‘Command?’ Thebe cocked her head to one side.
‘Yes. Of our training. As I am best qualified for the task. You people cannot be expected to be as competent as me when it comes to the use of weapons and the application of discipline. I have had the benefit of the agoge.’
‘Oh, that is good news,’ Thebe muttered.
‘But now, I must go,’ Lysandra said. ‘No doubt I shall be able to regale you all with a few stories of the Roman high life when I return.’ Her sardonic twist was missed by Thebe and the others.
They were not as overjoyed as they should be by her news. She supposed that they were a little fearful that they would have to live up to her example when they trained and that would be no easy task.
But for now, she had to pay for the boon.
XXIV
Lysandra hardly recognised herself when they had finished.
A small army of slave girls swarmed around her, erasing the Spartan and obscuring her with some other woman she did not know. Her face was painted with chalk and then her cheeks rouged with red ochre. This same substance, but of thicker constitution, was applied to her lips. Khol had been applied to her eyebrows to accentuate them, whilst the lids were decorated with a shadow of saffron. Her hair had been piled on top of her head in what the slave girls assured her was the latest fashion.
This arrangement was held together with pins which Lysandra found extremely irritating, maddened by the urge to pull the fastenings away.
They dressed her in a long, white chiton, after the Hellene style, her arms bedecked with expensive-looking bracelets. The girls cooed and gasped at their handiwork but, when they held out a bronze mirror for her, she could only comment that she looked ridiculous.
Her cheeks burning with the shame of it, she got to her feet to find that she felt almost off balance. Her hair felt as though it were suspended from the ceiling by wires that threatened to pull her off her feet. No one should be subjected to this, she thought angrily.
‘I resemble a painted doll,’ she complained to one of the girls.
‘Perhaps I should attend as myself and not some… flute girl.’
The girl, much to Lysandra’s annoyance, merely giggled. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she chided. ‘You look beautiful.’
‘I look like an idiot.’ Lysandra looked into her big, limpid eyes, and saw only confusion. She shook her head in disgust, realising that all these women thought about was hairstyles, makeup and gossiping about who was sleeping with whom. ‘Come, feather-brain,’ she hissed. ‘I must be about it.’
‘Featherbrain!’ the slave exclaimed, and her compatriots tittered.
‘Lysandra, you’re so funny.’ In her mind’s eye, she saw herself gleefully throttling the imbecilic little slut.
The slave girls escorted her through the gaol, in full few of her fellow gladiatrices who screamed abuse at her the moment she came into view. It must be very amusing to them, Lysandra seethed inwardly, to see someone as respected as she trussed up in such frippery. She thought she would die of embarrassment.
To compound matters, as they drew near the exit, she spied Catuvolcos, sitting with Sorina. The Gaul looked up at her and blinked, squinting through the gloom. She did her best to ignore him but he knew she had seen him.
‘Well, well,’ he said, approaching her. ‘What have we here?’
Sorina was at his shoulder, smirking.
‘I am attending a banquet with the governor,’ she told him.
Ever since Catuvolcos had confessed his feelings and had been rebuffed, he had refused to speak to her. Instead he confined himself to harsh glares and mutterings in his barbaric tongue. But she supposed this sight of her humiliation was too good an opportunity for raillery. She decided to get a barb of her own in at his newfound ‘friend’. ‘Yes,’ she went on. ‘He has requested the presence of the games’ foremost gladiatrix.’ She directed her look past him to Sorina.
‘A banquet!’ Catuvolcos roared with laugher, and she smelt the foul Egyptian beer on his breath. ‘We know what sort of thing goes on at a civilised banquet, don’t we, Sorina?’
‘Indeed,’ the older woman sneered. ‘Painted like a whore, to be a whore. You’ll have so many pricks in you before the night’s out, your cunnus will be gaping like Helle’s pit.’
Lysandra recoiled, stunned at the vulgarity to which the Amazon descended. ‘I doubt that,’ she spat. ‘Unlike you, I don’t open my legs for any and everyone who fancies it.’ Lysandra was well pleased with herself, having managed she supposed to insult both Sorina and Catuvolcos at the same time. Certainly, she would not play the whipping girl for them. However, the barb was a little too sharp because, with a snarl of rage, Sorina leapt at her.
Lysandra dropped back into a fighting stance, ready to hammer the Dacian into the ground, but Catuvolcos grabbed the furious barbarian around the waist and hauled her back.
‘She’s not worth a flogging,’ he shouted. Around Lysandra, the slave girls screamed and tried to get out of Sorina’s way.
Sorina glared pure hatred at Lysandra who merely smirked, considering that it had been the older woman who had lost this encounter. That Catuvolcos had turned against her was, however, hurtful, especially when his amorous feelings towards her had never been encouraged. It was not as if she had led him to believe that she reciprocated in any way other than friendship and his hostility was uncalled for. And evidently, he was enjoying some sort of intimate relationship with Sorina; it was unreasonable of him to act in this manner, especially if he had found consolation elsewhere. But then, he was a barbarian, and what could one expect?
Lysandra made off without a backward glance.
The girls escorted her to a litter outside the gaol. Six strong men were lined up to carry it and eight legionaries stood fore and aft as escorts. Of course, the lanista was keen to ensure there were no mishaps with one of his prized possessions.
Lysandra clambered into the lush, red-cushioned interior, exhortations to take care of both hair and makeup ringing in her ears.
Trussed up in her finery, she was unable to flop back on the cushions and try to relax. As if that would be possible, she thought to herself. The argument with Sorina and Catuvolcos had taken her mind away from the prospect of the evening’s diversions, but now, alone, she had little else to dwell upon. She had to admit that she was somewhat fearful of what the night may bring. She prayed that Sorina’s vicious comment was not the truth. She shuddered at the thought of being used in such a manner.
It was not the thought of a man that worried her; this was something she had discussed with Eirianwen. Indeed, she and the Silurian had used the olisbos together, and Lysandra considered the act of penetration to be extremely pleasurable. But this was an altogether different proposition; there would be neither tenderness nor care spared for her, she would merely act as the receptacle for another’s gratification.
This night her slavery would be impressed upon her more vividly than ever before
Danae had been right when she had said that being a gladiatrix afforded some level of freedom. It was dangerous, to be sure, but Lysandra would by lying to herself if she did not admit that the danger was addictive. Life at the ludus was less harsh than her youth in the agoge, and afforded her the opportunity to honour Athene in blood. An ancient tradition, perhaps, but she felt her life had purpose.
Admittedly, her noble sacrifice would bring benefit to the women in her care; it was the Spartan way to embrace sacrifice and not to shirk from duty. But inside she was afraid. Lovingly penetrated by the olisbos guided by the hands of Eirianwen would be nothing like being held down and raped — for it would be rape — by an aging senator.