This night her slavery would be impressed upon her more vividly than ever before
Danae had been right when she had said that being a gladiatrix afforded some level of freedom. It was dangerous, to be sure, but Lysandra would by lying to herself if she did not admit that the danger was addictive. Life at the ludus was less harsh than her youth in the agoge, and afforded her the opportunity to honour Athene in blood. An ancient tradition, perhaps, but she felt her life had purpose.
Admittedly, her noble sacrifice would bring benefit to the women in her care; it was the Spartan way to embrace sacrifice and not to shirk from duty. But inside she was afraid. Lovingly penetrated by the olisbos guided by the hands of Eirianwen would be nothing like being held down and raped — for it would be rape — by an aging senator.
It is just the body, she told herself. In some ways it was akin to entering the arena. As the thought occurred — and she clutched at it — she dedided she could face Frontinus as Achillia, rather than Lysandra. For it was Achillia who was slave and gladiatrix, not Lysandra, once-priestess of Athene. If Achillia died in the arena or was treated basely it did not matter. She could, she realised, don the armour of the psyche and hold back the taint that rape would bring.
She felt some tension drain from her. Her genius had allowed her to find a solution to a moral conundrum that few others would have been able to solve. That she had the benefits of education and the Spartan upbringing made her fortunate enough to look at a situation logically, and not with histrionics. Her neat psychological charade would save her honour and enable her to submit without submitting. As she felt the litter being lowered, she allowed herself to smile slightly at her own cleverness.
Lysandra was taken aback as she emerged from her carriage.
She had expected opulence but the abode of Sextus Julius Frontinus must surely rival Domitian’s Imperial Palace in Rome so impressive was it in size and decor. Great pillars of marble supported a structure that Lysandra fancied was easily as large as the Parthenon itself. Grand statuary formed an avenue to the entrance of the main house, the twelve gods and goddesses of the Pantheon stared down at all those who approached the abode of Asia Minor’s governor. Fountains depicting dolphins and mythical creatures were interspersed artfully through a huge garden surrounding the palatial residence, the music of water filling the night air with a mystical cadence.
Balbus’s men led her toward the entrance, where she was handed into the care of yet another soldiery. They eyed her appreciatively, evidently unaware that she could cripple or kill any one of them if she wished. This vindictive thought made her feel somewhat better about the openly salacious looks and she had to acknowledge a side to her that enjoyed the fact that, in the truest Spartan tradition, she was obviously a beauty.
The men, however, made no attempt to touch her, as they could not know she was a slave; the idiot girls at the amphitheatre must have done an excellent job at disguising her as a Roman freewoman. As they walked through the gigantic atrium, Lysandra could not fail to be impressed by the sheer beauty of the abode. It was only by sheer effort of will that she did not gawk at the marvellously arrayed treasures and murals that surrounded her.
Two grandly proportioned doors were at the opposite end of the entrance hall, attended by a bird-like man of middle years.
He smiled at her, and produced a scroll from within a volumi-nous toga.
‘I am Achillia,’ she said in her most gracious Latin.
The birdman scanned the list, and shook his head. ‘I have but one lady… unaccompanied,’ he said, ‘ Lysandra.’ He looked at her inquisitively, eyebrows raised.
‘That is in error,’ she told him imperiously, inwardly crushed that Frontinus must know her real name. However, she would not discard her armour so easily. ‘You have heard of me, of course.
I am the gladiatrix…’
‘Yes.’ He cut her off. ‘ Achillia. A great match against the Caledonian last month! I saw that,’ he went on. ‘A fabulous show.
I recognise you now that I look closer. You know, you can’t expect much from scribes.’ He took a stylus and altered her name on his scroll. ‘There we are.’ He grinned. ‘ Achillia. I shall announce you as ‘Achillia of Sparta’ then?’
‘As you wish.’ Lysandra was loath to admit to herself the thrill she garnered from the man’s recognition and deference.
The birdman looked from side to side as if checking to see if anyone was watching him. ‘I’m a really big supporter of the games,’ he whispered. ‘I wanted to ask…’ He hesitated, his eyes blinking owlishly. ‘Can you write?’
‘Of course I can write.’ Lysandra was outraged, feeling the blood rush to her already too-pink cheeks. ‘Do you take me for some sort of imbecile? Or do you merely think that breasts disqualify one from having an iota of intelligence…?’
‘No, no.’ He held up his hands apologetically. ‘I wanted to ask you if you would sign your name for me.’ He blushed as he spoke. ‘Well, not for me, really. For my children. They are huge admirers of the games…’
‘My name?’
‘Yes.’ the man offered her a piece of parchment. ‘As a souvenir.’
Lysandra was taken aback by the request, but she kept her expression neutral. ‘Certainly.’ She took the stylus. ‘What are their names?’
‘Marcus and Lucius,’ he said proudly. ‘Two terrors, but they are all I have since their mother passed on a few years back…’
He trailed off as Lysandra continued to write. Eventually, she handed the parchment back, inwardly thrilled at having been recognised. ‘Thank you, lady,’ he said, clearly grateful.
He turned and opened the great double doors, and in a voice that belied his slight build bellowed the arrival of ‘Achillia of Sparta, famed Gladiatrix of the Games of Aeschylus.’
As soon as he closed the doors behind her, the man looked excitedly at the parchment. ‘Marcus and Lucius,’ the man read.
‘Achillia of Sparta greets you, admonishes you to obey your father in all things. Only through discipline and deference can excellence be attained.’ He could not help but smile at the stiffness of the language, and indeed, the message, but he knew that his children would be well pleased. And he also had a tale to tell; it was not often that the famous spared even a look for those such as himself. Stiff she may be, but Achillia of Sparta had won a friend, and he would be sure to tell his fellow aficionados just whom they should be cheering on.
‘You’re not screwing her?’
Stick and Catuvolcos had been long ensconced at the trainers’ recreation site and if they were not exactly swimming in their cups they had at least begun to paddle in them. The ‘recreation site’ was, in fact, a rented warehouse, not far from the amphitheatre. It had the advantage of being cheap enough and spacious enough to accommodate the trainers from the different schools, a good number of whores and a vast amount of wine and beer, all of which were paid for by the various lanistas by way of thanks to their training staff.
‘No. She’s a friend. You know, we of the tribes share a kinship of custom if not of blood.’ Catuvolcos’s eyes swept around the room. Nastasen was sitting with some friends from the other schools. A motley bunch from all over the empire, it seemed to Catuvolcos that evil followed the Nubian wherever he went.
Certainly, Nastasen’s band had a dangerous look to them, hard men who enjoyed their brutal work. He caught Catuvolcos’s gaze and waved, evidently feeling well disposed — probably due to the copious amount of hemp he and his companions were inhaling.
‘That is good,’ Stick said sagely. ‘Balbus would skin you alive if you were emptying your sack into Sorina. Bad for business.’
‘Well, I’m not. And what is it to you anyway?’
‘No need to get tetchy.’ Stick’s eyes became more bulbous. ‘I was just worried about you. Everyone knows you were sweet on the Spartan, and now you’re spending all your time with Sorina.
You just can’t go round wanting to hump the flock, my friend.’
‘Well.’ Catuvolcos took a huge draft of his beer. ‘I’m not sweet on anyone, especially Lysandra. She’s a bitch and I’m grateful for Sorina for pointing it out.’
‘Ah,’ said Stick. ‘Well, she’s becoming a very popular bitch. I saw in the market today that there are Achillia figurines on sale.
That’s unheard of, this is her first proper games. I can imagine that Sorina…’ Stick proceeded to choke on his
