Roma Victrix (53 page)

‘It is late,' she said, as he strolled up to her. ‘We have wasted much of the day already. I am supposed to be training for the
Gladiatrix Prima
, Kleandrias, not catching up on my sleep.'

The Spartan swished his vine staff. ‘It's still early enough to give you stripes for your insolence!' he snapped.

‘All the same, sir,' Lysandra remembered her manners: this was not her friend Kleandrias now; this was her trainer and superior and she must act accordingly. ‘I would know why.'

‘Your bout with Aesalon Nocturna is being billed as a main event. You will fight by torchlight – in the evening. Better that you get used to fighting in the dark now. Or do you disagree?'

‘No, sir.'

‘In any case, you need to work on your fitness first. Now, Lysandra, you are fast – very fast. But Aesalon is faster. You are taller than her and, I suspect, stronger. You are also a highly skilled
pankratatist
– and I think that Aesalon is not accomplished in
unarmed
combat. These will be our advantages: your strength and your endurance. But we will surprise her as well, Lysandra – from now on, we will work on your speed. We will make you faster than you have ever been.'

Lysandra nodded, thinking again of the sickening speed that Aesalon displayed in her fight with Swanhilde.

As though he read her thoughts, Kleandrias spoke again. ‘Lysandra, your biggest advantage is your Spartan blood – she is a Roman, and thus inferior. But first, we must get that blood pumping. You will run,' he gestured to the gates of the
ludus
. Lysandra smiled as she saw the familiar figures of Cappa and Murco walking towards her.

‘And they will help.'

‘Hello, lass,' Cappa grinned, holding up the chariot harness.

‘Remember this?'

* * *

Lysandra's lungs felt like empty wine sacks as she ran with the chariot.

Kleandrias had added his not inconsiderable weight to the carriage and he, like Cappa and Murco, was making sport of her efforts, pretending once again that they were on a sightseeing trip. As she did with the crowd, so she pushed their noise out of her mind and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

Sweat drenched her tunic: it may have been well past noon, but the Italian sun still beat down with Tartaurian intensity, sapping her strength. ‘We are slowing down!' Kleandrias shouted. ‘Faster, Lysandra, faster!' Gritting her teeth, she put her head down and ran on. They had passed five milestones, then six. At the seventh, she was no longer able to count – she was aware only of the heat and the exhaustion.

And that she was in pain.

For a moment she was unsure what had happened, but as water splashed on her back, she realised that she must have collapsed.

‘Up!' Kleandrias was on his hands and knees, screaming into her ear. ‘Get up! You are not finished yet!'

‘She's exhausted,' Murco put in from behind her.

‘I will tell her when to quit!' Kleandrias sounded furious. ‘If you have no stomach for this, Roman, then leave.
Now
!'

Lysandra got onto all fours and vomited on to the road. She wiped the puke from her chin and spat. ‘No, Murco, he is right,' she croaked.

‘Get her out of that harness,' Kleandrias ordered the two bodyguards.

‘You're doing well,' Cappa whispered as he untied the clasps, giving her a quick wink.

‘Here,' Murco gave her flask. ‘Have some water – not too much at once though.'

Lysandra took it gratefully from him, first rinsing the vomit from her mouth and then taking a draught. It was warm but it tasted divine.

Kleandrias smacked the flask from her hands. ‘That is enough water and rest. Run to that tree line,' he pointed west. ‘Beyond is a lake. You will swim.'

‘Swim?'

He slapped her hard around the face. ‘No talking – run. Do as you are told!'

Lysandra puffed out her cheeks and took off as fast as she could.

Her legs were unsteady and numb with fatigue, but she would not allow herself to stumble. Entering the tree line was blessed relief from the burning sun and beyond she could hear the lake water lapping the shore. She slowed and sat down, untying her sandals as fast as she could before rising again and casting her off tunic.

She hated the water.

Setting her jaw, she rushed forward and ran into the lake, screeching at the sudden chill: it never seemed to matter how hot the sun was – water was always freezing cold. But it did much to send a jolt of strength through her and she splashed into the depths.

She knew her swimming style was ungainly – the dog's paddle – but it was effective enough.

