The guards ushered them through the entrance and passed them into the care of several slave women, the eldest of whom was a severe-looking German who announced herself as Greta.
Fortunately, some of the other attendants spoke Hellenic and hearing the music of her own language lifted Lysandra’s mood somewhat.
They were taken to a side room that contained several buckets of evil-smelling liquid and little else. Greta instructed the women to massage the odoriferous stuff into their heads. There was a vague tang of naphtha in the mix and Lysandra reasoned that, though disgusting, the concoction would rid her of the lice that had been her travelling companions for the past few days. In any event, it was preferable to having her head shaved.
Greta ordered the women sluiced down with warm water before taking them to the building’s main functional room.
Lysandra’s lips turned upwards in pleasure as they moved into the baths proper. The pool was large and, to her surprise, scented.
Wisps of steam meandered from the surface, making the air humid and heavy. She needed no urging, and made purposefully towards the water.
Hildreth and the others hung back and harsh words in German were exchanged between her and Greta. Greta, though obviously a slave herself, seemed to have carved her way to a position of some seniority in the self-contained world of the ludus and evidently tolerated no defiance. Yet Hildreth had a dangerous look to her as welclass="underline" certainly, she was not a woman to be trifled with.
Lysandra paused and cocked an eyebrow at one of Greta’s scrubs.
‘What are they saying?’ she asked.
The girl was young, perhaps six years junior to Lysandra’s own nineteen. Tiny in stature, her freckled, elfin face was dominated by huge brown eyes and framed by a mop of unruly dark curls.
She shrugged her skinny shoulders.
‘I don’t know for sure, but I can guess,’ came the response.
‘The barbarians are fearful of bathing.’ She risked a slight smile.
‘They think that they will get the chills and die!’
Lysandra sniffed loftily. ‘Ignorant savages,’ she muttered and plunged into the pool without further comment. True, she had come to look at the barbarians in a slightly less derogatory light after their journey to the ludus but her low opinion of them was appropriate. They were like overgrown children: stupid, scared and superstitious. And, she thought to herself, their dubious companionship was something that had been forced upon her.
In any normal circumstance they would not have warranted even her attention, let alone her time.
Thoughts of the Germans drifted away as she revelled in the sensation of the hot water on her skin. After the filthy days on the road, the pleasure at cleansing herself was immense. She rolled luxuriantly in the bath, letting the heat open her pores and wash the mire of sweat and dirt from her body.
She swam under the water for a while, before letting herself float to the surface and drift lazily to one of the sides. Arms and shoulders resting on the lip of the pool, she watched as the Germans lost their struggle to remain dirty. Reluctantly, one by one, they lowered themselves into the steaming water, crying out with shock at the unnatural warmth. Their fear, however, was soon conquered as the perfumed heat did its seductive work, relaxing cramped muscles and purifying the skin. Greta tossed a bag of sponges among the delighted and cooing tribeswomen. A visible scum began to form around them as their vigorous scrubbing started to shift years of ingrained dirt.
Lysandra stayed well away, but any hopes she had of idling in the water were quickly dispelled as Greta’s long-experienced eye adjudged that her countrywomen were sufficiently bathed.
Clapping her hands together briskly, she ordered everyone out of the pool.
The tiny slave girl with whom she had spoken earlier approached her. ‘You must come with me,’ the girl said. Similarly, each of the new captives was now being led away by one of Greta’s contingent. After bathing, Lysandra was feeling relaxed and, despite her current circumstances, better than she had in weeks. As such, she was not inclined to question.
Her diminutive guide took her from the bathing area proper and into a side room. Here, a towelled bench lay prepared.
‘I’m Varia,’ the girl offered.
‘Lysandra.’
Varia indicated the bench, instructing Lysandra to lay front down upon it. ‘Just relax,’ she said, pouring a liberal amount of sweet-smelling oil onto her charge’s back and shoulders. Her small hands deftly worked the unguent into her skin, the surprisingly strong fingers kneading and working any remaining tenseness from her muscles.
She almost purred with pleasure under Varia’s ministrations as the massage continued. She could not help but wonder at this sort of treatment, a fact she mentioned to the young slave. Certainly it was not what she had been led to believe a chattel’s lot to be.
‘Ah,’ Varia replied as she now worked her magic on Lysandra’s legs. ‘It will get harder all too soon. There are certain standards to live up to,’ she added matter-of-factly. ‘All the gladiatrices here are very well-trained.’
Lysandra murmured her understanding, her nostrils flaring slightly, catching the aroma of wax in the air. Varia was speaking again. ‘So it is not all massages and bathing. And some of the trainers can be very cruel. I can see you’ve had a cruel master before.’ The slave’s fingertips traced the ridges of the scars on her back.
A sharp tearing sound from the adjacent cell followed by a scream of agony interrupted any answer Lysandra was about to give. She started and looked enquiringly over her shoulder.
‘Waxing,’ Varia responded to the unvoiced question. ‘It lasts longer than shaving, but the first time is very painful for the barbarians.’
Lysandra found herself in absolute agreement. True, she had been trained to ignore pain, she could not help but feel grateful that the waxing was an ordeal she would not have to face. A once-over with a bronze razor would suffice for a civilised woman such as she.
III
In much better form after the unexpected indulgences of the bathhouse, Lysandra emerged wearing the light tunic that had been provided for her, enjoying, despite her circumstances, a lightness of heart she had not felt since her ship was wrecked. Hildreth and the tribeswomen joined her, their gait indicating that the attentions of the waxing cloth had left them somewhat tender. Greta bade them form a single rank and remain silent.
After some minutes one of the trainers, the one she knew went by the name of ‘Stick’ approached the line of women.
Lysandra noted his eyes scrutinising them. She had seen the look before in her youth: Stick was assessing their fitness with a glance, seeking a fire in the eyes that might suggest a woman had promise.
‘Welcome to your new home,’ he said in his high, nasal voice.
As he spoke, Greta translated for the German women. ‘You are slaves… chattel… less than human. Forget that you were once women with lives beyond these walls.’ He grinned nastily. ‘It will only make this more painful for you.’ He began to pace up and down the line of women, swinging his eponymous vine staff.
‘Your sole purpose in life is to provide high-quality entertainment for a very demanding public. You will be trained to this end: to fight and kill, and to face your death in a civilised manner.
‘You will obey me and the other trainers at all times. Remember, you are but slaves and it is your lot to serve the demands of your masters.’ Stick drew to a halt in front of Hildreth. Slowly and deliberately, he slid a brown, callused hand under the hem of her tunic and fondled her between the legs. He cackled as the tribeswoman flushed scarlet for shame, impotent fury burning in her eyes. Stick withdrew his hand and made a show of breathing in her scent. ‘Whatever those demands happen to be,’ he added.