Gladiatrix Read online

  In any normal circumstance they would not have warranted even her attention, let alone her time.

  Thoughts of the Germans drifted away as she revelled in the sensation of the hot water on her skin. After the filthy days on the road, the pleasure at cleansing herself was immense. She rolled luxuriantly in the bath, letting the heat open her pores and wash the mire of sweat and dirt from her body.

  She swam under the water for a while, before letting herself float to the surface and drift lazily to one of the sides. Arms and shoulders resting on the lip of the pool, she watched as the Germans lost their struggle to remain dirty. Reluctantly, one by one, they lowered themselves into the steaming water, crying out with shock at the unnatural warmth. Their fear, however, was soon conquered as the perfumed heat did its seductive work, relaxing cramped muscles and purifying the skin. Greta tossed a bag of sponges among the delighted and cooing tribeswomen. A visible scum began to form around them as their vigorous scrubbing started to shift years of ingrained dirt.

  Lysandra stayed well away, but any hopes she had of idling in the water were quickly dispelled as Greta’s long-experienced eye adjudged that her countrywomen were sufficiently bathed.

  Clapping her hands together briskly, she ordered everyone out of the pool.

  The tiny slave girl with whom she had spoken earlier approached her. ‘You must come with me,’ the girl said. Similarly, each of the new captives was now being led away by one of Greta’s contingent. After bathing, Lysandra was feeling relaxed and, despite her current circumstances, better than she had in weeks. As such, she was not inclined to question.

  Her diminutive guide took her from the bathing area proper and into a side room. Here, a towelled bench lay prepared.

  ‘I’m Varia,’ the girl offered.

  ‘Lysandra.’

  Varia indicated the bench, instructing Lysandra to lay front down upon it. ‘Just relax,’ she said, pouring a liberal amount of sweet-smelling oil onto her charge’s back and shoulders. Her small hands deftly worked the unguent into her skin, the surprisingly strong fingers kneading and working any remaining tenseness from her muscles.

  She almost purred with pleasure under Varia’s ministrations as the massage continued. She could not help but wonder at this sort of treatment, a fact she mentioned to the young slave. Certainly it was not what she had been led to believe a chattel’s lot to be.

  ‘Ah,’ Varia replied as she now worked her magic on Lysandra’s legs. ‘It will get harder all too soon. There are certain standards to live up to,’ she added matter-of-factly. ‘All the gladiatrices here are very well-trained.’

  Lysandra murmured her understanding, her nostrils flaring slightly, catching the aroma of wax in the air. Varia was speaking again. ‘So it is not all massages and bathing. And some of the trainers can be very cruel. I can see you’ve had a cruel master before.’ The slave’s fingertips traced the ridges of the scars on her back.

  A sharp tearing sound from the adjacent cell followed by a scream of agony interrupted any answer Lysandra was about to give. She started and looked enquiringly over her shoulder.

  ‘Waxing,’ Varia responded to the unvoiced question. ‘It lasts longer than shaving, but the first time is very painful for the barbarians.’

  Lysandra found herself in absolute agreement. True, she had been trained to ignore pain, she could not help but feel grateful that the waxing was an ordeal she would not have to face. A once-over with a bronze razor would suffice for a civilised woman such as she.

  III

  In much better form after the unexpected indulgences of the bathhouse, Lysandra emerged wearing the light tunic that had been provided for her, enjoying, despite her circumstances, a lightness of heart she had not felt since her ship was wrecked. Hildreth and the tribeswomen joined her, their gait indicating that the attentions of the waxing cloth had left them somewhat tender. Greta bade them form a single rank and remain silent.

  After some minutes one of the trainers, the one she knew went by the name of ‘Stick’ approached the line of women.

  Lysandra noted his eyes scrutinising them. She had seen the look before in her youth: Stick was assessing their fitness with a glance, seeking a fire in the eyes that might suggest a woman had promise.

  ‘Welcome to your new home,’ he said in his high, nasal voice.

