Roma Victrix (38 page)

Olwydd shook her head and stamped out, followed by Varda, who gave Lysandra a you'll-get-used-to-her look. Even if Olwydd was going to make things difficult, it would give Lysandra a chance to move away from the women and to engage her fellow Spartan in conversation, a prospect that excited her greatly.

As the gladiatrices strolled out of their hut, Lysandra found herself thinking again of her old
ludus
. It had been on a night like this where she had first come to be friends with Eirianwen, a friendship that had developed into something that she would hold dear for as long as she lived, even if she would never allow herself the indulgence of such feelings again.

She looked around, taking in the proceedings. Hister had wisely brought in extra security in the form of some past-their-prime legionaries who were clearly locals, judging by the way they laughed and exchanged pleasantries with the gladiators and
ludus
workers.

A heavy guard was also placed by the main gate, though these men seemed more interested in playing dice than keeping watch. Tables and wine amphorae had been set up on the
palaestra
and the smell of roasting meat floated from the kitchen adding to the atmosphere, whilst gaudily made-up women who would play the dual role of serving girls and whores deftly made their way through the gathering throng of fighters.

‘Eyes like a hawk, Lysandra?' Ankhsy nudged her.

Lysandra grinned at the easterner. ‘It is strange how familiar all this is – it makes me feel as though I am at home.'

‘Where is home?'

‘I live in Halicarnassus,' Lysandra responded. ‘But I am from Sparta originally.'

‘I'm Egyptian,' Ankhsy stated with some pride. ‘Like you, I am
auctorata
here. So are Olwydd and Swanhilde – Varda's a slave, but she reckons that you can't really make a slave of Judaean – so she's one of us really.'

‘Olwydd is not a slave?' Lysandra was surprised.

‘She was,' Ankhsy laughed, showing her perfect white teeth.

‘But her first owner saw her fighting potential – sold her to Hister for a small fortune as everyone knows the Britons can fight hard.

I can't imagine her doing anything else, can you?'

‘No,' was Lysandra's honest reply. The image of the tattooed savage scrubbing floors flitted through her mind, an amusing flight of fancy. ‘Are all the men slaves then?'

‘No – only half of them are,' Ankhsy took a cup from one of the serving girls. ‘It's the same all over Italia, so Hister tells us. A good gladiator can make more money from one fight than a legionary can in a whole year.'

‘There are not that many good gladiators,' Lysandra noted.

‘True,' Ankhsy threw back her wine. ‘But there are plenty that
think
they're going to be good gladiators and that's what keeps the wheel turning I suppose. Sure you won't have a drink?'

It was as though there was suddenly a
lamia
– an evil spirit – inside Lysandra, throwing itself against the cage of her will; every fibre of her being demanded that divine first taste and the relief it brought. She swallowed and licked her lips – surely one or two would not hurt. She had trained hard with Cappa and Murco and had not had a drink in weeks – proving that she could go without if she wanted to. She was facing more weeks of hard work with sword and shield – by the gods, she
deserved
a drink. ‘Perhaps later.'

The words came from her mouth, but it was though someone else was saying them.

‘Well,' Ankhsy shrugged, ‘don't take too long making your mind up or else you'll be looking around for half-drunk cups before the end of the night and I reckon that's beneath you. Talking of beneath you, you should see the
medicus
if you want some olive oil,' she indicated a greying, hatchet-faced man engaged in conversation with Hister.

Lysandra arched an eyebrow. ‘Why would I want olive oil?'

‘You know…' Ankhsy's grin was wolfish.

‘No. I do not know – are you making fun of me, Ankhsy?'

The Egyptian peered at her. ‘You really have no idea what I'm talking about? Seriously?'

The beginnings of annoyance began to prickle the back of Lysandra's skull. She hated to admit that the easterner had her in the dark over so simple a thing as olive oil. ‘Seriously.'

‘You put it up your
mouni
so you don't get with child.'

Lysandra recoiled at the gutter-Hellenic word that Ankhsy used for a woman's private parts. ‘There is no need to be vulgar,' she sniffed. ‘And I am not even sure that it would work, even if I was so inclined – which, by the way, I am not.'

