‘You’re in the shit,’ he commented as she took a sip.
‘How so?’
‘For aiding your little friend here.’ He indicated Varia. ‘Greta has complained to Nastasen about you and he means to set an example.’
Lysandra shrugged. The Nubian took perverse pleasure out of inflicting pain. ‘That would make a change,’ she commented blithely.
Catuvolcos chuckled, gesturing for the wine sack. ‘You’re not afraid of him, are you, Lysa?’
Lysandra stiffened at his familiar use of her name in the diminutive. ‘Spartans fear nothing,’ she said.
‘Do you have a book of these things you say? It seems to me that you have an answer for everything, but no answers that are truly yours. Don’t you ever speak from your heart?’
She regarded him haughtily. ‘I speak when it is necessary to do so. A Spartan does not talk for talking’s sake. Our sparing use of words is so admired it has been adopted into common parlance.’
Catuvolcos gestured, indicating her to continue.
‘ Laconic,’ she said. ‘This word comes from Lakedaimonia, the area of Hellas where Sparta is situated.’
‘You must be very proud.’
‘Obviously,’ Lysandra chose to ignore Catuvolcos’s attempt at irony. ‘It is impossible to explain to one who is not Spartan what it means to be Spartan.’ There was, she knew, little sense in sharing with the trainer her conundrum regarding her worthiness to claim this heritage.
The trainer let it drop. ‘Titus has decided that the novices should mingle more with the veterans. There will be a festivity of sorts this evening.’
Lysandra sniffed. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
‘You know, Lysa, things would go better for you here if you tried to mix more with the other women. You’re not the most popular of the novices.’
Lysandra wondered why he was trying to draw her into conversation. Despite the fact that he too was a slave, the ludus had a quasi-military structure and he was her superior. Such fraterni-sation between ranks was often bad for discipline. Then again, he was a stupid barbarian and could not be expected to understand such concepts as authority and its effects upon morale. ‘I am not here to be popular. I am a slave. A performer with only one purpose — to kill for entertainment.’
Catuvolcos turned serious. ‘You have a chance to earn your freedom doing it, girl. But that is not my point. I think you should come to this gathering. You might even enjoy yourself.’
‘And I think you should not be speaking to me. If you are so concerned about popularity, it would be better if I were not seen associating with a trainer.’
Catuvolcos looked as if he had been slapped around the face.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said tersely, getting to his feet. ‘I have intervened on your behalf with Nastasen because I thought he had been too hard on you. I can see I made a mistake; you deserve everything you get. There is a difference between pride in one’s heritage and blind arrogance.’
‘Philosophy from a barbarian?’ Lysandra sneered. ‘I am stunned.’
Catuvolcos stalked away, his face florid.
Lysandra watched him go. She did not feel at all pleased with herself but to accept his advances would have shown her to be weak. She frowned, feeling as though she could have handled the exchange a little better. She turned her attention back to the training ground but Sorina and Eirianwen had ceased sparring and were now performing stretching exercises to warm down their muscles.
‘You were very rude to Catuvolcos.’ Varia was fiddling with the hem of her tunic. ‘He was just trying to be nice.’
‘So?’ Lysandra snapped. ‘Am I supposed to swoon with joy? I have no desire to go to a party. A party?’ She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. ‘In this place? It is an absurdity.’
‘People say that life is what you make it. I don’t like it here, but it is all I know and I try to be happy when I can.’
Lysandra got up. ‘First philosophy from a barbarian, now from you. Life is what we make it, Varia? I think not, for it was no choice of mine to be here. This place has taken away everything that I was. I cannot make the best of it as you say. It is different for you, you know no better.’
Varia looked up at her, closing one eye as the sun shone in it. ‘I know that I am glad you are my friend.’
Lysandra was about to tell the child she was no friend of hers: that she needed no friends, and the girl would be better off just leaving her alone. The words did not come.
‘I would be happy if my friend went to the party,’ Varia added.
‘If only to show Catuvolcos he was wrong about you being too proud.’
Lysandra folded her arms across her chest, tapping her chin with her index finger. ‘There is wisdom in what you say,’ she conceded. ‘It would be wrong to let him think that his outrageous accusation was correct.’
‘So you’ll go then?’
Lysandra nodded. ‘Yes. I think I will.’
VII
Night had fallen over the ludus, replacing the harsh burning heat of the day with a pleasant, balmy warmth.
Lysandra could hear the sound of laughter, muted by the thick stone walls of her prison, as women passed by her cell on their way to Titus’s gathering. The celebrations had to be in full swing by now as the hour had already grown late. She sat on her cot, forearms resting on her knees, hands idly toying with the laces of her sandal. She had one on already; all that remained was to put the other on her foot and join the festivities.
Lysandra hesitated, deciding if she would go through with it.
After all, she was not interested in drunken revelry and she asked herself over and over if the opinion of Catuvolcos mattered. She decided it did not, but then reasoned that it would be churlish not to attend. She placed her foot into the sandal and tied the laces.
She stood, put her hand to the door and froze. Perhaps it was not such a good idea. Had Catuvolcos not said she was unpopular with the women? It could be that excess of wine amongst her detractors could lead to cattiness and possibly worse.
She told herself that she was being ridiculous. No one would even notice her presence or absence; it had been weeks since anybody had passed even a cursory comment to her outside of what was necessary in training. She decided she would stay long enough to be noticed by Catuvolcos, thus proving him wrong, and then she would leave.
She yanked the door open before she could change her mind.
The training ground had been transformed in the hours she had spent in the silence of the cell. At the far end, nearest the baths, many tables had been arrayed, moved from the dining area to the grounds to provide more room for the women. She glanced up at the walls and noted that they were thick with guards and a heavy detail had also been placed around the armoury. A barricade of sorts cordoned off the area where the gathering was being held. Despite Titus’s magnanimity he was evidently taking no chances with security. She patted down her hair self-consciously and made her way towards the barricade.
Stick, Catuvolcos and several guards were standing by a small gap in the makeshift construction. She felt the Gaul’s eyes upon her as she approached.
‘Halt!’ said one of the guards. She recognised him as the Macedonian she had spoken with on her first day in the ludus.
He stepped forward and instructed her to lift her arms, giving her a rudimentary search.
‘Is all this really necessary?’ She directed the question at Catuvolcos.
He looked at her with an odd expression on his face. Obviously still bearing a grudge, she thought. Then he grinned at her, which only served to annoy her further. She hated to be mistaken in her assessment of another’s mood.
‘Yes, Lysa, it is,’ he said.
‘Will you stop calling me that!’ she snapped. ‘My name is Lysandra.’
‘Less of your lip, bitch!’ Stick cut in. He drew his vine staff.
‘Show some respect or, by the gods, I’ll beat it into you!’ He bristled when Lysandra regarded him as if he were something she had stepped in.