  As he spoke, Greta translated for the German women. ‘You are slaves… chattel… less than human. Forget that you were once women with lives beyond these walls.’ He grinned nastily. ‘It will only make this more painful for you.’ He began to pace up and down the line of women, swinging his eponymous vine staff.

  ‘Your sole purpose in life is to provide high-quality entertainment for a very demanding public. You will be trained to this end: to fight and kill, and to face your death in a civilised manner.

  ‘You will obey me and the other trainers at all times. Remember, you are but slaves and it is your lot to serve the demands of your masters.’ Stick drew to a halt in front of Hildreth. Slowly and deliberately, he slid a brown, callused hand under the hem of her tunic and fondled her between the legs. He cackled as the tribeswoman flushed scarlet for shame, impotent fury burning in her eyes. Stick withdrew his hand and made a show of breathing in her scent. ‘Whatever those demands happen to be,’ he added.

  As an aside, he nodded and winked at Hildreth. ‘Very nice.’

  Clearly Stick had now warmed to his theme. ‘Obey us in all things, and your lives here may even become pleasant. Disobey, and you will find that I can make your existence so terrible that death will seem a merciful release. Train hard and learn well… and you might survive long enough to buy back your freedom.’

  He glared at them and shook his head. ‘But by the looks of you, I doubt it. Most likely, I’m wasting my time and you will be choking on your own blood after your first bout. We had better get to work, curse your eyes! Begin running. Circle the ludus until I tell you to stop.’

  The women turned and began to run. As Lysandra stepped up, Stick placed the vine staff on her chest. ‘Not you, Greek. The lanista wants to see you.’

  Lysandra regarded the wiry little Parthian, with a mixture of amusement and contempt. ‘That is good,’ she said. ‘For I want to see him.’

  Stick held her gaze for a moment; then he slammed the butt end of the vine stick viciously into her solar plexus. The breath rushed out of her and she doubled over in agony. Stick shoved her to the ground and thrashed at her back with the staff, landing several powerful blows. As she reeled in shock and pain, the Parthian grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her face close to his own, his bulbous eyes glittering with fury. ‘Lose that attitude, my lovely, or you and I will fall out, yes?’ He hurled her back to the ground and brandished the vine staff in her face.

  ‘Now, the lanista would like to see you.’

  Lysandra glared hatred up at her tormentor. Spartan honour

  — her honour — demanded that she rise and smash the leering, ugly face to a pulp. For a moment only, her mind coursed with bloody fury and she tensed, ready to spring up. Then as quickly as it had been lost, her control returned. She let the rage drain away and forced herself to nod in acquiescence. Time enough for revenge when she had been set free, she told herself. Then the filthy scum would be made to suffer for this insult to her person.

  Stick wore an impassive mask as he gestured towards Balbus’s quarters indicating that she follow him. But the encounter had unsettled him. When he looked into her eyes he had seen arrogance and disdain, as well as complete lack of fear. In that moment he realised that he had not seen the like of this girl in all his years in and around the arena. He had hit her hard — hard enough to knock the fight out of most men. But the Greek had not been cowed and something other than fear had stayed her hand. The look on her face told Stick that, on another day, he would have had to put her down permanently.

  The house of Lucius Balbus was the most opulent of all those Lysandra had noted when she first entered the ludus. Set farthest
back from the training area, it was clean, white and richly decorated. Several large statues of Roman deities, and also a few local divinities, were represented in the flower garden that led to the abode proper. The centrepiece, of course, was an image of the emperor, Domitian. Painted and garlanded, it was a trifle over-done to Lysandra’s austere eye.

  Stick glowered and left her in the care of a youth at the entrance to Balbus’s house. He was perfumed and pretty, his pale blue chiton far shorter than her own. The boy’s blond hair was outrageously coiffured and oiled, framing a plump, sultry, almost petulant face, a face that was used to having its whims granted.

  ‘Greetings,’ he lisped in Hellenic. She recognised the Athenian accent at once. ‘I’m Eros.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  Eros sniffed disdainfully and indicated that she follow him inside, tutting as her bare feet left dusty prints on the immacu-late marble.

