They held each other thus for a few moments, before Lysandra broke away. She looked about, and saw Catuvolcos standing not far from where they were sitting. She raised her hand in greeting, but suddenly stilled it as she saw his face. It was contorted, a mix of anger and grief. Slowly, her hand lowered, her head cocking to one side. She opened her mouth to call out to him, but he spat on the floor before him, and stalked away.
‘What is it?’ Eirianwen turned her head, following Lysandra’s gaze.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she said. ‘Come, the night is still before us.’
XXI
‘You’re such a slut, Penelope,’ Thebe said caustically.
The former fisher-girl had been waddling around the cell all morning, regaling her compatriots with lurid tales of her nightly adventure with Horse. The previous evening, the titanically endowed gladiator had invited a friend to share the gifts Penelope was so eagerly bestowing.
Lysandra listened with amusement. It occurred to her that before Eirianwen, she would have been scandalised by Penelope’s commentary. Now, she found that with each passing day her soul, and with it her cares, grew lighter.
‘Of course, I didn’t know what they meant when they said they wanted to do it Greek.’ Penelope had obviously decided to ignore Thebe and continued playing to her audience. ‘I mean, I am Greek!’ She shook her head. ‘I found out soon enough, I can tell you. I was like the meat between two hunks of bread! I won’t have any problems with my movements after that little encounter if you know what I mean…’
‘That’s enough!’ Thebe shouted, hurling a pillow at the island girl who was now gesturing obscenely with her forearm and fist.
She retained enough presence of mind to duck the pillow, however.
Penelope sat down with exaggerated gingerness and tossed the pillow back. ‘Prude,’ she said, and stuck out her tongue.
The women all looked around as the door to the cell scraped open, revealing Stick’s skinny silhouette. The Parthian sauntered in, carrying the oil bucket.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said gaily. ‘How are we feeling today?’
‘What do you care?’ Once Danae would have been beaten for addressing him in such a manner but now, as if by unspoken agreement, the women had passed from being novices to veterans and Stick was beginning to treat them so.
‘I’m wounded, Danae. Don’t you know that concern for your welfare is my highest priority? Yours especially,’ he went on. ‘You are fighting today.’ Danae paled slightly, but nodded, her face resolute.
‘But first, Penelope,’ Stick placed the oil bucket on the floor.
‘Or should I say ‘Patrocla, the deadly blade’. Get yourself ready, girl!’
Penelope looked a little taken aback and Stick picked up on it. ‘What, did you think it was all going to be watching, feasting and enjoyment? It’s time for you to start repaying the inordinate amount you cost us.’
Penelope shrugged, and began to remove her tunic. She paused, and raised an eyebrow at Stick, who chuckled and left the cell.
‘I cannot believe that you, of all people, have suddenly acquired modesty,’ Lysandra said. Penelope shrugged.
‘It’s never too late,’ she muttered.
Lysandra got up and scooped a handful of oil into her hand.
‘Maybe you should save some of this,’ she commented, slapping the stuff wetly onto Penelope’s buttocks. ‘I’m sure you could find a use for it.’
‘I’m not sure about this,’ Penelope said, her voice obscured by the murmillo helmet she was wearing. ‘It’s not supposed to be funny.’ That Stick was making her fight as the ‘fish girl’ was a huge joke to everyone, the trainer included. The murmillo fought in medium armour, the head protected by the ornate, full-faced helmet, the right arm and shoulder covered by the distinctive leather manica. The first and best, defence, however, was the large, curved shield that Penelope was hefting about. Her torso was left bare, ensuring that the maximum amount of blood and gore was displayed if the gladiatrix was injured and, of course, revealing her ample breasts for the delight of the crowd.
‘Do not be concerned.’ Lysandra patted her shoulder. ‘You look most threatening.’
Inside the helmet, Penelope flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m sure.’
The announcer was once again going through his tirade, as the Gate of Life opened to the sound of the trumpets. Penelope steeled herself, and passed over the threshold into the arena. She had been matched against another heavily armed fighter, a hoplomacha, the only discernable difference between the two being the round shield the other woman carried and the Corinthian crested helmet that she wore. The helmet was of an archaic type, made famous by the Greek hoplite warriors of ancient times.
The thick nosepiece and flared cheek guards obscured the woman’s face in shadow, and so both fighters were rendered anonymous to the crowd. Penelope guessed by the brown cast to the hoplomacha’s skin she was of eastern stock, a fact confirmed when she was announced as Draca of Syria. Both fighters received their swords from the attendant slaves and then made their ritual salute to Frontinus. This done, they faced one another, shields raised.
Penelope’s tongue was dry as she licked parched lips. Despite her usually bombastic demeanour, she was nervous. And with good reason, she told herself as she advanced towards Draca: only a fool would be complacent when entering combat.
She made herself recall one of the first lessons at the ludus, when Catuvolcos had had them charge straw dummies. This, she reasoned, would be a similar exercise. She tensed and lunged forwards, her sturdy legs working at speed, eating up the ground between them. The Syrian, however, was no mannequin, and set herself to receive the charge. The mob screamed in delight as the women collided, their shields crashing together with thunderous report. Penelope’s sword flashed down, only to career off the edge of Draca’s hoplon shield. The eastern woman grunted and struck back, catching her stocky foe with a glancing blow to the side of the head. Though the metal absorbed the strike, Penelope’s ears rang from the ferocity of the blow. She gritted her teeth and butted her shield forward, trying to overpower the lighter woman.
Draca was cunning; instead of trying to match force with force, she angled her body away from Penelope’s shove, causing her to overbalance. She stumbled forward, and Draca’s blade lashed out, scoring a bloody line down her opponent’s back. The crowd shouted with glee at the sight of first blood. Penelope cried out as the pain flashed through her but swung her sword about as she passed, trying to keep Draca away. She turned, sweat pouring down her face in the furnace of her enclosed helmet, whirling around in time to see the Syrian coming at her again. A sudden fury possessed her and, screaming a war cry, she hurled herself forwards.
Her iron met the wood of the hoplomacha’s shield and Penelope redoubled her efforts, hoping to draw the other woman into a slogging match, sure she could overcome her. It was at this moment that the pain faded and the long months of training began to pay dividends. She found herself in a place so pure it was almost blissfuclass="underline" she was at one with her blade; her mind, body and soul in perfect harmony with the combat, revelling in the furious exchange of blows, seeing the moves of her foe before they had been executed. She realised then what Lysandra had felt: that there was a liberty to be found in battle. The exultation, the surging power in her veins made her feel as though she were the War Goddess herself. Now she could see the gaps in Draca’s defence and she exploited them, her blade biting into the other woman’s shoulder as the Syrian sought to strike back. The mob roared her on, delighted with the recovery from her initial error.
Penelope was relentless. She churned forwards, hammering blow after blow onto Draca’s shield, forcing her back. With each hit she knew she was sapping the energy of her opponent; the shields were heavy and, under this repeated assault, she knew the slighter woman would tire quicker than she. Inwardly, she thanked Stick, Nastasen and Titus for the relentless regimen they had forced her to go through. She was possessed of a strength that she never knew she could attain, muscles responding again and again, with no burning fatigue.