‘No.’ Lysandra found that even this ribald commentary could not disturb her languid mood. ‘I was awake. You found what you were looking for, I take it.’
‘Too right.’ Penelope peeled off her tunic and scrambled under her blanket. ‘I’m telling you, Lysandra, the man was a stallion.
There was nothing he didn’t do! I feel like I’ve given birth to a pony, you know what I mean?’
Lysandra shrugged and smiled. ‘No, but I’ll take your word for it.’
‘You look as if you’re in remarkably good spirits yourself,’
Thebe observed as she too got into her bed. ‘Have you been drinking?’ She indicated the carafe left by Eirianwen.
Lysandra flushed, knowing all to well her happy disposition had nothing whatsoever to do with wine. ‘No, not really. Just a cup to help me sleep.’
There was no more conversation, as the women lay back to slumber. As each waited for Morpheus to claim her, they spared a thought for the coming of the morning.
None were afraid.
They were awoken at dawn by Catuvolcos. He was in his customary good spirits, bantering with all the women, but his gaze fell often to Lysandra and softened as it did so. Seeing his eyes upon her, she grinned slightly. He bade the women leave the cell to prepare for the games and made to speak to her as she passed him.
‘You look fit,’ he said. ‘And ready.’
‘That I am, friend,’ she said, and moved on. She hoped her emphasis on this last would dissuade him from caring too much.
She must let him know where he stood in her affections. He was merely a friend; her heart had only room for Eirianwen.
With quiet efficiency, the women were moved to the under-ground corridors that lead to the arena. The bustle of slaves was all about them, and they were anonymous amidst the hubbub.
Lysandra made her way to the Gate of Life to observe the arena. As the women were accorded inferior status, they had no part in the inaugural ceremony; it was considered enough that they had been paraded once. The male fighters however, were marching around the circumference of the arena to the cheers of the adoring masses. Behind each man, slaves bore his weapons and armour and a placard bearing his name, his fighting style and arena tally. As each gladiator passed by the dignitaries’ box, a burly slave with a large horn to amplify his voice bellowed out the words on the placard — the great majority of the audience could neither read nor write. Much was made by the betting fraternity of this segment of the spectacle, those with a canny eye seeking any weakness in a fighter’s gait.
There was a great buzz as it was announced that Sextus Julius Frontinus, the governor of all Asia Minor, was present. The man himself rose from the dignitaries’ box close by the sands to acknowledge his applause. Lysandra thought that his acclamation was enthusiastic enough to be real. Evidently, the governor was a popular man.
‘A butcher,’ Eirianwen’s voice sounded in her ear.
Lysandra turned, her face lighting in a smile. ‘Eirianwen.’ She tasted the name on her lips. ‘You have no love for Frontinus, I take it?’
Surreptitiously, Eirianwen’s hand reached out and touched Lysandra’s waist. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He is the conqueror and enslaver of the Silures. I hate him.’
Lysandra nodded, not sure what to say. She could understand her resentment, of course, but how else were barbarians supposed to be civilised unless by the sword? Certainly, they would not willingly embrace the enlightened path. In war, there were always victims of circumstance but this was for the greater good. Even as the thought came to mind, Lysandra’s faith in it was shaken. Somehow, it seemed wrong to her that Eirianwen had been enslaved. She was a barbarian yet there was much beauty in her. ‘Forget about him,’ she offered, for the want of anything constructive to say. ‘Concentrate on your match. You must be safe.’
Eirianwen smiled her beautiful smile. ‘Oh, my match will not be for some days yet, but all will be well. Britannica is a fearsome warrior.’ She referred to herself by her arena name.
Lysandra laughed. ‘Britannica has competition. Achillia the Spartan will be more famous.’
‘Achillia the Spartan is soft underneath her armour,’ Eirianwen said, and winked. ‘I know all her vulnerable parts.’
Lysandra desperately wanted to kiss her then, but held back, aware that there were too many eyes about. She saw Eirianwen wanted it too, but they stepped apart. ‘Good luck, Eirianwen.’
‘And to you.’ Eirianwen paused. ‘Spartan.’ With that she turned away, and was gone.
Lysandra watched her until she was lost in the crowd before turning her attention back to the arena where elaborate, forest-themed scenery was being set up.
‘You scratched your itch then.’ Sorina’s tone was scathing.
The more experienced gladiatrices had gathered together in a large cell. Well used to the arena itinerary, they had long since lost the desire to watch all the proceedings. Eirianwen looked up from tying her sandals, and nodded.
‘Indeed. But I think the itch will not go away.’
‘Pah!’ Sorina spat. ‘She is a Greek, and they are worse than Romans. I will not have one of the tribe consorting with those animals. Use her body, druid’s daughter, but that must be as far as it goes.’
Eirianwen got to her feet, her blue eyes blazing. ‘You might be chieftain in this place, Sorina, but you do not own me.’
‘No,’ Sorina said. ‘I do not. Balbus does, and he is from the same type as her who you now are so eager to pleasure.’
‘Your hatred has made you bitter. I take my joy where I can find it, and I find joy in Lysandra.’
‘Oh, Lysandra, is it? Not Spartan. Not Greek.’ Sorina shook her head in disgust. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’
Eirianwen burned with the desire to lash out at the older woman but tribal custom forbade it; Sorina was the chieftain and her word was law. She shook her head and sat down, her attention fixed on her sandals.
‘I hope she dies,’ Sorina said. ‘Then perhaps you will remember where your true loyalties lie.’ She stalked out without another word.
Lysandra was joined in her watching by Hildreth.
‘Hello, Lysandra, how are you today?’ The German spoke their ritual greeting.
‘I am well, Hildreth, how are you?’
‘I am well,’ Hildreth responded gravely, her eyes turning to the sands. A bizarre tableau was being played out, as a dozen or more horsewomen plunged through the staged forest scenery.
‘What is this?’
‘Criminal executions,’ Lysandra said. ‘Those women on horses are hunting men in the ‘forest’. It is an unusual turn for the games, I think.’
‘How so?’
‘Usually, there are wild beast hunts followed by criminal executions. It seems as though the editor has decided to mix the two.
By all accounts, Hildreth, these games in which we make our first marks are special and unusual.’
‘They are excellent riders,’ the German noted.
‘They are from Thessaly. It is in the north of Hellas. The people there are noted for their horsemanship.’
Hildreth grunted appreciatively as one of the Thessalian women speared a hapless youth to encouraging applause from the thick-ening crowd. ‘You are ready for your fight?’ she asked, her eyes not moving from the arena.
‘Of course.’ Lysandra’s reply was haughty. Hildreth’s consistent arrogance about their first encounter was becoming insufferable.
That she had fought badly was one thing, but that Hildreth was acting as if she were somehow superior was patently outrageous.
She turned her attention back to the drama being played out in the forest.
One of the Thessalian horsewomen had been taken down by a group of the ‘prey’ and the men were extracting a grisly revenge on her prone form, hacking into her with her own sword. The woman howled for aid and was derided by the crowd. With a final slash, however, one of the condemned chopped the rider’s head from her neck cutting her cries short.