‘Sorina…’
‘No! She has done this to get at me, that is all. She will rob me of our contest and yet she will die with all honours at the hands of a man. The mob will remember her bravery and I will be denied my chance at vengeance!’
Teuta stood and put a placating hand on Sorina’s shoulder.
‘She may win. Have you yourself not killed many men?’
Sorina jerked away from her touch. ‘That was different. That was in the heat of battle, where all is chaos. But this,’ she gestured in the direction of the arena above. ‘There is no way she can beat him. You’ve seen him, Teuta. How strong he is. She does this to go to her death and cheat me of my chance.’
There was a tapping, and the cell door opened. Varia was there, bearing a tray with wine and sweetmeats upon it. ‘I have brought you some refreshment,’ the child announced.
‘Get out! Get out!’ Sorina screamed at her, finding another vent for her rage.
‘But I was told to bring…’
Sorina raised her hand but Teuta stepped between the two, deftly lifting the tray from the girl’s hands. ‘Go,’ she said. Varia took to her heels and Teuta put the tray down. ‘There’s no need to take it out on her, Sorina. Just be calm. There is nothing to be done about it.’ She took a swig from the wine jug and smacked her lips. ‘Balbus has given us the good stuff,’ she said. ‘Have some.’
She patted the bunk, indicating that Sorina join her.
Still angered she sat, trembling with suppressed rage. She snatched the jug, and drank deeply, the red liquid sliding from the lip of the jug down her cheeks.
Teuta’s eyes did not leave her as she drank her fill. ‘There,’ she said as Sorina wiped her mouth. ‘Better?’
‘If not for her, Eirianwen would still be alive. I hate her so much.’
‘I know you do,’ Teuta sighed. ‘But don’t let it destroy you inside, Sorina. When it comes down to it, Lysandra will die and you will see her corpse. The gods will accept the sacrifice in whatever form it comes.’ She reached out tentatively and put her hand on Sorina’s thigh. ‘Let us not think of Lysandra now.’
Sorina eased back on the bunk, opening her legs. Teuta knelt between them, her tongue gentle and probing. Sorina grasped her hair, dragging her in roughly. ‘It is not loving I want,’ she hissed. ‘Give me release!’
Varia weaved her way through the crowded corridors of the gaol, avoiding the gladiatrices who milled about. She was the happiest she could remember being. This was her first time at the games; the first time she could remember being away from the ludus.
And what was more, she was allowed to serve Lysandra and the other Hellene women.
Lysandra was not in her cell nor was she with the other women. Varia found her in the training ground, duelling with Catuvolcos. She knew better than to interrupt her, so she prepared a jug of water for her Mistress — the word sounded grand even in her mind — and sat down to wait.
Lysandra’s movements were as quick as snake’s and Varia marvelled at her speed and power. She knew that no one, not even Nastasen, could defeat her. Catuvolcos wielded a long stave, the length cut to that of a barbarian sword, whereas Lysandra held two wooden training swords; she would fight as the dimachaera, the two-knife girl.
‘He’s bigger and stronger,’ Catuvolcos said, his breathing laboured. ‘So you must be fast. Faster than you have ever been.’
Lysandra nodded, her eyes flat and focused only on her opponent. He yelled and attacked furiously, the stave blurring and hissing as he swung it at the lithe Spartan. Lysandra moved back and away but Catuvolcos pressed in and the hiss of the wood was interrupted by the staccato clack of wood on wood as Lysandra parried.
‘No!’ Catuvolcos shouted at her. ‘You must evade!’
‘I cannot run from him forever,’ Lysandra snapped. ‘I must engage him at some stage.’
Catuvolcos cast the stave aside. ‘Only when he is worn down and exhausted. You don’t stand a chance against him when he is fresh. He will overpower you in moments.’
‘I am tired of hearing that! You have said little else all day.’
‘Because it’s true!’ Catuvolcos exploded. ‘If you are set on this insane course, you must at least try to survive. And to survive you must stay away and pick him apart.’
‘Insane?’ Lysandra arched an eyebrow. ‘It is insane to seek vengeance?’
‘No, it is not insane to seek vengeance,’ he muttered, hating that she was using her small knowledge of Clan lore against him: vengeance was a holy thing. ‘But there are other ways. We can arrange…’
‘No,’ she cut him off. ‘He must die before the crowd. At my hand. He must go to his death knowing humiliation.’
He sighed and retrieved his weapon. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go again.’
Lysandra’s smile was fierce.
The routine was punishing but Lysandra pushed herself to her limit. Catuvolcos was extremely skilled and she was at her best to match him. Time and time again when she tried to push an advantage he ploughed into her, using his great strength to bowl her from her feet. It was frustrating and infuriating but she knew it was the correct manner in which to train for Nastasen.
Lysandra was surprised at how the old feelings of fear as well as the more sickening ones of inadequacy and shame had been awakened at the sight of the Nubian. She knew logically that she had nothing of which to be ashamed. She had done nothing wrong, yet she felt a terrible sense of guilt, the reason for which she could not explain. Each night since she had seen him in the cell, the nightmares were more intense, dreams of the trainer and his men and the violation they had committed to her person.
Outwardly, she maintained a facade of confidence, but inside she was gripped with fear — not for her life, but of failure. To face his great strength and skill might be foolhardy but how else could her guilt be assuaged? How else could she lay the fear to rest? She had to meet him on his own ground, match him and defeat him.
Catuvolcos, at least, was doing his best to help and, on her part, she threw her all into the training. She was bruised and battered but she had learned much. After some hours he called a halt, himself hurt and exhausted.
‘Again, tomorrow?’ she queried.
Catuvolcos was bent, resting his hands on his thighs, gasping for air. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We’ll see how you’ve progressed.’
Lysandra nodded and walked away. Varia, the slave girl trotted towards her, bearing the water jug.
‘I got this for you!’ she announced. ‘You fought well,’ she added as Lysandra drank deeply.
‘Not well enough yet. You did as I instructed?’
‘Oh yes.’ Varia nodded enthusiastically. ‘She was very angry, shouting about how you were only fighting Nastasen so he would kill you and she wouldn’t have her revenge on you!’
‘Not quite the correct assessment on her part,’ Lysandra said wryly. ‘She took the wine?’
‘I don’t know. I fled before she could hit me.’
Lysandra smiled slightly. ‘If she was angry enough to try to hit you and yet she took it… Good. I would see her in her cups as often as possible. Her hatred of me will grow and she will lose her focus.’ Focus was something she herself would have to be aware of, she thought. Nastasen first, Sorina second. Then the ghosts would all be gone. ‘You have done very well, Varia,’ she nodded. ‘I am pleased with you.’
Varia blushed. ‘Mistress?’ she said hesitantly.
Lysandra was already moving away, but halted. ‘Yes,’ she turned.
‘What is it?’
The girl seemed to gather herself for a moment. ‘I want to be a gladiatrix like you. To be a heroine like you. You could teach me to be the best, couldn’t you? Then I wouldn’t have to fetch and carry like I do now — not that I mind serving you because that’s an honour but I don’t want to go back to just being a slave.’ It came out in a huge rush, and Lysandra had to force herself to concentrate on the tirade.
‘Balbus has no plans to make you into a fighter,’ she said shortly, and the girl’s face fell. Lysandra frowned; she did not need juve-nile peevishness now. ‘I cannot train you,’ she went on firmly. ‘It is forbidden for me to do so.’ She did not know if that were the case, but it seemed expedient so say so. Varia was useful in so far as her insignificance made her the perfect tool for gathering information on Sorina’s state of mind. No one took any notice of the girl.
