‘You think so?’
‘At least it has gotten you over Lysandra,’ Stick observed.
‘That’s true. If I am honest, since I have met Doris, I cannot find it in my heart to stay angry towards Lysandra. I was being foolish.’ He waved at a slave girl for more beer. ‘She could not be a wife to me, nor any man. Her upbringing, and now her life here in the ludus has changed her; it would change anyone,’ he added quietly. ‘Of course, she welcomes the change. Victory to her was an outlet, a vindication of her belief in her own greatness.’
Stick laughed. ‘You have to admit, it’s rare to come across a woman with that big a head. Do you think all Spartan’s are like her?’
‘They cannot be, surely.’
‘Sorina will take it hard if you reconcile yourself to Lysandra, though.’ Stick was again serious. ‘Especially now.’
Catuvolcos scowled. As a Celt, he understood that Sorina and Eirianwen must fight. A challenge had been made and must be accepted lest honour be forfeit; but the reason for the battle was without honour. Lysandra and Eirianwen’s affair was their own and, even as Clan Chief, Sorina had little right to interfere. He had told Sorina so and they had quarrelled over it. ‘I wish that it had not come to this, Stick,’ he said after some time. ‘Eirianwen and Sorina are both good women, but the Clan Chief is blind over the love between Eirianwen and Lysandra. Publicly, she says it is because Lysandra’s ‘civilised ways’ will corrupt the Clan. But the truth is that she is jealous. I feel badly to say this, for Sorina has been a good friend for me in troubled times. But she loves Eirianwen as a daughter and it cuts her to the quick that she has chosen Lysandra. She cannot stand to be second place.’
Stick shook his head. ‘And when one barbarian challenges another, neither will back down,’ he said sadly. ‘One of them will die over it. It seems a waste, Catuvolcos.’
‘It is that,’ Catuvolcos agreed. ‘Sorina is now distraught at the consequences of this quarrel. How can she kill the one whom she had come to regard as daughter? I think that she now regrets her words but there is no going back. If she had closed her eyes, it would not have come to this.’
Their mood had taken a gloomy turn and the two men drank in silence. Perhaps it would not have come to this if Eirianwen had been any other, Catuvolcos thought to himself. So beautiful, so perfect. She was almost a goddess on earth. Her physical attractiveness was matched only by her good nature, and as a Druid’s daughter, her knowledge of lore was great. She was the perfect successor to Sorina in so many ways. Save for her love of a Greek woman. ‘I had best go,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I must meet Doris.’
Stick seemed to shake off his grim mood. ‘I think you’re an idiot for not spearing in this pond where the fishes are free. Now piss off and leave a real man to his enjoyment.’ Stick tipped him a wink and got to his feet, seeking his diversion amongst the women.
Catuvolcos left him to his enjoyments, walking briskly towards the brothel. Though he had only known Doris a short time, he felt a genuine affection for the young prostitute. That she plied her trade on her back was of no matter to him. He himself peddled flesh, only in a different way. More often than not, his charges would end up dying young or worse, maimed and useless.
He shook his head, annoyed that the conversation with Stick had turned his mood bitter. Yet he was able to cast these grim thoughts from his mind as soon as he spied Doris’s place of work. She was waiting for him by the doorway, her labours over with for the night. She walked towards him and it made Catuvolcos happy to see that her step was quick.
XXIX
The cell resonated with the shouts of the crowd above.
The noise of their rhythmic chanting pervaded the very foundations of the amphitheatre, filling inanimate rock with a pulsing, violent music. Lysandra stood before Eirianwen, applying the oil to her body.
‘Sorina always used to do this for me.’ Eirianwen’s voice was the barest whisper.
‘Do not think of her as Sorina. She is not a person now, she is your enemy.’
‘That is not the way of the Tribes. Though we meet in battle, we must do each other honour.’
‘I am sure,’ Lysandra said tartly. ‘Time enough for honour when she is dead, Eirianwen.’ Her tone softened then. ‘You must win this fight. For you. For us.’
‘I’ll try.’
Lysandra’s eyes fixed the deep blue of Eirianwen’s. ‘You will,’ she insisted. ‘Trying has nothing to do with it. I have known her only a short time, Eirianwen, but well enough to realise that she will not spare her hand in this. If you have a chance, take it. You must cut her down without compunction.’
Eirianwen’s smile was dazzling. ‘You think to make yourself a trainer, Lysandra?’
Lysandra tweaked Eirianwen’s nose, making her laugh, and the heavy mood was broken for an instant. ‘Doubtless I’d be better than the imbeciles we have to work with at the moment.’ She stepped back, and eyed her handiwork. ‘I don’t think I’ve missed a spot,’ she nodded satisfied. ‘Are you sure you do not want to wear even a subligaculum? They have not insisted that you fight naked.’ Eirianwen opened her mouth to speak but Lysandra raised her hand. ‘I assume it is ‘the way of the Tribes’?’
‘Yes. One of us will go to the underworld as we came to this world. Also, we fight as equals in this manner. No blow will be deflected by armour. We fight, blade to blade, flesh to flesh.’
‘A pity it is not a contest of form.’ Lysandra forced herself to smile, though her heart was pounding with apprehension. But it would not do to show Eirianwen that she was nervous; she must project a solid image of unwavering confidence.
‘What do you mean?’ Eirianwen began to flex her shoulders and neck, loosening the muscles.
‘If this were being judged on your looks,’ she extrapolated, realising that the subtleties of Latin were beyond the Silurian,
‘you would certainly have the advantage over that leathery old bag.’
‘You’re being rude,’ Eirianwen said, but her eyes were bright.
‘Don’t worry about me, Lysandra. I’ll fight hard and, if the gods will it, I shall win.’
Lysandra nodded; there was truth in that.
It was deafening.
Lysandra had thought the cheers in her own bouts loud, but the cacophony that greeted the two barbarian gladiatrices as they stepped onto the sands was like nothing she had ever heard. It was greater than a simple roar, it was a constant, unending reverberation that seemed to stem from the very soul of those who watched. Lysandra gripped the bars to the Gate of Life, feeling them vibrate under her fingers.
Her eyes were drawn to Sorina. The older woman’s naked body was brown and tough, her muscles defined and hard beneath the skin, whereas Eirianwen had a more womanly look to her.
Sorina, like Lysandra herself, was angular and solid but Eirianwen was possessed of gentle curves. This was mere appearance, for beneath the deceptively soft surface, the Silurian was as hard as iron.
They faced each other, raising their blades in salute. Through the din Lysandra heard the high-pitched voice of the editor, Fat Aeschylus, giving the order for the battle to begin.
But neither woman moved. For indeterminable moments they stood like two statues, images forever poised to strike a blow that was never to land. The crowd quietened, as if becoming aware of the solemnity of the occasion. Sweat beaded on the bodies of both gladiatrices, their shoulders rising and falling as they slowed their breathing, letting nervous energy transform to controlled aggression.
‘Fight!’ Aeschylus’ voice piped out again, irate at the delay, but the women yet remained still. Harenarii, slaves charged with forcing unwilling gladiators to fight, began to move in, clutching red-hot irons in gloved fists. Though silent, the minds of twenty thousand watchers willing the two to close was a palpable thing, hanging heavy over the dead calm sands of the arena floor.