‘Swim to the other side!' she heard Kleandrias shout. ‘And then back here again!'

After the torrid run, swimming was much harder work and, as the initial invigoration wore off, Lysandra's arms and legs began to grow heavy as though she had stones tied around her wrists and ankles, but she pushed on. After all, she had no choice – keep going or die; that was the lesson Kleandrias was trying to ingrain in her, one that every arena fighter must learn. She knew it well enough, but in training she had never been tested in this way.

The opposite bank seemed to draw no closer and Lysandra felt the last of her strength beginning to ebb and the sound of her gasps were loud in her ears. She craned her neck, desperate to keep her head above water, remembering the storm that had made her a gladiatrix, the endless fury of the sea and the desperate pleas of the soldiers who were dragged to Poseidon's dark realm. She was reliving it and panicking now, her strokes becoming frantic as the last of her strength faded away.

Her toes touched mud.

Lysandra flung herself forward and her feet found purchase on the ground beneath. Coughing and spluttering, she staggered out of the lake and fell forward onto her hands and knees, gasping for air, her heart smashing against her breastbone. She stayed there for long moments, ignoring the distant exhortations of Kleandrias on the other bank as she tried to recover.

The trainer would be furious and she would probably be beaten for not trying but, as she turned and faced the water once again, she realised that to plunge straight back in was to invite death.

Across on the other bank, she could see Kleandrias, shaking his fists and beckoning her over. With a sigh, she struggled to her feet and made her way back into the water. He had been right – she was beginning to hate him already.

Several weeks of conditioning passed. Interspersed with the gruelling
biathlon
of the chariot run and swimming, Kleandrias introduced new exercises that involved sprinting, jogging and sprinting again for long distances. And he would only allow light sparring to supplement this.

At their meal one evening, Kleandrias deigned to explain. ‘All fights ebb and flow,' he said to her, ‘just like war, in fact. There is a lot of manoeuvring and feinting before a commitment to attack.

But when the attack comes, it is frantic and hard-pressed – so your body is learning to be under high stress for extended periods of time. Fitness is one thing,' he went on, ‘but there are different types of fitness.'

‘Yeah,' Murco put in. ‘No point in training for the Marathon if you're going to run a mile, is that what you're saying, Kleandrias?'

He smiled then and Lysandra marvelled at how he could be a monster during the day and this kind, knowledgeable man at night.

He was a true Spartan, she thought once again, and the tests he was putting her through were only for her own good. ‘Yes,' he answered.

‘In a manner of speaking. But when we are done, Lysandra will be able to win the sprint, the mile and the Marathon.'

‘Too bad there isn't a race up a hill, eh, Lysandra?' Cappa chuckled.

‘Hill?' Kleandrias looked inquisitive.

‘There's a big hill outside of town…' Cappa began.

‘Like a small mountain really,' Murco interrupted, receiving an annoyed look from Cappa for his pains.

‘Before Lysandra joined the
ludus
here, she was unable to make it to the top at the run,' the bodyguard finished.

Kleandrias smiled again, but this time with a playful malevolence as he looked at her. ‘Is that so?' he said, and then laughed.

Lysandra flushed, embarrassed by this reminder of her failure.

‘Hills are one thing, Kleandrias,' she said. ‘But I need to fight as well. I need more sparring.'

‘I agree,' he said. ‘Your fitness is not where it needs to be but that will come. Tomorrow, we begin the training in earnest. You should get some rest.'

‘Yes, of course.' Lysandra realised that this made sense. She drank down her cup of water and made her way back to the women's quarters.

‘You look exhausted,' Ankhsy commented as Lysandra came in.

‘I am a little tired,' she conceded. ‘Training is always the same, is it not? You seldom realise just how fit you are getting because you are always too tired to feel good.'

Olwydd snorted. ‘There's truth in that.'

Lysandra started at the expression: it must have been a Britannic saying, because Eirianwen often said the same thing.

‘Come on, it's not that bad,' Olwydd laughed.

‘What do you mean?' Lysandra asked as she sat on her bunk.

‘You looked really sad for a moment,' Varda said.

‘I was just thinking about someone I loved once. She's dead now.'

