‘My thanks, lanista. I hope you will stay with me for the entertainments.’
‘I would be honoured.’ Balbus smiled, silently praying that all would go well that afternoon. The spectre of Lysandra lying dead on the sand haunted him.
No one had spoken since Stick’s announcement. The Hellene women kept their gazes fixed to the floor. Thebe had helped prepare Lysandra; she was to fight again as the Thraex — the Thracian — nude save for her loincloth. Every effort was going into placating the crowd and, though she had been scheduled to fight in heavy armour, it was decided that the sight of her naked flesh would salve the rancour of the mob. Thebe, they learned, was to fight as the retiaria, again unclothed bar the subligaculum.
They oiled one another in silence, each avoiding the gaze of the other. This task complete, there was little to do but sit and wait. They could hear above that the crowd had quietened down, meaning that the criminal bouts had come to an end. It would be their turn soon.
Lysandra had been shocked initially. The thought of turning her blade on her friends was anathema to her. It was not the Spartan way to slay one’s allies. But it was not the Spartan way to lose a battle, either. She could not, she knew, stay her hand or hold back. She was sure this had occurred to the other women, but just as quickly would have been dismissed. Lysandra pressed her lips into a thin line, recalling her admonishment to Eirianwen not to stay her hand before the bout with Sorina. She cursed herself silently; it would not do to think of her now, lest she wished to join her in Hades. Part of her may have once wanted to do so, but to go willingly to her death would cheapen her in Eirianwen’s eyes if they were to meet on the other side of the Styx.
She glanced around at the others. Despite their growing closeness, the camaraderie gained both in the ludus and in their military training they were going through, each of them wanted to live. And the only way to ensure survival was to see your opponent dead.
Your enemy, Lysandra corrected herself. The woman she faced on the sands would be her enemy. Enemies could expect no mercy, no quarter. If she must cut Danae down, or kill Thebe, then she would do it.
‘Lysandra!’
She looked up to see the large form of Catuvolcos framed in the doorway. His face was grim as he looked at her. She got to her feet swiftly. The psyche was a weapon also. If she were to fight another Hellene woman, they would see that she was prepared.
To hesitate might show her to be unwilling. The first battle was already won, she told herself. But in this victory, she could not help but feel cheapened despite herself.
Lysandra bade Catuvolcos leave her when she exited the cell.
She wanted to take the long walk to the Gates alone. She did not wish to know whom she faced, and feared that the Gaul would call another woman from the Hellene cell. She could not afford to think of her foe as anything but that. To name her would be to make her human.
The bustle of the arena workers seemed to fade as she walked, trying to calm her mind, to stay focused. She must win, she told herself. So much rested with her. The army, the Hellene women, would be lost without her. She prayed that it would be Sorina she had drawn, that she might unleash her hatred on her enemy.
Lysandra stopped by the Gates, and closed her eyes. She breathed out through her nose and stepped onto the sands, raising her arms as Achillia once more — prepared to fight.
The crowd roared in acknowledgement of her salute and began to chant her name. They knew that Achillia would not fail them, that she would elevate the spectacle to something magnificent.
Lysandra stopped in the middle of the arena. The Gates opposite clanked open and her opponent stepped out onto the sands.
At the sight of her, the crowd went berserk. They knew that this would be a battle of equals from which only one would walk away.
Sorina was furious. Furious with the mob, furious with herself for not thinking as she fought. Even the Greek, Danae, had known to carry her weaker opponent, whereas she, Sorina, the famous Amazona, had rushed in to deny the crowd their entertainment.
But most of all, she was furious with Lysandra. Her hatred for the Greek seethed in her heart, burning hot. The words of the yellow-clad man in the crowd haunted her. The Spartan had replaced her in the hearts of the populace and, though she despised the mob, this hurt. It was a blow to her honour, her esteem. Lysandra was nothing. An arrogant girl-child with well-learned tricks. Not a true warrior.
When she learned that the agenda for the spectacle had changed, her heart leapt. It was as if the gods were smiling on her at last.
Here was a chance to fight the Greek bitch, offered to her so soon. She had gone to her cell and prayed, prayed with all her heart that her name was drawn with Lysandra’s.
Her mind swam with images of her enemy’s death at her blade, so strong that she felt a flood of heat in her loins. She could see herself, drenched in Spartan blood, hacking the pale body to pieces as the crowd screamed her on. Lysandra’s eyes alight with fear and pain, pissing herself in her death throes. Her own body shuddering in ecstasy as her iron blade drove deep into her hated foe.
She wanted her death so much, it had become an insatiable hunger. Never in all her life had she felt such hatred. Not even towards the Romans who had taken her freedom, and spilled much Dacian blood. Just one chance, she begged silently. Please, gods, just one chance to face her. She’d gladly die to send Lysandra to Helle first, safe in the knowledge that the arrogant bitch knew that she was the better woman.
The door to her cell opened.
‘Sorina.’ Stick’s ugly face was grim. ‘You had better start getting ready.’
She looked up at him, her eyes glazed and pleading. ‘Who am I to fight?’
The mob had begun to stamp its feet in appreciation of the match. Here was something worth cheering about. Frontinus tried to appear aloof and disinterested, but could not resist shifting on his couch as Lysandra’s opponent strode towards her. It was a match that promised everything. The other held the great scutum of the murmillo, her arms and shoulders heavily armoured with manica and plate. Aside from this, she wore only a short leather kilt, and the crowd screamed their appreciation. They were both magnificent specimens of womanhood, tall and beautiful, their charms exposed to the slavering spectators. Sex and death — there was no greater narcotic to sate them. And Frontinus was providing both in abundance.
Lysandra narrowed her eyes as her opponent stepped up.
‘Hello, Lysandra, how are you today?’ Hildreth’s smile was cold.
‘I am well, Hildreth,’ she responded to their once friendly ritual. ‘How are you?’
‘I am well,’ the German said. ‘I am sorry that you will die. I like you.’
Lysandra hesitated, memories flooding back to her. She recalled her first journey to the ludus: Hildreth’s kindness as she had shared her bread; the German girl’s laughter as she had shouted out the unfamiliar Latin words Lysandra had taught her; her own amusement at the German’s hairy body before she had been shorn like a civilised woman.
And their fight.
The speed and strength of the tribeswoman, the ease with which she had defeated her. For a moment, Lysandra felt her mouth go dry and her stomach knot. Hildreth nodded, reading the look in her eyes, and her smile turned to a sneer.
It was akin to a slap around the face. Lysandra blinked, and straightened her back. Distantly, she heard an arena attendant shout ‘ Pugnate!’ the order to fight. At once the German dropped into a fighting crouch, but Lysandra remained erect. She stretched her neck from side to side and spun her sword twice, this piece of show fast becoming her signature and the crowd hooted in appreciation. But more, she had shown Hildreth that she did not fear her.
Hildreth snarled, but Lysandra’s casual disdain had not proven enough to make her rush in. Whilst Hildreth believed herself to be the superior fighter, she was not so foolish as to think her task would be an easy one.
Hildreth raised her sword, pointing it over the top of the scutum at Lysandra, who responded by finally assuming a fighting stance, her own small buckler angled to deflect a thrust from the German.
The redhead scuttled to one side, trying to create an angle of attack, but Lysandra matched her movement to cut off this avenue.
Though the crowd had been derisive of such posturing in the earlier bouts, they now watched with rapt attention. Both fighters were known to them, both rising to the top of their game, and the winner of this bout would be on the path to greatness.
