Roma Victrix (35 page)

‘This is Iason,' Hister introduced him as he handed her a wooden
rudis
and
parmula
, the small round buckle shield of the
thraex
.

‘A Hellene name?' Lysandra was surprised.

Iason spread his hands. ‘I'm a slave,' he said it with no hint of bitterness. ‘It is the name I go by now. That or Gelus.'

‘Interesting choice,' Lysandra was studying him as they spoke, seeking larger scars on his legs and arms that would indicate a weakness that she might exploit. There were none. ‘Why ‘Frost'?' she asked.

‘I never lose my temper,' Iason replied.

‘That is a good thing in a gladiator. An angry fighter makes mistakes.'

‘Is this
symposium
or a sparring match,' Hister interrupted.

Iason shrugged an apology. ‘Are you ready, Lysandra?'

Lysandra put down her weapons and pulled her tunic off, tossing it to one side. It made no sense to fight in the loose and potentially encumbering fabric. She stooped and retrieved her armament. ‘I am now.'

‘That's distracting,' Iason winked at her and raised his own weapons. Hister had seen it fit to arm him in the same fashion, clearly wanting to this to be a stand-up fight and not the cat and mouse affair that could result from pitting the heavy armour against a lighter adversary.

His comment did not rile her, nor did she think it was intended to: Iason's tone was mild and bantering – almost friendly. She did not respond but dropped instead into her fighting stance, narrowing her eyes as Iason did the same.

‘
Pugnate!'
Hister ordered and at once Iason began to stalk her like one of the big, striped cats she had seen the
venatores
fight in the arena. He held his
parmula
and sword closer together than usual, his arms raised almost like a boxer's, the shield protecting, the sword ready to lash out and strike a killing blow: this told Lysandra that he intended – or had been told – to play the part of aggressor.

So, she now had a choice: allow him the initiative and play the countering game, or disrupt his plan by bringing the fight to him.

The thought took less than a heartbeat to go from mind to muscle and Lysandra was moving, stepping out diagonally to his left, trying to seize the centre line and rob him of the offensive. Using her
parmula
as a bridge, she struck down on her opponent's shield to open a gap through which she could stab and end the fight in one blow. But Iason was not to be taken so easily and he spun away with surprising speed for a man of his size.

‘Good!' Hister said. ‘Continue.'

Lysandra read the surprise in the African's eyes and she smiled, a small taunt that she hoped would prick his masculine pride but, true to his name, Iason simply acknowledged her move with a slight inclination of his head and then it was he who leapt with a cry into the attack. Using his superior height, his
rudis
slashed down, forcing Lysandra to parry with her own blade. The force of the impact sent a numbing shock through her arm but she allowed herself to be carried down with it. As the energy of the strike dissipated, she twisted her stance and slammed her shield into Iason's right side, aiming for his kidney. The blow did not land as she intended but hit with enough force to make the big man step back. He shook his head and puffed out his cheeks, keeping his eyes on her.

She had to seize the initiative and she brought the fight to him using both sword and shield in a lightning-fast offensive combination. Teeth gritted, she struck out with a furious barrage of attacks that forced Iason to step back. Speed would win her the bout and she pressed in, seeking to land the ‘killing' blow.

When his counter came, she realised that he had let her over-extend herself: he had allowed his guard to collapse, drawing her in and for an instant, they were locked together. An instant was all Iason needed; he was far bigger and stronger and, like an angry bear shrugging off a wildcat, he shoved her away from him, sending her crashing to the sand, flat on her back. Frantically, she rolled aside just as his
rudis
scored the earth where her chest had been. He came at her again, but this time she was ready and slapped her sword down on his instep as he stepped into range. It was a sharp and painful blow, giving him pause and Lysandra used the moment to scramble to her feet.

They were both sweating heavily now, their breathing deeper and more pronounced as they stalked each other. She had scored a hit but it was like knocking chips from the Colossus. Lysandra knew that her advantage lay in her speed and, she hoped, her fitness. His strength of arm was far greater than hers and he looked built for endurance, but could he sustain a high-tempo? She would see.

