It took some weeks for Lysandra to regain her fitness, her speed and her sharpness. She began to exercise with the Hellene women, offering pointers and help, but still not leading them in their sessions. She felt that she must regain their utter confidence in her superiority before she took over in a formal manner. Respect had to be earned and the Hellenes were no longer green novices.
However, as time progressed, her position as foremost amongst them became clear. Indeed, she felt that they welcomed her return to form as in her absence they had lacked any real leadership. As she began to train them in earnest, many of the other civilised women in the ludus made it clear that they wished to be part of her coterie. This was unsurprising, of course. Whilst Stick, Catuvolcos and especially Titus’s training methods were good, they were not conceived in Sparta, and naturally were inferior to her own regimen.
That Balbus allowed this split to happen was, in Lysandra’s view, extremely astute. The lanista was in no doubt that her charges were becoming the fittest and most deadly of his stable.
‘Remember,’ she told them after a particularly gruelling session, ‘discipline is the key to victory. Any fool can wave a sword about and batter an opponent into submission with no thought of tactics and strategy.’ She jerked her head disdainfully at the barbarian quarter of the grounds where the fighters there went about their work with the usual unordered gusto. ‘Discipline and fitness are your first weapons. How many times have you seen fighters falter when tiredness sets in? Next time you think I am pushing you too hard think about a sword in your guts. Remember that if you are fitter, more prepared, you will survive. We have all seen our friends die in the arena, choking on their own blood. That could be you. You can never have too much stamina. To go the extra lap is everything in life, not only in the arena. Push yourselves.’
The women cheered at this and Lysandra allowed herself to smile.
It turned Sorina’s stomach to have to share her meal times with the hated Greeks. Though both sets of women stuck to their own sides of the dining area, the fact that she had be so close to Lysandra’s sycophants, Greek and Roman both, was almost too much to bear.
The Amazon knew that she was being mocked in the sibilant Greek tongue, as often they would turn and look at the Tribeswomen, before erupting in laughter. She thought of speaking to Balbus about staggering the evening meals but decided against it. She could not let the lanista realise that the tension between the two camps was so great. She could not afford to let anything stand in the way of her killing Lysandra.
And she wanted to kill her so much she could taste it.
‘Are you all right?’ Teuta’s voice brought Sorina’s attention away from her fantasy of impaling the Spartan on her blade.
‘Look at them.’ The Clan Chief shook her head as the Greeks spoke amongst themselves. ‘Rhetoric, no doubt,’ she sneered. ‘They make me sick.’
Teuta grunted. ‘So ignore them.’
‘Get away, girl.’ Sorina pushed at the slave, Varia, as she offered her more wine. Varia stumbled back, dropping the krater on the ground. She felt guilty at the action: despite the fact that the child was the spawn of Italy she was harmless enough.
She was just about to help the girl to her feet, when she noticed that the dining area had fallen silent. One of the Greeks, an Athenian she knew to be called Danae, had broached the border between the two camps.
‘There’s no need for that, barbarian,’ Danae helped Varia up.
‘The girl was just doing her job.’
‘Don’t call me barbarian,’ Sorina spat.
Danae arched an eyebrow — a gesture so reminiscent of Lysandra it infuriated Sorina. ‘It is an act of barbarity to bully a child,’ she said shortly.
Rage coursed through Sorina. Her body acted of its own volition and she was on her feet, wine cup in her hand. There was a crunching sound and a scream. Danae was falling, her face a ruined mass of blood. In her hand, Sorina felt the broken crockery of the wine cup.
As one, the Greeks and Romans across the dining area rose to their feet, and began to move across to the Tribeswomen’s section. They were, Sorina thought, so passionless. Here, she had insulted and physically abused one of their number but there was no battle rage about them. That they came to settle the matter in blood was one thing; that they approached as would a colony of ants was an abomination to the War Goddess.
Her own kind were on their feet, knowing that combat was come upon them, and with a scream they lunged towards the hated women of the middle-sea, intent on hammering the arrogance out of them. Chaos reigned then, as the gladiatrices hurled themselves at one another. With no weapons to speak of it was a clash of flesh against flesh, strength against strength.
It was the element of the Tribal warrior. Sorina felt a power unknown surge through her as she dived into the fray, punching and kicking, her blows pulping flesh and breaking bone.
Above the milling heads she could see the tall form of Lysandra pushing her way towards her. She grinned savagely, her hands forming claws. Now she would have her reckoning.
‘ Lanista!’
Balbus looked up from his work to see Stick careering into his office. The Parthian was in a state of panic. ‘What is it, Stick?’ he said, becoming alarmed. Stick was unflappable for the most part.
‘Riot!’ the trainer screeched.
‘Call the guards!’ Balbus propelled himself up and out of his chair as fast as his chunky body would allow.
‘I have.’ Stick began to run back towards the training ground.
‘Titus is out there now, leading them in.’
The lanista chased him outside and wrung his hands at the scene before him. His guards — all of them — had waded into a brawl, desperate to separate the two camps that had formed in the ludus.
On the one side were Lysandra and the women of the middle sea; on the other, Sorina and her barbarians. The women were tearing into each other with fury, screaming and shouting as they rained blows upon each other. Hildreth, he noted, was shoving her German women back, seemingly unwilling to become involved.
Balbus winced as she saw one of the Roman women dragged from her feet and slammed into a table by two barbarians and he cried aloud as they tipped the table over, crushing her beneath.
‘Stop them!’ he screamed, rushing forward. Stick grabbed him about the waist, and dragged him back.
‘Are you mad?’ the Parthian shouted. ‘You’ll be killed. Let the guards handle it.’
Protected by armour and shields, the hired men were having some success in forging a path between the two embattled antag-onists; their attentions were none too gentle and batons rose and fell with alarming force. Balbus could see a fortune being wasted in broken bones and incapacitated fighters; nevertheless, he silently admitted to himself that this was partially his fault. But Lysandra’s Greeks were winning — fighting together, and winning. Balbus considered that a sign from Fortuna.
The tide swept Lysandra from her path. Sorina screamed in rage and frustration, trying to claw her way through the throng to reach her. But each step she took, she realised that there was another Greek, another Roman to deal with. Even with the battle rage coursing through her she realised that, though fewer in number, Lysandra’s women were gaining the upper hand in the brawl. They had formed a line across the dining area and, where one fell so another moved forward to take her place, hammering the tired Tribeswomen from their feet.
She must call her people back, so that they might gather for a charge that would snap the spine of Lysandra’s women. But as she looked about, she felt a sharp blow to her head from behind.
Turning, she struck out furiously, only to encounter the unyielding wood of a guard’s shield. He hit her again, and twice more before she felt her legs go beneath her and the darkness closed in.