end your days as slaves and your children will be born slaves.
‘The arena offers you a way out. An opportunity to fight for nd earn your freedom. In the weeks to come you must prove to me that you are worthy of this right. That your yet unborn children are worthy to be free. You compete not only against your own pain but against each other.’ He paused for a while, letting that sink in. ‘That is all.’
Titus watched as the novices hesitated a moment before breaking up into their usual groups. The tall Spartan priestess, of course, turned on her heel and separated from the pack. He shook his head. It seemed she had everything she needed to be a ruthless and skilled fighter. But Titus could sense that the fire that somehow managed to burn behind her ice-coloured eyes was being doused little by little.
Varia struggled under the weight of the damp sheets, her thin arms shaking with the effort of carrying so many. Stupid, she thought to herself. She could not manage so many. Her efforts were inspired by fear; Greta drove her scrubs as hard as Nastasen drove the fighters. She had tried her best to complete her quota of work but there was always so much to do. The slave girl tried to pick up her pace but, so doing, overbalanced the precariously stacked cotton.
She fell, the sheets landing with a thud in the dust. Varia bit her lip, tears of frustration and not a little fear welling up in her eyes. Greta would be furious. Frantically, she began gathering the ruined washing when a shadow fell across her. Without even having to look, she knew it was Greta. The German always seemed to know when she had failed; was always on hand to chastise her.
‘You stupid little fool!’ Greta shrieked, kicking the sheets away from Varia’s scrabbling hands. ‘It’s all ruined! I’ll tan your worthless hide!’
Varia cowered, holding her hands over her head, waiting for the stinging blows to land. ‘I’m sorry, Greta, I’m sorry!’ she cried, her voice breaking as her tears spilled forth, desperate, but knowing that mercy was not in the German’s nature. She waited, her eyes squeezed tight shut. There was a sharp snap of flesh on flesh, but no blow landed. Slowly, she turned her head to see why Greta had spared her. She could scarcely believe what she saw.
Greta struggled, her wrist gripped in the hand of a tall goddess; a goddess who had come to save her. The bulky German tried to pull away but could not break free. Varia brushed the tears from her eyes and saw that it was Lysandra, one of the novices. Her heart leapt. Never before had anyone intervened on her behalf!
‘There will be no punishment today,’ Lysandra said, releasing her grip contemptuously.
Greta’s eyes bulged, a mixture of fear and fury. ‘You take your own beatings well enough, Spartan. And never once have I seen you lift a finger to defend your fellow arena fodder.’ She drew herself up. ‘This is not your concern.’
‘Beating hardens a warrior against fear and pain.’ Lysandra sounded as if she were reciting a well-learned phrase. ‘This girl is no warrior.’
‘It is still not your concern,’ Greta recovered herself somewhat. ‘She has failed in her duties, and must be disciplined.’
‘I have just made it my concern.’ Lysandra’s voice was low and calm. But Varia trembled somewhat at its sound. ‘I would hate for us to argue, Greta.’ She took a step forward and Varia swelled with glee as her tormentor gave ground. ‘I require this girl’s services,’ Lysandra went on, her eyes fixed upon Greta’s. ‘The wishes of the fighting women go beyond any paltry domestic concerns of yours.’
Greta snorted and turned to go. Her stamping feet had not taken her more than two yards when Lysandra called her back.
Scarlet faced, she turned about.
‘You have forgotten the sheets,’ she indicated the crumpled laundry. Fuming, Greta gathered the ragged pile and stormed off.
She had got a little further this time before Lysandra spoke again.
There was ice enough in her voice to cause Greta to stop in her tracks. ‘If you take vengeance on this child for my actions, I will kill you.’ It was stated so calmly, so quietly, yet it was the more chilling for its utter blandness. The tension drained out of Greta, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. She nodded once, and walked away.
Varia waited till Greta was out of earshot and then turned to face Lysandra. There was a strange feeling in her chest, a warmth felt never before as she looked upon her rescuer. She was so tall, so beautiful — so magnificent!
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for helping me.’
Lysandra’s lips curled in the slightest of smiles. She extended her hand and helped Varia to her feet.
‘I do have need of you,’ she said. Varia nodded and she smiled too, her heart overflowing with gratitude.
VI
Lysandra led Varia to the school’s infirmary. As there had been no bouts during the recent weeks of training, the small compound was virtually deserted save for a few fighters with minor injuries. She reasoned that would soon change once her fellow novices began to feel the strains and cuts of their morning exercise. She was determined to get ahead of everyone else.
The chief physician, an irrepressible old satyr of a man named Quintus, looked up as they entered his small office to the rear of the main hospital.
‘Ah, the Spartan and young Varia,’ he said mildly, putting down his stylus. ‘What can I do for you today?’
‘Myrrh,’ Lysandra answered shortly.
‘It’s expensive stuff, Lysandra,’ he grunted. ‘Nevertheless, I’ve seen them take the lash to you more than they should.’ He got to his feet. ‘Just take your clothes off and I’ll apply some to your wounds.’
Lysandra cocked her head to one side. She had heard all about Quintus and his roving hands. ‘Just give me the myrrh.’
Quintus made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, but moved to a side room to find the balm. There was much clattering of ceramics and cursing but, after a short time, the old man emerged with a small pot. ‘Here.’ He slapped it into Lysandra’s outstretched palm. ‘Not too much at a time.’
‘I am well aware of how the salve is applied,’ she replied loftily, and exited the small room without another word, Varia in tow.
Quintus watched her retreating back and mimicked her last words to himself soundlessly, a sour expression on his face.
From the infirmary, Lysandra went straight to the baths. Ignoring the warm water, she marched purposefully to the cold pool, tossed her tunic to one side and plunged in.
The water was not as cold as she would have liked but would suffice for her purposes. This was an often- used practice in the priestesses’ agoge. After receiving punishment the girls would bathe in the icy waters of the Eurotas River to take the swelling from their painful injuries.
Slowly, she felt her body becoming accustomed to the chill of the pool. She stayed still, not wanting to give her muscles cause for any warmth. She glanced up, and noted Varia’s aghast expression.
‘What is the matter with you?’ she asked
‘You must be freezing,’ the girl responded.
‘Cold is a feeling,’ Lysandra said, reciting the lessons of her youth. ‘You feel hot, you feel cold, you feel pain. All such things are merely a state of mind.’
‘I wish I could be like you.’ Varia’s voice was awed.
‘Naturally,’ Lysandra agreed. It was, she thought, unsurprising: having been used to barbarians, Romans and lesser Hellenes, the young slave could not fail to be impressed by a true Spartan.
This thought caused her mind to take a bitter course. She was a slave, and therefore a true Spartan no longer. She hauled herself from the water and sat on the side of the pool, her feet paddling.
‘Pat my back dry and apply the myrrh to my cuts,’ she ordered sharply, wondering if she had made the right choice in aiding the child. It was an act of charity that would doubtless have ramifications. This, she thought, is what I have come to. Impressing children and bullying washerwomen. A fine end for a Mission Priestess.
Varia did as she bade her, gently administering the salve. Lysandra breathed deeply through her nose as she
