Roma Victrix (43 page)

‘The subject of Spartan mating rituals,' Ankhsy raised her eyebrows. ‘I didn't know that they were so fascinating that whole books have been written on them, did you Swanhilde?'

Lysandra was about to explain that she had meant a book on the superiority of Spartan culture, but Swanhilde spoke first.

‘Who has time for books?' she said, laying back in the water.

‘I'm always too busy being barbaric.'

‘And me,' Olwydd added, which was as close to genuine good humour that Lysandra had ever seen her get.

‘Well, I shall leave you two to your barbarism and Ankhsy to her eastern indolence, then,' Lysandra hoisted herself out of the bath.

‘Where are you off to?' Ankhsy wanted to know.

‘Just back to quarters,' Lysandra replied. ‘Kleandrias says I should explore any areas for improvement, and I must think on this.'

‘I'm sure there's one area of yours that Kleandrias would like to explore,' Swanhilde called out. ‘Maybe you two should leave the
ludus
and produce some little Spartans that you can beat, indoctri-nate and train to fight.'

Lysandra picked up a towel. ‘That is the Spartan ideal.'

‘From what I've heard of Spartan men, though, Lysandra has no chance!' Clearly, Ankhsy was going to push home her jibing no matter what. ‘They're all boy-lovers, and though Lysandra's tits are so small she could
be
a boy, I think that once Kleandrias gets her
subligaricum
off and he sees her
mouni
, his vine staff will wither.'

‘Boy-loving is perfectly natural,' Lysandra retorted. ‘Hellenic culture is superior to all others and pederasty has long been established as a way of an older man passing on his experience to a callow youth. And you are probably only upset that Kleandrias has not condescended to spend his seed in your unworthy bodies.' All three women began to jeer and catcall at her, making obscene gestures that indicated she would soon be having relations with her trainer.

She shook her head, knowing that to deny anything had happened – or for that matter, ever would happen – between them would simply invite further ribbing. But she could not resist one last comment. ‘My breasts are
not
small – they are perfectly formed!'

She made off, the shrieks of derisive laughter from her stable-mates bouncing off the walls of the bathhouse. They were similar to her old friends of Balbus's
ludus
: of course, she had not spent as long with them but she realised that, if she did, she would come to count them as friends – except for Olwydd who was far too cantankerous for her own good. If anyone needed sex to loosen her up, it was the overly pugnacious Briton.

She dressed in clean clothes and her mood was light after the jollity of the bathhouse. Lysandra made her way across the compound, surreptitiously glancing at Kleandrias's quarters, thinking back to the taunts of the other women: it seemed clear to them that she and Kleandrias would end up having some sort of tryst and a part of her wondered if she should act on it at some stage. It was a Spartan woman's duty to bear strong sons, after all. That she had been a Mission Priestess had exempted her from that rule, but now things were different.

Too different, she decided. She had no feelings towards Kleandrias that excited her: he was too much like an uncle, an old comrade in arms passing on his skills; certainly not someone she could imagine herself kissing and holding close like she had done with Eirianwen – who, of course, did not sport a beard like Kleandrias; that would surely be itchy.

The thought made her chuckle as she swung towards the makeshift target that Iason and his friends had set up. It had become Lysandra's custom at the end of each day to hurl a few blades at the mark. It was not that she was a poor shot: indeed she hit the target most of the time, but she had begun to enjoy the challenge of this seemingly simple task. Hitting the wooden board was one thing, but nailing the centre-circle was something else again. ‘Carbo!' she waved at the guard assigned to the armoury – the same man that she had met on her entry to the
ludus
. ‘Please bring me…'

Carbo, by now used to her habits, waved before she could finish and made his way into the weapons-store, emerging after a few moments with a bucket full of short swords. ‘Don't worry if you miss, these are all fucked and blunt anyway,' he informed her. ‘They need to be re-smithyed.'

‘Thank you very much,' Lysandra pulled a sword from the cache, weighted it, sighted the target and hurled the weapon. It spun impressively but hit woefully high on the board.

‘You'd have killed him,' Carbo noted. ‘Head shot.'

‘I was not aiming for a head shot.'

