She was one of seven prisoners in the carriage, but Balbus’s train snaked back a good deal further, and she could only assume that she had been placed with the lanista’s latest ‘acquisitions.’ The others in the cart were all of barbarian stock and unable to speak Latin, let alone her native Hellenic. However, this did not stop them from babbling in their own incomprehensible tongues, the sound of which set her teeth on edge.
After her bout in the arena, Lysandra had been shuffled uncer-emoniously to a cell to wait out the day’s entertainments.
Admittedly she had been fed and even given a perfunctory examination by a surgeon to see if she was injured. Her state of health established, she was locked away in the dark and forgotten until it was time for Balbus’s caravan to leave. She had tried to ask questions as they dragged her towards the waiting prison cart but, having ascertained that she was now the ‘property of Lucius Balbus,’ any further enquiry was met with a barked order to remain silent, followed by a sharp slap around the face when she persisted.
Physical pain was something she had been taught to endure since childhood, but the blow served to remind her of her new status. She was almost physically sick when the word came unbidden to her thoughts.
Slave.
And worse, an arena slave — the lowest of the low — hardly more than an animal. She had become a part of the most derided echelon of society. It was almost too much to bear, but she consoled herself with the knowledge that, as soon as the owner of the troupe found out who she was, this ridiculous situation would be fully rectified.
A tap on her shoulder broke her reverie and Lysandra turned to see a red-haired barbarian offering her a chunk of bread. This dubious gift was clutched in filth-begrimed fingers and she was tempted to slap the hand away; yet the smile the woman gave her was genuine and she realised it would be petulant to refuse the offer. She hoped her returning smile did not look too much like a grimace and took the proffered loaf. The woman gave her a sisterly pat on the arm and returned to sit with her companions. Lysandra went back to her brooding but was inwardly grateful for this act of solidarity.
They journeyed for several days and, to her surprise, they were given food at regular intervals. The fare was of excellent quality: a stew of meat and barley, superior to any Lysandra had previously tasted. In fact, their captors seemed at pains to keep the women in good health, which was contrary to much of what she had heard about the life of a slave. Aside from the lice that had infested all of the captives, the trek was, if not pleasant, at least bearable.
Indeed, communication had, to some extent, sprung up between Lysandra and her barbarian companions. Through some faintly comedic pantomiming she had learned that the red-haired woman was named Hildreth. She and her fellows were of the Chattian tribe, which Lysandra identified at once as Germanic. The Chattians were well known throughout the Empire; their warriors had been giving the emperor’s legions hell along the Rhenus River for some years.
Hildreth, of course, had not heard of Hellas; even when Lysandra referred to her homeland as Greece in the Roman manner, the tribeswoman responded with a shrug and a shake of her head.
Lysandra thought it pointless to pursue this any further. Geography was going to be far beyond their level of comprehension. Instead, she concentrated on teaching the Germans rudimentary Latin.
Unfortunately, the reputation barbarians carried for an innate slowness of wit was not unfounded and she persevered only to occupy her time rather than from any real desire to educate them.
Soon, however, the prison cart was alive with the sound of harshly accented Latin cries such as ‘sky!’ ‘tree!’ and ‘stone!’ which quickly graduated to such statements as ‘I-do-not-speak-Latin-can-you-speak-German?’
It was all good fun at first, but inevitably the hilarity that the lessons produced amongst the tribeswomen attracted the attentions of Balbus’s guards, who admonished them to keep the noise down with much threatening and brandishing of stout clubs to ensure the message got across.
Nevertheless, Lysandra found the diversion had worked. Time slipped by easily enough so that it was a shock to her when she spied a long, walled structure in the distance; unmistakably, this was their final destination.
An expectant hush fell over the prisoners as the caravan wound its leisurely way towards the construction. As they drew closer, Lysandra reckoned that it was akin to a miniature Troy, so soundly were the walls constructed. The ponderous wrought-iron gates swung open, and the caravan passed beneath an arched sign that proclaimed that this was Lucius Balbus’s School of Gladiatrices.
Lysandra leant forward, her hands gripping the iron of the bars of the cage as they entered the ludus. The place was a hive of cacophonous activity, teeming with women involved in various martial exercises. The clack of wooden weapons filled the air, mingling with shouted orders from the trainers and cries of both exultation and exasperation. It was a familiar scene and, despite her circumstances, she found it strangely comforting.
The doors to the cage rattled open and the guards beckoned them out, shouting an order in their guttural barbarian language.
Lysandra could sense the horror flooding through the group.
‘Take your clothes off and throw them there,’ a guard repeated, this time in Latin. Lysandra shrugged: in Sparta, all exercises were conducted gymnos, nude; the body was something to be proud of after all. She complied, glad to be rid of the filthy tunic.
Her companions followed her example reluctantly, and she was at once aware of their issue: evidently, in Germania, the body was not something to be proud of. Bereft of their clothes, the tribeswomen were an absurd-looking group. True, she herself was fair skinned, but these women had an almost pale-blue aspect to them. Heavy breasts hung from too-white torsos and such a shock and variety of pubic hair was revealed. Lysandra had to bite her lip not to laugh. Manlike tufts she had seen under their arms on their journey to the ludus, but the complete Germanic nude was comedic in its hairy extreme.
‘You speak Latin.’ The guard’s statement interrupted her critique of the tribal form. She eyed the man, and found him to be short, squat and somewhat ill favoured. Not a barbarian, but close enough, he had the look of a Macedonian about him. She drew herself up.
‘Yes. And evidently better than you.’
The man was nonplussed: he gaped at her for a moment, his mouth falling open; the others quietened, as stunned by the arrogant response as he was. The atmosphere was heavy and uncertain for a moment before one of the men fell about laughing at his companion’s embarrassment. The reaction spread and the guards hooted and guffawed at her audacity. The Germans looked around, unsure of what was happening.
The Macedonian shook his head. ‘You’re lucky I don’t beat you black and blue,’ he said, but the previous mirth undermined his threat. ‘Let’s get you and your barbarian pets cleaned up.’ He motioned for them to start walking.
As the group moved away, the guard noted that the Greek’s flippant mouth had landed her in trouble before. Though from the front she was beautiful and flawless, her back was marked by a latticework of pale scars.
They were led the length of the training compound, giving them an opportunity to take in their surroundings. As the exterior suggested, the ludus was more of a walled town in miniature than a prison. Squat stone huts were set all along one side of the massive training area, which Lysandra assumed to be the slave quarters — her quarters, she thought sullenly. Opposite these were opulent villa-style houses, set much further back from the noise and dust. Fountains and statues were evident, and Lysandra made a gesture of acquiescence as she passed an image of Minerva, the Roman name for the goddess Athene. The far end of the ludus was dominated by a large bath house and it was there she and the barbarians were taken.