‘It’s all right, Stick,’ Catuvolcos soothed. ‘The women have a free night — and so do we, more or less. Let’s not have any unpleasantness.’ He turned his attention back to her. ‘There are over a hundred women back there.’ He jerked his thumb towards the gathering. As if to punctuate his words, there was a scream of raucous laughter. ‘Most of them are trained killers and some are feuding with each other. The search is just a precaution. You know what women are like. Can’t take their liquor and then they get tetchy. So we can’t risk someone smuggling in a weapon, that’s all.’
Lysandra sniffed, considering that reasonable. ‘Like as not, you’ll be proving your doubtless titanic capacity for wine at the earliest opportunity.’
‘Not a chance. We’re not allowed back there. I told you, we can’t afford to let the women get their hands on weapons of any sort, you know what I mean?’ He moved his eyebrows up and down several times. ‘You all find me irresistible, and when the grape takes hold of a girl, she wants to get romantic with me.’
‘I find you more irritating than irresistible,’ Lysandra told him.
Catuvolcos clutched his hand to his heart and feigned a stagger.
‘I’m crushed!’
‘Very amusing,’ she commented as she made her way past him; she did not fail to notice Stick’s malevolent glare. Moving off to the feast, she heard the wiry Parthian berating Catuvolcos for being too familiar with her but the Gaul’s response was lost to her in the general hubbub of the revels.
The gathering was in full swing, with many women already slumped over the trestles, the worst for drink. An assortment of food had been laid out, which had been attacked with gusto.
There was the usual barley stew but Titus had arranged meat for the festivities to satisfy the barbarian women. The smell of roasting pork and lamb wafted from many spits, the sweet smoke spiralling into the night sky. The mood was buoyant, with laughter and songs sung in a myriad of languages. She picked out smatterings of the words here and there and the subjects were not to her liking, referring to either lost love or the joys of sexual inter-course, neither of which she had experienced. Indeed, she prided herself that she had never given in to such emotional or physical weakness.
Lysandra kept to the periphery, making her way to one of several wine casks that were stacked about the training area. She poured herself a cup and looked around in vain for water to mix with it. She shrugged and sipped the strong liquor, wincing at its full-bodied taste. She started as a hand landed forcefully on her shoulder.
Lysandra whirled about — only to be confronted by Hildreth.
The German was holding a jug of beer, the foamy moustache she sported mute evidence that she was drinking the vile stuff straight from the container.
‘Hello, Lysandra!’ she shouted boisterously in Latin. ‘How are you today?’
‘I am very well, Hildreth. How are you?’ This, Lysandra mused, was fast becoming a ritual between them.
‘I am very well!’ Hildreth laughed. ‘I am — ,’ she looked up, trying to think. ‘How do I say it? Ah, yes. I am drunk as a sack!’
The Spartan arched an eyebrow. ‘I can tell,’ she said dryly.
‘ What?’ Hildreth hollered.
Lysandra had noticed that when the barbarians could not understand a phrase or could not make themselves understood, they thought that shouting would convey their meaning. She tried again. ‘Yes, you are.’
Hildreth laughed and clapped Lysandra on the shoulder, causing her wine to slosh over her hand. The German failed to notice and stumbled off, singing a song in her own rough language. Lysandra watched her go, a slight smile playing about her lips. Hildreth, she conceded, was a good enough sort. For a barbarian.
She wandered aimlessly among the revellers for some time, enjoying the celebratory atmosphere. Despite her earlier outburst to Varia, she was impressed by Titus’s concession of a feast. Letting the women gather in such a manner was excellent for morale and relieved the pressure of the daily toil in the ludus. She stood apart from the others, watching their ribald antics with amusement. Women stumbled about, a score of dances from different nations taking place around the compound. Lysandra rather thought that the ludus itself was like the Roman Empire in miniature: different creeds coming together in servitude to Rome. She congratulated herself on her own astuteness.
She saw Eirianwen walking towards her from the crowd. The beautiful Silurian raised her hand in greeting and Lysandra cast a glance behind her to see whose attention the gladiatrix was seeking. There was no one.
Eirianwen smiled as she drew closer; she wore a tunic of white cotton and Lysandra was surprised at how so simple a garment could emphasise her beauty, clinging to her hips and accentuating the curve of her breasts. Lysandra had always been proud of her height, but now, in front of Eirianwen, she suddenly felt ungainly and clumsy.
‘Greetings.’ Eirianwen’s voice was light, almost musical it seemed to Lysandra.
She took a healthy draft of her wine to moisten her suddenly dry throat. Why was the barbarian affecting her in such a manner?
Perhaps she was a sorceress, who was skilled in enchantments — like Calypso who so befuddled Odysseus. She dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. More likely she was feeling the effects of the un-watered wine. ‘Eirianwen.’ She nodded.
‘You are alone,’ Eirianwen observed. ‘That is not the way things should be on such a night.’
‘Oh, I am quite fine,’ she said, and drained her cup.
Eirianwen cocked her head to one side and Lysandra marvelled at the way the light of the torches reflected on her blue eyes.
‘Nonsense,’ she said and held out her hand. ‘Come.’
Mutely, Lysandra let Eirianwen lead her through the throng, her mind whirling. She felt as if she were walking on air, her heart beating fast in her chest; the flesh of her fingers tingling at Eirianwen’s touch.
The Silurian looked over her shoulder and smiled. ‘Here we are.’ She indicated a table, releasing Lysandra’s hand. Several other women were sitting together, including Sorina, the Gladiatrix Prima. ‘Sit,’ Eirianwen bade her.
Two of the women shuffled up on their bench to make room and the Spartan sat between them. Eirianwen moved to sit opposite her. Wordlessly, she refilled Lysandra’s cup.
‘Greetings, friends,’ Lysandra said formally. A chorus answered her. ‘I am honoured to join you,’ she added, raising her cup in toast to the women. The honour was of course theirs, for it was doubtful that they had ever been in the presence of a Priestess of Athene — a former priestess, she corrected herself.
‘You’re the Spartan,’ the woman next to her said. ‘Eirianwen reckons that you have potential. Only veterans may sit at this table,’ she added.
‘Lysandra is a veteran,’ Eirianwen interjected. ‘Though she has not yet taken the Oath she has already fought and won her first bout. That gives her the right.’
The woman shrugged. ‘I’m Teuta,’ she said. She was dark haired, her almond-shaped eyes and flattish features betraying her as either Illyrian or Pannonian. ‘That’s my real name. In the arena, I’m called Thana. Maybe you’ve heard of me?’ This last was said with not a little amount of hope.
‘The Illyrian goddess of hunting,’ Lysandra identified, ignoring the question. ‘A good choice of name.’ She had learned that arena fighters were given or chose names from legend. It made them recognisable to the crowds and added drama to an event — or so Titus believed. ‘You all have such impressive titles.’ She glanced around the table.
‘Yes,’ Teuta said before anyone else could answer. ‘Eirianwen is called Britannica. Soucana over there,’ she gestured to a fair, shorthaired woman, ‘is Vercengetoria.’
‘Yes,’ Soucana shouted, evidently a little the worse for wear.
‘Scourge of Caesar, I am named for the hero of the Gauls!’ The other women cheered good-naturedly.
‘And Sorina is Amazona, correct?’ Lysandra inclined her head at the Gladiatrix Prima. She kept her expression neutral but was shocked at how old the Dacian was. The tanned face showed signs of time’s march. She must be well past thirty already, Lysandra thought. ‘Your given name carries history, does it not?’