Ankhsy shook her head. ‘For a Greek, you're quite the prude,' she noted. ‘Everyone needs sex – it keeps you healthy.'

‘Nonsense,' Lysandra retorted. ‘One should not be a slave to ones… appetites.' Even as she said it, the spectre of her hypocrisy rose within her; she had, after all, been a slave to her own desire for drink.

‘You don't drink and you don't have sex,' Ankhsy helped herself to some more wine. ‘You'll get on famously with Varda – she's Christian and they're a collection of prudes as well.'

Lysandra sighed – it seemed as though the Egyptian was on a mission to educate her. ‘I have heard of them, but I don't know much about them. Aren't they just some kind of Judaean sect – one invisible god and all that nonsense?'

‘More or less,' Ankhsy said, ‘depending which ones you meet – they all seem to believe something different. But they all worship the Judaean god and venerate some kind of priest-king who Varda calls the Anointed One. He was crucified by the Romans fifty years ago but Varda's still waiting for the day that he comes back and kicks them in the arse… or something like that, you'd have to ask her. Maybe you two can discuss it when the rest of us are humping and drunk.'

‘The Judaeans are absurd,' Lysandra ignored the jibe. ‘How can one god oversee absolutely everything?'

‘I don't understand it either, but Varda reckons that our gods are false and hers is the only true one.'

‘What a load of nonsense,' Lysandra scoffed, eyeing the amphora for a moment before turning her attention to the festivities. ‘Hister does not mind you having relations with the men here? Surely it could cause problems.'

‘Not if we're careful and we avoid Cupid's arrows,' Ankhsy replied. ‘That
would
be out of the question and Hister wouldn't stand for it. But it's just a bit of fun and no one gets hurt. Changed your mind, have you?' she nudged Lysandra in the ribs. ‘Seen someone you fancy?'

‘Certainly not!' Lysandra shot back. ‘I was simply making conversation.'

‘Well, I have, and unless you want to stand here on your own all night you're coming with me.' She grabbed Lysandra by the hand pulled her closer to the busy
palaestra
, calling the odd greeting to gladiators she counted as friends.

Lysandra allowed herself to be led, letting the atmosphere of the rough
symposium
wash over her. The laughter was raucous, the singing very poor but there was nothing threatening in the atmosphere. She would have thought that so many men drinking would have had the same result she had seen with Euaristos's mercenaries – a huge brawl. But there was no evidence of anything other than joviality, and Lysandra reasoned that this must be because a fight would result in punishment and punishment in this case meant being kept from the whores. And the gladiatrices, she amended mentally.

Ankhsy led her to a group set slightly apart from the rest, and Lysandra's heart skipped a beat: Kleandrias was among them, regaling them with some tale. The men around him kept interrupting and shouting comments but Lysandra could only assume that they were attempting to hide their admiration and awe of his Spartan prowess.

Standing in the golden hue of the lamps that lit the
palaestra
, he looked like an Olympian descended to the earth, a Heracles among mortals.

‘And then,' Kleandrias was saying, ‘I really thought that our line was going to break. There were many Judaeans and only a few of us and of course, as I have told you, these men were not Spartans but mere Romans and some smattering of Hellene and even a few stinking barbarians.'

‘Come on, Kleandrias,' one of the gladiators said, his long brown hair and accent marking him as a Gaul. ‘That's a bit harsh!' His comrades laughed at this and Kleandrias spared him a grin.

‘My apologies, Caturix,' Kleandrias spread his hands. ‘A few
filthy
barbarians, I meant to say. Where was I… ah yes…'

‘That's the one I'm after,' Ankhsy whispered to Lysandra. ‘Caturix – he's handsome, don't you think?'

‘Not really,' Lysandra said. But seeing the disappointment in Ankhsy's eyes, she amended, ‘I mean to say he is not my type.'

‘What is your type, Lysandra?' the Egyptian teased.

‘I am trying to listen to Kleandrias's story,' Lysandra hushed her pushy new acquaintance.

‘Oh,' Ankhsy nudged Lysandra again, which was beginning to irritate her. ‘I see you found out his name, then. Are you sure you don't want me to get you some olive oil? Do you think Kleandrias will stop talking about himself long enough to entertain you?'

