Never in her life had Lysandra been so ill. She had awoken in her cell, face down on the floor, her face and hair crusted with her own vomit, with no memory of how she had got there. It had been all she could do to claw herself on to her cot where she had lain for some hours unable to move.
Her stomach churned, her hands shook and it was as if Hephaestus himself were using her head for an anvil.
Her mood was as sour as her stomach. It was, she told herself, just further evidence that she was unworthy to call herself Spartan.
Were Spartans not famed for their sobriety, disdaining strong drink and rich food? Yet there she had been, drunk as a sack with the barbarians.
And then there was the fight.
Although trained from childhood in the pankration, the Hellenic art of unarmed fighting, Lysandra had failed to win against an old woman. She could blame the drink, blame the fact that she had been unprepared for the assault, but the stark truth of the matter was that she had failed. Failed her Sisterhood, failed her Spartan heritage and failed herself.
She was lost.
The goddess had turned her face away from her, of this she was now certain. She was destined to die a slave, an ignominious end witnessed by a slavering mob. Perhaps she was unworthy of even facing death with a sword in her hand. She might fail in meeting Titus’s exacting standards and be sold on from the ludus.
The sun was at its noon zenith by the time Lysandra felt well enough to even contemplate leaving her cell. The first order of the day was to clean herself and then to clean the cell. As she scrubbed the floor she could not help thinking that this was the sort of work she was destined to do from now on.
The bell for the afternoon meal was sounded and the women gathered for a bowl of brown barley. Lysandra sat with the Hellene women, embarrassed to face either Eirianwen or Sorina: Eirianwen, because she had broken the law of hospitality by causing an argument with her friend; Sorina, because the woman was her better in combat. Though no final blow had been struck, the young Spartan knew the truth of it. The thought surprised her as it came to mind. Never before had she admitted another’s superiority to her own. She left her meal unfinished and returned to her cell, and decided to remain there till the usual regime recommenced the following day. She had no wish to speak to anyone.
Dawn had cast a pink hue to the sky as the women assembled in their usual places, their shuffling feet kicking up a haze of dust. None could contain their curiosity at the transformation that their area of the training ground had undergone. Straw mannequins had been set up at regular intervals, as had wooden crossbeams, from which swung many sandbags. Set at a parallel to this was a long ‘avenue’ with sandbags on both sides. Wooden practice swords were stacked up ominously, a mute testament that the most exacting part of the training was about to begin.
Titus strode up, flanked by Catuvolcos and Nastasen, each of them carrying a bucket and stave. They set these down and Titus gave the women plenty of time to take in the new surroundings before speaking.
‘You all know what is at stake.’ His gravelled voice sounded harsh in the dawn. ‘Your last hope of one day attaining your freedom rests upon how well you learn what we are about to teach you.’ His eyes swept down the lines as they shifted slightly.
Nastasen stepped to the front. ‘Lysandra, come forward!’ he barked.
Lysandra’s lip curled and she glanced at Hildreth who stood next to her. The red-haired German smiled tightly in sympathy.
‘Take off your tunic!’ His teeth showed up impossibly white against his ebony face as it split into a cruel grin. As Lysandra made to comply, the Nubian leant close to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I know you love to display yourself for me but I haven’t got the time to pleasure you now.’ She did not respond, looking resolutely to the front as she tossed her tunic to the ground.
‘You are going to learn how to fight and move with skill.’
Nastasen indicated the pile of swords. ‘In time it will become instinctive to you. But always remember that there are but three rules to gladiatorial combat.’ He stooped and retrieved a stave from one of the buckets, its sponge tip was coated in red paint.
‘First rule.’ Nastasen pointed the stave towards Lysandra. ‘You get an instant kill on the red. Here, here.’ He daubed a liberal amount of the fluid between her breasts and at the hollow of her neck. ‘Always remember, go for the red first. Because if you don’t your opponent will.’ He replaced the red stave and picked another. This time the tip was blue.