  The two made their way in silence through the house to a somewhat cluttered office area. The untidy sprawl seemed out of place in the otherwise sumptuous surroundings. ‘The master, Lucius Balbus, is expecting you.’ Eros flounced off, his disapproval evident in every step.

  Lucius Balbus had long since acquired himself a niche in the entertainment market of Halicarnassus as the supplier of novelty acts for the great and frequent games of the province — the only lanista who specialised in the training of women for gladiatorial combat. Others dabbled and had women in their stables, but he alone could lay claim to a school comprised solely of female performers.

  If he was honest with himself, Balbus had not expected his latest acquisition to survive; to fight as the dimachaera — the two-knife girl — required long months of training and this Greek had been with him less than seven days. She had been a timely arrival.

  His regular fighter had come down with a stomach illness, rendering her unable to perform — leaving Balbus with the unthinkable prospect of a forfeited fee. The editor of the games would have been most displeased if the scheduled bill was disrupted at the last moment and was well within his contractual rights to hold back the coin on a no-show.

  But Balbus had always been lucky. With a sense of fondness and reverence for Fortuna he pondered the events that had brought the new girl to him. As his caravan had travelled up the coast to Halicarnassus, his evening meal had been interrupted by Stick, excited and demanding to be seen. Grudgingly, he had consented.

  ‘Balbus, we are saved!’ Stick had announced as he rushed in.

  ‘The boys and me went riding down the beach to see if there was anything worth having washed up from the storm.’ Stick’s bulging eyes shone with excitement. ‘We found more than flotsam, Balbus!’

  ‘Spit it out, Stick!’

  ‘A girl, Balbus! We found a girl! Rightly, there was a ship caught in the storm. The wreckage was all over the beach.’ He leant forward dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘But it was a Legion ship, Balbus, there were swords, pila, standards…’ He trailed off, seeking the right words. ‘Everything!’

  Balbus was not a man to miss an opportunity. ‘I trust you and the boys arranged to have the loot brought back to the caravan?’

  Stick had looked insulted. ‘Of course.’

  ‘So what of some Legion whore,’ Balbus had wanted to know.

  ‘I take it you’ve had your fun ploughing a well tilled furrow? I don’t see how this ‘saves’ us.’

  ‘This is the thing,’ Stick said. ‘Some of the lads were going to take her. But she fought like a demon. Grabbed a gladius from the wreckage as they got close and set on the two nearest her.

  Poor Tiro and Gideon… he shook his head with exaggerated remorse. ‘She finished them both like that.’ He snapped his fingers.

  Balbus sat up from his reclined position. ‘She what?’

  ‘I’m telling you, Balbus, this girl is a natural, better than anything I’ve seen. No one was going to try to fight her alone on foot after what she did to those two. We ran her down from horseback and tied her up. All the while she fought like a Fury.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be exaggerating, Stick. I’d hate that,’ Balbus had warned.

  ‘I promise you…’ Stick had put his hand on his heart. ‘She can replace Teuta in the two knives; we won’t have to forfeit our fees!’

  ‘A consolation for the loss of Tiro and Gideon?’ Balbus asked ironically.

  Stick got to his feet. ‘I never liked them anyway,’ he had said, and left him to his thoughts.

  Lucius Balbus counted himself no fool and had taken Stick’s claims with a healthy degree of scepticism. Tiro and Gideon were often in their cups and perhaps an armed, desperate woman could just about have dispatched them with apparent ease. But now, this ‘Lysandra’ had impressed him in the arena, dispelling his doubts the moment she put up her blades. She fought with skill that went beyond natural talent; that she was trained — and trained well — was all too obvious. Strategy, timing and stamina had all been evident in her bout with the Gaul. The girl intrigued him and, for that reason alone, he had ordered her to be brought to him at the earliest convenience.

  He heard Eros usher her to his office yet she wavered by the door, looking over shoulder at the retreating servant. He was irritated by her disregard for his position: a slave should not keep her master waiting. ‘Come in.’ His voice caused her to turn back.

