Roma Victrix (22 page)

Lysandra interjected, taken aback at the aggressive fussiness of the man.

That gave him a moment's pause. ‘Ride…' he blinked. ‘Oh, by Venus, Apollo, Jupiter best and greatest, no, we can't have that! No, no, not at all! You wait there and I'll have you sorted in a moment.'

He snapped his fingers several times and a slave shuffled in from the back offices at once. Evidently, Grumio had been expecting her and was doing his utmost to make a good impression on his employer.

‘Thank you, Memmius Grumio,' Lysandra said, accepting the drink from the slave's tray. ‘I see that you are prepared for my arrival. Hellenic recitals and all.'

Grumio nodded his head, evidently pleased that she had noted his tractability. ‘I am but your humble agent, lady. And,' he risked a grin, ‘the wife and I are partial to a bit of Greek poetry, you know.'

Lysandra could not help raising an eyebrow in shock. ‘
You're
married.'

‘Yes, for twenty years now.' he replied, looking a little puzzled at her surprise.

There was a part of Lysandra that felt rather mean-spirited for assuming that he was as camp as a row of cavalrymen's tents. ‘You look too young to be married, is what I meant.' It was not at all what she had meant, but Lysandra had learned over the years that sometimes brutal Spartan honesty was not always the best way when dealing with Romans and other Hellenes. It was almost as if they expected to be lied to.

It appeared the pulling of her original blow had the desired effect and Grumio patted his exceptional hairdo. ‘Well, I keep out of the sun,' he explained. ‘It's no good for the skin. I'm forty-two next birthday.'

‘One would never believe it,' Lysandra smiled.

‘Ah.' He looked over her shoulder. ‘The
lectica
is here. I look forward to dinner and the recital, my lady.'

Lysandra turned and looked dubiously at eight hugely muscled slaves and the tiny box they carried. How was she supposed to squeeze herself into that? ‘I look forward to it as well, Memmius Grumio,' she said, resigning herself to a long, uncomfortable journey.

The villa of Memmius Grumio was some distance from the city and, as Lysandra had foreseen, the journey was indeed both unpleasant and excruciatingly boring. However, after she had been bathed and massaged by his well-trained house-slaves, she felt in much better spirits. To while away the time before the
pater familias
returned from work, Lysandra decided to take a walk through his gardens.

She had noted as she made her somewhat ungainly exit from the
lectica
that Grumio's estate was well-tended and had just the right amount of statuary that spoke of wealth but not excess.

It was a balmy afternoon, the Italian sun softening its noontime glare and a cooling breeze drifted across her skin making the stroll all the more pleasurable. The grounds were quite beautiful, the flowers giving the place a wonderful scent. Lysandra realised that it had been a long time since she had been in so peaceful a place.

And, she noted with approval, Memmius Grumio showed the correct acquiescence to the gods, each one of the pantheon represented.

She paused by the image of Minerva – the Roman Athene – and looked into the painted marble face. She was about to open her heart to the icon and ask if she had chosen the right path when she heard soft footfalls from behind her. Lysandra turned to see a plump matron, clad in an expensive looking
stola
, approaching her.

‘Greetings, lady,' Lysandra inclined her head. ‘I am Lysandra of Sparta, guest of Memmius Grumio.'

‘Greetings, Lysandra of Sparta,' the woman responded formally.

‘I am Memmia Hortensia, devoted wife of the Memmius Grumio.

The slaves advised me that you were admiring our garden and I thought I would walk with you…unless…' she hesitated, ‘…you prefer to walk alone.'

‘I would be honoured if you would join me,' Lysandra lied in response. Memmia Hortensia had, she thought, used an interesting choice of words. Since she had decided to leave her home in the
Deiopolis
, Lysandra made the decision that she would indeed walk alone. She glanced at the statute of Minerva, reckoning that this was perhaps an answer to her unvoiced question. But she could not be sure.

‘You are enjoying our gardens?' Memmia Hortensia said after a moment, becoming uncomfortable with the silence growing between them.

‘They are exquisite. The flowers give such a wonderful scent and your statues are quite beautiful.'

Memmia Hortensia blushed in genuine pleasure. ‘I love to grow things,' she said. ‘Let me show you.'

