Roma Victrix (2 page)

The barbarians roared their approval and Lysandra could tell that Aldaberta had begun to believe that their champion would carve up her smaller opponent. Aldaberta moved in quickly and it was all Lysandra could do to roll away and regain her footing. The German rounded on her again, cutting horizontally, seeking to slice Lysandra's head from her body. Lysandra parried the blow and spun full circle, the movement taking her inside Aldaberta's guard. As she turned, she slammed her elbow into her enemy's nose, feeling the satisfying crunch of breaking bone and gristle. Using the momentum from the spin she swung about again, hoping to catch the other woman with her outstretched sword whilst she was still reeling.

Aldaberta, however, was not to be dispatched so easily and hurled herself away. She spat out a gob of blood and raised her sword.

Lysandra moved in, determined to seize the initiative and put the big tribeswoman on the defensive. The short blade of the
gladius
flicked out like a viper's tongue trying to tease Aldaberta into making a mistake; but the German was cool, deflecting each attack that came into her range, biding her time.

Do not lose patience
, Lysandra told herself, just as her foot slipped on the blood-slicked ground. She fell hard, her weapon skidding away. Desperate fear welled up inside her as the tried to roll away.

Too slow. The mail armour saved her from losing the use of her arm, but still the heavy long sword smashed into her shoulder, sending sickening waves of agony flooding through her.

Aldaberta howled in triumph, raising her sword to the sky and Lysandra used the precious moment to scramble to her feet, trying to ignore the pain. She made to run to her
gladius
, but the German was a veteran of the arena too and moved smoothly, cutting the Spartan off from her weapon. Her grin was smug and she brandished the long sword as though to underscore the fact the end would be soon. And she needed it to be; Lysandra noted that her foe's shoulders moved steadily up and down and her face was florid and gleaming with sweat. Unlike Lysandra, the barbarian leader had been fighting alongside her troops and the day's exertions were beginning to tell.

Lysandra raised her fists, dropping back into the classical
pankration
stance. Aldaberta sneered and moved in for the kill. She feinted, skipping in and back out again, trying to intimidate her unarmed opponent, but Lysandra would not allow herself to be drawn. Again Aldaberta lunged, this time with intent and Lysandra only stepped aside at the last instant. She twisted her lips into a contemptuous half-smile, mocking the other woman's inability to end the fight.

Snarling, Aldaberta pursued her, the long sword hissing as it cut empty air.

Despite her display of bravado, Lysandra was taken aback – the German's stamina was phenomenal; she forced herself on long after exhaustion should have leeched the precision from her moves.

Lysandra led her opponent on, allowing herself time to recover, allowing the fierce pain in her shoulder to recede to a dull ache.

Albaderta's blade hissed down in the diagonal cut, a blow designed to carve an opponent from neck to hip. As she did so, Lysandra leapt in to meet the attack, clamping her hands around the tribeswoman's wrists. Aldaberta's eyes bulged with anger as though she was put out by Lysandra's temerity at trying to match her strength.

She gritted her teeth, determined to force the Spartan to her knees.

Lysandra resisted, sweat bursting out on her brow as the German brought her weight to bear. Aldaberta growled as Lysandra began to buckle, the inexorable pressure forcing her down inch by painful inch. It was at that moment that Lysandra gave way, using the powerful tribeswoman's own strength against her. The German stumbled forward and Lysandra took advantage of the momentary loss of balance, reversing her grip on the other woman's wrists and twisting hard.

Aldaberta's weight did Lysandra's work for her – the German could not pull away and with a rush, the iron tip of her own weapon cleaved through her armour, deep into the flesh beneath. She made a choking sound before toppling slowly to one side, her life ebbing away.

The young Spartan stepped back aghast. She realised that as she had slain Aldaberta, so Sorina had killed Lysandra's lover Eirianwen – the same technique used in the same way. The memories pierced her heart like a knife as she was borne aloft by her cheering soldiers.

The day was hers, but in the sickening aftermath, Lysandra could take no joy in it.

