Roma Victrix (31 page)

‘It was a Greek colony way back when,' the bodyguard said before taking a huge gulp from his water-skin. ‘You ought to feel right at home.'

‘I have not been to Hellas for many years now, Cappa,' she replied.

‘If I am honest with you, I have no idea of where home really is.'

The bodyguard wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. ‘Sparta,' he replied. ‘It'll always be your home, Lysandra, no matter where you go.'

‘I'm from Capua,' Murco said. They both ignored him, which did not seem to bother him in the slightest.

‘Your lodgings are near those temples,' Cappa drew his sword and sighted along it as a legionary would with a spear. ‘See.'

Lysandra peered into the distance, over the brown-roofed houses of Paestum to the white colonnades that Cappa had indicated. They were situated to the south of the city walls, a road clearly linking them to the town. ‘Close to the gods again,' Lysandra murmured.

‘Old Titus thought it would be a comfort to you.'

‘Titus is very thoughtful.'

The three nudged their horses down, skirting around the town wall and the heavy traffic that clogged the main road to the forum.

‘We could go into town later,' Cappa suggested hopefully. ‘See the lay of the land.'

‘Perhaps,' Lysandra replied absently. She was keen to get to her lodging and begin training. Eager to put her past failings behind her. The last thing she wanted to do was visit the town with its easy temptations.

It did not take long to reach the lodgings that Titus had ordered prepared for her. Clearly, the old centurion knew the lay of the land. The lodge was built far enough away from the town to be secluded, yet close enough to be convenient. From afar, it appeared to be near the temples but the view from a distance was misleading, the lodge being much higher on the hillside. That was good, Lysandra knew – training at altitude strengthened the lungs.

The building was newly constructed, a roughly-hewn log cabin that was long and wide, next to which was a neat horse paddock.

As they approached, a man emerged from the cabin, raising his hand in welcome.

‘Greetings, friends,' his weathered face creased into a smile. ‘I am Mundus, your agent here in Paestum.'

‘Mundus,' Lysandra climbed from the saddle and handed him the reins. ‘Lysandra – my bodyguards, Cappa and Murco.'

‘I've been expecting you, lady. Everything is prepared as per my instructions,' he said as he let her mount into the paddock.

Lysandra arched an interested eyebrow. ‘Show me.'

Clearly pleased to be given the opportunity to do so, Mundus led her to the back of the cabin. Here, the local foliage had been stripped away and a
palaestra
cleared. Lysandra was impressed: the exercise area featured many training tools including a
pallus
, chin-bar, iron weights and sandbags. ‘Impressive,' she said to Mundus who inclined his head in acknowledgement.

‘I have contracted reputable men to guard the cabin,' he said as Cappa and Murco joined them.

‘We'll need to meet them,' Cappa said. ‘The lady is
our
responsibility and we can't afford to have any local wastrels with their brains in their arses.'

Mundus looked a little affronted. ‘That can be arranged, of course.

Now,' his smile returned. ‘My slave has prepared a meal in anticipation of your arrival. It awaits you within.'

The cabin was spacious and Lysandra was pleased to smell the familiar odour of cooking barley mingled with roasting meat. In contrast to the rustic surroundings and smells, several plush couches were arranged in the centre of the living area, looking utterly out of place. Mundus's slave was a pretty blonde thing who was of Gaulish or Germanic stock and Lysandra saw both Cappa and Murco eyeing her as she busied herself finalising their meal.

‘Meat and barley,' Mundus said as they sat to eat. ‘Wine?' he gestured to the slave. Murco's grin was enthusiastic and he made a show of smelling the liquid once it was poured, frowning and nodding as he appreciated the vapours. Cappa wasted no time in diving into a drink, but Lysandra held up her hand.

‘Just water,' she said. The slave nodded and made off to fetch a jug. ‘Tell me, Mundus, what god resides in the temple here?'

‘Athene, my lady: it was dedicated by the Greeks on the founding of this city and has not been changed since.'