Lysandra smiled and gestured for Memmia Hortensia to lead on.

As they strolled, she began to explain – at length – the different types of flowers and shrubbery that she had planted and reared herself. ‘It must be a lot of work,' Lysandra commented after a while. She had little real appreciation for the effort that went into this sort of exercise, but the effect was most impressive.

‘Not really,' Memmia Hortensia replied, clearly pleased that Lysandra had acknowledged her efforts. ‘When you enjoy doing something, it can't really be considered work. Besides, the slaves do the heavy digging.'

‘Of course. That is what slaves are for.'

The older woman opened her mouth to say something and then flushed, embarrassed.

‘I was once a slave,' Lysandra supplied, guessing the question that was on Memmia Hortensia's lips. ‘But I did not work in a garden.' There was something about the little woman that was endearing. She was all plump and giddy fussiness – innocent and full of frivolity.

‘You were…' Memmia Hortensia looked both ways and dropped her voice to a whisper, ‘…a
gladiatrix
. Grumio told me of this, but I thought he was teasing me. I didn't believe that there really were women who fought in the arena.'

‘Well,' Lysandra smiled. ‘There are. It is all the rage in Rome now as well, or so I am told.'

Memmia Hortensia's button-nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Rome,' she said. ‘What an awful place. I imagine that sort of thing is
very
popular there.'

‘You disapprove of the Games?'

‘I'm sorry,' Memmia Hortensia looked down. ‘I was being tact-less.'

‘It is a very Roman trait,' Lysandra responded, keeping her expression straight.

Memmia Hortensia's mouth worked for a moment, before she realised that Lysandra was joking with her and she began to laugh, a merry bell-like giggle that seemed somehow fitting in this garden.

‘
Very Roman
' she tittered. ‘You were teasing me.'

‘Only a little, Memmia Hortensia. I can see why the Games are not to everyone's taste. That said, for those women who fight in them, it is a paradoxical experience. I know that many of the slaves in my
ludus
had more liberty than their free ‘sisters' in Hellas, for instance.'

‘Come,' the little woman offered her arm which Lysandra took.

‘We shall retire to the house and await the return of my husband
.

I hope that you will regale me with tales of the arena and educate this sheltered matron with tales of glory.'

‘I am your guest,' Lysandra replied. ‘It would be an honour.'

Memmius Grumio arrived later in the afternoon, at once apologising for his lateness but also stating
ad infinitum
that he usually worked longer hours but had made an exception and left work early on Lysandra's behalf. For her part, she knew that he was in a difficult position: on the one had, she was his employer, on the other, she was a woman and, here in Italia – and indeed everywhere else save enlightened Sparta – she was not his social equal.

In her younger days, Lysandra reckoned that she probably would have gone out of her way to remind him who was in charge, but there seemed little point to such posturing so far from home.

She sat close by Memmia Hortensia and allowed Grumio to bore her with business details of how smartly he was running operations here in Brundisium for her. Doing her best to look interested, Lysandra smiled and nodded when it was appropriate to do so and waited in some desperation for the recital to begin.

When it did, she was impressed and somewhat touched. The bard was extremely good and, despite being a Roman, his Hellenic was flawless – as such, he must have been ludicrously expensive even for a man of Grumio's obvious means. The obsequiousness of the performance was both flagrant and endearing as the man recited the works of Tyrtaeus and of Alcman, the most famous of Spartan poets. As the recital progressed, Lysandra realised that she was feeling more and more well disposed to her hosts as the glorious lines of Spartan valour washed over her.

She also realised that she had drunk rather too much wine but she felt strong enough to cope with the flow. Glancing at both Grumio and Hortensia, she could see that they were both flushed and glazed, which made her feel somewhat better about herself. She reasoned also that it would be rude to stop drinking before her hosts.

The bard closed his performance with a work that he had been commissioned to write. As soon as he announced this, the Memmiae raised themselves up on their couches. As the bard began his opus about the ‘
Glorious Gladiatrix
,' it became clear that the commis-sioners of the work were her hosts and Lysandra raised her cup in toast to them as her exploits in the arena were given the poetic treatment. It was overdone and wildly inaccurate, but for all that it was enjoyable and she applauded heartily at the conclusion of the performance, going so far as to promise the poet a handsome reward for his fine work.

