Lysandra did her best to foster a spirit of togetherness amongst her companions. They were slaves in name only: they felt free; were free in their hearts. With sweat and toil, they were forming a bond, not only as gladiatrices now but also as soldiers. This was akin to the sisterhood of the temple and Lysandra knew well that such ties were hard to break.
They were special now; they were the elite, and they knew it.
‘I will need some dispensation for the women,’ Lysandra advised Balbus and Titus as they lounged in his triclinium.
The lanista eyed her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘These women cannot be treated as prisoners, Balbus. The whole project will fail if this is so.’ She turned her attention to the older man. ‘Titus, you were a soldier, were you not?’
Titus grunted an affirmative.
‘Well, then you must know the importance of morale, of spirit.
We cannot be cooped up in here at all times. We must be allowed to make route marches and, as our forces grow, to operate on open ground.’
Titus nodded. ‘She has a point, Balbus. But we must have your word there will be no escape attempt. This is on your honour, Lysandra.’
‘By Athene, I swear it. We want this, Titus,’ she said meaningfully, her eyes alight. ‘This makes us more than mere arena fighters. This has never been done before, we are the first.’
‘What is the world coming to?’ He grinned. ‘Armies of women — like the Amazons.’
Lysandra snorted. ‘Sorina is an Amazon. Savage and undisciplined. Even if they set ten to one odds against us, we will win on the day. Before your Emperor, we will crush our enemies and see them driven before us.’
‘Well, don’t carried away,’ Balbus admonished. ‘All this marching and drilling is well and good but there are bills to be paid and you’ll all be fighting regularly. More than regularly, in fact.’
‘We are well aware of that,’ Lysandra replied loftily.
‘Good, because I have an engagement booked.’
Lysandra inclined her head. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is good training.’
Sorina clenched her toes on the sand, feeling the grains flood over her feet. The leather sword hilt felt familiar and safe in her hands, the sun warm on her skin. Though it was a minor festival, the arena was still packed to bursting point, the mob still insatiable in their desire for spectacle.
Since her combat with Eirianwen, there had been demands to see more of the tribal fighting style so she was armed once again with the long sword. This time, however, there was no blood feud, and she wore her armour. Her opponent was a Gaul who fought under the name of Epona. It mattered little what she called herself. Soon, the she would be dead, and all would see that Sorina was still Queen of the Sands.
Epona was tall, her blonde hair cropped short. This, coupled with her ruddy, pig-like face served to give her a brutish appearance. Her body was heavily decorated with woad: bright blue on her white skin. She gave Sorina a broken-toothed smile and advanced, hefting the heavy iron blade as if she intended to use it as a club.
Sorina returned the smile coldly, her eyes flat. She set her stance, ready to react to her opponent’s movements. For a moment, the two women shuffled about, measuring the other’s speed and balance. Then, with a shout, Sorina leapt in, her sword arcing towards the other’s neck.
Epona barely got her blade up in time to deflect the blow, but this accomplished, there was little respite for her. Sorina fought like a woman possessed, sweat standing out on her tanned skin as she forced the issue with the bigger woman.
There were no exchanges, no counter blows. After only a few moments fighting it became obvious that the Gaul was hopelessly outclassed. The crowd began to clap their hands slowly, showing their derision at the mismatch.
Sorina heard them, and slowed her assault. It would not do to disappoint the mob by ending the battle too quickly. She realised that she herself was on edge, almost desperate to prove that the gruelling bout with Eirianwen had not robbed her of her sharpness.
But Epona’s heart was no longer in the fight; Sorina could see it in her eyes. The early battering had convinced the big woman that there was no hope for her.
‘Come at me,’ Sorina hissed in Latin. ‘You cannot win this fight, but at least you can try for the missio.’ She said it not from compassion, but rather because Epona was making her own performance look awkward.
It was to no avail. Epona tried gamely to attack but her movements were slow and clumsy. She wielded the sword like an axe, hacking more at Sorina’s blade than making any real effort to hit her. In disgust, Sorina twisted her own weapon and sent the Gaul’s sword flying from her grip. Even as the iron went skywards she spun about, smashing her elbow in the big blonde’s face, sending her crashing to the sand in a spray of blood.
She stood over the prone form, her eyes flicking to the governor’s box. Frontinus’s response was instant and a short thrust sent Epona into her death spasm.
Boos and catcalls erupted from the watching crowd. Usually, Sorina would have expected to soak up applause. She had never suffered a reaction like this before and she moved quickly to the Gate of Life, insults ringing in her ears.
‘Call that a fight?’ one outraged spectator screamed. ‘It was a joke. Why don’t you fight someone who can defend herself?’
‘She ain’t got it no more,’ came another shout. ‘She’s too old.’
‘They’re giving her easy matches. Achillia would take the Amazon, I reckon.’
Sorina stopped, her brown eyes sweeping the crowd, searching for her accuser. She spotted him, a skinny, unwashed fellow sporting a yellow tunic. She growled and leapt towards the stalls, bashing her sword on the bars that separated fighter from audience. Many spectators yelped and leapt away, falling over themselves at this sudden, violent reaction.
‘Get yourself in here, you little bastard,’ Sorina screamed. ‘Achillia is nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing!’ She was going to say more, but the arena attendants rushed over and tackled her, bearing her to the sand. She did not struggle as they disarmed her and dragged her to the tunnel.
The jeers rang loud and long.
Balbus blanched at the crowd’s reaction. After such a spectacular showing in Aeschylus’s games he had wanted to prove that this was merely the beginning. But the truth was inescapable: the other lanista’s could not provide women of quality to match his own or else were reluctant to send their best fighters against his. Gladiatrices cost money, and there seemed to be a wide-spread belief that to face a woman from Balbus’s ludus was to invite death — hardly a sensible proposition for any man of business.
That Sorina’s popularity appeared to be on the wane was only of slight concern to him. She had served him well but her time was coming to an end. She was getting old and he now had Lysandra. Fortuna had indeed smiled on him when the arrogant young Spartan had come his way. For a long time, he had viewed Eirianwen as the natural successor to the old lioness. But it was Lysandra now who carried all his hopes.
Sorina was, he decided, becoming a spent force. Not her fault that the opposition had been poor; not her fault that the crowd reacted badly. But he had a reputation to think of and it was a problem that he would have to address.
More pressing, however, was the fact that Lysandra was due to fight a woman from the same ludus that had produced Sorina’s opponent. Given that the Spartan’s reputation was growing, it was apparent to Balbus that the lanista would not send out one of his best to probable death at the hands of the rising star of Halicarnassus. He called Stick to him and bade the Parthian contact the opposition school’s owner. He had a plan. Of course he did. That was why he was successful. He rubbed his hands together gleefully, pleased with his own invention.
‘No problem.’ Danae flexed her neck as she returned from the arena. After Sorina’s bout, the Athenian had put on a good display against her own opponent. With the previous fight in mind, she had gauged her opposition well and not gone all out to finish her. Rather, she eked out the battle, allowing the other woman a sniff at victory before sending her to Hades with a blow to the head.