‘In the blue you get a cripple,’ he said. He smeared uneven lines down Lysandra’s pale arms and thighs. ‘Second rule. Go for the cripple before the slow kill. Here is the slow kill on the yellow.’ He swapped staves once again. ‘Here, here and here,’ he said as he drew across her stomach and sides. ‘Remember, a slow kill might have enough left in her and kill you before she dies.
With a cripple, you know you’ve got her if you keep your distance and wear her down.’ He thrust a towel at Lysandra. ‘Clean up, get dressed and get back in line!’
As she returned to her place, Catuvolcos now took his turn, casting a wry glance at Nastasen. He shook his head whilst the black giant’s eyes were not on him, causing some of the women to grin in response.
‘Go and get yourselves a sword each and make it quick!’ he said. This done, he regarded them for a moment. ‘Yes, heavy, aren’t they?’ Some assented with a nod. ‘These are called rudis. They’re twice as heavy as any iron blade you’ll ever carry — so when it comes to the real thing, your weapon will feel as light as a feather.
Watch, and copy me. This is the basic thrust.’ He lunged forward with the weapon. Raggedly, the women complied. ‘Pathetic,’ he said. ‘Try again…’
Titus watched as the Gaul took the novices through a funda-mental drill, assessing their moves. His eyes were drawn to the Spartan and the fiery-haired German, Hildreth. These two moved with a practised ease, the exercises familiar to them. Yet he saw a disconcerting look in Lysandra’s eyes as she worked. Increasingly, she was becoming more detached. He knew that she could fight, that much Stick had told him, and the fact that she had been trained was evident. Yet as each day passed, her effort, her will to continue, seemed to be leeching away from her.
‘What do you think about Lysandra,’ he said to Nastasen. ‘You seem to have beaten the fight out of her.’
Nastasen grunted. ‘She is an arrogant bitch. She looks at each of us as if we are but dirt beneath her feet.’
Titus looked straight at him. ‘Stick said she knew how to fight, Nastasen. If she deserves a beating, then administer one. But from now on you leave your hatred of her away from my training ground. I don’t need damaged goods. Is that clear?’
‘Of course.’ The big Nubian shrugged, trying to assume an air of nonchalance, but Titus could see the rage seething behind his eyes. Thrashing the haughty Greek gave Nastasen altogether too much pleasure.
‘Go and work with the veterans today,’ Titus said. Nastasen nodded and made off without another word.
Catuvolcos kept the novices working hard, teaching them the rudiments of swordplay. ‘Everything starts and stops at the same time,’ he repeated over and over, attempting to commit this to their memories. ‘It’s no good to strike, then move in. Everything starts and stops at the same time. The body moves as one.’
As the Gaul looked after the overall drills, Titus moved amongst the novices, correcting stances and form with a word here and there, often punctuating his remarks with a swat from the vine staff.
His eye fell upon Lysandra as she performed Catuvolcos’s commands. Her movements were perfect but he could tell her mind was elsewhere. He walked up and slapped her on the rump with his staff. ‘Come, Spartan! Keep your mind here, not in the clouds!’
The strange ice-coloured eyes flicked towards him for the fraction of an instant. ‘My name is Lysandra,’ she said, her voice strangely subdued. ‘Not Spartan.’
‘Put some effort into it, girl.’ He ignored the statement.
‘Concentrate on your task at hand.’
Lysandra frowned and continued, putting more vigour into her movements. Titus could tell that the increased effort was a facade. He shook his head and moved off, bawling at one of the Germans.
For Lysandra, the day passed slowly. The exercises were tiresome for her, and the hours passed in a haze as she moved from one drill to the next, not really hearing anything that Catuvolcos said.
It was enough for her to catch a glance of his initial demonstration to ascertain the pattern the work would follow.
There was no honour in this she told herself. It was a waste of time. At least in the Temple her training had been in worship of the goddess. Bringing Sparta to mind caused her to flush with shame; she was a slave, and unworthy to console herself with daydreams of a home that was no longer hers.
She was just Lysandra now.