‘My experience tells me that the training we have received from Stick, Catuvolcos and yes, even Nastasen, is excellent. It has been hard and gruelling, and often cruel. But this is necessary.
To forge the superior fighter from flesh, flesh needs to be beaten hard. Your training has made your responses natural to you.
Remember: fighting, from single combat to the clash of mighty armies, is not an art. It is a science. It has its theorems, its truths, its applications. In the end, superior tactics will always win out against brute force. Your lessons, well learned, will keep you all alive and send your foes to Hades.’
‘Do you really think so, Lysandra?’ Penelope, the fisher girl, whispered.
‘I know it to be true,’ Lysandra said softly, nodding her head, once again meeting the eyes of the women around her.
‘It is the arena, Lysandra,’ Danae stated grimly. ‘The people we are to fight are unknown to us. We may be killed.’
‘We may,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘But only if it is our time and nothing can alter that. But certainly, we shall not fail because we were afraid,’ she added scornfully. ‘We will fall only if the gods have marked us to die, and then we shall fall in their honour.
But I do not believe that will be so. I believe we will cut down our enemies like wheat before the scythe.’ She fell quiet, letting her words sink in, allowing the women to mull over what she had imparted to them. ‘Sleep now,’ she ordered. ‘And think not of what the future will bring. Trust in the goddess.’
Lysandra broke the circle and moved back to her corner, throwing the blanket over herself. One by one, the others lay down, seemingly calmed by her words. She smiled slightly as sleep crept over her; if there was any doubt as to who was pre-eminent among them, it had now been dispelled. Come what may, she knew that they would now regard her as leader and that, soon, others would too.
It was right that this should be so.
They entered the city quietly, the caravan winding its way through the narrow streets of Halicarnassus. The night air had turned chill and not a few of the women, roused into wakefulness by the movement of the carts, shivered quietly. Time crawled by slowly in the netherworld between dusk and dawn, but eventually the train reached the great arena and, with almost military precision, the women were ensconced in purpose-built gaols, which were situated around and beneath the arena complex. The cells were large and, the women were surprised to discover, comfortable.
Certainly the accommodation was preferable to the tiny cells they slept in at the ludus. Exhausted by the uncomfortable journey, they fell into slumber. A few of Lysandra’s compatriots stayed awake, chatting into the night, before she admonished them to sleep. It would, she told them, be a testing day to come.
Nastasen and Stick roused them much later than was usual, and hustled them into a large courtyard; they were ordered to strip their dirty tunics and were sluiced down with water. The morning was already warm and the cold water served to revive and invigorate.
‘Not as good as a bath,’ Nastasen laughed. ‘But we have to have you looking your best for the parade.’
‘Parade?’ Lysandra glanced at Danae, who shrugged.
‘Not that you’ll be leaving for some time yet. Obviously, the people have come to see the male fighters. You women will walk behind them.’ Lysandra caught sight of Sorina, who spat on the ground at these words. Nastasen began to walk down the line of women, thrusting clean clothing into their hands. ‘One size fits all,’ he said. ‘We’ve even brought your sandals so your delicate little toes don’t get stubbed.’ The Nubian gave Lysandra a greenish tunic which she held up critically.
‘Do you have a red one?’ she asked.
Nastasen stopped in his tracks and turned back. ‘Why?’ he said after some time, his dark eyes glittering.
‘Spartans wear red, Nastasen.’
The trainer seemed to mull that over. ‘Do they, now?’ He jerked his chin, indicating that Lysandra toss the green tunic back to him. ‘Fucking Spartans!’ he muttered and continued doling out his supply of clothing, leaving Lysandra standing naked.
It took some time but, with Stick’s aid, all the women were given new attire, save Lysandra who was left without. Though there was no shame in nakedness, she knew that this action had been taken to humiliate her and she felt it keenly.
‘You see,’ Nastasen swaggered past her, his voice loud. ‘Our Spartan here didn’t like my choice of tunic. That’s too bad.’ He turned and leered at her. ‘Still, I will not be called unreasonable.’
This caused derisive laughter from all those women who were not in his direct line of sight. The enmity between trainer and fighter was well known amongst the famillia. ‘So our Spartan will walk the streets naked. Gymnos,’ he added in Hellenic. He stepped in closer to her. ‘Unless you want to give me something to change my mind,’ he whispered, his big hand reaching out to stoke her thigh. His nostrils flared as Lysandra flinched at his touch and he moved his hand upward.
‘Do not.’ Lysandra’s voice was cold.
‘I think you might like it,’ Nastasen grunted, stroking her sparse pubic hair beneath his fingers.
It was too much. Lysandra felt her temper snap, and she lunged forward, her forehead smashing into the trainer’s face, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone as his nose shattered. Nastasen bellowed in pain and staggered back clutching his face, blood pouring from between his fingers. The women cheered enthusiastically at this rebellion.
‘I’ll kill you!’ the Nubian hissed, drawing his vine staff. Lysandra moved from her rank, finding herself eager for the confrontation. Nastasen screamed and lunged at her, the vine staff hissing through the air. Lysandra stepped back, avoiding the wild swings, and countered by lashing out with a kick, catching the rage-blinded trainer in the midriff. But the strike did not slow the powerful warrior. In a rush he was on top of her, his great weight bearing her to the ground, the vine staff at her throat. ‘Now!’ he screamed, spittle foaming on his lips.
Lysandra could not move, Nastasen had her pinned, immobile.
She tried to thrust her hips up to dislodge him, but his weight was too great. Blood pounded in her ears and white sparks began to burst in front of her eyes.
Suddenly, his hands left her and she rolled away, retching and choking. She looked about, seeking the trainer, and saw that he too had fallen to the ground, holding the side of his face. Catuvolcos was there, his own vine staff in his hand. Somewhere she could hear Stick screaming for the guards.
‘Leave her be!’ Catuvolcos shouted, stepping between her and the Nubian. Nastasen surged to his feet and was about to advance on his fellow trainer. The prison guards had come running and, though none could match either Catuvolcos or Nastasen in size and strength, they were of sufficient numbers to drag the two apart.
Stick was furious, hopping from foot to foot. ‘What do you think you are doing!’ He was beside himself. ‘You stupid bastard!’
This he levelled at Nastasen. Still held by the guards, the Nubian roared and tried to break free. That was enough for Stick. ‘Bind him!’ he ordered the guards. There was no way to subdue the huge warrior, save for the most basic: the guards began to rain blows down on their captive, knocking the fight from him before hurling him to the ground and slapping manacles into place.
Catuvolcos broke free of his own captors and rushed to Lysandra’s side. Gently, he lifted her head from the ground, cradling it as softly as he would a child’s. ‘Are you all right?’ he said, his green eyes full of concern.
‘I just wanted a red tunic,’ Lysandra croaked, gingerly rubbing her throat.