Lysandra’s friends and confidants. As you know, Amazona killed Britannica. There was some talk that she was Lysandra’s lover. There is much bad blood between them.’
‘An opportunity for us, no?’ Frontinus grinned wolfishly.
‘I think not, Excellency,’ Balbus hedged. Lysandra was good but still inexperienced. Though she waxed and Sorina waned, there was a conflict and rivalry that he wished to nurture. Only when she was in her prime did he want her to face the Dacian.
‘I don’t think Lysandra could win against Amazona,’ he said. ‘All our efforts towards the grand battle would be for nought.’
Frontinus considered that. ‘Perhaps you are right. But I am not convinced. I think Lysandra would beat her, this…’ he paused and grinned, ‘this nemesis of hers. But, you are the expert.’
Balbus shook his head. ‘No, my lord, your eye is as keen as mine,’ he said, not above a little flattery to smooth ruffled feathers.
Frontinus’s glance however, told him that the governor knew he was being sycophantic. Well, Balbus thought, what did he expect?
With patricians, one could never win. ‘But, perhaps because I spend more time with both women than you…’ he added. ‘And can see their development continually… Performances in the arena are never as telling as the day- to-day training. Anyone can have an off-day, as you saw with Amazona earlier. Though she won, her performance was poor. No entertainment.’ He summed up with distaste.
‘True,’ Frontinus agreed. ‘But she did redeem herself just now.
Consummate skill.’ He nodded appreciatively. ‘She took Theseis apart with ease yet strung it out so that the mob could have their fill of blood. A true professional in the end, Balbus.’
‘One tries to endow them with virtue,’ the lanista said modestly and trying to smother any hint of irony.
‘Very well,’ Frontinus said. ‘We shall keep them apart. For now.’
Balbus inclined his head, hiding his expression; inside he was somewhat perturbed. Frontinus, and indeed Aeschylus, had pumped money into the ludus but he was already discovering that it came at a high rate of interest. Balbus was used to making his own decisions about who fought whom and when. The same rules applied here as anywhere, he thought bitterly. Money bought influence, and Frontinus now had influence in the decisions of the school. The thought made the wine taste sour on his tongue.
XLIII
The games went on. Because of her wound, Lysandra could not participate but she watched with growing concern over her women. She found herself analysing their performances more and more and had taken to noting down strengths and weaknesses that these might be corrected on return to the ludus.
It was, she knew, an effort to keep her own mind busy. The loss of Danae had hit her harder than she cared to admit and certainly she could not share her feelings with the others. She must remain implacable at all times, an example of Spartan fortitude and strong-mindedness.
But, in her quiet moments, Danae’s death somehow compounded that of Eirianwen’s. She thought she had buried her feelings deep, but Sorina had re-opened the wound. Always, it was Sorina. Her dreams were once again haunted by Eirianwen’s last agonising moment, and now this image was joined with that of Danae, caring Danae, cut to bloody ribbons by the barbarian. With the return of Eirianwen to the night, so came Nastasen. The death of her love and the rape of her own body could not be divorced in her mind and once again she knew fear in the darkness.
There had to be a reckoning, and soon. Perhaps killing Sorina would serve to exorcise her of the nightly torments. If she could not revenge herself on Nastasen then at least she could kill Eirianwen’s murderer. Yet, Lysandra knew that she would have to be at her best to match the Dacian. Spartan bravery and courage was one thing but, injured as she was, she would be easy prey for Sorina. She kept well away from her and her coterie, salving her conscience with the knowledge that this was not cowardice, but prudence. It was, she considered, the barbarian way to charge off into a fight with little or no forethought and thus fall to easy defeat.
Catuvolcos spoke to her often, seeming to sense the darkness of her mood. He did his best to seal their renewed friendship in this time, even inviting her to the city one evening to meet his paramour, Doris. He had at least the good taste not to bring her to the brothel. Lysandra had sent word to Telemachus that she would be abroad, and she was pleased when he agreed to meet them. The four had an entertaining evening, despite the constant interruptions from Lysandra’s admirers.
She herself found it a welcome diversion from the black thoughts that never left her mind. Revenge was an all-consuming force, she decided.
The gladiatrices returned to the ludus under heavy guard. Balbus was at pains to keep the various factions separated, as tensions were running higher than ever.
To her credit, Lysandra kept her women under close control, marching them out of the ludus each day to train on the arid landscape. Though this rankled with the barbarians it could not be helped. But disgruntled was one thing, violent another so, to placate them, Balbus increased their beer rations so that most evenings were clouded with alcohol. The lanista knew that everyone had a price and buying the tribeswomen off with liquor seemed the best solution.
One morning, he decided to take a look at how ‘the troops,’ as he had come to call them, were progressing. Flanked by Titus and Stick, he rode out to watch the proceedings.
‘It follows the same format every day,’ Titus told him, ‘so you will get a good picture from this.’
The early part of the day was taken up with physical training, each woman carrying a round hoplon shield and eight-foot spear.
Their armour was the cheap, army surplus chain mail that Balbus had procured at Lysandra’s request: made of tiny iron rings linked to form a mesh, it provided lightweight, flexible protection. However, in a nod to the historical theme of the battle, the women were equipped otherwise as Greek hoplite warriors, the great crested Corinthian helms nodding as they were put through their paces.
‘It looks very impressive,’ he observed.
‘She has got them up to speed in a remarkably short time,’
Titus admitted.
After the running and exercise in the armour, came drill, and this was truly the mark of Lysandra’s success so far. At barked orders from the Spartan and some embarrassingly poor blasts from Thebe on the rusted buccinae — their signalling trumpet — the women formed into the ranks and files with effortless ease.
They set off at a march and, at specific refrains from the trumpet, they performed a variety of different manoeuvres to Balbus’s delight.
‘They look so authentic! ’ he enthused to Stick. ‘Just as I would imagine a hoplite army to look like from the histories. Truly, I had heard that her warrior order in Sparta was the only place in the world one could see a force such as this. But now, we have one of our own.’
Stick grunted for want of something to say. To him, it was all a silly game.
The drilling went on for some time, the manoeuvres becoming more complex. Any infractions in the ranks were punished harshly by Lysandra and her seconds in the form of what Titus told the lanista was called ‘beasting’ — extra physical duties. Balbus noted that she had not resorted to the whip that had evidently been used on her in Sparta.
‘They will soon rest and go on to the usual gladiatorial training,’ the veteran trainer advised Balbus.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ Balbus responded, and rubbed his hands together before turning his horse about. Just as he was about to nudge the beast away, a sweating Lysandra called after him. Balbus pulled his mount to, thinking that she looked very military, with her helm tucked under her arm and her greaves all dusty. Still, he had noted that she had not taken part in the training, evidently nursing her wound. She had such good sense, he thought to himself.
‘I am very impressed,’ he said before she had spoken.
‘Good,’ she responded shortly. ‘But it is not enough, Balbus.’
‘What do you mean?’ He regarded her carefully.