Lysandra chuckled despite herself. ‘Athene indeed?' she said quietly. ‘Who would have thought it.' She said no more and the silence was filled by a uncharacteristically prolonged oration from Murco on the quality of the local wine. Lysandra did not really hear any of it. Lost in thought, she could not help but think that once again the goddess had taken a hand in her life. Whenever she fell, Athene always seemed to be there to pick her up again and propel her on with her Mission. A Mission that the comfortable years had caused her to forget. Just seeing the training panoply at the rear of the cabin had excited her, filling her with a strange kind of strength, both physical and that of purpose.

She rose to her feet. ‘I will take some air,' she announced. Without waiting for a response, she made her way to the door and walked outside. The night was quiet and balmy, a cooling breeze wafting across the heights every so often. Lysandra looked down at Paestum below, the yellowish flickers of lamplight from homes and businesses twinkling. And there, at the edge of town, was the obsidian circle of the amphitheatre, itself ringed with torchlight. Lysandra fancied that she could hear the faint roar of the crowd carried to her on the breeze and the distant report of steel on steel. The gladiators at their work.

Footsteps from behind made her look round to see the reassuring form of Cappa striding towards her. ‘Sorry to intrude, but –' he began.

‘— you are just doing your job,' she finished for him.

‘It's why you're paying us the big sesterces. Look,' he pointed.

‘You can see the arena from up here.'

‘Yes,' Lysandra breathed in deeply through her nose.

‘You'll be fighting there soon.'

‘There's much to be done before that,' she replied.

‘Always break a big task down into the sum of its smaller parts,' he advised. ‘What are you going to do tomorrow?'

Lysandra turned to him. ‘Make an offering at the Temple of Athene. And then I will run.'

‘Run?'

‘Yes, Cappa. Run.'

Illeana could not suppress a grin at Pyrrha's expression as the cart creaked its ponderous way down the road to Capua. The young
tiro
was ensconced with several other novice fighters in this traditional mode of gladiatorial transport and Illeana knew from experience that it was uncomfortable in the extreme. But it was something the girl had to live with – talented as she may be, she had not yet proven herself and should be treated like any other fighter.

Like the other girls in the cart, she stared out disconsolately through the bars, watching the countryside roll past, clearly wondering when the journey would end. For her part, Illeana was riding – she enjoyed being in the saddle and had grasped the opportunity to escape from the claustrophobic city with both hands.

Maro had taken a dim view of things at first, but she had sworn on every god she could think of that her own training would not suffer: indeed, she had told him, sparring with fighters from different
ludi
would only sharpen her skills. The
lanista
was too long in the tooth to believe that was her real motivation for wanting to escape for a few days, but she had never let him down before and she knew that he was indulging her.

Not that she would take this trip lightly; Illeana loved to train and, with the prospect of this ‘champion' coming across the sea to face her, she could not afford to become lax because of her side project with Pyrrha. ‘Cheer up, girls,' she called to the
tiros
. ‘Capua is not far now.'

‘
How
far?' Pyrrha voiced the question for everyone.

‘A couple of hours, no more. It's a singular honour to fight there,' she added. ‘It's known as one of the best training schools in the empire.'

‘Doesn't that mean that the best fighters come from there?' Pyrrha cocked her head to one side, closing an eye against the bright sun.

Illeana chuckled. ‘No, the best fighters are in Rome, Pyrrha. You should know that.' She winked at her young charge before digging her heels into her pony's flanks, setting off at the run; whooping as the beast made it to full gallop. She could feel the baleful stares of the
tiros
on her back as she sped away from their creaking vehicle.

It was such good sport to tease them.

Capua was a piece of gladiatorial history; it was from here, of course, that Spartacus had begun his revolt. Every fighter that trained at this place had to feel his ghost watching them, Illeana thought as she walked around the quiet
palaestra
, the silence only broken by the slow creak of the sandbag ropes as they moved in the night breeze.

She wanted what he had. A legend. For people to speak of her, years after her death, not of course with the notoriety of the rebel but at as the greatest gladiatrix Rome had ever seen – or ever would see. After all, life was short but fame was enduring.

