‘I am glad you are all right,’ he said to her.
‘I was never concerned,’ she told him honestly. She turned, dragged a drink-sodden barbarian from a stone bench and sat down. The barbarian hit the ground with a groan and passed wind loudly.
‘You should be,’ Catuvolcos said as he joined her. ‘It’s not a game.’
Lysandra bit down an angry retort. She was getting somewhat frustrated with being admonished by the trainers. It was not as if she had performed badly. ‘I am aware of overconfidence,’ she said with a civility that was somewhat less than heartfelt. ‘I am also aware of my own abilities and have faith in them. I have been trained since youth for this, Catuvolcos.’ He met her gaze for a moment.
‘I was worried for you, Lysandra. You are not like those others, you are special.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I have come to think so. Of course, I do not tell the others this: humility is to be admired.
However, it cannot be denied that I am indeed fortunate. The gods have gifted me well and it is in their honour that I fight.’
‘No, I meant you are special to me. I have never felt this way for anyone before.’
Lysandra frowned. She had not thought that he would blurt out his feelings to her. Of course, she realised that he was enamoured of her. She knew her beauty and charisma had had an effect on him but hoped that his discipline would keep him from speaking of his attraction. That he had chosen to mention it was embarrassing: there was a brief moment in the past when she may have considered his advances, but she knew now that had been merely a fancy.
‘I have saved money,’ Catuvolcos went on. ‘Not much, but in a year or two I will have enough to buy us free from Balbus. We could leave Caria and return to Gaul. I would be a good man for you, Lysandra, if you would have me. I am young and strong, and know how to raise cattle, and to build. You would want for nothing.’
‘Catuvolcos…’ She put her hand on his arm — and saw hope and love flare in his eyes, the beginnings of a smile playing about his lips. This would be difficult, she thought, having had no experience in this kind of arena. ‘I do not love you,’ she said bluntly.
It was the Spartan way, after all. But Lysandra was not prepared for how so simple a statement could affect someone. She could see the pain in his face as she spoke and felt his hurt almost as keenly as if it were her own. ‘I am sorry,’ she added, trying to be gentle. ‘You are a friend to me, a compatriot, a brother in arms. But I do not feel that way about you.’
Catuvolcos looked down and shook his head. ‘I should not have spoken so,’ he said, a crack in his voice. She hoped he was not about to burst into tears, for such action would make her despise him. ‘I have embarrassed you.’
That was true, but Lysandra thought it impolitic to mention.
‘I would not be any good as a wife,’ she said, trying to make light of what had become an excruciating situation. ‘You have heard of Spartan cooking, haven’t you?’
Catuvolcos shook his head glumly, refusing to meet her gaze.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘In the agoge we had a diet of what is called blood soup. It is black in colour, made of pork, vinegar and pig’s blood. Once, a visitor came to Sparta and, after tasting the soup, declared that now he knew why Spartan warriors were so eager to die. It is the only food I know how to make and this, I think, would not make you happy.’
‘I would eat it every day if it meant we could be together,’ he said, which Lysandra felt was rather pathetic. Men, it seemed, were like children: when they could not have what they wanted, they sulked. ‘Do not dwell on it, my friend,’ she offered. ‘I have an affection for you, but it is not love.’
‘But this affection can grow.’ He turned to look at her then.
‘Many times a man and woman are put together in youth and love grows between them. It could be so for us.’
That was enough. ‘I said no. If you felt as you say, you would not continue in this manner,’ she said tightly. ‘My place is here.
In the arena. I will not be any man’s wife, Catuvolcos.’
She saw his face redden as anger took the place of petulance.
Lysandra raised her eyebrows, curtailing any outburst from the wounded Gaul. She did not wish there to be harsh words between them. She got to her feet, and smiled tightly. ‘You are a good friend, Catuvolcos. I would put these words behind us, if you would.’
He nodded and shrugged and then looked back to the floor.
Lysandra turned away without further comment. She had done what she could to spare his feelings; it was his own fault for coming to her in the first place, certainly she could not be held accountable for his desires. Let him sulk.
She was confident he would get over it in time.
XX
‘What is the matter, Sorina?’ Teuta offered the older woman a drink from her sack of beer. ‘You look angry.’
‘I am angry,’ Sorina snapped, then tilted her head back to let the liquor pour down her throat. ‘The Greek lives.’ She had watched Lysandra fight from the stalls, and her disappointment was keen at the Spartan’s survival. More, she had shown skill and resourcefulness that belied her inexperience.
‘You should not let it play on your mind so,’ Teuta said gently.
‘She will ruin Eirianwen. She will corrupt her.’
‘Eirianwen is not a child. She knows well who she is getting into bed with.’
‘You cannot see it either! The Greek carries the taint of her ‘civilisation,’Teuta. It is disease, and with it she corrupts Eirianwen.
And more of us, if she has her way.’ Sorina cursed and hurled the beer sack away, where it splashed wetly against the wall.
‘I think you are making too much of it.’ Teuta baulked at her rising fury, but the Amazon did not care.
‘That is just how it works!’ Sorina shouted, rounding on her.
‘Lysandra’s lust for Eirianwen is the beginning of a cancer that will destroy her. The Greek’s wickedness will spread to Eirianwen and be passed on to others!’ The civilisation of the middle sea was a disease, but a seductive one; Sorina knew this all too well.
Its arms would engulf anyone who chose to stray too close, blinding them with comforts, but all the while leeching their freedom. To be ‘civilised’ here was to be controlled. It infuriated her that no one but she could see what was happening. ‘Only I am not blind to Lysandra and her evils, it seems,’ she muttered, putting the thought to voice.
‘Sorina…’
‘Leave me be!’ She jerked away from Teuta’s outstretched hand.
Furious, she stalked off, knowing she had hurt the other, but too angry to care.
Though the corridors of the gaol were crowded, all made a path for her; she was well known outside the confines of Balbus’s ludus and the other warriors respected her seniority and, more, the look of rage etched onto her face. She wandered aimlessly, the Greek’s hated visage swimming before her eyes. For a moment, she seriously considered asking Balbus for a match with her but, as swiftly as the thought came, she dismissed it. He would never agree to such a bout, as Lysandra was only a junior fighter. Exasperated, she looked for somewhere to rest and calm herself. She was surprised to see Catuvolcos sitting nearby on a stone bench. The trainer was clutching a sack of beer, his face wrapped in gloom.
‘What’s amiss?’ she asked as she joined him.
Catuvolcos regarded her with glassy eyes. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered, handing her the beer sack.
‘Come on,’ she said, taking a swig. ‘You look as if your best friend just died.’
‘It’s Lysandra,’ he moaned, causing Sorina to bristle at the sound of the despised name. ‘I love her.’