Lysandra stalked him, her shield held closer to her than before, resting the tip of her blade on its rim. Then she skipped forward and lashed out a kick to his shin. She felt the blow land, a glancing one, but her intent was not to hurt, merely to distract and it served its purpose. She closed the gap between them and struck out with her sword – the straight thrust was always harder to counter than the slashing blows that many fighters preferred and killed just as efficiently. Iason took the strike on his shield and countered. Again, his sheer power rattled her, but Lysandra was no weakling. She was Spartan, a warrior trained, and she would prove it to both Iason and the watching Hister. She wore the blow and hit back, once again using her shield and sword to attack her bigger foe with combinations that made him give ground. Iason was like a rock before the storm, weathering Lysandra's ceaseless attacks with implacable steadfastness.

She pushed hard, but she could feel the slow burn in her shoulders that would creep down her arms and drain her strength away.

He was too strong for her, despite all the training. In a sickening instant she realised that she would not be able to wear him down.

She slowed her attack and Iason wrenched back the initiative. She could see in his eyes that he knew he had her.

His
rudis
slammed into her shield, time and time again, like a battering ram at a city gate – it would not be long now. She stepped in to meet his next assault and they came together, swords locked.

Iason shoved, but this time it was Lysandra who collapsed her guard.

Turning her body, she snaked her sword arm around his neck and used his momentum against him in a classical wrestler's hip-throw.

Iason crashed to the sand and she jammed her foot onto his sword arm. Before he could respond, the rounded tip of her
rudis
was at his throat. His dark chest heaved with exertion as he lay on his back, head slightly raised, eyes wide in shock at the sudden reversal. Then, he let his head fall back and he raised his finger, an exhausted chuckle escaping him as he did so.

Lysandra stepped off his arm and tossed her sword to one side, offering him a hand up. ‘You fought well,' she offered him the consolation.

‘As did you,' he acknowledged, rubbing his side where had struck him with the
parmula
. ‘That hurt.'

‘It was supposed to.
Lanista?'
she turned to Hister. Lysandra tried – and knew that she failed – to keep the triumph from burning in her eyes. Her nostrils flared and a feeling of near ecstasy flooded through her. She had won.

Hister just stared at her, rubbing his head as he did so. ‘I'll sign you on,' he said after a moment.

‘For two fights only,' she replied. ‘But I think that I will do well for you.'

‘Two fights!' Hister recovered his composure. ‘I can offer you a great deal – two fights is nothing. I'll make you rich if you stick with me, girl!'

‘I am already rich,' Lysandra pulled her tunic back on. ‘I do not need any more money.'

‘No one is ever too rich.' Hister was indignant at the very idea, bringing Lucius Balbus to Lysandra's mind. ‘I can't just sign you on for two fights. That's nowhere near long enough.'

Lysandra could see the avarice in his eyes and realised that she would struggle to get the short-term work that she required to hone her skills. Honesty, she decided, was best. ‘Look,' she said. ‘There is more to this than you think,
lanista
.' She glanced at Iason. ‘May I speak freely?'

‘Of course,' Hister gestured to the African, the motion full of irritation. ‘He's been with me for years.'

‘Very well,' Lysandra drew herself up. ‘I have been summoned by the Emperor to fight in Rome – the Flavian Amphitheatre, I am told. Against your champion –'

‘— Aesalon Nocturna,' Hister finished her sentence for her. ‘Of course,' he slapped his forehead. ‘
You're
the champion from Asia Minor I've been hearing whispers about.'

‘So you have heard of me,' Lysandra sniffed in annoyance. ‘You may as well have told me.'

‘Of course,' Hister shrugged. ‘But your head is big enough already with me adding to your… what was it… confidence? So you want to use me and my
ludus
to get yourself ready before the bout? You should be paying me, not the other way around then.'

‘I will fight for nothing,' Lysandra replied promptly. ‘I told you already, I do not need any more money. To sweeten the deal for you, after I have defeated her, I will tell everyone who cares to listen that my skills were honed here in Paestum. At your
ludus
. Fair enough?'