She had trained hard that day, sparring with the best females the
ludus
could offer and they had fought all the harder when they found out she was the Aesalon Nocturna, wanting to get one over on the great champion from Rome. That was to the good as it kept her focused and at her peak.

The girls from Rome did not train; their work was done, the preparations had been completed back in the captial. Freed from the incarceration of their journey they were now enjoying the gladiatorial privilege of the feast. It was a tradition that on the night before a bout the fighters could indulge in the finest food and drink that could be provided. Whores and willing women were supplied for the men, but it was frowned upon for female fighters to participate in that sort of behaviour: a gladiatrix with child was no use to anyone. Illeana herself had always been careful and she had admonished her young charges to do the same.

‘You're not joining us?'

It was Pyrrha. Illeana was pleased to hear no slurring in her voice, evidence that even if she was holding a cup of wine she had not overindulged. ‘I'm not fighting tomorrow,' she smiled. ‘Call it a superstition – I just think me being there would bring me bad luck.'

‘Here then,' Pyrrha handed her the cup. ‘Enjoy.'

Illeana took it and found the wine to be of fine quality. ‘They've given you good stuff,' she commented.

‘Yes, and some of our girls are going over the top. But they're barbarians, and barbarians always get really drunk before they fight.'

‘That's true,' Illeana took another sip and handed the wine back.

As she watched the younger woman drink, she felt as though this sharing was bringing them even closer together.

‘It's a fatalistic approach they have. They think that if they are marked to die then they'll die, hungover or not. The gods are implacable.'

‘What do you think?'

‘I think that the gods help those who help themselves.'

Illeana chuckled at this. ‘Such a wise head on young shoulders, Pyrrha. Tell me now. Do you fear what will happen tomorrow?'

As was her custom, Pyrrha paused to think about the question.

‘Yes,' she said after some moments. ‘The reality is that things can go wrong. Everyone should fear that – a slip, sand in the eyes, a lucky blow… call it the capriciousness of the gods if you will. But I am as prepared as I can be. I'm confident that I have the beating of all of them.'

‘I am too,' Illeana nodded. ‘Pyrrha – why do you want to fight?

You're educated, I can see that. I know that your past is your business, but I'd like to know what drives you to do this.'

‘Illeana, you of all people should know the answer to that. I want to be great. To be known in my own right – not to live in anyone's shadow. Even yours, if you don't mind me saying.'

‘No, I don't mind you saying. But you have a long way to go before that.'

‘I have time.'

Pyrrha's smile took the painful truth from her words. She was young, Illeana was older – and that was life. ‘You should get back inside – enjoy the feast.'

‘No,' Pyrrha replied. ‘I've had enough of all that. I'll ask to be put in my cell now. What about you?'

‘I think I'll sit with Spartacus's ghost a while longer.'

In the half-light of the cell, Illeana applied the oil to Pyrrha's body, kneading her muscles to looseness as she did so – the girl had already done her callisthenics but Illeana was anxious to ensure that she suffered no tightness or cramp. Above them, the muffled roar of the crowd ebbed and swelled like a distant ocean. ‘Be prepared for the noise,' she advised. ‘It's a lot different being in the middle than it is being part of the crowd. Don't let it distract you.'

‘I wasn't thinking about it till you mentioned it,' Pyrrha replied with a grin. ‘Now it's all I can hear.'

‘It's not a time for jokes, Pyrrha. Focus on what you're about to do.'

‘You sound more nervous than I am.'

‘Of course I'm not,' Illeana lied. She eyed the young fighter's nude body. It was firm, hard and free from blemishes. That, she knew, would change. Most fighters, no matter how good or fast they were, ended up with scars, though she herself had not yet been marked up, save for her forearms. ‘You're done,' she said. ‘Let's get you dressed.'

‘You call going out in nothing but
subligaricum
dressed?'

‘Getting your tits out is all part of the show, you know that, Pyrrha,' Illeana laughed, amazed at the girl's calm demeanour. ‘Not that you've much to show.'