‘That is so, Spartan,’ she agreed. ‘I am from Penthesilea’s line.’
She too kept her face expressionless.
Lysandra’s lip curled. It was in the barbarian nature to lie, making extravagant claims as to their linage. Penthesilea was the Amazon queen who was slain by Achilles. That none in the entire ludus had the benefit of Spartan education was indeed fortunate for the aging warrior, or this probable falsehood would have been called into question long ago. The Amazons of old never took husbands for life, so it was impossible to say who was from whose line. And they were incapable of writing anything down, so they could make up whatever nonsense they liked. She refrained from making an issue of it, however, for it would have been impolite.
Instead she changed the subject. ‘This is certainly not what I expected from slavery.’
‘It is a better life than most can expect,’ Eirianwen said.
‘Though we are slaves, we are valuable to Balbus. It makes sense for him to see that we are treated well.’ She paused, looking straight at Lysandra. ‘The trainers are very harsh at the beginning,’ she said. ‘This is done to break the spirit of the weaker ones, to see who cannot take the pressure. If a woman breaks in training she will die in the arena.’
Lysandra nodded. It was so in the agoge.
‘To train a fighter costs a lot of money,’ Eirianwen went on.
‘We have good food, good physicians and, if we survive long enough, a decent place to live.’ She gestured to the houses set far back from the training grounds.
‘You sound like you are getting to like it,’ Sorina cut in, her voice harsh.
‘I hate it,’ Eirianwen responded. ‘But what would you have me do? Waste away in grief or accept my lot and hope to win my freedom one day?’
Sorina spat on the ground. ‘Roman bastards. At best they will see you dead. At worst they make you one of them. I will never be corrupted.’
Lysandra watched the exchange, realising she had finished her wine. Feeling somewhat light-headed, she refilled the cup and was pleased to find that the bite had gone and now the liquor was going down much easier.
‘I am not corrupted,’ Eirianwen said. ‘Really, Sorina, you should not burden yourself with so much hatred.’
‘How can you say that?’ Sorina drained her own cup. ‘Did Frontinus not defeat your tribe, slay your warriors and cast the others into slavery? What now of the Silures, Eirianwen? What of your land?
Is Britannia not showing the signs of the Roman disease? Growths of stone infecting the fields, roads like swords cut through the heart of the Great Mother. Pah!’ She threw up her hand in disgust.
Eirianwen cast her eyes down, and shook her head. ‘You speak the truth, Sorina, but I do not hate the Romans for what they have done. They did not invent war, or its consequences.’
‘They are raping the world!’ Sorina’s voice was heavy with wine-induced malice. ‘They call it civilisation, but it is an abomination. Let them live in their towns of stone, but do not force the freeborn to do likewise. Since the First Days, the Dacians have ridden free on the plains, beholden to no Emperor, no man.’
This last was said with utter contempt. ‘Then the Romans came, burning and killing the innocents of my land. When the tribes rose against them, we fought hard and well. Well enough to force them back across the Danube. They were afraid.’
There was silence around the table at her outburst.
‘Actually, they were not,’ Lysandra said. All eyes turned to her.
‘Really, Dacia is not worth the effort in manpower to placate.’
She shook as she cleared her throat, annoyed that her words were slurred slightly. She knew the wine was taking effect but she found that she did not care and poured herself some more. ‘There is nothing there of value, is there? Except slaves,’ she said as an afterthought, gesturing to Sorina. ‘It would take a long and costly campaign to subjugate such a wide territory, which is why there have only been minor Roman operations there.’
‘When I am finished in this place, I will gather the warriors of the plains, and bring them to war against the Romans!’ Sorina said vehemently.
‘And you will be crushed.’ Lysandra shrugged. ‘No barbarian army can stand against disciplined troops.’
Sorina got to her feet, swaying slightly. ‘Who are you calling a barbarian, you arrogant whore?’
‘Anyone who cannot speak Hellenic is a barbarian.’ Lysandra stated the obvious, letting Sorina’s insult pass. ‘It is the sound of your language… like sheep… baa, baa!’ She laughed at this. It was an ancient truism, but never failed to bring her to mirth.
‘Peace, Sorina.’ Eirianwen put a calming hand on the older warrior’s arm as the Amazon’s face darkened in anger. ‘The drink is in us all. Let’s have no more of this talk.’
Lysandra was about to speak again but decided against it; she did not want to distress Eirianwen. Sorina sat, but would not let the matter drop. ‘How can you be so sure of a Roman victory?’ she asked.
Lysandra ran her hand through her hair. She looked around and saw a long wooden ladle on the ground by a pot of barley stew. She stumbled up, retrieved it, and returned to the table.
‘Here.’ She tossed the implement to Sorina. ‘Can you break that?’
‘Of course,’ the Dacian responded, snapping the wood with ease.
‘Now take the two halves and break them at the same time.’
This time, the task was much harder but the Amazon persevered.
With a loud crack, the staves broke. Sorina triumphantly met the Spartan’s gaze. ‘You are very strong,’ Lysandra observed. ‘Now break the four.’
Sorina cast the wood to the ground in disgust. ‘That would be impossible. What are you trying to prove?’
‘Simple. That is how civilised people fight. In close units, you see. For the Hellene or the Roman, personal valour is honoured but discipline and training count for much more on the battlefield. A barbarian fights for glory, charging to battle, swinging a big sword round his head… her head, in this case. And achieves what? On foot, she needs space around her to wield her sword, lest she kill the compatriots by her side. Instantly, she is outnumbered three to one, for civilised troops lock shields and fight as a unit. On horseback, she charges into a hedge of spears and swords. And dies.’
‘You talk a good fight, Spartan,’ Sorina said. ‘For one who has never set foot on the battlefield.’
‘Have it your own way, Amazon.’ Lysandra found that for once she did not wish to pursue an argument. Better to end the conversation. ‘You are just like every other barbarian. Too proud and too stupid to learn from your betters.’
Sorina sprang across the table, crashing into Lysandra. The two women fell to the ground, rolling over several times. Sorina emerged on top and slammed her fist into Lysandra’s face, sending a sharp message of pain through her wine-fogged head. A few onlookers saw the brawl erupt and called to their fellows. Soon a crowd had gathered around the two struggling women and began chanting rhythmically, ‘Fight, fight, fight!’
Lysandra thrust her hips upwards, causing her furious assailant to overbalance and topple forwards. She rolled away and sprang to her feet but the liquor had made her clumsy and she stumbled. Sorina was charging towards her, spitting hate, and it was only by long-learnt reflex that Lysandra was able to lash out with her foot, catching the onrushing Amazon in the pit of the stomach.
Sorina doubled over in pain and Lysandra moved in quickly, seeking to grasp her foe’s head and smash her face to pulp with her knee. But Sorina’s reaction was swift: she lunged forwards, butting her shoulder into Lysandra’s midriff. Jerking upright, Sorina carried Lysandra with her, flipping her skywards.
She crashed painfully to the ground, cracking the back of her head as she landed. Head spinning, she staggered to her feet, barely in time to meet Sorina’s attack; the Amazon’s fist connected with the side of her face and Lysandra responded in kind, her own blow snapping back her opponent’s head. She surged in, but suddenly, she was being dragged back, as was Sorina, cursing and kicking.