Lysandra’s smile was somewhat forced; such a display of emotion in public was unseemly and there was indeed quite a gathering to watch the reunion in progress. ‘Yes, well, quite,’ she said, disengaging herself. ‘It is good to see you as well, Varia.’
‘Let me show you your new quarters.’ Varia took her by the hand. Feeling somewhat helpless, Lysandra could only follow.
She was impressed.
Certainly, her new domicile was far superior to the tiny cell she lived in before the Games of Aeschylus. Varia had also given the place a homely feel, adding flowers, whatever furniture she could scavenge and some dubious artwork, painted by her own hand.
Lysandra decided that it would be hurtful to the child to throw the hideous stuff away. Overall though, there was little in the way of luxury and this was in keeping with the Spartan way.
‘I hope you like what I have done,’ Varia said, interrupting Lysandra’s train of thought. ‘All of this,’ she indicated the furniture, ‘is from Eirianwen’s place. I know she was your friend and thought you would want her things. Sorina tried to stop me but I managed to get this much away first.’
Lysandra sighed, fighting back her emotions — the wound she had thought nearly healed was still raw. She picked a blanket from one of the couches and held it to her face, breathing in the scent. She imagined she could still taste Eirianwen. ‘That was very considerate, Varia. My thanks.’ The child positively glowed under her praise.
There was no time for more discussion, as the Hellene women appeared, wanting to greet Lysandra themselves. They were enthusiastic, but she noted they were not the same women who had departed with her to Halicarnassus. There was a hard look behind their eyes, a look that had been won in the arena. They were the better for it, no longer slaves but warriors. Though they would never be able to match her in skill and natural ability, Lysandra recognised the change in them. Tempered by blood, they could at least be worthy companions.
It was a pleasing thought.
XXXIX
Lysandra trained lightly in her first days back at the ludus.
Her body was not used to strenuous exercise and to push too hard, too soon would only result in injury and another lay off.
She was content to let the Hellene women exercise in their accustomed manner for the time being. Though Balbus had given her the right to train them, she would not have felt comfortable giving instruction if she could not match and indeed exceed her students. Instead, she concentrated on her own fitness, running and strength-building routines designed to bring her to full vigour in as short a time as possible.
As she worked on herself, she found her eyes wandering to what had become the barbarian section of the training ground.
The Tribeswomen had grown increasingly insular since returning from Aeschylus’s games, mixing less and less with the other women. The effect on the ludus was palpable as each gladiatrix, whether novice or veteran, began to keep to her own ethnic group. Lysandra saw this more keenly than most; Eirianwen was lost to them now and much of the connection she had with the tribal peoples was severed. Of course, there was still Catuvolcos, and even Hildreth, who was in her opinion a decent sort.
Sorina, Lysandra noted, was indeed pushing herself hard. The older woman was first to the grounds in the morning and last to leave when the trainers called for the evening rest. However, as she had told Catuvolcos, let the barbarian train all that she wished; the result of their fight would not be in doubt. Sorina was old: she herself was young — and such was life.
It took some weeks for Lysandra to regain her fitness, her speed and her sharpness. She began to exercise with the Hellene women, offering pointers and help, but still not leading them in their sessions. She felt that she must regain their utter confidence in her superiority before she took over in a formal manner. Respect had to be earned and the Hellenes were no longer green novices.
However, as time progressed, her position as foremost amongst them became clear. Indeed, she felt that they welcomed her return to form as in her absence they had lacked any real leadership. As she began to train them in earnest, many of the other civilised women in the ludus made it clear that they wished to be part of her coterie. This was unsurprising, of course. Whilst Stick, Catuvolcos and especially Titus’s training methods were good, they were not conceived in Sparta, and naturally were inferior to her own regimen.
That Balbus allowed this split to happen was, in Lysandra’s view, extremely astute. The lanista was in no doubt that her charges were becoming the fittest and most deadly of his stable.
‘Remember,’ she told them after a particularly gruelling session, ‘discipline is the key to victory. Any fool can wave a sword about and batter an opponent into submission with no thought of tactics and strategy.’ She jerked her head disdainfully at the barbarian quarter of the grounds where the fighters there went about their work with the usual unordered gusto. ‘Discipline and fitness are your first weapons. How many times have you seen fighters falter when tiredness sets in? Next time you think I am pushing you too hard think about a sword in your guts. Remember that if you are fitter, more prepared, you will survive. We have all seen our friends die in the arena, choking on their own blood. That could be you. You can never have too much stamina. To go the extra lap is everything in life, not only in the arena. Push yourselves.’
The women cheered at this and Lysandra allowed herself to smile.
It turned Sorina’s stomach to have to share her meal times with the hated Greeks. Though both sets of women stuck to their own sides of the dining area, the fact that she had be so close to Lysandra’s sycophants, Greek and Roman both, was almost too much to bear.
The Amazon knew that she was being mocked in the sibilant Greek tongue, as often they would turn and look at the Tribeswomen, before erupting in laughter. She thought of speaking to Balbus about staggering the evening meals but decided against it. She could not let the lanista realise that the tension between the two camps was so great. She could not afford to let anything stand in the way of her killing Lysandra.
And she wanted to kill her so much she could taste it.
‘Are you all right?’ Teuta’s voice brought Sorina’s attention away from her fantasy of impaling the Spartan on her blade.
‘Look at them.’ The Clan Chief shook her head as the Greeks spoke amongst themselves. ‘Rhetoric, no doubt,’ she sneered. ‘They make me sick.’
Teuta grunted. ‘So ignore them.’
‘Get away, girl.’ Sorina pushed at the slave, Varia, as she offered her more wine. Varia stumbled back, dropping the krater on the ground. She felt guilty at the action: despite the fact that the child was the spawn of Italy she was harmless enough.
She was just about to help the girl to her feet, when she noticed that the dining area had fallen silent. One of the Greeks, an Athenian she knew to be called Danae, had broached the border between the two camps.
‘There’s no need for that, barbarian,’ Danae helped Varia up.
‘The girl was just doing her job.’
‘Don’t call me barbarian,’ Sorina spat.
Danae arched an eyebrow — a gesture so reminiscent of Lysandra it infuriated Sorina. ‘It is an act of barbarity to bully a child,’ she said shortly.
Rage coursed through Sorina. Her body acted of its own volition and she was on her feet, wine cup in her hand. There was a crunching sound and a scream. Danae was falling, her face a ruined mass of blood. In her hand, Sorina felt the broken crockery of the wine cup.
As one, the Greeks and Romans across the dining area rose to their feet, and began to move across to the Tribeswomen’s section. They were, Sorina thought, so passionless. Here, she had insulted and physically abused one of their number but there was no battle rage about them. That they came to settle the matter in blood was one thing; that they approached as would a colony of ants was an abomination to the War Goddess.
Her own kind were on their feet, knowing that combat was come upon them, and with a scream they lunged towards the hated women of the middle-sea, intent on hammering the arrogance out of them. Chaos reigned then, as the gladiatrices hurled themselves at one another. With no weapons to speak of it was a clash of flesh against