‘Dead is dead.'

‘That is not the point, Carbo,' Lysandra drew another weapon.

‘The point is that I must hit the mark that I am aiming for.'

Carbo shook his head. ‘Sometimes you have to settle for less than perfect.'

Lysandra thought about that for a moment and decided that his attitude was indicative of why she was better than him. She took aim and hurled the sword which hit the centre of the target with a satisfying thud. ‘No,' she grinned at the guard. ‘I think not.'

‘Jupiter's balls,' Carbo laughed. ‘Talk about luck! You couldn't have timed that better, could you?'

‘Timing is everything, Carbo. And luck is nothing.'

Carbo shook his head and ambled off, leaving Lysandra to concentrate on the work at hand. She worked for some time, adding movement to her throws, making the task doubly difficult. Tucking and rolling, spinning around and throwing the
gladius
was difficult and she was a little disappointed with her results but vowed she would continue to work at it till she could hit the mark at will from any angle. This pact made, she put the swords back in the bucket and made her way to the women's quarters.

The sun was hot on her back the following morning as she ran her circuits of the
palaestra
. Iason had taken to running with her and, truth be told, she enjoyed his company. He was an amiable fellow, almost too amiable to be a fighter. But experience had taught her that he was handy enough when push came to shove.

‘Are you looking forward to your bout?' he puffed.

‘I am beside myself with impatience,' Lysandra answered honestly.

‘I came a long way to fight here and I have trained long and hard.

I have been away from the arena for too long and my absence has done both myself and my goddess a disservice.'

‘Your goddess?' he glanced at her. ‘What do you mean?'

‘A long time ago I realised that when I fought in the arena I did so for something greater than myself,' Lysandra replied. ‘When I fight, I fight for Athene and she makes her strength my own. That is why I have never been defeated – and never will be as long as she walks by my side. Somehow, in the past few years, I forgot that.'

Iason slowed his run to a trot and finally a walk. ‘It is good to have faith,' he said a little grimly. ‘It's a hard thing to hold on to when you're made a slave, taken thousands of miles from your home and forced to fight for the pleasure of others.'

‘I used to think the same way,' Lysandra admitted as they made their way to the water trough. She handed him the ladle first. ‘I was once a slave and wracked with the misery and shame of it. But then I realised that the gods have a plan for us all and I should play my part in that plan. And,' she nodded her thanks as Iason gave back the ladle,

‘I do so enjoy proving to others the superiority of the Spartan fighter.'

Iason chuckled, the brief darkness of his expression lifting. ‘We used to think Kleandrias was a one-off, but you people are all the same, aren't you?'

People kept saying that to her, Lysandra realised, so perhaps it was true. Then again, Kleandrias was admirably heroic so to be compared with him hardly seemed derogatory. ‘I suppose that we are,' she said, deigning not to give Iason a lecture on why this was a good thing. He probably would not understand anyway.

‘Lysandra!' Kleandrias strode towards them, swinging his vine staff. ‘The sun is high in the sky and I see that you have hardly broken a sweat!'

‘We ran some circuits,' Iason placated.

‘Good enough for you, Iason, not good enough for her! You, Lysandra, are fortunate that your bout is soon or I would take the skin off your back!' He jabbed her in the stomach with the staff. ‘Get your weapons. It is time for sparring.' He stalked off leaving almost palpable disapproval in his wake. Lysandra thought back to the friendship they had shared the first night that they had met and now how differently they acted towards one another. She was in training and he was training her. They could be friends away from the
palaestra
but, inside it, there had to be respect and absolute obdeience.

‘A bit harsh,' Iason muttered.

‘Yes, but…'

‘It's the Spartan way. I know, he's told me before. Go get them, Lysandra.'

Lysandra trotted after her trainer, grabbing two wooden swords as she did so. He led her to the far side of the
palaestra
where Swanhilde waited. The German was leaning on her huge
scutum
, grinning at them both.

‘Fighting men is all well and good,' Kleandrias said. ‘But we think differently to women. Lysandra, you have proven that you can defeat most of the fighters here and can hold your own even against me – though I will admit to not pressing you with my full skills.'