‘
She
?' Varda raised a disapproving eyebrow and looked as though she was about to launch into a pious speech.

‘That's awful, Lysandra,' Ankhsy interjected before the Judaean could speak.

‘It was a long time ago,' Lysandra took off her tunic and sandals, and lay back, staring up at the ceiling. ‘She was from Britannia, Olwydd. Born of the Brigantes but raised with the Silures – she said that the Brigantian queen went across to the Romans and her father – a druid – would not countenance that, so he fled to Siluria.'

‘Huh,' Olwydd grunted. ‘Even we Iceni think the Silures are savages.'

‘She was very beautiful and kind,' Lysandra murmured. ‘Except in the arena, then yes – she was savage…' She trailed off: thoughts of Eirianwen brought thoughts of Varia with them, both women she had loved in different ways, both women were dead because of her selfishness. Her love for Eirianwen had caused her to be ostracised from her clanswomen and her overprotectiveness of Varia had made her hate her in the end, and that hatred had driven her to her death.

It was bitter to think that Varia so despised her and that she had not had the chance to make things right between them.

A part of her wanted to hate Aesalon Nocturna for training Varia and allowing her to step into the arena, but she could not. Aesalon was a fighter and she had seen potential in the girl – it was that simple. She could not have known Varia in the way Lysandra did – that she would never be a killer.

Varia had not been like them – Lysandra and Aesalon were moulded from different clay. It was a perverse thought, but Lysandra realised that, in a different life, she might have been friends – perhaps more – with the beautiful Roman. They had much in common, more so than even she and Eirianwen. But the goddess would not allow that, Lysandra knew.

If Lysandra of Sparta was to find peace it could only be in the service of her goddess. She felt herself drifting off to sleep, knowing that her dreams would be of blood and the screams of the mob.

Ankhsy had once asked her where her home was and, as Morpheus claimed her, Lysandra realised that it was not Sparta or even Asia Minor. Her home was in the arena: it was the only place that she felt truly alive. Her destiny was to fight for Athene. There was nothing else now.

‘Nice to see you back in training, Illeana,' Laenus's voice echoed around the empty Flavian. ‘Now that your little provincial excursion is over, maybe you'll get down to some work.'

His words made her cheeks grow a little hot. ‘I lost a friend on that ‘excursion,' Laenus,' she snapped.

He chuckled. ‘Yes, I heard. Who was to know that your Greek
nemesis
would be waiting for you in Paestum? The gods, probably.

Anyway, that's in the past. Pyrrha may have been a fine girl, but she's now supping it up with Pluto and you have more pressing things to worry about – so get that ‘oh-its-all-my-fault' crap out of your head. Fighters die all the time – you've sent enough across the River, haven't you?'

‘Yes, but it's a little different when you've trained them yourself…' she trailed off, meeting Laenus's gaze. ‘Of course you know all about that.'

‘Yes, I do. And I hate it when it happens. So let's make sure that you're not the next one I have to make an offering for. Go on, then.' He smacked her gently on the thigh with his vine staff. ‘Run.

And don't forget the steps, eh?'

Illeana took off, running easily around the arena as she had done thousands of time before. Doing laps on the sand helped the body become accustomed to fighting on the soft, yeilding surface that could sap the strength of the unprepared fighter as quickly as a deep wound.

‘A little faster, please!' Laenus had seated himself in the imperial box and was drinking wine from a flask. She grinned and threw him an obscene gesture before picking up the pace – two fast laps and she would start the step-run.

Taurus the Numidian was not a handsome man. His face was pockmarked from a childhood illness and he bore a deep scar that ran across one cheek – Illeana had seen that bout. Taurus's opponent had nearly cut his face away with that blow but the Numidian had fought on, beating both the pain and the man in front of him. It was one of the reasons why he was the finest gladiator in Rome.

Tall and lean, he fought with two swords and was as quick – if not quicker – than the Spartan Achillia.

Illeana stood across from him, stripped down to her
subligaricum
: Taurus made no secret of the fact that he was ogling her breasts, his eyes full of suggestion, but he cried out in angry surprise when Laenus slapped him across the stomach with his vine staff.