The sun was westering as we neared the shore where the ludus gates stood open. The girls from the Ludus Amazona had already been herded like goats through the gates and out of sight by their guards—an ever-present contingent of grim, glowering brutes in black armor and helmets. The Amazona girls were to remain quartered in a newly built barracks wing as our “guests” for the next several days, and there would be a series of “friendly, collegial” competitions. The prospect had prompted equal amounts of groaning and glee from the Achillea girls. In the meantime, we were allowed the rare treat of a cookout on the beach that night—food, drink, and just that little extra bit of freedom that was a taste of things to come for the ludus.
As we set out rugs and cushions on the sand, I looked back over the water to see the shadow-black silhouetted figure of Thalestris—the academy’s primus pilus, the Lanista’s right hand—far in the distance. She stood balanced on a reed skiff holding a fishing spear poised above her head, ready to strike. In the days leading up to Cleopatra’s naumachia, the fight mistress, who boasted of being a real Amazon, had made no secret of her disdain for the spectacle—something she regarded as useless frivolity and an insulting waste of the carefully honed and nurtured gladiatorial talents of her charges.
Sorcha had known full well Thalestris wouldn’t be able to keep her sharp tongue sheathed in the presence of a bunch of lolling elites, and so she’d been given leave to spend the day fishing. As far away from the spectacle as she could paddle. I watched her spear pierce the surface of the water with the swiftness of a striking serpent.
Thalestris was not someone I would ever want to rouse to anger.
? ? ?
Night fell and we sat on the beach, warming away the lake chill with the flames of crackling bonfires and mugs of beer out of barrels rescued from the disaster of Leander’s supply skiff, brought ashore as rightful booty from our “conquest.” It was better stuff than any of us had ever tasted—better even than the foamy dark brew I used to drink in my kingly father’s feast hall back home in Durovernum—and we relished it.
Leander, himself, did not receive the same outpouring of good cheer.
“It’s a peace offering!” he squeaked, hiding behind the wicker basket he carried as if it were a legionnaire’s shield. He probably should have announced his presence before stepping out of the shadows beyond the circle of firelight. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for the poor lad.
“Peace offering?” Ajani purred at him like a cat with a cornered mouse. She considered Tanis her archery protégé and was less than impressed that she’d been imperiled by Leander’s stunt.
“Ajani . . . pretty—no, no . . . beautiful—beautiful Ajani,” Leander stammered, dark eyes huge and liquid, like a puppy begging for scraps. “I was only trying to help you win glory!”
I laughed out loud and almost choked on my mouthful of beer. “Help?”
He glanced over at me, and his stance shifted back to the cocksure attitude I was used to from him. “Yes, domina!” he said, grinning. “Without me, you wouldn’t have had the opportunity for such a spectacular leap—such heroism! I was so happy to help.”
I marveled at his brashness.
Meriel rolled her eyes. “You’re an idiot,” she said.
“A beneficial idiot.” He nodded and held out the basket again, lifting the lid. Inside, there were six plump lake trout, gleaming and gutted, ready for the fire. Also several loaves of bread, and a wheel of cheese wrapped in cloth.
My mouth watered at the sight.
Elka glared at him. “Where did you get all this?” she asked. “And how much trouble are you going to get us in by bringing it here?”
“No trouble at all!” Leander’s grin widened. “The trout are from Thalestris—the noise from the naumachia drove all the fishes to her end of the lake, and she caught more than we can use in the kitchen. I offered to take them off Cook’s hands.”
Damya snorted. “You pilfered them.”
“No! Cook gave them to me fairly,” he protested. Then he shrugged and smiled slyly. “Now, the bread and cheese . . .”
Ajani cuffed him across the top of his head, ruffling his dark hair, and let the matter drop. It was hard to stay mad at Leander for any length of time. Meriel plucked the basket from his hands and went to work setting the fish on the fire to cook. The night settled down around us, stars winking and waves whispering in the darkness, and the mood was as light as the breeze off the lake. I felt almost like I was home, back in Durovernum. With my friends . . .
“Hey, Fallon!” Elka hailed me from behind the mound of food piled on her platter. “Come eat. You have to build up your strength if you’re going to keep leaping about like a Minoan acrobat.”
Damya grinned. “Maybe we should find her a bull to vault in the arena.”
“At least until that decurion of hers gets back from the wars!” Lydia said.
“I’ll stick with chariot horses, thanks,” I said, ignoring her lewd cackle.
I took the platter Antonia offered me, balanced deftly on the bronze-and-leather sheath that encased the stump of her left forearm. It had taken us all a bit of getting used to—the fact that she was missing her hand, severed at the wrist in a practice bout accident—but Antonia had decided early on that it wasn’t going to impede her. That had gone a long way toward the rest of us accepting it. Indeed, since the mishap, once it had become apparent that Antonia was no longer in danger of dying from her injury, she seemed to have grown beyond the bounds of what had once been a pronounced shyness.
With Neferet—the girl who’d not only been the one responsible for the amputation but who’d dedicated herself wholly, fiercely, to nursing her back to health—Antonia had made impressive progress. I saw Neferet smile at her and suspected that her heart might have been just as instrumental as her healing hands during Antonia’s convalescence.
“Where did Thalestris learn to fish like that?” Meriel wondered through a mouthful of trout.
“She grew up on an island,” Leander said.
“An island?”
He nodded, pouring more beer. “Mm-hm . . . that’s what I heard her say.”
I frowned. Even after more than a year spent living near the very heart of the Roman Republic, I was still a bit hazy on the concept of geography. But I’d seen maps, been told how to read them, and had a basic understanding of who came from where. And I knew enough to know that Scythia—the place where the so-called Amazons came from—wasn’t an island.
When I said so, Leander shrugged but stuck to his tale.
“He’s right,” Gratia grumbled into her cup of wine as she washed down a mouthful of fish. “Thalestris is as Amazon as my arse.”
We turned as one to blink at her in the gathering darkness. She raised her head and blinked back. A bit blearily.
“Amazon,” Gratia said again, loud enough so that the rest of us could all hear her above the crackling of the logs and drawing out the word with a sneer. “My arse.”
Elka snorted in amusement. “It will be,” she agreed. “On latrine duty for all eternity, if she hears you talk like that.”