‘You do me great honour,' she said to Memmius Grumio as the poet departed.

‘As you have honoured us by visiting our humble home,' he responded blearily. ‘I have seen to your travel arrangements,' he added, hauling himself to his feet. ‘My slaves will see to all your needs. But now – I must depart for my bed. I fear that I will have a sore head tomorrow. My ladies, I bid you a good evening – please enjoy yourselves.'

Lysandra and Hortensia watched him go in silence. ‘Perhaps,'

Lysandra said as he disappeared around a corner, ‘we should follow your husband's lead? You must be very tired.'

‘Nonsense,' Hortensia beckoned to the wine-slave, a dusky-looking eastern girl. ‘It is early yet, and my husband has no head for wine. He works too hard,' she added as though she had remembered an instruction from Grumio to remind Lysandra of his prodigious industry in her name.

‘I can tell that he does,' Lysandra agreed. ‘We reap the benefits of Grumio's hard work in Asia Minor. I thank you for the poem – it was a wonderful gift,' she went on, changing the subject. She would write to Telemachus and ensure that Grumio's prodigious efforts were rewarded, but she was now tired of being constantly reminded of his industry.

‘We've had it transcribed for you, of course,' Hortensia said. ‘I am very pleased that you are pleased – it was Grumio's idea to have it written for you and he was in pieces not knowing how you'd react.'

Lysandra smiled. ‘Everyone likes to be praised. It has been a long time since I was praised for being – how did it go?
Gladiatrix Prima,
Regina Harenae –
First Gladiatrix, Queen of the Sands? There was a time when I was used to all that, but no longer.' She beckoned at the wine-slave. As the girl stooped and paused, Lysandra felt a twinge of heat in her loins and acknowledged that it had as much to do with the booze as with the comeliness of the slave.

‘How did you become a gladiatrix?' Hortensia leant forward on her couch. Lysandra noted her curled, blonde hair was damp at the ends and she was now well flushed with wine. She doubted if the wife of Grumio could stay awake for much longer, but to be fair, she had promised to regale her with ‘stories of the arena.'

‘By accident is the honest answer to that,' Lysandra began. ‘I was a priestess of Athene in my
polis
– my city – Sparta. It was a quasi-military order set up to honour the goddess for saving Sparta from the forces of Pyrrhus, hundreds of years ago. It is a warrior sect, and we honour Athene in our practice of weapons. But also, as part of our duties, some of us were chosen to leave the temple and travel amongst the people, teaching them of Athene's glory: it was a Mission to bring the gods to those less educated than ourselves. I travelled with the Legions, thinking to teach the barbarians they encountered proper religious values. But… on a voyage across the Hellespont, we were caught in a storm. I lived, but was captured by men from a
ludus
– and made to fight.'

Hortensia perked up a little. ‘Was it… terrible?' she asked somewhat hopefully.

‘At first,' Lysandra drained her cup and beckoned for more. ‘But in time I came to realise that I honoured both the goddess and the Spartans by excelling in the arena. Of course, I had been trained in the Spartan ways of combat before I arrived at the
ludus
, which gave me distinct advantage over my peers.'

‘Did they hurt you, though?' Hortensia evidently wanted the lurid details and Lysandra was drunk enough to give them to her.

‘When you are novice, you are beaten all the time – and humiliated. This is done to weed out the weak and make the strong stronger. It's like iron – the more you beat it, the harder it gets – the same applies to the body and the will to some extent.

‘The trainers make you parade around in the nude and make sport of your nakedness,' she smiled, remembering the horror of her friend Hildreth when she was first ordered to strip. Her friend Hildreth who she had killed in the arena. ‘They do this because when we fight we are there to entertain – our bodies are exposed to the watching mob. It is why they come to see the show. Naked women, swords, violence, sweat, blood and death – it is great sport.'

Hortensia tried to look scandalised, but it was apparent to Lysandra that, despite her self-proclaimed distaste for the games, she still enjoyed hearing about them. ‘It must have been awful for you,' she said.