Eirianwen. ‘I suppose you are right,’ she said after a while.
The lanista cleared his throat. ‘What will you do now?’
Lysandra almost smiled at that. Typical of Balbus to always be thinking about his purse. With his two best fighters freed, he could never again hope to receive the gates and interest of the past two years. His dream of staging the grand battle for Domitian’s birthday was over for, without her, she knew it would turn into farce. Balbus knew her too well. She could not and would not abandon those women already trained. She could not leave Thebe and Varia alone, bereft of her leadership.
‘I shall stay with you,’ she said quietly. ‘This is what I am now, Balbus.’
‘I thought this would be so.’ His voice sounded strangely thick, as if a hard, dry crust was lodged in his throat. ‘But it will not be with me,’ he added softly. ‘These past two years, with you, Sorina and, aye, Eirianwen, have taught me that I am getting too old for this game. It’s all…’ He trailed off, gesturing with his hands. ‘It’s all too much.’
‘You are to retire?’ Despite herself, Lysandra was stunned.
‘Oh, yes. Eros and I shall go to Greece, where our situation with each other will not be frowned upon. Hellas, I mean,’ he amended, and was rewarded by a wan smile. ‘Of course, that leaves the matter of my ludus. I have spoken with Titus, Stick and Catuvolcos on this, and they agree — it truly has become the Ludus Lysandra. Thus, I leave my school in your hands for you to do with it as you see fit. The women are now truly your responsibility. You can free them all, fight your battle or even sell the place. Or you could remain in the arena, though I hope you do not. He sighed. ‘You have taught me much about myself. This is the only gift I can give you.’ He leant forward, and kissed her softly on the forehead. He rose and went to the door. ‘Goodbye, Lysandra of Sparta,’ he said, and was gone.
There was only silence in the room then. Lysandra felt tears spring to her eyes as the enormity of Balbus’s gift washed over her. What could she do? She had once said to Frontinus that she would not return to Sparta to become a priestess once more.
That part of her was dead.
All that remained was the gladiatrix.
EPILOGUE
The Dacian border — one year later
Marcus Sabinus cowered in terror beneath the bodies.
A legionary for less than two years, he had never seen a battle before and the reality was sickening.
Men and horses cut down, or shot full of arrows.
They had come at sundown, raging over the marching camp like a tempest, scaling the walls, their shrill terrifying cries mingling with the crackle of flames and the screams of dying Romans.
Such numbers they had were beyond counting. The gate breached, they had poured in, mounted warriors, terrible to behold.
The battle lost, he had sought to save his own skin, diving for cover amongst the dead. Then the screaming had begun anew, as the victors tortured their captives, maiming them, unmanning them, burning them. Marcus had soiled himself in terror and was unashamed, praying to all the gods on Olympus that he would survive. He prayed to his dead mother and father to spare him.
He did not want to die.
Rough hands scrabbled at the bodies above him, dragging them away. He screamed frantically, trying to escape. But they were all over him, tearing the lorica from his body, pulling his tunic from him.
‘Please,’ he babbled, ‘please don’t kill me.’ Fresh shit ran down his legs when he beheld them, these wild barbarians with only death in their eyes. Chattering in their vile tongue, they shoved him through the desolation that was once the marching camp.
All around him the impaled bodies of legionaries rode on stout pikes, some of them still shrieking their death agonies.
It was then he realised that the attackers — all of them — were women. He had heard tell of the Dacian Amazons, but had laughed the stories off as fanciful tales. Yet here were the camp-fire yarns made horrific truth.
One, obviously their leader, approached. She was tall on her horse, bathed in the hellish light of the burning fort. Fresh scalps, Roman scalps, dangled from her saddle. Her sword was bloody, her quiver empty.
‘Roman,’ she said in Latin, her chestnut-coloured eyes boring into his own. ‘Only you of your kin will leave this place alive, but not because I am merciful. Look around you. Etch the suffering of your comrades into your mind. This then, is the fate of all Romans who cross into my homeland. Find your kin. Tell them what has taken place here. Tell them that Sorina of Dacia has made good her promise once made to a Spartan. Tell the Romans that I have returned to take back what is mine. Do you understand me, Legionary?’
Marcus nodded meakly, his entire body trembling.
‘We go!’ the Amazon shouted, rearing her horse about. Her Sisters cried out their keening war cry and the thunder of hooves filled the camp as they rode, shrieking into the night.
