Gladiatrix

XXXVI

It took some days for Sorina’s fury to abate.

The hated Spartan’s face swam before her eyes, the grating voice, the strange eyes and, most of all, the arrogant demeanour.

It was obvious now that what Eirianwen had said was true. The Morrigan had marked all three of them, intertwining their destinies.

Clearly, the Goddess of Dark Fate had a competition in mind, where only one would be left alive. Eirianwen was dead by Sorina’s own hand, and the Spartan had challenged her in turn.

Soon there would be only Sorina, as it was in the beginning.

She knew that she had the beating of Lysandra, and she prayed furiously that the Spartan recover soon in order that the matter between them might be settled. The Greek’s overweening conceit grated but, worse, the bitch had thrown the Friendship Gift back in her face. She was sick with anger at Lysandra’s mistreatment of her honour. It had taken a great deal for her, as Clan Chief, to make the first words, yet the ingrate had used this merely as an opportunity to insult her. Well, the challenge was laid at her feet and Sorina had never shirked a foe in her life. In normal circumstances she took life with regret, but in her heart she knew that she would enjoy killing Lysandra. To ram three feet of iron into her belly and watch those ice blue eyes widen in pain and surprise would give her great pleasure. More, to send the Greek to Helle knowing that a ‘barbarian’ had bested her would be revenge of the sweetest kind.

Sorina’s rage gave her strength and helped score out the grief she felt at her slaying of Eirianwen. There was guilt still, but she would wash it away in Spartan blood. If not for Lysandra, none of this would have come to pass. She had come into the world of the ludus seeking to take it over and make it her own. She sought to corrupt the best and bravest of the Tribe, mocking them with her seduction of Eirianwen. There had been times when Sorina had doubted in her conviction of this, but now she knew that she was looking for good where there had been none.

Lysandra was evil. That she had been raped was a sign from the gods that she curb her arrogant ways but the ‘priestess’ had ignored it. Sorina knew that this discounting would cost her her life.

This hatred of Lysandra was a contentious issue between her and Lucius Balbus. The lanista visited her often as she recuperated — more, she knew, to keep an eye on his best remaining asset than over any real concern for her health. Balbus needed his best fighters training and earning, not laid up in expensive arena surgeries. The Roman had quizzed her ruthlessly over the cause of her spat with Lysandra but Sorina had remained tight-lipped.

‘It is something between us, lanista,’ she said.

‘Well,’ Balbus stabbed a finger, ‘I don’t want any more of it.

Lysandra is here to stay so get used to it.’

Sorina grunted. ‘Have it your way, Balbus, but I will not stand to be upbraided or attacked by that little slut.’

‘I’ll see to it that she is kept busy, and far away from you.’

Balbus smiled at her, and changed the subject. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Stiff and sore, but the surgeon tells me that I am healing well and will be able to return to the ludus soon. Although by wagon.

I am not ready to ride just yet.’

‘Well, that’s no problem.’ He patted her hand. ‘Just as long as my best fighter is back up to speed soon, that’s the main thing.’

‘You’re in very good spirits, lanista,’ Sorina said, eyeing him archly. ‘Why are you still in the city, anyway? Shouldn’t you be back at the ludus?’

‘Business,’ Balbus replied glibly. ‘The gladiatrix has only to concern herself with the next bout, but the lanista must arrange those bouts. Also, I’m looking at expanding,’ he added. Sorina could see that he was having difficulty in expressing his obvious delight at making a fortune and tempering it with a suitably solemn demeanour. After all, the fortune was earned with the blood of his slaves.

‘You are buying more slaves, then?’

‘Well, yes.’ Balbus cleared his throat. ‘And meeting with building contractors to increase the capacity of the school itself.’

‘We have enough room at the ludus for more than twice the number it now holds,’ Sorina pressed him. ‘Just how big are you going, Balbus?’

‘Very.’ He smiled, somewhat uncomfortably. ‘But don’t you worry about that now. Just get yourself well. I’ll have you taken to the ludus as soon as you are ready to travel.’

Sorina was about to speak again, but Balbus got to his feet, indicating that their conversation was at an end, so she dismissed the matter. She would see what his plans were soon enough.

Lysandra tried to immerse herself in the tasks that Telemachus had set her, hoping it would be a diversion from her thoughts and the recurring memory of Nastasen. But she could not escape her mind, filled as it was with visions of the rape. Worse, when the sun played across the pages, she was reminded of Eirianwen, and the light she had brought to her life. If the days were bad, she feared the night. Sleep, if it came, was a constant torment: Nyx, the Goddess of Nightmares, denied her the embrace of Morpheus with savage malice. When she was not forced to relive the horror of the cell, Eirianwen’s death was played out for her in bloody detail.

