I knew that this sparring session was a private one and that I probably wasn’t supposed to be there, but I still stood there, peering around the column with fierce curiosity. I’d only ever seen the woman who owned me at a distance. The Lanista had a terrace that overlooked the practice grounds, and that was where she watched us from, a shadowy shape beneath an awning. Her palla was always pulled up over her head like the hood of a cloak, even on hot days.
I’d heard from Ajani that the Lady Achillea had once, not too long ago, been celebrated far and wide, the toast of Rome’s arenas. She’d built a reputation in only a few short years as the best gladiatrix the world had ever seen. But then there’d been an accident, a terrible crash during what had been a particularly wild chariot race in the Circus Maximus, and she hadn’t been seen in the arena since. Morbid curiosity made me wonder if she’d been deformed by her injuries. Simmering resentment made me hope she had. It was childish of me, I knew—after all, it wasn’t her fault I’d gotten myself taken by slave traders in the first place—but I couldn’t help it.
I realized, suddenly, that the sounds of dueling had died away, and I glanced over to see that the two women had ended their match. And they were both staring at me standing dumbly in the breezeway. I could feel their gazes on me even though I couldn’t see their eyes behind the metal grates of their visors. I jumped and would have scurried away if the Lady Achillea hadn’t said something to Thalestris, who gestured for me to stay where I was.
I waited as the Lanista, still in her helmet, gathered her gear and left through a far archway without a backward glance. Thalestris sheathed her sword on her hip and lifted off her own helmet, tucking it under her arm, and walked toward me. I expected some kind of punishment, or at least a thorough tongue-lashing, for having intruded, but she just smiled at me coolly.
“Perhaps one day you will fight like that, yes?” she said.
“Like you? Or the Lanista?”
She laughed, a throaty chuckle that sounded almost like a warning growl, and shook her head. “You should have seen her back in her arena days,” she said. “After her accident she retrained herself to fight in a way that turns injuries into assets, weakness into strength. But you should have seen her then. She was the original, and she was the best.”
“What do you mean, she was the original?” I asked, suppressing the urge to boast that one day I would be best. Better than both of them.
“The original gladiatrix.”
“She was?”
Thalestris nodded. “Caesar sent her into the arena as the first woman ever to compete in the ludi—well, the first of two—and the mob in the stands went wild with excitement.”
“Who did she fight against?” I asked.
“She fought against a Scythian captive like myself—the Greeks and the Romans call us Amazons—and she won the day brilliantly.”
“Did you know the other warrior?”
“She was my own sister.”
“What happened to her?”
Thalestris looked at me. “She lost the day,” she said. “Not quite so brilliantly. I honor her memory.”
I stared at her. “Achillea killed your sister and now you work for her?”
The very idea was abhorrent to me. I could barely stand living in a place owned by Caesar, the man whose soldiers my own sister had died fighting. The thought of working closely, day after day, with someone who had my kin’s blood on their hands was unthinkable. Amazons were either heartless or spineless.
But even though I knew my disgust must have shown in my expression, Thalestris’s eyes never wavered from my face, and her gaze remained placid as she said, “When Caesar eventually gave her this ludus to run on his behalf, the Lady Achillea came to me and asked for me to be her Primus Pilus—her First Spear—the head trainer of the gladiatrices. She respected my skills as I respect her.” She lifted her head proudly. “Of course I accepted. I am descended from an eternal line of warrior women. I cannot not fight.”
I thought of all the times I’d said almost those exact same words—to Mael, to Sorcha . . .
“I came to Rome a captive just like you,” Thalestris said. “And I am still a slave. But now, thanks to this place, I am also a teacher. I’m proud to have been given the opportunity to pass along the skills and knowledge of my ancestresses. And the gladiatrix in the arena, thanks to us, is no longer a freakish curiosity as it was in the early days of Achillea’s first fights. Even the men, the gladiators of the Ludus Maximus, respect us now.”
Maybe so, I thought. But even from my limited interactions with the Romans, I also knew perfectly well that those same gladiators were still considered infamia by the patrician class and the plebs alike. Dishonorable. On a level with the whores and the gravediggers, those who fought and died in the arena were considered tainted. So what did it matter if they respected us or not?
“Go.” Thalestris put a hand on my shoulder and nodded toward the barracks. “Sleep. Wake. Eat. Fight. That’s all you need to do until tomorrow night.”
She left me there in the darkness, thinking about what she’d just said.