The big Nubian took a menacing step forward. ‘You must like me taking my rod to your back. Maybe a different rod in a different place might teach you some respect,’ he said, fondling himself lewdly.
‘I’m sure Balbus would have something to say about that, Nubian.’ As Stick had demonstrated on their first day, it was apparent that groping and debasing comments were tolerated, but there could be no question of the trainers forcing themselves sexually on the women. This, she had overheard, was a simple economic consideration: pregnant gladiatrices could not fight.
Nastasen grunted, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘Get outside, you Greek bitch, and be thankful I don’t make an example of you.’
Lysandra could not resist. ‘Another one?’ she said blandly, arching an eyebrow.
The Nubian’s temper snapped and, with a growl, he advanced on her. Lysandra dropped back into a fighting stance, determined to cause at least some damage to the big man. He had initiated this away from the ludus and she considered it a personal issue.
‘Nastasen!’ Titus’s gruff voice sounded from outside the cell.
The Nubian paused, his eyes still fixed on Lysandra. ‘Leave it and assemble the novices.’ His demeanour broached no argument.
Nastasen hesitated, then turned sharply away, shouldering past the grizzled Roman. The older trainer shook his head. ‘Come on, Spartan. Get moving.’ Lysandra nodded and followed him out to the training area.
The women had been drawn into rank and file and Lysandra swiftly found herself a place next to Hildreth. She had not spoken to the German since their first day at the ludus but had noted during the exercises that her fellow captive had coped well.
‘Good morning, Lysandra, how are you today?’ Hildreth’s Latin, though weirdly accented, seemed to be improving.
‘I would be better if I were out of this place,’ she responded.
Hildreth looked blankly at her. Lysandra tried again. ‘I am very well, Hildreth, how are you?’
The German smiled broadly. ‘I am very well.’
Lysandra resisted the urge to grin. Instead she faced the front and waited for the daily grind to start.
With Stick, Nastasen and Catuvolcos standing to one side, Titus began to pace up and down the front line, pausing every so often to scrutinise one of the women. This went on for some time but he turned to address them all at last.
‘You are, without doubt, the most useless novices it has ever been my misfortune to train. Cripples would perform better. If you think your training has been tough so far, it is nothing compared to what lies ahead.’ He glared balefully at them, daring them to groan, but was greeted only by silence. All the women knew that to voice their displeasure was to invite a thrashing.
Satisfied he had their attention, he went on. ‘However, that can wait a little. Many of you soft-bodied whores are carrying injuries, either earned in training or self-inflicted through lack of effort.’
He held up his vine staff, indicating that a self-inflicted injury was, in fact, a beating administered by a trainer. ‘Therefore, it is my decision to give you three days of rest. That is ample time to heal any hurts you pathetic specimens might believe you have.
‘In three days, you begin the second and final stage of your training: your training with sword and shield, net and trident, the immortal arts of gladiatorial combat. Only when this is done will you take the Gladiatrix Oath.’
Titus ceased to pace and stood directly at the front and centre of the first rank. ‘I have to tell you now that it is not given that you will succeed. If any one of you fails to make the standards set by the trainers, you will be sold on. That might not sound so terrible, you may think. But if you are sold from this place, you will be a slave forever. Whether you toil with your hands at the loom, your back in the mines, or your cunnus in the whore-house, you will end your days as slaves and your children will be born slaves.
‘The arena offers you a way out. An opportunity to fight for nd earn your freedom. In the weeks to come you must prove to me that you are worthy of this right. That your yet unborn children are worthy to be free. You compete not only against your own pain but against each other.’ He paused for a while, letting that sink in. ‘That is all.’
Titus watched as the novices hesitated a moment before breaking up into their usual groups. The tall Spartan priestess, of course, turned on her heel and separated from the pack. He shook his head. It seemed she had everything she needed to be a ruthless and skilled fighter. But Titus could sense that the fire that somehow managed to burn behind her ice-coloured eyes was being doused little by little.
Varia struggled under the weight of the damp sheets, her thin arms shaking with the effort of carrying so many. Stupid, she thought to herself. She could not manage so many. Her efforts were inspired by fear; Greta drove her scrubs as hard as Nastasen drove the fighters. She had tried her best to complete her quota of work but there was always so much to do. The slave girl tried to pick up her pace but, so doing, overbalanced the precariously stacked cotton.
She fell, the sheets landing with a thud in the dust. Varia bit her lip, tears of frustration and not a little fear welling up in her eyes. Greta would be furious. Frantically, she began gathering the ruined washing when a shadow fell across her. Without even having to look, she knew it was Greta. The German always seemed to know when she had failed; was always on hand to chastise her.
‘You stupid little fool!’ Greta shrieked, kicking the sheets away from Varia’s scrabbling hands. ‘It’s all ruined! I’ll tan your worthless hide!’
Varia cowered, holding her hands over her head, waiting for the stinging blows to land. ‘I’m sorry, Greta, I’m sorry!’ she cried, her voice breaking as her tears spilled forth, desperate, but knowing that mercy was not in the German’s nature. She waited, her eyes squeezed tight shut. There was a sharp snap of flesh on flesh, but no blow landed. Slowly, she turned her head to see why Greta had spared her. She could scarcely believe what she saw.
Greta struggled, her wrist gripped in the hand of a tall goddess; a goddess who had come to save her. The bulky German tried to pull away but could not break free. Varia brushed the tears from her eyes and saw that it was Lysandra, one of the novices. Her heart leapt. Never before had anyone intervened on her behalf!
‘There will be no punishment today,’ Lysandra said, releasing her grip contemptuously.
Greta’s eyes bulged, a mixture of fear and fury. ‘You take your own beatings well enough, Spartan. And never once have I seen you lift a finger to defend your fellow arena fodder.’ She drew herself up. ‘This is not your concern.’
‘Beating hardens a warrior against fear and pain.’ Lysandra sounded as if she were reciting a well-learned phrase. ‘This girl is no warrior.’
‘It is still not your concern,’ Greta recovered herself somewhat. ‘She has failed in her duties, and must be disciplined.’
‘I have just made it my concern.’ Lysandra’s voice was low and calm. But Varia trembled somewhat at its sound. ‘I would hate for us to argue, Greta.’ She took a step forward and Varia swelled with glee as her tormentor gave ground. ‘I require this girl’s services,’ Lysandra went on, her eyes fixed upon Greta’s. ‘The wishes of the fighting women go beyond any paltry domestic concerns of yours.’
Greta snorted and turned to go. Her stamping feet had not taken her more than two yards when Lysandra called her back.
Scarlet faced, she turned about.
‘You have forgotten the sheets,’ she indicated the crumpled laundry. Fuming, Greta gathered the ragged pile and stormed off.
She had got a little further this time before Lysandra spoke again.
There was ice enough in her voice to cause Greta to stop in her tracks. ‘If you take vengeance on this child for my actions, I will kill you.’ It was stated so calmly, so quietly, yet it was the more chilling for its utter blandness. The tension drained out of Greta, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. She nodded once, and walked away.