Lysandra started at the comment. Before Eirianwen, she would have fully endorsed such a statement, yet now she could not bring herself to hate the barbarians merely because of their unfortunate birth. Perhaps Eirianwen was rare and special: she was spawned of the most savage of tribes and yet there had been much beauty in her soul as well as in her body. But, she knew that to mention it would be bad for morale, and her duty to the women came before her personal considerations.
‘It is good that you are keen for the fight, Danae,’ she acknowledged with what she felt was convincing enthusiasm.
It was not only Danae who displayed an extra degree of confidence in her own abilities. After the confrontation in the dining area, the Hellene and Roman women were buoyed as a whole.
They assumed themselves correctly to be victors of the confrontation, despite barbarian claims to the contrary. The fact that Balbus had let it be known that Lysandra’s women, as they had now come to be known, were to be moved to the new wing re-enforced that view.
Yet, now that she was to command the women as an army, Lysandra kept a tight rein over them. She forbade conflict with the barbarians, ordering her women to stay well away from them.
They had proven themselves once and that was, in her view, enough. There was little to be gained by constant brawling and squabbling. She knew well that aside from the military training to come, each of her charges had to maintain their gladiatorial skills as there would be many returns to the arena before Balbus’s great spectacle.
As soon as the lanista had revealed his designs, Lysandra’s mind had begun to work. Though he probably did not realise it, Balbus was, in fact, emulating Gaius Marius. Marius had revitalised the Roman army, turning it into a motivated professional force. To train his men in close combat, the politician-general had recruited trainers from gladiatorial schools.
Lysandra considered that if she could train the current group of Hellene and Roman women to proficiency in marching, drill and tactics, they, in their turn, could pass this on to the untried slaves that Balbus would be drafting in ever increasing numbers.
As things stood, the combat skills of her core women were adequate, if nowhere near her own standard, but she was confident that this would be more than enough to turn her recruits into fearsome fighters.
She had to impress on them a sense of leadership, discipline and a degree tactical acumen. This was something of a challenge since, because of their inferior heritage, so few of the women could read. As it was, Lysandra was forced to request trained slaves from Balbus to assist her in teaching the less educated. Nevertheless, these women were Hellene or Roman, and most had an apti-tude and even enthusiasm for learning. Such things had been denied many of them and the possession of letters was a treasure beyond value to all.
Though the barbarians viewed these activities with increasing scorn Lysandra encouraged her women to rise above the jeers and insults. The barbarians, she told her fellows, did not know the value of such learning. It was not their way.
Lysandra did her best to foster a spirit of togetherness amongst her companions. They were slaves in name only: they felt free; were free in their hearts. With sweat and toil, they were forming a bond, not only as gladiatrices now but also as soldiers. This was akin to the sisterhood of the temple and Lysandra knew well that such ties were hard to break.
They were special now; they were the elite, and they knew it.
‘I will need some dispensation for the women,’ Lysandra advised Balbus and Titus as they lounged in his triclinium.
The lanista eyed her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘These women cannot be treated as prisoners, Balbus. The whole project will fail if this is so.’ She turned her attention to the older man. ‘Titus, you were a soldier, were you not?’
Titus grunted an affirmative.
‘Well, then you must know the importance of morale, of spirit.
We cannot be cooped up in here at all times. We must be allowed to make route marches and, as our forces grow, to operate on open ground.’
Titus nodded. ‘She has a point, Balbus. But we must have your word there will be no escape attempt. This is on your honour, Lysandra.’
‘By Athene, I swear it. We want this, Titus,’ she said meaningfully, her eyes alight. ‘This makes us more than mere arena fighters. This has never been done before, we are the first.’
‘What is the world coming to?’ He grinned. ‘Armies of women — like the Amazons.’
Lysandra snorted. ‘Sorina is an Amazon. Savage and undisciplined. Even if they set ten to one odds against us, we will win on the day. Before your Emperor, we will crush our enemies and see them driven before us.’
‘Well, don’t carried away,’ Balbus admonished. ‘All this marching and drilling is well and good but there are bills to be paid and you’ll all be fighting regularly. More than regularly, in fact.’
‘We are well aware of that,’ Lysandra replied loftily.
‘Good, because I have an engagement booked.’
Lysandra inclined her head. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is good training.’
Sorina clenched her toes on the sand, feeling the grains flood over her feet. The leather sword hilt felt familiar and safe in her hands, the sun warm on her skin. Though it was a minor festival, the arena was still packed to bursting point, the mob still insatiable in their desire for spectacle.
Since her combat with Eirianwen, there had been demands to see more of the tribal fighting style so she was armed once again with the long sword. This time, however, there was no blood feud, and she wore her armour. Her opponent was a Gaul who fought under the name of Epona. It mattered little what she called herself. Soon, the she would be dead, and all would see that Sorina was still Queen of the Sands.
Epona was tall, her blonde hair cropped short. This, coupled with her ruddy, pig-like face served to give her a brutish appearance. Her body was heavily decorated with woad: bright blue on her white skin. She gave Sorina a broken-toothed smile and advanced, hefting the heavy iron blade as if she intended to use it as a club.
Sorina returned the smile coldly, her eyes flat. She set her stance, ready to react to her opponent’s movements. For a moment, the two women shuffled about, measuring the other’s speed and balance. Then, with a shout, Sorina leapt in, her sword arcing towards the other’s neck.
Epona barely got her blade up in time to deflect the blow, but this accomplished, there was little respite for her. Sorina fought like a woman possessed, sweat standing out on her tanned skin as she forced the issue with the bigger woman.
There were no exchanges, no counter blows. After only a few moments fighting it became obvious that the Gaul was hopelessly outclassed. The crowd began to clap their hands slowly, showing their derision at the mismatch.
Sorina heard them, and slowed her assault. It would not do to disappoint the mob by ending the battle too quickly. She realised that she herself was on edge, almost desperate to prove that the gruelling bout with Eirianwen had not robbed her of her sharpness.
But Epona’s heart was no longer in the fight; Sorina could see it in her eyes. The early battering had convinced the big woman that there was no hope for her.
‘Come at me,’ Sorina hissed in Latin. ‘You cannot win this fight, but at least you can try for the missio.’ She said it not from compassion, but rather because Epona was making her own performance look awkward.
It was to no avail. Epona tried gamely to attack but her movements were slow and clumsy. She wielded the sword like an axe, hacking more at Sorina’s blade than making any real effort to hit her. In disgust, Sorina twisted her own weapon and sent the Gaul’s sword flying from her grip. Even as the iron went skywards she spun about, smashing her elbow in the big blonde’s face, sending her crashing to the sand in a spray of blood.
She stood over the prone form, her eyes flicking to the governor’s box. Frontinus’s response was instant and a short thrust sent Epona into her death spasm.
Boos and catcalls erupted from the watching crowd. Usually, Sorina would have expected to soak up applause. She had never suffered a reaction like this before and she moved quickly to the Gate of Life, insults ringing in her ears.
‘Call that a fight?’ one outraged spectator screamed. ‘It was a joke. Why don’t you fight someone who can defend herself?’
‘She ain’t got it no more,’ came another shout. ‘She’s too old.’
