Thinking of the Clan Chief caused her fresh pain. The older woman was friend, sister and mother to her, her kin through the blood of the Tribes. When she had first come to the ludus it had been Sorina who had allayed her fears, Sorina who had given her the courage to fight on, Sorina who had taught her the tricks of the arena, the skills needed to survive. To win.
Yet Sorina’s eyes were skewed when it came to Lysandra. She was not of the Tribes, true, but Eirianwen knew there must be more to the hatred than that. It was blinding, all consuming, and that in itself was an evil. The Morrigan was playing her game, even here in far off Asia, setting those that loved against each other so that another love might survive.
Eirianwen cursed the goddess with all her heart for she knew that Dark Fate laughed at them all.
Catuvolcos took the girl from the warehouse and led her through the dark streets of Halicarnassus. A slight rain was falling, masking the usual rotting odour for the warehouse district. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, he put his arm round her shoulder, feeling her snuggle against him as they walked.
‘I’m available for anything,’ she said. ‘I don’t normally take more than one man at a time, but I’m told that I must if the trainers want it. I can also sing and play the lyre, but people hardly ever want that.’
‘I’m not going to do anything with you, girl,’ Catuvolcos said gruffly.
‘Oh.’ The prostitute was taken aback. ‘You’d like to watch me with others then? Or shall I just put on a show for you?’
‘No… no.’ Catuvolcos was appalled. ‘I just wanted to get you away from Nastasen. He can become strange when he’s been inhaling that stuff of his.’
‘Yes, opiates do that,’ the girl said. ‘They prolong the act of sex, but they affect people in odd ways.’ She paused, looking up at him. ‘Thank you.’
Catuvolcos gave her a slight smile. ‘It is well,’ he said. ‘You are very young, and I doubt that anyone deserves to be treated in that manner.’
‘Oh, you get used to it,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘It’s not as if I like it, you know, but we are paid well enough. Well, the owner of the brothel is paid and we earn a little. I am not on the streets and my belly is not hungry. Most of the time.’
‘You are hungry now?’ Catuvolcos asked, realising that the beer he had drunk had made him ravenous.
‘Starving,’ she said. ‘But I never eat before a party. I could be sick if someone puts it too far…’ she trailed off. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’
He grunted, knowing all too well. ‘I could eat too.’
The girl pulled away suddenly, looking up at him. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she demanded.
‘Because…’ He trailed off, looking at her. In truth, she did resemble Lysandra but there was a youthful softness to her face the Spartan did not possess, even though only a few years separated the two girls. Certainly, the prostitute was streetwise and accustomed to being used, but her pathetic attempts to feign enjoyment at the degradation that Nastasen had subjected her to had sickened him. Indeed it had wrenched his heart to see so young a girl forced to act in such a manner. He realised he had not answered her question and shrugged with a grin. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly. ‘What is your name?’
‘Well,’ the girl lowered her eyes, toeing the pavement, ‘they call me Venus at the brothel. But my real name is Doris.’
‘Doris?’
‘It’s Greek. I’m named after my mother,’ she said defensively.
‘It’s very pretty,’ he lied. ‘I am called Catuvolcos.’
‘Well then, Catuvolcos,’ she smiled and offered him her hand,
‘shall we eat? I know a few places nearby.’
Catuvolcos encased her tiny hand in his big paw. It felt good, he realised.
Lysandra ignored the sly looks and muttered comments as she followed the Roman governor from the triclinium. Everyone who saw knew that she could only be accompanying him for one reason. It was humiliating in the extreme but she was too nervous to be as outraged as she should be.
‘These formal parties are such a bore,’ the Roman said as they walked through his abode. His voice echoed slightly on the marble walls. ‘I must apologise for Valerian. He is a good boy normally but turns ugly with drink.’
‘It is of no matter, Governor. I am well accustomed to abuse.
I hear it all the time from the crowds.’
‘Yes, I suppose you do,’ he acknowledged, leading her to a small anteroom. It was well furnished with three couches and a table, draped resplendently in red coverings. Many scrolls adorned the walls and there was a desk and chair set up in one corner near a small window. ‘My study,’ he said.
‘It is very lavish.’ Lysandra hesitated as he walked through, easing himself onto a couch. She did not now know what to do and felt vaguely foolish standing in the doorway. Perhaps she should merely disrobe and get the whole sordid business over with quickly. Suddenly, she realised that getting out of the raiment in which she was clad would be no easy undertaking.
‘What are you doing there?’ Frontinus smiled at her. He poured wine for them both, with his own hand, from a krater. ‘Please, do sit.’ He gestured to the couch opposite his own. Lysandra was relieved. Evidently the time was not now and she would have died of embarrassment if she had cast her clothes aside before the moment was upon her.
‘So tell me,’ he said as she sat. ‘Do you think the retiarius superior to the murmillo? I am always fascinated by those bouts, as they say so much. Two opposites, each affording the fighting man or,’ he inclined his head, ‘woman, different advantages and weaknesses. One would have thought the armour of the murmillo would afford heavy odds in favour over the net and trident of the retiarius. Yet these bouts are always closely fought.’
‘I am not trained as a retiaria,’ Lysandra said after a moment’s thought. ‘But I should hazard that it takes much skill to fight as one. In my view, skill should prevail over brute force. But, it depends on the fighter,’ she added. ‘There really are no superior styles of gladiator. It is the individual and how he or she applies the training of the ludus when in the arena.’
Frontinus continued in this manner for some time, quizzing Lysandra on her knowledge of the games, her opinions on different fighters she had seen and their particular merits. In time the conversation turned to war and strategy as it had in the triclinium. Yet Frontinus was not confrontational as Valerian had been. Indeed, she found his discourse engaging and his tactical knowledge superior even to her own. Then again, he had had the benefit of practical experience. In her turn, she queried him, applying his know-how to the gaps in her theo-retical training.
For hours, they debated the battle of Cynoscephalae, regarded as the classic legion against phalanx clash, this and the campaigns of Caesar in Gaul, the Marian Wars and more. Frontinus refilled the oil lamp several times and, though they both partook of the wine, sobriety and dialogue not drunken revelry was the order of the night. She found herself almost liking the man. He was witty, engaging, and possessed of an awesome knowledge of all things martial. Lysandra was also gratified that he, the great general, even conceded to some of her points.
The hours passed into the next day and Lysandra found herself growing tired. Nevertheless, she considered it would be crass in the extreme to show this so she continued, matching the old night owl, point for point. But, during a particularly interesting discussion on Leuctra and the Spartan tactics employed there, she could not help stifling a yawn.
Frontinus broke off in mid-sentence. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘The night has almost passed us by.’
Lysandra swallowed, her heart beginning to pound anew. ‘Yes, Governor,’ she said. The debate had disarmed her, but now she had to steel herself once again for the ordeal to come. At least, she thought, he was not as hateful as she had supposed. She considered that the Roman’s lovemaking would in all likelihood be straightforward, and uncomplicated. She counted herself an excellent judge of character and the lengthy conversation had revealed much about him. Though she knew she would not enjoy it, at least it would not be the nightmare rape she had envisioned and, for that, she was thankful. She reached to her shoulder, and began to tug the soft silk of the chiton away.
Frontinus sat up quickly. ‘Whatever are you doing?’ he asked, looking vaguely perplexed.
She blushed furiously. Removing the garment was as difficult as she had imagined. ‘You would prefer me to keep this on?’ she asked. ‘I am sorry, I have never done this before, and am unused to pleasing the male sex.’
‘I did not invite you here for that!’ Frontinus’s smile was kindly.
