believe that you, of all people, have suddenly acquired modesty,’ Lysandra said. Penelope shrugged.
‘It’s never too late,’ she muttered.
Lysandra got up and scooped a handful of oil into her hand.
‘Maybe you should save some of this,’ she commented, slapping the stuff wetly onto Penelope’s buttocks. ‘I’m sure you could find a use for it.’
‘I’m not sure about this,’ Penelope said, her voice obscured by the murmillo helmet she was wearing. ‘It’s not supposed to be funny.’ That Stick was making her fight as the ‘fish girl’ was a huge joke to everyone, the trainer included. The murmillo fought in medium armour, the head protected by the ornate, full-faced helmet, the right arm and shoulder covered by the distinctive leather manica. The first and best, defence, however, was the large, curved shield that Penelope was hefting about. Her torso was left bare, ensuring that the maximum amount of blood and gore was displayed if the gladiatrix was injured and, of course, revealing her ample breasts for the delight of the crowd.
‘Do not be concerned.’ Lysandra patted her shoulder. ‘You look most threatening.’
Inside the helmet, Penelope flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m sure.’
The announcer was once again going through his tirade, as the Gate of Life opened to the sound of the trumpets. Penelope steeled herself, and passed over the threshold into the arena. She had been matched against another heavily armed fighter, a hoplomacha, the only discernable difference between the two being the round shield the other woman carried and the Corinthian crested helmet that she wore. The helmet was of an archaic type, made famous by the Greek hoplite warriors of ancient times.
The thick nosepiece and flared cheek guards obscured the woman’s face in shadow, and so both fighters were rendered anonymous to the crowd. Penelope guessed by the brown cast to the hoplomacha’s skin she was of eastern stock, a fact confirmed when she was announced as Draca of Syria. Both fighters received their swords from the attendant slaves and then made their ritual salute to Frontinus. This done, they faced one another, shields raised.