The lack of sleep began to fray her already taut nerves and, one afternoon as she pored over a scroll, she finally broke down.

Tears flooded in her eyes, her throat filled with shards of glass.

Telemachus had heard her, and rushed to the small area in which she worked. She looked up at him, her face red and stained.

‘There now,’ the priest said, sitting opposite her. ‘What’s amiss?’

Lysandra shook her head mutely, her tears splashing on the parchment, spoiling the ink. ‘I miss her so much,’ she said after some time. ‘I just cannot bear it.’

Telemachus sighed, his mouth setting a grim slash in his beard.

‘To lose a loved one is the worst pain of all, Lysandra. I know this. But I know also that no one in the world has ever suffered as badly as you.’

Lysandra sniffed. ‘Of course they have.’ She was about to speak again but fresh spasms of grief welled up in her. She felt the priest’s hand on her shoulder and she jolted at the male touch.

But it was brief and he was already past her, returning momentarily with a krater of wine.

‘What I mean is,’ he said as he poured, ‘our own suffering is always the worst. Logically, we know that others feel pain too — but logic has no place in the heart, Lysandra.’

‘I am ashamed of my weakness,’ she said. ‘This is not the Spartan way.’ She wanted to claw at her face, so strong was the pain that wracked her chest.

‘You have nothing to be ashamed of,’ Telemachus told her.

‘These wounds you bear have cut you worse than any sword can.

A lesser woman would have died, but you…’ he trailed off for a moment. ‘You have more strength than you know. It may not seem so at the moment, but you do.’

‘I feel that I have not the will to live.’ She shuddered and reached for the wine cup. Telemachus did not comment as she drained it. ‘What Nastasen did to me, I could bear if only Eirianwen were here to hold me. But I am alone, Telemachus. In here.’ She tapped her chest.

He shook his head. ‘You are not alone, dear Lysandra. In times of grief, to share it with one’s friends is the best thing. And I am a friend to you, Spartan. Any hurt takes time to heal and you are welcome here for as long as you wish it.’

‘But I must return to the ludus as soon as I am able to fight,’ she said earnestly.

‘Yes, but you are not able to fight yet.’ The priest poured her a stiffer measure of wine and she took it, knowing that to walk with Dionysus was to keep Nyx at bay.

Telemachus watched as Lysandra threw back the un-mixed wine.

There was a chilling eagerness in her voice when she expressed her desire to return to the ludus, but to send her back to the sands before her mental scars had healed would be tantamount to assisting her suicide. He did not see fit to bring this up with her, as she would only deny it. ‘Have another drink,’ he offered.

‘It is not always the answer, but sometimes it helps.’

Lysandra did as she was bidden and in time she became drunk, and erupted once more into floods of tears, rambling about Eirianwen and the attack in the cell. It was all Telemachus could do to keep a tear from his own eye at her plight. He was, by nature, a cynical man, but he could not fail to be moved by the desperation in the girl’s voice when she spoke of the Silurian gladiatrix. As for the terror she had suffered at the hands of Nastasen, Telemachus prayed that the giant would be brought to justice and suffer such an end that would even turn the stomachs of the hardened Carian mob.

Eventually, Lysandra became incoherent, her head falling forwards onto her chest. When he was sure she had passed out, Telemachus carried her to her room and laid her gently on her bunk. This done, he made to prepare a healing draught, as he knew well that she would be sorely ill when she awoke.

The first month of her stay with Telemachus passed slowly for Lysandra. The nightmares were a constant plague to her, but Telemachus was always there, shaking her awake, saving her from reliving the pain of the past. The presence of a man in the dark had panicked her at first, but once she became sufficiently accustomed to him to realise that she was not in danger, Lysandra was truly touched. She did not mention this to him as she felt it would shame them both.

True to his word, Telemachus was a healer of some accomplishment. His potions and salves quickly restored her physical health, so that she was able to move about unassisted in short order. More, the unguents had prevented any scarring to her face: whilst it was not the Spartan way to be vain, Lysandra had secretly feared that she would be disfigured by the beating she had received.

Thankfully, this was not so.

‘How would you like to help me today?’ Lysandra looked up from her work, a passage from Thucydides, as Telemachus entered her room.

