‘A Mission priestess, Lucius Balbus.’
She said it with some pride, though the lanista had not the faintest idea what she might mean. He had, however, sufficiently recovered his wits not to show her his ignorance. He eased his large frame back in his seat, folding his fingers over his belly, gathering his thoughts. Balbus had dealt with similar situations: often, these religious types believed that their devotion to whatever gods they prayed to provided indemnity from slavery. They found out all too soon that none were exempt from servitude to Rome.
‘I’m afraid it is you who has misunderstood.’ He paused, letting that sink in, gratified by the change in her eyes. Evidently, she had not expected this response and it had put her on the defensive.
And that was precisely how Lucius Balbus preferred his relationship with his merchandise. ‘Whatever you may have been, you are no longer. Under Roman law, you are my property. My slave.’
‘I am no slave!’ Lysandra cut him off, taking a step forward.
Balbus had to use every fibre of will not to jerk back. He was no coward, but had seen the Greek in action and had a more than healthy respect for her skills. He forced a smile.
‘Your former status does not protect you’ — he made a show of looking down at his paperwork, as if seeking a previously scribbled note — ‘Lysandra,’ he finished. ‘I have bought and sold priestesses, princesses and even queens. All have equal rights in the eyes of the lex Romana — that is that slaves have no rights.’
He could see her floundering. She was, after all, still young, and inexperienced; despite the tough exterior, he could tell she was not yet out of her teens. ‘Besides… whoever or whatever you claim to be you are simply detritus washed up by the sea. Two men are dead — my property. As far as the witnesses are concerned you are simply a murderess. The arena is your fate one way or the other. But if the praetors put you there you’ll simply be butchered without a chance to defend yourself.’
Balbus could only imagine what the psychological blow of becoming a slave did to a person, especially those that were used to commanding respect, such as a priestess must. But he was wise enough to know that if he pressed too hard at an early stage, he could shatter their spirit. He had seen tribal women, the sight of whom would unman the doughtiest legionary in battle, reduced to sallow husks when their slavery was too keenly impressed upon them. A woman with no fighting spirit was a poor investment.
‘Look,’ he said, his tone lighter, more placating and, he thought, almost… fatherly. ‘This life is not as bad as you may think.’ He ignored the cynical lift of her eyebrow. ‘I called you here to ask where you came by your extraordinary fighting skills, but that is self-evident,’ he hedged, being aware that certain religious sects trained their priestesses in ritualised combat. Given the Spartans’ legendary martial history, it seemed reasonable to assume that they would most likely indulge in such practices.
‘You have fought and survived your first bout with ease,’ he went on, noting a flash of pride on the ice of her eyes. He made an expansive gesture. ‘I don’t live in all of the houses you see here. The barracks are for new girls and poor fighters. My best fighters, those of my top tier, live in luxury.’ An exaggeration of the truth perhaps but then after the filth of a barracks cell, even one of Balbus’s modest houses would seem like Nero’s Golden Palace.
Lysandra’s expression was derisive. ‘You would seek to blind a Spartan to slavery by offering her opulence?’ Balbus winced internally. This one seemed to have an answer for everything. He tried a different tack.
‘A good fighter receives gifts from the public. An excellent fighter can soon become very rich.’ He paused. ‘Rich enough to buy her freedom.’
Lysandra pressed her lips into a thin line, showing her irritation. ‘You are selling what is mine by birth.’
Balbus shrugged. ‘It’s a small hope,’ he said. ‘But it’s a hope.
That’s all I can give you.’
There was a long moment of silence then.
‘My sisterhood would buy my freedom from you if I were allowed to write to them,’ she said finally. Warmth flooded through the lanista as he detected, beneath the parochial accent, a pleading desperation in her voice. It came unaccustomed to those proud lips, he fancied. There was nothing like impressing his will upon another, watching the evolution from free-woman to slave, slave to gladiatrix. No matter how many the mill of the arena churned up, there were always new slaves, new challenges. Watching the proud ones like this Spartan capitulate gave him the greatest pleasure.
Balbus feigned consideration of the idea but had dismissed her words as soon as they had passed her lips. The fact was, any hope of ransom must ever be denied the fighters. The knowledge that there might be a route to freedom outside of winning it by the sword would be disastrous — not only for his ludus but also the business as a whole. That is why the Oath existed; of course, he knew this new batch had not yet taken it, but that would happen in time.
‘I can’t do that,’ he said, with just the right amount of regret.
‘Were I to agree to your request, I would have to do the same for everyone. My days would be utterly consumed by hearing petitions from people claiming ransoms could be raised for them, my business would suffer and the result would be the end of all I own. I am sorry,’ he finished with a lie.
He watched, studying the girl’s reaction to his words. She was unused to guile, and her emotions were written all over her face, plainly read by an eye as canny as his. Confusion, anger and then the feral look of a trapped animal, each in turn left its mark.
The lines of physical age had not yet begun to show on the alabaster features but life’s experience had now begun to weather the girl’s soul. ‘Go and begin your training,’ he said, becoming abrupt and dismissive. ‘You are good, but there is still much for you to learn.’
She stood a little taller then, a sudden arrogance in her eyes.
‘From these amateurs of yours?’ she hissed. ‘Hardly.’ Without waiting to be dismissed she turned about and marched from the lanista’s presence.
Balbus watched her go with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. The gods had been kind to him of late. His girls were gaining in popularity all the time and the fight proceeds grew more and more lucrative. The Greek would be an excellent addition to his stable, a real money-spinner. He would find out more about his new acquisition’s religious order. Girls like this Lysandra kept his interest piqued and his enthusiasm fresh. One could, he thought ruefully, become jaded all too quickly in this business.
He laughed aloud suddenly and, rubbing his hands together, called Eros to him.
IV
She would not cry.
It was not the Spartan way. Tears stung her eyes, threatening to well forth, but she gritted her teeth against them.
Her jaw set, she emerged from Balbus’s villa and made her way back to the training area, thankful only that her bravado had not failed her before the lanista. She could not give in to despair. She had to face her fate with courage and the discipline instilled in her since childhood — so she reasoned in her mind but her heart cried out, demanding that her emotions be released.
She fought a desperate battle against herself, drowning in the cacophony of the ludus. All about her women whirled in the violent dance of combat, their features blurred behind the opaque veil of her tears. She took a breath to steel herself but, in that moment, the dam of her self-control burst. She fell to a crouch, her raven hair hanging about her face and gave in to the pain.
Tears rolled unchecked down her face, each shuddering breath cutting her heart to shreds.
How could she have been so wrong? The face of the lanista filled her mind’s eye, his words mocking her with their awful truth. She had been so sure, so confident that regaining her freedom was simply a matter of formality; that Balbus, a civilised Roman citizen, would respect both her and her calling. Had he not adorned his ludus with images of the gods?
In that moment she knew that Balbus’s piety was a facade; the only god he worshipped was money. He made no distinction between civilised Hellenes or savage barbarians — to him they were all simply profit-making flesh.
Slavery.