  Seated at the far end of the scroll-lined office, behind an ornate wooden work desk, he watched her approach with a critical eye.

  Though ascetically pleasing, she did not possess the charms of the gladiatrix favoured by the predominately male fans of the female spectacle. For one, she was too tall, tall enough to look most men directly in the eye. Her hair, black as night, contrasted sharply with the white, almost alabaster skin. Her breasts were firm, yet were not of the size that was currently preferred by the arena connoisseur: the Northern European women were all the rage, voluptuous, savage and dangerously desirable. But it was her eyes that held him, the ice-blue gaze intent and alert. No, he thought, this one possessed the beauty of marble sculpture, serene and distant — an acquired taste for a refined palate.

  ‘I am pleased this misunderstanding is over,’ she said, interrupting his train of thought. ‘I can see that you are a wealthy man. I shall need to borrow some funds to return to Sparta.’ She raised a hand, cutting off the astonished lanista as he made to speak. ‘Never fear, Lucius Balbus; the Temple of Athene is not without means, and you will be reimbursed.’

  Balbus gaped at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The girl smiled at him, her expression condescending. ‘I need money to get back to Hellas… Greece as you Romans call it.

  My sisterhood will send you the amount in full when I return home.’

  ‘You are a priestess?’ Balbus faltered, unused to having the initiative in conversation taken from him. He was astounded by the girl’s arrogant assumption that she would be released merely because she desired it. Indeed, her very manner indicated that she was going through some sort of formality.

  ‘A Mission priestess, Lucius Balbus.’

  She said it with some pride, though the lanista had not the faintest idea what she might mean. He had, however, sufficiently recovered his wits not to show her his ignorance. He eased his large frame back in his seat, folding his fingers over his belly, gathering his thoughts. Balbus had dealt with similar situations: often, these religious types believed that their devotion to whatever gods they prayed to provided indemnity from slavery. They found out all too soon that none were exempt from servitude to Rome.

  ‘I’m afraid it is you who has misunderstood.’ He paused, letting that sink in, gratified by the change in her eyes. Evidently, she had not expected this response and it had put her on the defensive.

  And that was precisely how Lucius Balbus preferred his relationship with his merchandise. ‘Whatever you may have been, you are no longer. Under Roman law, you are my property. My slave.’

  ‘I am no slave!’ Lysandra cut him off, taking a step forward. />
  Balbus had to use every fibre of will not to jerk back. He was no coward, but had seen the Greek in action and had a more than healthy respect for her skills. He forced a smile.

  ‘Your former status does not protect you’ — he made a show of looking down at his paperwork, as if seeking a previously scribbled note — ‘Lysandra,’ he finished. ‘I have bought and sold priestesses, princesses and even queens. All have equal rights in the eyes of the lex Romana — that is that slaves have no rights.’

  He could see her floundering. She was, after all, still young, and inexperienced; despite the tough exterior, he could tell she was not yet out of her teens. ‘Besides… whoever or whatever you claim to be you are simply detritus washed up by the sea. Two men are dead — my property. As far as the witnesses are concerned you are simply a murderess. The arena is your fate one way or the other. But if the praetors put you there you’ll simply be butchered without a chance to defend yourself.’

  Balbus could only imagine what the psychological blow of becoming a slave did to a person, especially those that were used to commanding respect, such as a priestess must. But he was wise enough to know that if he pressed too hard at an early stage, he could shatter their spirit. He had seen tribal women, the sight of whom would unman the doughtiest legionary in battle, reduced to sallow husks when their slavery was too keenly impressed upon them. A woman with no fighting spirit was a poor investment.

  ‘Look,’ he said, his tone lighter, more placating and, he thought, almost… fatherly. ‘This life is not as bad as you may think.’ He ignored the cynical lift of her eyebrow. ‘I called you here to ask where you came by your extraordinary fighting skills, but that is self-evident,’ he hedged, being aware that certain religious sects trained their priestesses in ritualised combat. Given the Spartans’ legendary martial history, it seemed reasonable to assume that they would most likely indulge in such practices.