Lysandra put down her stylus and rubbed her tired eyes. There never seemed to be an end to the paperwork and, though she had employed scribes to deal with the bulk of it, she felt she still had to oversee their work. Life had been simpler when she was merely
Gladiatrix Prima
; then there had only been training and the next fight to worry about. But things had changed. She got to her feet and moved to her balcony and gazed out at the temple compound. Her former owner, the
lanista
Lucius Balbus, had built this place to house the army of gladiatrices who had fought for Domitian's birthday spectacle.

In the four years since that bloody day, Lysandra had transformed it from
ludus
to temple. It had not been easy, and she knew well that only someone with her intelligence and endeavour could have accomplished so much in so short a time. But the fruits of her labours were spread out before her as she rested her palms on the cold stone of the balcony and surveyed her
Deiopolis
– her city of the gods.

What was once wood, Lysandra had made stone. After her victory in the battle, she had been presented to the emperor himself and he had granted her a boon. She smiled as she recalled the moment.

Domitian was a handsome man in his own way. Not broad and muscled like a warrior, he had a softer look to him, yet a seductively attractive one.

‘Your strategy was well executed,' he had said to her. ‘I salute you.' She bowed, flattered despite the fact that it was true.

They were in the magnificent palace of Sextus Julius Frontinus, Lysandra's sponsor, the governor of Asia Minor and the editor of the spectacle. The old man was a little drunk and extremely pleased with the way things had gone. ‘She is a genius, Caesar,' he enthused.

Domitian smiled indulgently at him before turning his attention back to Lysandra. ‘Great performers should be rewarded,' he said to her. ‘Ask of me a prize, and if it is within my power to grant it, I shall.' He paused. ‘Within reason.'

‘I wish only to ordain a temple in honour of the gods on the site of my
ludus
,' she replied. ‘Some of my women wish to return to their homes, some do not. They feel more free within my walls than without. And I feel it is my duty to provide for those that chose to fight.'

Domitian arched an eyebrow. ‘
Chose
?'

‘Yes, Caesar,' Frontinus put in. ‘Lysandra and all those women who fought on her side today were freed slaves. They were here not because they were compelled but because they were asked.'

‘And the ‘amazons' you were fighting were not?' The theme of the spectacle had been the ancient Battle of Athens where the Hellenes had defeated an Amazonian army; it was well known that Domitian was a student of history and the idea had delighted him.

‘That is so, Caesar,' Lysandra responded.

‘Another reason for their defeat,' Domitian observed. ‘The freed man – or woman – is superior to the slave. I grant your request, Achillia.' He referred to her by her arena name. ‘And further, I will grant monies and craftsmen to aid you in your noble effort.'

Frontinus shook his head. ‘You Spartans are a strange people, Lysandra. You could have asked for riches, slaves and a palace grander than my own. Are you sure there is nothing else? I will try, in my small way, to reward you as well. After all, your temple will be in my province, and you have served me well these past two years.'

‘There is one thing, sir,' she had said.

‘Name it. It shall be yours.' Frontinus was caught up in the mood of magnanimity.

‘I would like to be exempt from taxation. Forever.'

His expression had been a picture, and she recalled also the musical sound of Domitian's laugh at the old man's self-made predicament.

Frontinus had sputtered for a few moments before seeing the funny side of it himself.

Lysandra missed the old governor. A few months after the battle, he had been reassigned overseas, and in him she had lost a powerful sponsor and protector. Nevertheless, his successor had honoured the terms of Frontinus's agreement and the
Deiopolis
was still free from that most ruthless arm of imperial power – the tax office.

‘Thinking deep thoughts?'

Lysandra turned as Varia joined her on the balcony. ‘Not really,'

she smiled. ‘I am just giving my eyes a rest,' she gestured to the pile of paperwork.

Varia made a face and then lifted her hands. A krater of wine dangled from one, in the other she held two cups. ‘You really should let the scribes do their job, Lysandra,' she said, pouring for them both. They touched cups and Varia drained hers as Lysandra tipped a small libation to the ground below. ‘You don't have to do all the tasks yourself. And you're making more work for them – leave business to the business people. You're too
Spartan
for commerce.'

‘You have mentioned that more than once,' Lysandra commented.