Hister made a show of considering his options but it was clear that he had already made up his mind. ‘Fair enough,' he said. ‘I'll go and write the papers now, we'll sign you on and get it all registered. Of course, if you get killed between now and then, I'll deny all knowledge of who you really are. I don't want the emperor pissed off at me,' he could not suppress a shudder. ‘They say Domitian's got a temper on him.'

‘He is really quite civil when you meet him.'

‘You've met… pah!' Hister made a dismissive gesture. ‘Nothing surprises me anymore. Iason! Show her to the women's quarters!'

Without another word, the stocky
lanista
stamped into his office.

Lysandra turned to her sparring partner. ‘You have other women fighters here?'

‘Yes,' Iason retrieved their fallen weapons. ‘Only four, though.

Well,' he added with a grin. ‘Five now. Come – I'll show you where everything is.'

The African led her back through the compound, pointing out the infirmary and bathhouse. Both buildings were rude and Lysandra was again reminded that, by comparison, Balbus's old
ludus
were almost lavish. On their way to the women's section, she saw a group of fighters hurling swords at a makeshift target.

‘It's a great game,' Iason replied to her unspoken question. ‘We bet on it – whoever gets closest to the centre mark wins.'

‘A
gladius
is hardly designed to be thrown,' Lysandra pointed out.

‘That's what makes it such a good game. There!' he pointed as one of the gladiators sent a sword spinning towards the centre. With an audible thud, it hit the mark. ‘You see. With practice, it gets easier.'

Lysandra pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Everything does.'

They walked on for a short time until Iason pointed at one of the short buildings. ‘That is where the women stay.'

‘Thank you, Iason.'

He spread his hands. ‘Not at all. I am just glad that Hister staged our sparring away from the
palaestra
. You are very skilled, but I'd still have been mocked for losing to a girl!'

‘You could just say that Hister instructed you to lose,' Lysandra offered.

‘What do you think I'm going to tell everyone anyway?' he gave a carefree laugh.

A loud voice from nearby interrupted Lysandra's reply. She turned in the direction of the speaker, her eyes widening in shock. A man stood in front of a small group of gladiators, flexing his pronounced muscles. ‘Now, boys,' he said. ‘Look at these arms – arms that are older than you lot by a stretch, I reckon. But all my life I have kept myself in superb physical condition and now that my autumnal years are drawing in,' he changed his pose, ‘you can see that it still may as well be springtime for me. And,' again he changed position, ‘let me tell you that it is not the only muscle I keep in trim. If you know what I mean.'

‘That's Kleandrias,' Iason explained. ‘He's –'

Lysandra would recognise the accent anywhere. It was the same as her own. ‘He's a Spartan.'

‘I don't trust Judaeans. In fact, I fucking hate them.' Settus's eyes bulged with irritation as he and Valerian threaded their way through the crowded Forum. ‘They'll skin you alive, those bastards.'

‘Settus,' Valerian sighed, a man bored of saying the same thing.

‘You've got too much money to hide in the
insula
now. One chancer breaks in and finds your stash, you'll lose everything. And it's not as though you've exactly hidden the fact that you're earning more these days,' he indicated the loud tunic that his companion was absurdly proud of.

‘So you keep saying.' Settus shoved a passer by out of his way; the man was affronted but silenced by a glare from the former
optio
.

‘But
I
still say we should give our loot to a Roman, not one of those immigrant bastards.'

‘This man is good and I trust him. He's done all right by me so far, hasn't he?'

Settus shook his head because there was no rebuttal to that. Since Valerian had started passing his profits from the dung business to Ezra, the Judaean had invested the money with an astute professionalism that was now paying Valerian huge dividends. Settus was content with buying more expensive wine and classier whores. He had not even bothered to move out of the
insula
which Valerian was convinced was a fire waiting to happen.

For his part, Valerian now rented a modest apartment – in the Subura, but that could not be helped for now. He had determined that he would rebuild his fortune, and if selling shit was the first step on that road then he would take off his sandals and walk it.