‘I am almost complete with ‘ The History of the Peloponnesian War ’ she said. ‘I have made no amendments though Thucydides is, frankly, biased.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ He sat on her bunk. ‘I meant in the shrine.’

She put her stylus down carefully. ‘In what capacity, Telemachus?

I am a priestess no longer.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ he responded.

‘I have been known by a man,’ she swallowed. ‘This is forbidden.’

‘In Sparta, perhaps,’ Telemachus said, making a dismissive gesture.

‘It would do you good, I think, to help others commune with Athene. Truth be known, Lysandra, it is not for the Orders of Men or Women to cast out a priestess. This is vanity, I think.

Athene will look after her own.’

Lysandra’s heart beat a little faster. True, she knew she could not return to the life of priestess; yet to help, to enjoy the rituals once more, to hear the goddess speak to her in the sanctity of a temple; it was something she had thought denied her forever.

‘I would be honoured to assist you,’ she said finally.

‘Excellent. I thought you would. To that end, I have a gift for you.’ He handed her a small package.

‘Oh!’ Lysandra felt herself blush, which was rather unseemly, but the suddenness of the priest’s gesture had caught her unawares.

Carefully, she unwrapped the cloth bundle and drew forth a brand new chiton. It was long, and dyed in scarlet.

‘Is it the right shade?’ Telemachus asked, grinning. ‘There’s a fellow who works in the market who claims to have spent time in Sparta. He swears that this is the colour of your Order.’

‘It is so.’ Lysandra beamed with delight. ‘This is so that the enemies of Sparta will never see the colour of our blood.’

‘Well, I don’t imagine there will be any enemies around here, but I am glad it meets with your approval.’

‘Oh, it does, Telemachus, it is a most lavish gift!’

‘Hardly. But I am pleased that you are pleased.’ He got to his feet. ‘Well, get changed, then. I shall see you in the shrine. It will be good for me to put my feet up for once and simply watch.’

Telemachus was well pleased with Lysandra’s progress. With help and care she was coming to terms with her grief; she spoke of Eirianwen often, but the bitterness in her voice was slowly replaced with a yearning sadness. Of Nastasen she said nothing, but he knew that the Nubian still haunted her dreams. He frequently asked the soldiers assigned to town watch if there were any news of the trainer but they had found nothing. He did not mention this to Lysandra, lest he distress her, but that she had agreed to conduct the ceremony showed a marked improvement. There was, he admitted to himself, something to be said for Spartan stoicism.

Telemachus waited at the entrance to the shrine, greeting the worshippers as they filed in. If some thought it was a little odd that he was not already in his place to begin the ceremonies, none mentioned it. Soon, the building became full and he closed the doors, marking the sign to inform others that no more would be admitted for this service.

Incense hung thickly in the air. He grinned to himself. Spartans might be austere but it seemed that Lysandra had been heavy handed with burners. Still, it all made for good theatre.

From behind the statue of the goddess, Lysandra emerged, carrying the Ritual Spear in her hand. There was a muted gasp from the gathering. Her wounds healed, Telemachus realised that she was truly beautiful. In the dim, half-light of the shrine, her form obscured by the smoke, it appeared as though Athene herself had come from Olympus to grace his small place of worship.

Lysandra’s voice resonated strongly through the small shrine, lifted in hymn to the goddess:

I start to sing of Pallas Athena, City Guard, The fearsome, who with Ares cares for warlike deeds, The sack of cities and the battle-cry of war; She saves the soldiers as they come and go away.

Be welcome, goddess, give me fortune and good cheer.

Lysandra continued in a typically Spartan manner, exhorting the people to bear hardship with fortitude, speaking on the evils of excess and extravagant living. Telemachus realised that the address was well rehearsed and often spoken. The girl’s rhetoric was flawless, even if it was delivered in the rustic Laconian accent.

He did wonder, however, whether the words would have much bearing outside of her strange little polis. Modern folk did not want to be told of sacrifice, duty and moral obligation: the world had changed and the old-fashioned values adhered to by the Spartans were so outmoded as to be almost quaint.

Lysandra finished her lesson, her ice-coloured eyes sweeping over the people for a moment. There was a pause — then a youth at the front began to applaud. The others took up his motion and soon the shrine echoed to appreciative shouts and cheers, hailing the priestess’s words. Telemachus was taken aback. He had certainly had not expected the dour service to be received so enthusiastically. He clapped politely himself, feeling a little self-conscious.

