Gladiatrix

XXXV

Lysandra surveyed her new surroundings through bruised, puffy eyes. Extensive building work had recently been completed on the shrine, that much was obvious. She could tell that this had once been a fairly modest establishment, but now, whilst not opulent and grand, much space had been added to the rear of the temple proper. Evidently, Athene’s shrine in Halicarnassus had prospered under the auspices of the Athenian priest.

Telemachus led her to a small anteroom, where he placed her bucket of books on a bunk. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this will be yours while you recover. I know it’s not much, but then again…’ he gestured and Lysandra rewarded him with a half smile.

‘It is most pleasant, Brother,’ she said, aware that he would know all about the austerity of both agoge and ludus. ‘Though I should not wish to live in such luxury all the time, whilst I heal, this will be acceptable.’ She saw him take a sidelong glance at her, unsure of whether or not she was being serious. She decided to leave him in the dark. ‘When should I start my work?’

‘Oh, there will be plenty of time for all that,’ the priest replied.

‘It’s not at all pressing. But as I said, there is a lot of it and your help will be invaluable to me.’

Lysandra lowered herself gingerly onto the bunk and lay on her side.

‘Let’s take a look at you, then,’ Telemachus said. ‘I have some healing salves which I will apply for you. I shall bring them.’ He turned and exited swiftly.

Lysandra suddenly felt very tired. Though she was loath to admit it, even the short wagon ride from the arena to the shrine had utterly exhausted her. However, she told herself that wallowing in self-indulgence was no way to get back to full health and so she sat up and began to struggle out of her tunic. It was slow, agonising work and she fought the urge to utter a curse. Nastasen had made even the simplest of tasks a Heraclean effort for her.

Though the tunic caught over her head she struggled on gamely.

There were footfalls and Telemachus was there: a sharp tearing sound and the garment fell away.

‘You know, Lysandra,’ he said, ‘it does not always have to be the hard way.’ He gestured with the knife he had used to cut away the cloth.

‘It is what I am used to,’ she responded. ‘The acceptance of hardship is a virtue, Brother.’

Telemachus grunted, looking at her ravaged body. She could tell that his face was a carefully composed Stoic mask: she looked in bad shape, and well she knew it. ‘It looks far worse than it feels,’ she lied.

‘Does it?’ Telemachus did not seem at all convinced. ‘I will apply the salve, if you have no objection.’

‘Of course not.’ Lysandra settled herself back. ‘Though I am used to the wanton cries of lewd men, I hardly think that you will receive any gratification from the sight of me, Brother.’

‘Just call me Telemachus,’ he said, rubbing the unguent into her shoulders as gently as he could. Carefully, he covered her torso and back with the vile-smelling stuff, but advised her to deal with her personal areas herself. ‘How’s that?’ he asked after a while.

‘It feels strange, as though it is lifting the soreness from the bruises. Not that they were causing me overmuch discomfort,’ she added hastily.

‘Good. I want you to drink this now.’ He handed her a cup.

‘It’s a healing draught. Unlike an opiate it won’t turn you into a walking corpse. But it will help you to rest.’

‘Thank you.’ Lysandra took the cup and sipped the bitter liquid. ‘It is utterly foul,’ she told him after a moment.

Telemachus chuckled. ‘Well, it must be if even a Spartan passes comment on its flavour. But is that not the way of the world, Lysandra? All things that are bad for you taste wonderful, all those that are not taste vile.’

‘Only if one is used to the decadent lifestyle of Athens,’ she said blithely.

‘You’re welcome.’ Telemachus’s expression turned sour, but there was kindness in his eyes. ‘I have this.’ He turned and produced a lengthy chiton. ‘It ties at the front, so you won’t have to struggle in and out of a tunic.’

‘You are most considerate,’ she told him as he helped her into the garment.

‘I’m a priest. It’s part of the job… as we are taught in Athens at least.’

‘Perhaps…’ she said, lying down once again, her voice floating, ‘there is something to be said for that.’

Telemachus watched as Lysandra drifted into slumber. He waited till the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest told him she was deeply asleep before brushing the raven hair away from her face and leaving her to her rest.

There were tasks he had to attend to and the faithful would be gathering soon. His workload had increased threefold since the money he had received from Balbus had been ploughed into the shrine. With better facilities the congregation had increased a great deal, as had his standing in the expatriate community.

That the money had been gained by helping Lysandra the first time had not sat well with him initially. But on reflection, he had realised that things were in balance and he had acted properly. He had performed a service and all parties concerned had been better off because of it. Balbus had his gladiatrix back, Lysandra was prepared for her life in the arena, and the goddess had a more opulent place of worship.

This, however, was different. Balbus had rushed to him after the rape, knowing that a degree of trust must exist between Spartan priestess and Athenian priest. The lanista was not an evil, or even cruel man, and knew that the abiding horrors of Lysandra’s ordeal could destroy her. He had offered Telemachus money to help the girl, but this time the Greek had refused payment.

His day’s work done, Telemachus retreated to what he optimistically termed his library to find some texts for Lysandra to re-copy. The truth of the matter was that he had no such work for her and would have to make some. This took some time, as most of his collection was of the more popular works and he had decided that it would be unfair to engage Lysandra in useless tasks.

So occupied had he become in the task of seeking out older texts, he did not realise the hour had grown late. That his lamp was beginning to flicker told him he’d been searching for some hours now. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the pile of scrolls he had amassed: certainly, it was enough for her to be getting on with.

He rose, his back clicking, and made his way to his room. In the silence of the shrine, the sound of Lysandra’s voice was clear.

She was calling out, desperate for help. Cursing, Telemachus rushed to her quarters, hoping that his lamp would last out.

Lysandra writhed and thrashed on her bunk, in the grip of a terrible nightmare. It was all too obvious from her cries that she was re-living her ordeal at the hands of the Nubian. He rushed to her side.

‘Lysandra!’ He shook her gently, not wishing to hurt her, or snap her from her slumber too suddenly. Her lids flickered open, the ice-coloured eyes wide with fear and panic.

‘Get away!’ she screamed. ‘Get away from me!’

‘Lysandra, it is I…’ the priest began to say, but the young Spartan merely screamed incoherently. She was, he realised, still in the grip of her dream and the presence of a man in her room in the dark could not help her. Defeated and helpless, he retreated, listening as the cries began to abate. Telemachus sighed and sat on the floor outside her room, his back leaning on the wall. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night. But he did not wish to leave her alone.