‘Get away from her!’ Stick aimed a kick at Catuvolcos’s rump.
The Gaul turned angrily but Stick held up his hand. ‘Don’t! We have enough troubles now.’ At this he began screaming at the guards to get both Nastasen and the women into cells.
‘I am uninjured,’ Lysandra said. ‘Really, Catuvolcos, I am well.’
Catuvolcos smiled gently at her, and helped her to her feet. When they stood, he did not let her go, seemingly reluctant to break the contact of her skin on his own. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
Stick thrust them apart. ‘What the fuck is this?’ Catuvolcos began to speak, but the Stick cut him off. ‘No, I don’t want to hear it. Get out of here, Catuvolcos! I mean it.’ The Gaul glowered at him but moved off. ‘And you…’ Stick turned to Lysandra, placing his vine staff on her chest. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble.
Come with me!’
Lucius Balbus steepled his fingers and regarded the naked Spartan standing before him. Stick had taken the precaution of having her arms and legs manacled and she appeared very much the defiant warrior captured.
‘She head-butted Nastasen,’ Stick said. ‘She’s a troublemaker, Balbus, and well you know it. This sort of defiance can spread and, before you know it, we’ll have a riot on our hands.’
Balbus motioned Stick to silence. ‘Why?’ he asked her directly.
‘He was trying to touch me. In my private place. We are not whores, lanista, and I resented his familiarity.’
‘One of the guards says that you refused to wear clothing offered you, Lysandra. Is that not so?’
‘It is so,’ she agreed. ‘I asked Nastasen if I could wear a red tunic. I did not think that this would be an issue. It is the colour of Sparta.’
Balbus leant back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. It was a trifling matter, but Titus had told him of the Nubian’s dislike for Lysandra. A simple request that should have had no consequence had now escalated into a brawl between trainer and gladiatrix. Proud Lysandra and stupid Nastasen. By rights, he should have the girl crucified before the entire famillia for her insubordination.
Should, but could not. She had just cost him twenty thousand denarii, and he could not simply nail that investment to a chunk of wood to watch it wither and die. Aside from which, Falco’s promotion had billed her on the under card as Achillia of Sparta and Lysandra was quite correct: everyone knew that Spartan warriors wore red. Balbus’s head throbbed. He could not even punish her, as she was to fight on the morrow and would certainly be killed if fresh lash wounds hampered her. He toyed with the idea of pulling her from the contest and replacing her with another but quickly dismissed it. He had to see if the girl was worth his indulgence.
He turned his gaze to Lysandra once again. ‘You will fight tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘On return to the ludus, you will be given twenty lashes for your disobedience. Guards!’ Two of his men came trotting at his call. ‘Take her to her cell!’ he ordered. ‘And get her a red tunic!’
Stick sat down opposite the lanista. ‘I don’t know what to do about her,’ he said when Lysandra had been led away. ‘I think Nastasen was asking for it, though. He detests her.’
‘And you do not? You are free with the staff when it comes to her. And groping the women is one of your prime humiliation techniques.’
‘I detest everyone, you know that. As for the other, that only happens at the beginning, to let them know they are property.’
Balbus inclined his head in acquiescence. ‘And Nastasen?’
‘I had him put in a cell to cool down.’ Stick shrugged. ‘He took a bit of a kicking but I think it’s his pride that will be more bruised. It’s Catuvolcos that is my concern.’
‘How so?’
‘He has a thing for Lysandra. I think he cares for her.’ This last was said with distaste.
Balbus sighed heavily. Indeed Lysandra was close to becoming more trouble than she was worth. ‘Has he been with her?’
Stick’s cackle was lewd. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think she has anything to get into, if you know what I mean. Might as well try to prod a statue. But the way Catuvolcos acts towards her I can tell he’s carrying a torch. We don’t need that, lanista.
There will be more trouble between him and Nastasen over her and next time I might not be around to stop it.’
‘Stick,’ Balbus said heavily, ‘these are problems I don’t need the day before a spectacle.’
‘Maybe we should put her on the blocks.’
Irritated, Balbus waved this away. ‘What’s done is done. She stays for now, Stick, but the punishment stands. I want you to keep an eye on Catuvolcos, however. He’s too soft on the women as it is, and if he’s getting sweet on one of my possessions it’ll be him that goes to the blocks.’
It was an artificial freedom, but it was freedom nevertheless. For the first time since her capture Lysandra looked upon the world without confines. There were guards, to be sure, but no walls enclosed her and it was liberating to see as far as her eyes would let her.
The Macedonian guard had told her that the arrival of a famillia caused a furore but she had been unprepared for the public hysteria that accompanied their parade through the city. The editor of the games had hired several troupes which, though not unprecedented, was certainly a rarity. As such, the interest aroused was spectacular.
The day had become blistering hot, but even the scorching eye of Helios had not deterred the people from thronging the streets to catch a glimpse of their favourites. Thousands of citizens lined the route of the parade, pitching and roaring against the thin dam of legionaries who had been assigned to crowd control by Halicarnassus’s urban praetor. Still, despite the throngs, Lysandra was able to catch small glimpses of the city. To her eye, Halicarnassus had a jumbled look to it, the original architecture of the Carians improved upon by Hellene expatriates, and this in its turn ruined by inferior Roman styling. The great Mausoleum, named for the ancient Carian King, Mausolos, was the city’s centrepiece and a beautiful building, to be sure. Yet it looked sadly out of place amidst the muddled array of architectural styles.
It was, she thought, a place at odds with itself.
Lysandra knew that the women fighters commanded nowhere near the interest that the men aroused, but it did not seem to be so as she marched with the others. Each step of the way, she was deafened by shouts of both encouragement and derision as the crowd saw the fighters they had wagered on — or against.
Like the others, she carried a placard bearing her name, and her arena tally — one victory. Thus, the devotees had a name for a face, and they gave voice to their raw feelings. As well as this, Lysandra heard many marriage proposals on her walk and countless other more intimate suggestions.
She was not the only one to be subject to such interest. At the front of their column, Eirianwen was hailed as a goddess. It was not surprising, Lysandra thought. Certainly, the Silurian would have aroused envy in Helen of Sparta herself. There were calls for Sorina as welclass="underline" many times the victrix, she had her own solid core of devotees. It was exhausting, but exhilarating. The adulation of so many people was a heady wine, so much so that Lysandra barely reflected on her confrontation with Nastasen. She would bear her punishment and try to put the incident behind her.
The parade ended at the great arena where the traditional pre-games feast for the competitors would be held. The custom was ancient, affording the fighters a last sip of life’s pleasures before the inevitability of combat. Lysandra thought it ironic that this pleasure was to be taken on the very sands that would taste the blood of many of the revellers. Yet, the editor, Aeschylus, had spared no expense and the fare laid out was lavish. Trestles had been arrayed in neat rows, almost groaning with the weight of food and wine. Fruits and sweetmeats, many of which Lysandra could not identify, were in abundance and the air was heavy with the delicious tang of cooking meat. Barrel upon barrel of wine and other alcoholic drinks were also in evidence and it was to these that most of the fighters headed.