she had been consigned to this cruel fate. The serene marble face gave no answers.
V
They were pushed hard.
From dawn till dusk, the new captives were subjected to a punishing regimen of callisthenics that left them stumbling exhausted into their tiny cells at the day’s end. Here they were shackled and left till cockcrow, when the drills began again.
Though she prided herself on her physical fitness, Lysandra found the savage regime challenging. The day began with laps of the ludus, alternately jogging and sprinting; this type of exercise was known to make the lungs bigger and the legs stronger. A light breakfast followed, for those who could keep it down, and then the real work of the day began. The novices were not given swords to work with because, as Stick constantly reminded them, their bodies had to be strengthened first. And that would take several weeks.
They hung from bars, pulling with their arms until their chins touched the wooden pole from which they were suspended, or lay flat on the ground, sitting up each time Stick barked the order. Many such simple exercises were repeated over and over.
Lysandra and the Germans had been merged into a much larger group of women, other recent acquisitions to Balbus’s famillia, and all were put through their paces under the exacting eye of the trainers. Many faltered and were encouraged to greater exertions with the aid of the vine staff or birch rod. It was not only Stick responsible for these arbitrary thrashings; the trainers were rotated on a regular basis and Lysandra came to distinguish between the harsh-but-fair and the unfairly harsh.
There was Nastasen, burnt black as coal by the hot sun of his savage Nubian homeland. A huge man, his body thick with cords of muscle, he had strange, wiry hair growing in wild locks. He had taken an intense dislike to Lysandra for reasons unknown to her. She bore his animosity with stoicism, speaking little and working hard. Yet Nastasen still took delight in administering the lash to her, even though she was confident of her own excellence. She took some satisfaction from receiving her punishments in silence, knowing that her refusal to be moved would frustrate him.
Most popular amongst the barbarian women was Catuvolcos, a young Gaul given more to haranguing the women than beating them. His gladiatorial career, Lysandra learned, had been cut short by a sword thrust to the knee. Catuvolcos went easy on them most of the time, especially the tribeswomen, with whom he shared a kinship.
Titus the Roman, middle-aged and tough as a leather cuirass, was an exacting taskmaster, not shy with the whip when it was called upon, but not over-zealous. Unlike the other trainers Titus was not a former gladiator but an ex-soldier and a free man who had never tasted slavery. He was also old enough to have had his fill of inflicting pain for its own sake. Lysandra realised that he was out to instil discipline and toughness in his charges, not to break their spirits. Those of the women who could speak Latin swiftly dubbed him ‘The Centurion’.
It quickly became clear to Lysandra that there was a distinct cultural divide in the large group of newcomers. The barbarians, be they German, Gaul, Briton or from farther-flung tribes beyond the Euxine, went about together.
Then there were many women of the South and East: Egyptians, Syrians, Ethiopians and their ilk. They set themselves apart from the rest, babbling incessantly in their staccato tongues.
Lysandra found herself amongst Romans, Italians, Sicilians and even some Hellenes. Unfortunately, none of these were Spartan and, though they tried to converse with her, she found in their inane talk yet further proof that Sparta was indeed the greatest polis in all Hellas. She was courteous to them, but she had nothing in common with these seamstresses, these wives who, before the ludus, knew nothing of toil and hardship.
In time, none spoke to her at all.
In the pitch black of her cell Lysandra prayed nightly for deliverance but Athene was deaf to her entreaties. She knew why: she was a slave, and the goddess would not condescend to succour one such as she. Beyond the beatings, beyond the daily toil of the ludus, this was the pain she found hardest to bear. To a Spartan, admission of suffering, even to oneself, was the gravest dishonour.
Yet, in the darkest hours, she began to wonder if she could consider herself Spartan at all.
The crash of the cell doors being flung open brought Lysandra to wakefulness. She sat up on her pallet and stretched, wincing as the recent stripes on her back pulled slightly. In time the door to her own prison was unlocked to reveal the huge form of Nastasen, his grinning face full of contempt.
‘Why is it your cell stinks worse than any of these other animals?’ he sneered.
Lysandra got to her feet and shrugged. ‘Perhaps because the stench you leave in here never seems to fade.’
The big Nubian took a menacing step forward. ‘You must like me taking my rod to your back. Maybe a different rod in a different place might teach you some respect,’ he said, fondling himself lewdly.
‘I’m sure Balbus would have something to say about that, Nubian.’ As Stick had demonstrated on their first day, it was apparent that groping and debasing comments were tolerated, but there could be no question of the trainers forcing themselves sexually on the women. This, she had overheard, was a simple economic consideration: pregnant gladiatrices could not fight.
Nastasen grunted, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘Get outside, you Greek bitch, and be thankful I don’t make an example of you.’
Lysandra could not resist. ‘Another one?’ she said blandly, arching an eyebrow.
The Nubian’s temper snapped and, with a growl, he advanced on her. Lysandra dropped back into a fighting stance, determined to cause at least some damage to the big man. He had initiated this away from the ludus and she considered it a personal issue.
‘Nastasen!’ Titus’s gruff voice sounded from outside the cell.
The Nubian paused, his eyes still fixed on Lysandra. ‘Leave it and assemble the novices.’ His demeanour broached no argument.
Nastasen hesitated, then turned sharply away, shouldering past the grizzled Roman. The older trainer shook his head. ‘Come on, Spartan. Get moving.’ Lysandra nodded and followed him out to the training area.
The women had been drawn into rank and file and Lysandra swiftly found herself a place next to Hildreth. She had not spoken to the German since their first day at the ludus but had noted during the exercises that her fellow captive had coped well.
‘Good morning, Lysandra, how are you today?’ Hildreth’s Latin, though weirdly accented, seemed to be improving.
‘I would be better if I were out of this place,’ she responded.
Hildreth looked blankly at her. Lysandra tried again. ‘I am very well, Hildreth, how are you?’
The German smiled broadly. ‘I am very well.’
Lysandra resisted the urge to grin. Instead she faced the front and waited for the daily grind to start.
With Stick, Nastasen and Catuvolcos standing to one side, Titus began to pace up and down the front line, pausing every so often to scrutinise one of the women. This went on for some time but he turned to address them all at last.
‘You are, without doubt, the most useless novices it has ever been my misfortune to train. Cripples would perform better. If you think your training has been tough so far, it is nothing compared to what lies ahead.’ He glared balefully at them, daring them to groan, but was greeted only by silence. All the women knew that to voice their displeasure was to invite a thrashing.
Satisfied he had their attention, he went on. ‘However, that can wait a little. Many of you soft-bodied whores are carrying injuries, either earned in training or self-inflicted through lack of effort.’
He held up his vine staff, indicating that a self-inflicted injury was, in fact, a beating administered by a trainer. ‘Therefore, it is my decision to give you three days of rest. That is ample time to heal any hurts you pathetic specimens might believe you have.
‘In three days, you begin the second and final stage of your training: your training with sword and shield, net and trident, the immortal arts of gladiatorial combat. Only when this is done will you take the Gladiatrix Oath.’
Titus ceased to pace and stood directly at the front and centre of the first rank. ‘I have to tell you now that it is not given that you will succeed. If any one of you fails to make the standards set by the trainers, you will be sold on. That might not sound so terrible, you may think. But if you are sold from this place, you will be a slave forever. Whether you toil with your hands at the loom, your back in the mines, or your cunnus in the whore-house, you will
