Gladiatrix

XXXIV

It was hard for her to move, but Lysandra persevered. She was beaten to an extent that merely lying down caused her pain, and sitting brought its own agonies.

Yet she was could not simply lie there. She had been in the bed for over a week — an unbearable eternity of nightmare, misery and pain.

Sorina was convalescing too but the Amazon had made no effort to speak, for which Lysandra was profoundly grateful.

With painful slowness, she edged herself from the bed and tottered towards the doorway, and looked out at the now silent corridors. Tired suddenly, she leaned heavily on the wall, hating her weakness. She knew that the physical hurt would pass; but a rage burned inside her that Nastasen had escaped unpunished for his crime. The surgeon had told her that every effort was being made to track him down, but Lysandra reckoned that it was unlikely he would be found. Never in her life had she felt so powerless, so unable to meet life on terms that she dictated.

Had she not risen above slavery, conquered her captors and the mob with her skill and genius? But this was something she could do nothing about. Nastasen and his friends would escape and live out their days knowing they had won, that they had taken their pleasure from her and that she was helpless to prevent it.

They had forced her to submit, and the shame of it burned within her like acid. What she would give to have Nastasen before her with a sword in his hand. She would cut the bastard to ribbons and bathe in his blood. That he still lived mocked her.

She smacked her fist into the door, and regretted it instantly, for the action sent a wave of agony through her.

‘Feeling better?’ Sorina’s voice sounded from the stillness of the room.

This was all she needed. They had not spoken in all the time they had been in surgery, and she could do without the old bitch’s meaningless inanities. ‘I shall be well,’ she replied shortly, realising that to ignore her would be to sink to the level of the barbarian.

Sorina hoisted herself from her bed with difficulty, and Lysandra sneered at this open show of her discomfort. A Spartan may suffer pain like any other mortal but would not show it — especially to an enemy. She was certain that, even in her drugged stupor, she had not let herself down in such a manner.

‘I am sorry for what happened to you,’ Sorina said. ‘It is a crime against all women that a man should do this.’

Lysandra recoiled. How dare she have the gall to offer her sympathy? It was insulting. ‘Perhaps you should be more sorry for killing Eirianwen,’ she snapped, feeling the cords that held her temper in place begin to fray.

‘I am. Truly. I loved her as a daughter. But I could not have fought less than my best. To do so would be to dishonour Eirianwen.’

She was, Lysandra noted, making a good show of genuine regret, but it did not fool her; Sorina was trying to assuage her guilt by making amends. ‘Spare me your platitudes,’ she hissed.

‘You, in the autumn of your worthless existence, destroyed someone who was only pure and good. Your vanity would not allow anything less; you claim to have loved her as a daughter? Then you are the first ‘mother’ I have heard of that would put her own life before that of her child. You murdered her, Sorina, for I know she did not come at you with her best.’

‘Lysandra, you don’t understand the ways of the Tribes.’ Sorina’s voice was gentle, almost pleading.

‘Do not speak of your barbarian nonsense to me. I will not be Ate to hear your confession,’ Lysandra declared, naming the Goddess of Guilt. ‘My body may be injured, but my mind is sound. And know this: you are marked, old woman. I will kill you for what you did.’

Sorina’s hazel eyes flared with anger. ‘You arrogant bitch,’ she spat, struggling to her feet. ‘I was trying to make a peace between us that Eirianwen might be at rest, but you throw it in my face.

I have my pride, yes, but it is not the blind arrogance that taints your soul.’

‘You have nothing to be proud of, kinslayer,’ Lysandra said, hurling out the word Eirianwen herself had once used. ‘I know that you are a spent force, and that you used Eirianwen’s care of you to your advantage. Well, hear this: I challenge you. And I will not spare my hand, I swear by Athene. I will cut you down with impunity, and nothing will give me greater pleasure!’

‘You don’t have the skill.’ Sorina took a tentative step forward.

‘I beat you before when you crossed me at the ludus — if you were not too drunk to remember it! I will do so again. With a sword, or without it.’

‘Come then!’ Lysandra’s temper snapped and she lunged forwards, blind to everything save the need to crush the life from the Amazon.

Just as she came within striking range of Sorina, strong arms gripped her from behind, and hoisted her away. Unable to turn and see who held her, she kicked and screamed furiously struggling to break the iron grip.

Alerted by her howls, the surgeon rushed into the treatment area, with Stick and Catuvolcos in tow. ‘What in Hades name is going on here?’ he demanded.

‘I will kill her!’ Lysandra screamed, as the surgeon and Catuvolcos rushed past to restrain Sorina who was now hobbling forwards, screeching obscenities. Lysandra lashed out to kick her, but Stick lunged and grabbed her flailing legs.

‘Get her out of here!’ the surgeon barked, and Lysandra was powerless to prevent herself from being borne away.

‘We came to see how you were doing…’ Stick grunted as she struggled to break free. ‘Stop now, Lysandra!’

She glared at him, but was too weak to continue the fight. In silence, the two men bore down the corridor and to a cell; here, they let her to her feet.

‘Fine way to act in front of your friend,’ Stick glowered and jerked his chin at the man behind her before stalking off.

