XLVII
Halicarnassus was alive with anticipation. The streets, usually crowded, were packed to overflowing. Every wall was adorned with parchments advertising the forthcoming Games of Trajan, the events the only topic of conversation in the city’s many taverns. Betting amongst the professional gamblers had reached a fever pitch, vast wagers being placed on every bout; some would become rich from the event, but more would find themselves destitute. The betting fraternity aside, it seemed that every inhabitant of the city had staked money on the event.
When the inns became full, a metropolis of tents sprang up around the Carian capital. Industry boomed as taxable goods flooded into the city and so enriched the treasury. All manner of entrepreneurs flocked to Halicarnassus: slavers and food sellers; fine goods merchants and whoremasters with their retinues. It was as if everyone in the province and beyond wanted a piece of the profits generated by the enterprise.
Frontinus himself could scarcely believe the figures Diocles had shown him.
‘A huge increase, my lord,’ the deadpan secretary assured him.
‘Despite your recent investment in next year’s events, the treasury is much recovered. Actually, it is the healthiest it has been in years.’
Frontinus beamed at the freedman. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You know, Diocles, I had misgivings about Trajanus, but I have to admit that his unscheduled arrival really has brought out the best in me.’
‘Of course,’ Diocles agreed. ‘Speaking of which, you must ready yourself. It would be unseemly to miss the opening ceremony of such an extravaganza — especially as you are its architect.’
‘Quite right, Diocles, quite right.’ Frontinus set his half-finished wine cup aside. ‘Military attire or toga, do you think?’
The freedman stepped back and folded his arms, looking at him thoughtfully. ‘Toga, I think, my lord. It will be hot, and you want to enjoy your spectacle, not cook in a set of armour.’
‘Yes, but what if Trajanus wears his armour? I don’t want him thinking that I can’t take a bit of hardship.’
‘Then Trajanus is a very silly boy, Lord. He will faint by midday.’
Frontinus grunted. ‘That would be worth seeing. I like the lad, but he’s a little too ambitious, I think.’
‘You are an astute judge of character, Governor. Shall I summon the dress slaves?’
‘Eh?’ Frontinus asked. ‘Oh yes, the toga. See to it, Diocles.’ He reached out for his wine cup but the freedman deftly swiped it away. ‘My wine!’
‘It has become stale, my lord,’ Diocles said primly. ‘I shall have more brought.’ He bowed and retreated, both men knowing that no more wine would be forthcoming.
Diocles could be such a curmudgeon, Frontinus thought sourly.
The parade was Dionysian in its frenzy. Lysandra had seen the crowd driven mad by blood and lust before but this was startling, even to her. Clad in her scarlet tunic, she marched at the head of the procession with Sorina by her side, stunned at the multitudes that packed the streets. The screaming was deafening, a roaring tumult that crashed about the marching gladiatrices.
Lysandra was reminded of her first time in the arena, but whereas then she had been overawed, she now welcomed the fury and the passion. She heard her name called out many times by the onlookers and she could not suppress a slight smile.
‘They call for me now, Sorina,’ she said from the side of her mouth. ‘Where are your admirers?’
‘They’ll be singing a different tune come four moons, Spartan.’
Sorina’s grin was savage. ‘Enjoy these days, for they are your last.’
‘If the gods will it.’ Lysandra said evenly. ‘But, still — I think the people are bored with you.’
‘Think what you like!’ Sorina snapped, and Lysandra was gratified to see a vein pulse in her forehead.
She refrained from further comment. Turning to the crowd she acknowledged them with a wave and they roared their enthusiasm in return.
It was not the same in the gaol complex.
Lysandra was offered a room to herself, away from the other Hellene women, which she accepted. She realised that the public, the sponsors and indeed her own women acknowledged that there was a widening gulf between them now. There were many reasons for this, not least of all her upbringing. There was the matter of the army: a leader should be held in respect by her troops. She would act as Alexander had, sharing their trials with them, but always remaining a step above.
They still needed her influence, after all. Thebe was becoming a leader in her own right, but Lysandra was all too aware of the Corinthian’s limitations. She had learned much in her time as gladiatrix and benefited from the military training, but she could not hope to compare with the lifetime of learning she herself had garnered.
‘You will defeat her,’ Thebe told her at the feast that evening.
‘Of course,’ Lysandra responded. ‘Look at her,’ she jerked her head disdainfully at the barbarian coterie. ‘Drunk, as usual.’
‘Well, I might follow her example. I don’t fight for some days,’
Thebe said, eying the wine jug.
Lysandra was about to upbraid her, as she disapproved of drunkenness, but the retort died on her tongue. The eyes of the women were upon her. She forced a smile to her lips. ‘That is so, Thebe. It should be that you celebrate with our friends,’ her gaze swept the table, ‘new and old.’ Indeed, there were new faces amongst them, replacements for the fallen.
‘You’ll join us, Lysandra? A drink for the General?’ one of the new girls, a pretty Argive called Helena shouted out.
Lysandra narrowed her eyes as she tried to place her. Helena was one of the phalangites, a ranker of good reputation as far as Thebe reported it. ‘I will join you in a cup or two,’ she responded.
‘But any of you new girls that fight tomorrow will stay sober, and remain focused. Pass the word,’ she added.
Helena got to her feet enthusiastically, bounding down the lines of tables, informing the Hellene women of Lysandra’s orders. There were a few disgruntled expressions but, in the main, the new girls looked afraid and out of sorts. Even with the training, the knowledge that soon one would have to fight or die for the pleasure of the mob was unsettling for them.
She recalled Danae as she had once been and the memory saddened her.
‘You’re all right?’ Thebe asked, evidently noting her change in expression.
‘I was thinking of Danae,’ Lysandra responded. ‘When she was like those others.’ She jerked her head at the new girls.
‘We were all like that once,’ Thebe commented, draining her cup. ‘Well, most of us, anyway,’ she amended.
Lysandra allowed her this slip. ‘Helena seems not to be affected overmuch.’
‘Helena is a good girl,’ Thebe nodded. ‘Tough as old boots, as the saying goes. Knows her place in line, does as she’s told when she’s told. Titus marked her out early for the arena. She has potential, whereas many of the other girls are good for soldiering in the battle, but not for this,’ she gestured, encompassing the arena.
‘Truth,’ Lysandra concurred. ‘There is a difference in training the soldier and the gladiatrix. So few of us are gifted enough to do both.’
Thebe’s expression darkened for a moment. ‘We can’t all be like you, Lysandra.’
‘No,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘But I did not mean only myself, Thebe.
You are a good leader for those women in your charge. And you fight well alone. Extremely well.’
‘Really?’ Thebe almost gagged on her wine.
‘Yes. I would not train with you, nor work with you if this were not so.’
‘I…’ Thebe trailed off. ‘Thank you, Lysandra.’
Lysandra got to her feet, and placed her wine cup on the table.
‘Enjoy yourself,’ she said, and moved away. It was, she thought, a good thing to praise at times. It inspired confidence, not only in her charges, but also in her leadership. Feeling rather pleased with herself, she made her way to her cell.