‘Of course, sir,' Lysandra presumed this to be the truth and, even if it was not, she was hardly going to push the matter with someone she regarded as her superior.

‘Sir?' Swanhilde drawled. ‘Are we in the legions now and no one's told me? Shit!' she looked around. ‘Where are the barbarian hordes? Ah, wait – I'm the barbarian hordes…'

‘Shut your mouth and port your shield,' Kleandrias ordered.

Swanhilde raised her sword and hefted the big
provocatrix
shield, still grinning at Lysandra over the top of it. Lysandra returned the smile, stretched her neck from side to side and spun her swords twice. ‘What are you going to do with those little sticks?' the German asked. ‘Tickle me to death?'

‘You will never know,' Lysandra responded, beginning to circle the other woman.

‘How's that?'

‘Because you will be killed so fast, you will not see it coming.'

Swanhilde chuckled, the laughter reaching her eyes. ‘Lysandra, I think I am beginning to like you. You and Kleandrias here live in a world of stories and that is an endearing quality.'

‘
Hoc habes, Germana!'
Someone called from the platforms that surrounded the
palaestra
– ‘you've had it, German!'

‘Kill her, Lysandra! Put her on her arse!'

Lysandra stepped away from Swanhilde, raising her sword to indicate a halt. She scanned the crowd of people till she saw Cappa and Murco waving frantically at her. ‘Smash her head in!' Murco encouraged further.

‘Friends of yours?' Kleandrias enquired.

‘Yes, sir. They trained me before I arrived here. Got me fit.'

‘They did a woeful job. I have seen fitter nine-year-olds than you back in Sparta. Get to work.'

Lysandra raised her swords once again and closed in on Swanhilde who rushed in with enthusiasm. Lysandra could hear the cheers of encouragement from Cappa, Murco and some sections of the crowd.

A familiar excitement filled her veins, making her heart pound and her skin sweat; with a cry, she attacked the German and lost herself in the discordant clack of weapon on weapon.

After their session with the gladiators, Illeana was pleased to see that Pyrrha's terse mood had lifted, though she made a point of not teasing her about it. She was still working harder than any of the other
tiros
, but her demeanour was not as intense.

‘Come on,' Illeana exhorted the women from the Flavian as they ran circuits of the
palaestra
. ‘This is where you really have to dig deep.' She picked up the pace to emphasise the point and only Pyrrha kept stride with her. ‘Are you racing with me, Pyrrha?' she asked.

‘If you want a race, you're on,' the younger gladiatrix grinned at her.

‘All right… when we reach the
pallus
, once around the ring?'

‘Yes.'

Illeana noticed Pyrrha fix her eyes on the wooden striking post, clearly intent on getting the best start she could. She would need it, Illeana thought with a smile. They drew closer to their mark and then, as it was reached, both women exploded into motion, their bare feet churning up sand as they sprinted around the
palaestra
.

Those gladiators that were training in the main area at once saw the two split from the pack and at once began to call their encouragement to both women.

Pyrrha could move fast, this Illeana knew, but that was the speed of the arena. She had never seen her run flat out before and, as they raced, a part of her wished that she had. The young woman ran like a female Mercury, her light build making her perfect for the middle-distance sprint. Illeana gritted her teeth and dug deep as the gap between them began to widen. She would not lose! Head down, she pumped her arms, willing herself to run faster than she ever had before: the mind could push the body to near impossible feats – it was all down to willpower in the end.

Heart pounding, she pushed harder and began to gain back her lost ground; she knew Pyrrha could hear her and perhaps feel her coming. The younger woman glanced over her shoulder – a fatal mistake. Illeana drove herself hard and came neck and neck with her charge who now sought that last effort that would see her victorious.

But that, Illeana could not allow. The
pallus
drew nearer and Illeana found something within her as she always did; part will, part body, part spirit and perhaps with the aid of some god, she found the way to win. Her stride ate up the last few paces, leaving Pyrrha in her wake as she flew past the post. The crowd cheered.
Aesalon
Nocturna Victrix
. As it was meant to be. She slowed to a stop and turned to see Pyrrha bent over, hands on her thighs, gasping for breath.