She turned, still furious, but stopped short.

‘Hello, Lysandra,’ Telemachus said, smiling at her. His grin faded suddenly. ‘You’re not going to strike me, are you?’

Lysandra drew herself up, fighting back her anger. ‘Do not be absurd, Brother. Servants of the Goddess do not hit one another. I shall reserve my anger for the barbarian bitch you saw me with.’

‘That’s good. You should sit.’ He indicated a bunk. ‘You look as though you will fall down at any moment.’

‘I shall stand,’ Lysandra said defiantly. The fact was that Nastasen’s atrocities had made it extremely painful for her to sit.

Telemachus, however, was insistent. ‘Lie on your side then,’ he said. Lysandra flushed with shame, that he offered this advice meant that he knew well what had been done to her, but, feeling her legs go weak, she complied, forcing her face to stony stoicism: it would not do to show that an action as simple as lying down caused her discomfort.

‘What are you doing here?’ Lysandra asked as soon as she had arranged herself into a position that was bearable.

‘I came to visit you,’ he replied. ‘Balbus asked me, having told me what happened. He considers that we are friends. We are, aren’t we?’

That they had met but once was of no matter, Lysandra supposed. They shared a common ancestry, and practised similar devotions. ‘I suppose that we are.’ She shrugged. ‘I thank you, but I shall recover quite soon.’

‘I’m sure.’ Telemachus nodded. ‘I have asked Balbus that you spend your recuperation with me.’

‘Why?’ Lysandra straightened. ‘My place is at the ludus with the Hellene women. I am their leader, and they will not manage without me.’

‘I’m sure they will survive. And I think that some time away from all of this will do you good.’

‘I am quite well, and have no need of sympathy, Brother.’

‘I’m not offering you sympathy. The fact is that I need your help. I’m well aware of what you have been through with your trainer — and the loss of your friend. Balbus has told me everything, so I feel somewhat guilty asking you at what must be a sad time for you.’

‘What help?’ Lysandra frowned. ‘I am no good for anything at the moment. Though we Spartans bear pain with dignity, I am not so vain as to think that I am at my full powers.’

‘This is so,’ the Athenian agreed. ‘You’re no good for training at the ludus till you get your strength back. But I know that Sparta makes well-learned priestesses with sharp minds. That your body has suffered will not dull the keenness of your thoughts. If you were anything other than Spartan, I would not trouble you after what you have been through.’

Lysandra found herself smiling slightly. Truly, Telemachus was a good man and, as a Hellene and priest, had an innate understanding of the superiority of the Spartan race. ‘You are correct. Great indignities have been visited upon my body and I am somewhat distraught at the loss of my love.’ She felt no shame in pronouncing her devotion to Eirianwen. ‘But if I can help a friend, of course I will.’

‘It’s a big task…’ Telemachus hesitated. ‘I need works from my library copied up: Hesiod, Thucydides, Plato… that sort of thing.

Are you sure you are up to it?’

‘Of course.’ Lysandra answered levelly, betraying no sense of the relief she felt. It would be good to feel something other than utterly useless and abused. It would in no way assuage the helpless anger that she felt at Nastasen’s deeds, but at least there was some practical thing to which she could divert her attentions.

Obviously, Telemachus was guilt-ridden at asking her in her current state, but he evidently could find no one properly qualified in both religion and scripting to aid him. Certainly, their association was a good one; he had helped her in the past, and it pleased her to be able to help him. And, if she was honest with herself, such tasks might also keep her from thinking too much of Eirianwen and the pain those memories brought with them.

Aside from her personal needs, she also considered that her grasp of language and literature would be far better than Telemachus’s. Doubtless she would produce work of better quality.

‘Balbus has agreed to this?’ she asked.

‘Yes. He is pleased to know that a healer of skill will look after you, and that it is costing him nothing.’

‘A healer?’

‘I have no small expertise.’ Telemachus did not waste time with false modesty, she noted.

‘And, in such a way, I shall repay you for your skills with my work.’ Lysandra smiled slightly, refusing to wince as her lip split.

‘Precisely so.’ He handed her a cloth. ‘We have a deal?’

‘Yes, we have a deal. When should we leave?’

‘Right away.’ Telemachus got to his feet and offered Lysandra his hand. She spurned the offer. ‘Follow me,’ he said, turning away.

His back to Lysandra, Telemachus smiled grimly, pleased with his success. When Balbus had come to him, he had realised at once that leaving her to her own thoughts would be damaging to her.

The lanista’s concern had been for his fighter, his stock, but Telemachus’s anxiety was over the girl’s health. In truth, he did not know her well, but then she was a priestess and it seemed to Telemachus that she had had more than her fair share of bad luck. He wanted to help her, both as priest and fellow Hellene.

One thing he did realise was that keeping her mind active would help her with the trauma she had suffered. He had assured Balbus that a change of environment would be the best medicine for the girl’s mind.

He offered a prayer to Athene and then to Nemesis that they would catch the pigs that had raped her — the goddess of justice that they would be found and the goddess of vengeance that they would suffer the torments that their evil deserved.