‘Is there anything specific a worshipper wishes to ask of the goddess or her priestess?’ Lysandra said when the cheering died down. The youth raised his hand, and she gestured to him.

The lad stood, looking this way and that, urged on by several of his fellows who flanked him. ‘I wanted to ask,’ he cleared his throat, ‘if you were… I mean… are you Achillia?’

Telemachus put his hand to his forehead. He had been an idiot. Of course the crowd had not been enamoured of Lysandra’s speech. They were enamoured of her, the gladiatrix. He knew the girl and was not blinded by her recently acquired fame; he had all but forgotten that the public would be unfamiliar with Lysandra as a person. All they knew was that the heroine of Aeschylus’ games, a Hellene heroine at that, had come to lead them in prayer.

He saw Lysandra’s nostrils flare, and she drew herself up. ‘I am she.’

‘I think you’re brilliant.’ Telemachus could almost see the boy’s cheeks burning through the incense smoke.

‘That is as maybe, young ephebe,’ came the Spartan’s response.

Though it was stern, the priest could see that Lysandra was fighting the urge to grin at the recognition. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘that is not relevant to this time or place. Do you have a question?’ The boy hesitated, and then sat down, being nudged mercilessly by his compatriots until a glare from Lysandra quietened them.

There were several supercilious queries from the older members of the gathering, which were answered laconically by the Spartan (‘How can I raise my sons to be good men?’ — ‘Discipline breeds goodliness’) but most now seemed anxious to get the service over with because, Telemachus realised, they could then meet and talk with the priestess. Lysandra bade the people make their offerings to Athene and this done, the ceremony would be over.

No sooner had Lysandra closed the ritual than the doors were flung open and people spilled into the street, awaiting ‘Achillia’.

Telemachus noted too that some of the gathering had already begun to spread the news to passers-by that the gladiatrix was in the shrine.

‘Are you sure about this?’ he said to Lysandra as she moved to the door.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Have you seen the offerings?’

Telemachus rushed to the altar, to see the bowl overflowing with coin. Normally, a mere few sesterces rattled about at the bottom of the pot but, this day, people had been more than generous. He gathered the fame-garnered loot quickly and glanced up at the statue of Athene. He could swear that the cold marble lips were curled in a half-smile.

‘The goddess looks after her own,’ he muttered. The irony was not lost to him. His efforts to help Lysandra were totally selfless, made out of a desire to somehow retain a balance between the good and ill in her life. But her mere presence in the shrine this single day had paid more in offerings than Telemachus was used to seeing in an entire week. And each day she was with him the coffers would grow.

Outside, the people had begun to chant ‘Achillia, Achillia,’ over and over again. The priest chuckled. ‘Why not,’ he said aloud. He could understand why they were cheering: the Hellenes were a proud race, yet in the Empire they were not regarded as true equals. More, the sands of the arena were usually the dominion of barbarian champions. That Lysandra was Hellene gave them someone to cheer for, someone who carried their pride like a badge of honour.

He moved outside to see Lysandra being swamped by many admirers. Pieces of parchment were being thrust into her hand in order that she make her mark as a souvenir. Others just wanted to touch her dress for luck. The priest was taken aback when he looked upon her. The girl was basking in the adulation; beneath her severe facade, it was evident that she was revelling in the attention. She seemed to grow in stature, feeding off the energy of the crowd. Telemachus was buffeted about in the rush to be close to Lysandra and momentarily feared for her safety. Yet, she seemed to know instinctively how to handle the mob of people, easing them back, so that she could greet them in an orderly fashion.

He stepped back, ignored by the well-wishers, into the quiet of the shrine and leant against the wall. That Lysandra was scarred by the loss of her lover and her ordeal was undeniable. Yet Telemachus perceived that in the adoration of the mob she had found her own salve. It healed her in a way that handholding and quiet words never could, burying her hurt beneath an avalanche of self-indulgence.

Being Spartan, she would never see it that way, of course. Self-indulgence was anathema to the harsh Lakedaimonian code. But he could see in Lysandra a recovering of egocentricity. Perhaps, he thought, that was not as great an evil as self-neglect; yet, if not tempered, this confidence, this love of popularity could turn quickly to conceit.

The mob was fickle. They would love Lysandra as Hellene and their champion. Yet, if she were to falter on the sands, they could turn against her. How then would she react, if the cheers turned to catcalls, the adulation to scorn?

But that was another matter, he thought. For now, if they could help her heal, then he was content to let it pass.