She did indeed feel ashamed of herself for acting in such a pitiful manner, but that was past and there was no changing it. The future was a path not yet set and she now knew that the goddess had given her an opportunity to truly test herself and win honour for them both.
After a speedy visit to the bathhouse, Lysandra made her way to the kitchens to join the others for the morning meal. As she approached, the women around her fell silent until they considered her out of earshot; then they tittered and were probably making barbed comments about her. She felt her face flush, knowing that it was her own inept performance that afforded these inferiors licence to behave so.
But the mocking of Lysandra was not the main topic of conversation that morning. There was much excitement, as the new women were soon to take the Oath. They had, all of them, passed their tests and could now be considered gladiatrices proper — though the ultimate challenge would come on the sands, Lysandra knew.
Of course, the training routine had not ceased in the three days she had been absent and Lysandra found that the women had been split into smaller, more specialised groups after Balbus’s impromptu contest. Instead of merely practising with sword and shield, the novices had been set to work with the various tools of the gladiatorial trade. The larger, bigger-boned barbarians were heavily armed, fighting in the Gallic style, whereas the slighter women were training as the Thraex — the Thracian — clad in only the subligaculum loincloths, their torsos bare. These fighters were armed with nothing other than a sword and small shield. Still others were working with trident and net, the retiaria.
Titus, Stick and Nastasen prowled amongst them, berating and shouting, demanding more skill and speed. In the midst of one such haranguing, Stick noticed Lysandra standing apart, taking in the scene. He approached, shaking his head, his expression disgusted.
‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite invalid,’ he said. ‘Feeling better after our little break, are we?’ His brown, calloused knuckles rapped her on the forehead. ‘Still working, is it?’
Lysandra ignored the jibe. ‘What am I to train with?’
‘After your performance, you should train with Greta and the scrubs. I’m not sure you’re going to be any use to this ludus, Greek.’
Lysandra glared at him. ‘If you are going to refer to me in that manner, please address me as Hellene, for that is my nation, or Spartan. That is what I am,’ she said imperiously.
‘I don’t give a shit,’ Stick responded. He looked her up and down. ‘You’re a tall streak, but there’s no meat on your bones. I reckon you won’t be able to handle the heavy gear.’ He jerked his thumb at the women fighting as secutorixes.
‘That is absurd,’ she retorted. ‘I am well used to long hours in armour heavier than that.’ It was true; the secutorix kit afforded the women more protection than most, but the panoply covered only the arms and legs. There was nothing to protect the torso; this would, after all, defeat the object of the games, which was to slake the mob’s thirst for blood.
Stick jabbed her in the stomach with the vine staff, just hard enough to make her step back. ‘I was thinking aloud, not asking you for your views on the subject, slave. If you want a beating to put you back in the infirmary, just carry on giving me your opinion.’
Lysandra glowered at the insolent little savage, but remained silent, refusing to give him an excuse to hit her.
‘ Thraex, I think,’ Stick said after a moment’s more consideration. ‘You’re fast, Spartan, but I think you are not yet ready to train as the dimachaera: that is for proven fighters, and that time in Halicarnassus you were merely lucky.’ He gave her his tooth-iest grin. ‘So let’s get you into a subligaculum and see those little titties jiggle.’
‘I am not ashamed of my body,’ Lysandra sneered. ‘I find it quite pitiable that you seek your sordid self-gratification in such a manner.’
Stick’s eyes bulged and he raised the vine staff, swinging it across towards her shoulder. Lysandra reacted on instinct, stepping to one side and intercepted his forearm with her own. She twisted her wrist and gripped, pulling his arm down, dragging him towards her. ‘There is no need for that, Stick,’ she said, her voice calm. She released him and stepped away. Lysandra could see a range of emotions flicker across the trainer’s face as he decided whether he was going to take issue with her insubordination. He glanced around but satisfied himself that none had seen their exchange.
‘Just get into a subligaculum, and get to work with the others,’ he grunted.
‘Certainly.’ She smiled slightly and stalked off, feeling rather pleased with herself.
Stick put Lysandra to work with Thebe, the Hellene girl who had performed first in Balbus’s recent trials. Much shorter than the Spartan, she was slightly built, but the months of training in the ludus had hardened her body and the evidence of her strength was etched on her naked torso.
‘Just take it slowly at first,’ Stick instructed Lysandra. ‘Get used to the parmula.’ He referred to the small buckler that offered a Thracian gladiatrix her only protection. ‘The important thing is not to wave it about. It’s not a fan. Keep it close to your body and deflect attacks — don’t try to swat them out of the way.’ Stick pantomimed waving his arm away from his body. ‘You see. If you do, you leave yourself wide open and you’ll get skewered.’
Lysandra nodded and turned her attention to the somewhat diminutive Thebe. She stretched her neck from left to right and spun her wooden sword twice in her hand, making it hiss as it cut the air. Stick shouted at her for showing off and ordered them to be about their work.
Thebe advanced confidently, her expression leaving Lysandra in no doubt that she was being held in contempt. After all, Thebe had won her bout whilst she herself had been dispatched with ease by Hildreth. That, she thought to herself, was the way of the lesser Hellenes — they were all so damned arrogant.
As instructed, Thebe struck out lightly with her rudis, letting Lysandra become accustomed to the small, Thracian shield. Stick was quite correct: the parmula would take some getting used to.
It felt extremely odd, and the natural instinct was to fend off attacks long before they came into range. However, Lysandra felt indeed fortunate that she had been trained to ignore instinct and observe the disciplines of combat.
After a few exploratory exchanges, she nodded at Thebe to pick up the pace. The slight Hellene responded, changing her angles of attack and breaking up their rhythm. It came to Lysandra as they sparred that her pankration skills could be applied to wielding the parmula. If she treated it as an extension of her hand, rather than a shield proper, then she could block and parry as she would in unarmed combat.
‘Come at me,’ Lysandra encouraged her smaller opponent. ‘At full speed.’
Thebe stepped back, however, and lowered her guard. She turned to Stick. ‘I don’t think she’s ready for this. She could get hurt. Stick, you saw how she fought the other day. She is the only one yet who has ended up in the infirmary.’
Lysandra fumed. If Thebe thought that a few months of training could eclipse a lifetime’s worth, then she was sorely mistaken. She was about to explain matters to the girl but Stick spoke to Thebe first.
‘Just let her have it,’ he suggested.
Thebe shrugged and raised her guard once again. For a moment she was still; then she attacked. Lysandra did not step back as the Hellene girl moved in. Rather she twisted her hips and her feet followed, causing her body to angle away from Thebe’s sword.
The parmula guided the weapon away from Lysandra and she struck home with her own sword, the tip stabbing her opponent painfully on the side of the neck. Thebe dropped to the floor, clutching her hurt.
Lysandra turned to Stick, her eyes alight, her nostrils flared slightly. ‘First rule,’ she quoted Nastasen. ‘You get an instant kill on the red. Always remember, go for the red first, because if you don’t your opponent will.’