Lysandra deigned not to comment and turned her attention back to the story while Ankhsy brazenly sauntered off to sit next to Caturix. Kleandrias's tale was an epic one of battle and bravery in which he – virtually single-handedly – held off an attack by rebellious zealots in the Judaean War. He ensured that his comrades were safe whilst he flung himself into the fight with no thought for his own flesh, thinking only of victory and honour. Indeed, he said that he would rather come home on his shield than without it.

Clearly embarrassed by this display of Spartan courage, the other gladiators chose to mock him and act as though they thought he was making the whole thing up.

‘It was an excellent story!' Lysandra raised her voice to be heard over the catcalls and good-natured jeering. ‘You men are too feeble-minded to appreciate that you are in the company of your betters.

You should be honoured that this Spartan has deigned to enlighten you by his example.'

Everyone fell silent, Kleandrias included, their eyes falling upon her. For long moments they just stared at her, eyes wide in shock before Caturix shook his head. ‘Another one!' he exclaimed. ‘Gods on high, save us from these Spartans and their lectures! Come on – let's have a drink!' With this he casually threw his arm over Ankhsy's shoulder and she nestled into his side, grinning at Lysandra as though she had just won a huge prize. But, at the mention of drink, the gladiators gave a small cheer and raised their cups, the tension of the moment broken by the Gaul's comment. Caturix winked at her, then turned his attention to Ankhsy, leaving her standing alone opposite the godlike Kleandrias.

‘Well,' he said in his deep baritone. ‘A wildflower in our midst.

And a Spartan no less,' he walked towards her offering her the warrior's grip.

‘I am Lysandra,' she said in Hellenic, her stomach suddenly full of butterflies. ‘Of Sparta.' He knew that of course and she felt foolish for adding it.

‘By the gods, girl,' Kleandrias smiled at her. ‘It is good to hear the music of a Spartan voice once more. I had thought never to hear it again.'

‘Nor I,' Lysandra agreed. ‘That was a grand tale, Kleandrias,' she went on. ‘It is only a shame that it is wasted on the ears of these people who have no comprehension of the Spartan way.' Now that he was closer, she could see the lines of maturity etched into his chiselled features and that his beard was flecked with white.

‘Ah, well,' he shrugged. ‘We cannot blame those lesser than ourselves for the misfortune of their birth, Lysandra. The gods choose very few to be born of Spartan stock – I have often thought that this is to maintain some semblance of balance in the world.

The gods surely would not have as many games with mortals if Spartans were as numerous as the barbarians or the Romans. Long would we have ruled the world and it would be at peace under our benevolent leadership.'

Lysandra thought that she would swoon with joy at his words.

Here, far from home, she had found a kinsman, someone who understood that the Lakedaimonians were the finest race ever to sanctify the earth with the imprint of their feet. Someone who would not question this fact because he knew the truth of it. There were times when she grew tired of explaining these matters to lesser Hellenes, Romans and barbarians, but with this man there would be no need for that. She cleared her suddenly dry throat. ‘How did you come to be here?' she asked.

‘Come, walk with me,' Kleandrias said. ‘I will pour wine for us and we shall talk.' He picked up a small amphora and two cups.

Lysandra pressed her lips into a thin line. How could she refuse – it would be rude, yet it would be disastrous if she drank too much and shamed herself in front of this paragon of Spartan manhood.

Athene must be testing her, she thought, and she promised she would not fail her goddess or herself.

They made their way through to the edge of the
palaestra
, just touched by the light of the lamps, and sat on the sand. As promised, Kleandrias poured for them but, before they drank, Lysandra was pleased that he tipped his first cup onto the sand as a libation.

‘Unto the gods,' he said.

‘Unto the gods,' she repeated, pouring her own wine into the earth.

‘You are not a slave, I am sure,' Kleandrias commented after a moment.

‘Of course not,' Lysandra hesitated for a moment. ‘I was once, but by my skill at arms I won my freedom on the sands. There was a frieze made to commemorate the bout which is held to be the finest combat ever fought between two women.'

Kleandrias looked at her, his raised eyebrows showing his surprise.