Both of them knew that it was a pointless argument; Varia was always going to think that Lysandra did too much and knew too little, and Lysandra knew that of the hundreds of women that lived in the temple compound, she was the most capable. As such, she had to oversee everything. ‘I have not seen you for a few days,' she said.

Varia moved inside and sprawled onto a couch. ‘I've been training hard. Living the Spartan lifestyle.'

‘Then you should have watered this wine,' Lysandra observed primly.

‘You don't water your wine anymore,' Varia observed.

‘I am not training these days – I have no time for it. But we are not talking about me,' she smiled. ‘You look fit. Strong.' It was true. Varia had grown in more than stature since they had first met six years ago. The scrawny, waifish slave girl had long gone, and in her place was the confident, self-assured woman that stood before her. Lysandra took credit for that – following her example, the young Roman could not fail to become a better person. She had also blossomed into quite the beauty, her elfin features framed by lustrous dark curls, her eyes as dark as night. ‘Have you been working with Thebe?' she asked after a few moments

‘Yes. And I have been working on some new moves of my own design.'

‘So I have seen,' Lysandra commented. ‘Sword spinning and leaping about might well look impressive, Varia, but in a real bout it would just get you killed.'

‘Then you think I'm ready for my first bout? Thebe will not say as much but she knows I am.'

Lysandra put her cup down on the balcony. ‘We have been through this, Varia. I do not want you fighting in the arena. There is no point to it anymore. Thebe no longer fights. I no longer fight – if there was cause for it, yes, I could agree. But it serves no purpose.'

‘There are no slaves here, isn't that what you keep telling everyone?'

Varia shot back, a hint of anger in her voice. ‘All the gladiatrices here fight by choice. And I have been training longer than any of them. You started training me when I was thirteen years old!'

‘You are still too young,' Lysandra said, sternly.

‘I'm nearly twenty – a grown woman and older than you were in your first bout.'

‘That was different.' The Spartan felt the cords that held her temper in place begin to fray. ‘I had no choice. You do. And the women that fight for us now, do so for pay. You do not need money, Varia. All your needs are provided for. You have had the best education and physical training a young lady can receive outside of Sparta. This desire to test yourself in the arena is foolish at best and vainglorious at worst. I would have thought that you would have learned something of humility.'

‘And where would I have learned that? From you, I suppose?'

Varia rose to her feet. ‘Lysandra, I love and respect you, but you are only my friend – not my mother. You have no right to tell me what I can and can't do. I want to be a fighter.'

Lysandra sighed, forcing the anger out of herself. ‘If you love and respect me, then respect my wisdom in this matter. You are strong and fast, but the game has moved on since I started. We – the gladiatrices of Lucius Balbus – set a new standard and women stepping onto the sands nowadays are far better than they were five or six years ago. One more year, Varia, and you might be ready.'

‘That,' Varia set her cup down, ‘is what you said last year. And the year before that. I will not wait much longer, Lysandra.' She strode away, her anger evident in every step.

Lysandra considered calling her back to argue her case in more depth, but dismissed the idea – it would appear weak. In any event, Varia had no right to challenge her. She provided for the girl; she had given her her freedom. And, having trained her, she was well aware of Varia's capabilities and, more importantly, her limitations.

The fact was that Varia, for all her strength and skill, was not a killer. One more year would not make the girl any more ready than she was now, but Lysandra thought that the decisive battle in this particular campaign could be put off till then. Though Varia might bluster, she would not dare defy her.

Lysandra glanced guiltily at the pile of paperwork. The row had drained the desire to work from her and she decided to take a walk in the grounds to clear her head, hoping that a short break would prove invigorating.

Dusk was drawing its balmy veil over the sun as she left her villa and began to walk the compound. It was strange to think that what had once been a gaol was now a place of worship and, if she was honest with herself, a tourist attraction. Lysandra had consciously modelled the
Deiopolis
on Athene's temple in Sparta where she had spent her youth. The buildings were functional and plain in the Spartan fashion; not for Lysandra the gaudy trappings of Attic pomposity. Besides, ostentatious decoration cost money and served no purpose. Frugality was, after all, a virtue that the gods admired.