Lucius Balbus hummed tunelessly as a slave went through the complex process of adjusting the lanista’s toga. Despite the permanent loss of Eirianwen, the profit that he had made from her demise was enormous. Somewhat worrying was the current state of Sorina: the Amazon had sustained serious injury in the battle, and now lay close to death in the surgery.
But it was still worth the payoff. With the money from the games as a whole and his cut of the betting he could buy more quality slaves to replenish his stock. Experienced slaves at that.
And of course, there was Lysandra: Stick had informed him that there had been some trouble with her when Eirianwen fell.
Apparently, the two women were intimate and the Spartan had taken her death badly. That sort of thing was impossible to control, he mused, as the slave applied a sweet-smelling pomade to the sheer white cloth of the toga. It would not do to meet Frontinus smelling of the fuller’s piss.
Deprived of the company of men, the women inevitably fell to relationships with their own sex. Other lanista’s were much harsher on their stock, banning any kind of liaisons, but Balbus was prepared to endure the difficulties that a freer ludus gave rise to in return for the emotionally stable fighter. It was all about compromise in the business.
Lysandra was young and would get over Eirianwen’s death — of that he was certain. And, with the right touch from Falco, she could be promoted to attain phenomenal adulation from the masses. With Frontinus’s endorsement, the women’s event was attracting more attention from the public, and that meant more money for hard-working lanistas like himself. The crowd, then, would need a heroine.
Lysandra, he decided, would be that heroine. All it would take would be a few more matches against quality opposition and she would gain some renown and critical experience. It was all he could do to refrain from dancing with glee all the way to his litter.
Catuvolcos stood over the still form of Sorina. The surgeon, a small, fussy-looking man who sported a fading black eye, was applying a stinking unguent to the grievous wounds the Amazon had sustained. Her face was pale, the lines about her eyes seeming more pronounced.
‘Will she live?’ Catuvolcos found his voice to be too loud in the stillness of the surgery.
The surgeon looked up from his work. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
From his expression, Catuvolcos knew that he had bitten down a harsher response to the too often-asked question. ‘She is not young,’ the surgeon added, ‘but she is strong and tough. None of these wounds are mortal by themselves… but you can see for yourself the state of her.’
Catuvolcos gazed at the near lifeless form of his friend, tears in his eyes. He prayed that she would live so that some sense, some meaning could come from her struggle with Eirianwen.
The gods, he hoped, would not be so cruel as to take them both.
‘I have work to do.’ The surgeon’s voice cut into his thoughts.
‘If you want to wait, wait outside, but I won’t know much till the morning. You should go to the banquet. Have a few drinks.’
It was good advice, Catuvolcos reasoned. There was nothing he could do here, and the oblivion of the beer cup was a better prospect than sitting around this place of blood and death. He nodded his thanks to the surgeon, and made his way back to the gaol.
The atmosphere in the compound was charged with relief.
The games were over and those who remained basked in the knowledge that sweet life was theirs. As was the tradition, a revel had been arranged for those warriors who had survived.
It would be held later that night on the very sands on which they had fought and always followed the usual stages of drunkenness. Celebration at life would be followed by melancholy for lost comrades, and all would finally be overtaken by unconsciousness. This was wise policy on the part of the lanistas: the day following the revel the fighters would be too ill to cause any trouble when they were loaded back into their carts for the journey home.
Catuvolcos wondered if Lysandra would be present. Stick had recounted to him how she had reacted to Eirianwen’s death and that he had imprisoned her. There was an injustice in that, he thought. It was in no small part due to Lysandra’s successes that Balbus and his troupe had gained a reputation in the games. To keep her under lock and key whilst all others were free — at least for the night — was unfair.
Though Stick had promised to check up on her and let her out when ‘the serious drinking got underway’, Catuvolcos resolved that he would undertake the task himself. For one thing, Stick’s thirst for alcohol far outweighed his tolerance and he was likely to forget; for another, he wanted a chance to mend bridges with Lysandra. He had treated her harshly through no fault of her own and, whatever faults he had, Catuvolcos prided himself on his honesty. He had been wrong, and he would tell her so.
Lysandra stared into the darkness of her cell, aware only of her pain. It went far beyond anything physical she had ever suffered; the agonising grief raked her soul, allowing no respite in its merciless torture. Never in her life, she now knew, had she cried until this day. Her throat was raw from sobbing, her cheeks brittle and taut with the salt of her tears. Visions of Eirianwen haunted her, tormenting her with images of her love. Forever frozen in her mind’s eye was the sight of the beautiful Silurian reaching out for help in her last moment. And she could not save her.
Lysandra held her face in her hands, her chains clattering as her body shuddered with misery. It was not right: she should have faced Sorina, not Eirianwen. If she had fought, then no tie of kin or clan would have stayed her hand. Sorina would lie dead and all that she and Eirianwen hoped for would have come to pass.
Now, hope was dust. Her heart had been torn from her breast and there was no reason to carry on. Athene did not speak to her and Lysandra knew that she had angered the goddess with her love for a barbarian. There could be no other answer.
She tried to invoke the discipline that had been ingrained since childhood to stave off the dreadful emptiness that was within her, but she could not. There was nothing. Nothing besides the loss of Eirianwen.
Outside the cell, she could hear the gladiatrices laughing and chatting and, in that moment, she wanted to die. In death, the hurt would end; in death there would be no knowing. Love was too cruel, too much for anyone to bear if it went awry. She understood that now and the knowledge had changed her. How could life go on without love? There was no point. To honour Athene? To serve Balbus? It was all so utterly meaningless.
There had been a time, before the ludus, when everything had been so clear. Then, she had been made slave, but her Spartan superiority had allowed her to triumph and serve her goddess in even the most trying of circumstances. To meet Eirianwen in such a place had assured her that it must have been in Athene’s plan. She had been happy: for the first time in her life, she had known the joy of true companionship.
And now it had been stripped cruelly away. It was not the Spartan credo to lament one’s losses. Lysandra could hear her own voice mocking her, admonishing Danae that one should not weep for fallen comrades. Only now did she understand what it was to care.
She lifted her arm, examining the chain that secured her to the wall. It would be so easy to wrap it around her neck and let it squeeze till the pain went away. Let Hecate, goddess of suicides, embrace her and bear her to the kingdom of Hades. Far better that than facing life alone.
She thrust the chain away, bitter frustration welling up within her. That she chose to die was testament that she must live on.
The Spartan way demanded such sacrifice.