Balbus was scandalised. A Roman woman would never be allowed to pick up a sword and fight. That was man’s work, and women had no business interfering in the business of men.
Admittedly, he had Roman women in the ludus, but that was different. They were slaves, not Roman citizens.
The priest smiled slightly at the lanista’s expression. ‘Against all odds, the Spartans crushed the invasion force, inflicting huge casualties on the Epiran army. This great victory had to be due to the intervention of the gods. Athene is the patron of Sparta as well as Athens, Lucius Balbus, and the triumph was attributed solely to her. As thanksgiving, the Spartans set up a new religious sect to honour her. It had a typical Spartan twist, however. They set up an agoge for Priestesses on their acropolis, replacing the more traditional temple with a fortress.’
‘They have a ludus for children. For girls?’ Balbus could scarcely credit it.
‘Worse than a ludus. Your charges are adults. That the Spartans subject their children to this regimen is inhuman. I cannot describe to you how horrific the agoge is in its practices. It goes beyond mere religious and physical training, friend Balbus. These children walk barefoot in winter snow, are mercilessly beaten for any transgression, real or imagined, given so little food that they are forced to supplement themselves by stealing. Indeed, such thievery is encouraged, for it shows resourcefulness. But the penalty for being caught is terrible, for it is seen as failure.’
The priest paused in his narrative, letting Balbus assimilate the information. The lanista was shocked that such antiquated and barbaric practices went on in Greece, supposedly the font of civilisation.
‘All the while, they are being schooled in military doctrine,’
Telemachus continued. ‘They spend years studying weapons and tactics in this crucible of discipline; of course, it’s antiquated and highly ritualised. Indeed, Sparta is the only place in the world where one can still see an ancient hoplite army, albeit one formed solely of women. This is done, ostensibly, to answer any future call of Athene to bring the women of the city to arms. In addition, it is their religious and secular education. You will find your Lysandra eminently well schooled, my friend.’
‘So, if Lysandra has been trained with weapons since childhood, why then is she not performing?’ Balbus asked.
‘Ah ha!’ The Greek smiled, and tapped his nose. ‘The heart of the matter. For centuries, Spartan power was based on the subjugation of her neighbouring state, Messenia. The Spartans put the entire population to slavery. To a Spartan, the enslavement of another race is a proud part of her heritage. But to make a slave of a Spartan…’ He shook his head. ‘You have made your Lysandra everything she despises. You have taken away that which makes up her psyche and she is as lost as a babe. For all their prowess, all their training, these priestesses are very flat in their thinking. All Spartans are, but they especially so. Things are very simple to them, and they can rarely find a middle ground as more cultured people can. To her, as you say, it appears that the goddess has turned her back, abandoning her to the most shameful, the most ignoble fate a Spartan can imagine. It is no wonder she cannot function.’
Balbus felt utterly defeated. ‘She has the potential to become my greatest asset,’ he said. ‘Are you saying there is no way to convince her to fight,’ he patted his chest, ‘from her heart?’
‘No.’ Telemachus drained his cup. ‘I think perhaps I could find a way to convince her.’ As he poured more wine, he sighed. ‘But unfortunately, my work is here, and I cannot afford to leave. The people around here are not rich and the votive offerings barely cover the expenses of the shrine.’
‘I see.’ Balbus smiled, now on familiar ground. ‘Of course, I can understand that. If you can find it in your heart to take a short leave of absence to aid this poor child, I would be extremely grateful, both to you personally and to the goddess herself.
Though earthly things cannot compensate for the good work you will do, I am sure that my provision would be such as this temple has never known before.’
‘The goddess loves a generous man, lanista,’ Telemachus said.
‘Shall we say twenty thousand denarii?’
Lucius Balbus balked inwardly at the sum but reasoned that Lysandra had come to him for nothing and so perhaps this was the gods’ way of balancing the scales. She was a rare piece of merchandise — young, fit and already trained. She would have cost a lot more if he had bought her on the open market, that much was certain. ‘Twenty thousand, friend Telemachus,’ he agreed.
XIII
Nastasen should have felt elation but there was only a strange sense of emptiness. In his mind’s eye, he saw the scene played out many times. The Spartan whore facing the German, her staid movements, her clumsy attacks, her woeful defence. And her humiliating defeat. His heart had leapt for joy when he had seen her topple to the sand, utterly beaten.
But that joy had passed too quickly to be replaced by the injustice of it. He should have been the one to break her. The night-borne silence of his room mocked him as he twisted the strands of hemp inside an earthenware jar before lighting the ends from a nearby lamp. As soon as they started to glow, he put down the lamp, leaned over the mouth of the jar and inhaled deeply.
He had hated her from the moment he laid eyes on her: the arrogant swagger in her walk; the supercilious mien she used when she spoke to any and all, including himself. He, Nastasen, son of princes, from a line of warriors famous when the Spartans were still herding goats in their rough little corner of Greece. So, she had proven she could take a beating; but any fool could do that. For all her talk, all her disdainful manner, she had been found wanting. It was all bluster.
And that had disappointed Nastasen.
He had wanted to bring her down at her peak when the arrogant bitch had felt she had come to the height of her powers. She had been resilient to the vine staff, but there were other ways of breaking the spirit. He would have fucked some humility into her.
His lips closed around the cone of smoking hemp, seeing her struggling beneath him, begging him to stop as his greater strength, his power, overwhelmed her. Savouring the look on her face as he forced himself into her, hearing her agonised scream as her tender flesh tore open to receive him.
He grew hard at the thought of it.
Visions swam in his mind as the opiate took hold of him, images of the delicious cruelties he would inflict on her; cruelties only a man could mete out to a woman. He lay back, his skin tingling and, almost unconsciously, he began to stroke himself, gasping at the drug-heightened pleasure of his own touch. There was Lysandra, proud and arrogant, as he, Nastasen, came to her, tearing the clothes from her body. He laughed at her shock, and laughed again as his great fist smashed into her face. He was bearing her down, holding her wrists to the ground as he pushed between her splayed legs. Splayed like a whore’s. And the unimaginable pleasure of that first, bleeding violation…
He gripped himself tightly, cutting off his impending orgasm, his heart pounding, sweat coursing over his body. Sitting up, he blew softly on the smouldering hemp until the ends glowed brightly. Why just imagine he asked himself? Had she not done enough merely by despising him? She deserved to be punished.
The drug coursing through him, he allowed his initial arousal to wane but he still felt a heavy, urgent desire to spend his seed.
The Spartan would be his receptacle.
Catuvolcos was worried, both for Lysandra and for himself. He had seen many women come to the ludus and had inured himself to tender feelings towards them. Balbus was a good master, providing women for his trainers in order that they would not be driven to distraction by the gladiatrices with whom they were allowed no intimacy.