The Greek’s rugged face creased into a grin. ‘I am the only priest here, brother. Though I think those in Athens might take issue with me if I affected myself with so a grand title as High Priest.’
‘Yes, I should think so.’ Balbus returned the smile, finding the man’s gentle manner putting him at ease. ‘Is there somewhere we might talk? I have some questions that I feel you might be able to help me with.’
‘Of course.’ The priest indicated that Balbus follow him. He lead the lanista back towards the statue of Athene, behind which was a set of steps leading down to a small door. ‘This room is set aside for such purposes,’ he explained as he unlocked the door. ‘As you can understand, people wish to discuss matters with a priest that they feel they can discuss with no other.’
The temple’s anteroom was small and comfortable. There were couches on which to recline, between which lay a small table, decked with fruit and a jug of watered wine.
‘I am called Telemachus,’ the priest said as he sat.
Balbus introduced himself but if the cleric had heard of him he gave no indication.
‘How may I help you then, Lucius Balbus? Do you wish to commune with the goddess? To beg a divine favour?’
Balbus poured a small measure of wine for himself and the priest. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Brother, have you heard of Athene’s Temple in Sparta?’
The priest laughed aloud, so surprising Balbus that he spilled wine down his toga. ‘I certainly have,’ Telemachus replied after a moment. ‘A very strange place indeed. Why do you ask?’
There was, Balbus knew, a time and a place for lies. Any good businessman knew when to cast the dice in honesty, or weigh them to fix an outcome. The lanista felt that there would be no point in trying to deceive Telemachus. Also, it would be impious in the extreme to lie in a temple. ‘I am the owner of a school for gladiatrices,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Telemachus sat up on the couch. ‘You are that Lucius Balbus! I did not want to say before. I have seen your women on occasion, they are very entertaining.’
‘That’s always good to hear.’ Balbus was somewhat taken aback but was ever the professional. ‘I did not think the priesthood would approve of the games.’
Telemachus’s smile was disarming. ‘Athene is not only the goddess of wisdom, lanista. War is also her dominion.’
‘Ah yes, of course.’ Balbus nodded. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘one of my newer charges is a former Priestess of Athene’s temple in Sparta.’
‘Indeed?’ Telemachus motioned him to continue.
‘I was hoping you could tell me a little of this sect and their ways, Telemachus. My Spartan has it within her to be a famous gladiatrix, but of late she has seemed out of sorts. One of my trainers mentioned to me that she — Lysandra is her name — feels abandoned by the gods. I thought you might know how I could counsel her through this difficult time.’
‘The Spartans are a strange breed, lanista. Nowhere is this more evidenced than in the sisterhood your Lysandra was part of. As any learned person knows, Sparta’s history is steeped in military stoicism and covered more or less with glory.
‘This excellence on the battlefield was not attained cheaply, however. From ancient times, even up till today, Spartan youths from the age of seven are compelled to attend the agoge, the Spartan upbringing. It is not dissimilar to a ludus, in its atmosphere and purpose. The difference being, of course, that the Spartans are training their youth for defence of the state, not for the pleasure of the crowd. Their women also are duty-bound to compete in athletic contest, in order that they beget strong sons.’
‘Athletics?’ Balbus brushed absently at the spillage on his toga.
‘That would not explain Lysandra’s brilliance with weapons.’
‘Well, Sparta’s Temple of Athene is an oddity.’ Telemachus nodded. ‘Let me explain. Some three hundred years ago, the Epiran warlord, Pyrrhus, invaded Lakedaimonia, the Spartan heart-land.’
Balbus nodded; all Romans knew of Pyrrhus. He had inflicted many defeats on the fledgling Roman city-state, but his victories had been so costly to his own men, it had given rise to the derisive phrase ‘a Pyrrhic victory’.
‘Then, as now,’Telemachus went on, ‘Sparta’s heyday had passed and, in truth, she was nothing more than a minor Hellenic polis.
Pyrrhus wanted to be the first conqueror to walk in triumph through her streets. As you know, the city of Sparta has never fallen to a foreign power — Alexander chose to ignore her and you Romans chose to make her a client state. But in those days, the memory of her grandness was still fresh in men’s minds and the Epiran decided that he would be the one to take the city.’
Balbus was enjoying himself. He loved a good yarn and the Greek, like most of his countrymen, liked nothing better than the sound of his own voice.
Telemachus drank some wine before continuing. ‘Typically, the Spartans decided that they could fight him off, despite being overwhelmingly outnumbered. They retreated behind their city walls and prepared for a siege.
‘Pyrrhus did not disappoint them and hurled his men at the defences, seeking to swamp the Spartans by sheer weight of numbers. At first the tactic seemed to be working. However, it was at this time that a Spartan Princess called Archidamia went to the women of the city and led them to the walls to fight alongside their menfolk.’
Balbus was scandalised. A Roman woman would never be allowed to pick up a sword and fight. That was man’s work, and women had no business interfering in the business of men.
Admittedly, he had Roman women in the ludus, but that was different. They were slaves, not Roman citizens.
The priest smiled slightly at the lanista’s expression. ‘Against all odds, the Spartans crushed the invasion force, inflicting huge casualties on the Epiran army. This great victory had to be due to the intervention of the gods. Athene is the patron of Sparta as well as Athens, Lucius Balbus, and the triumph was attributed solely to her. As thanksgiving, the Spartans set up a new religious sect to honour her. It had a typical Spartan twist, however. They set up an agoge for Priestesses on their acropolis, replacing the more traditional temple with a fortress.’
‘They have a ludus for children. For girls?’ Balbus could scarcely credit it.
‘Worse than a ludus. Your charges are adults. That the Spartans subject their children to this regimen is inhuman. I cannot describe to you how horrific the agoge is in its practices. It goes beyond mere religious and physical training, friend Balbus. These children walk barefoot in winter snow, are mercilessly beaten for any transgression, real or imagined, given so little food that they are forced to supplement themselves by stealing. Indeed, such thievery is encouraged, for it shows resourcefulness. But the penalty for being caught is terrible, for it is seen as failure.’
The priest paused in his narrative, letting Balbus assimilate the information. The lanista was shocked that such antiquated and barbaric practices went on in Greece, supposedly the font of civilisation.
‘All the while, they are being schooled in military doctrine,’
Telemachus continued. ‘They spend years studying weapons and tactics in this crucible of discipline; of course, it’s antiquated and highly ritualised. Indeed, Sparta is the only place in the world where one can still see an ancient hoplite army, albeit one formed solely of women. This is done, ostensibly, to answer any future call of Athene to bring the women of the city to arms. In addition, it is their religious and secular education. You will find your Lysandra eminently well schooled, my friend.’
‘So, if Lysandra has been trained with weapons since childhood, why then is she not performing?’ Balbus asked.
‘Ah ha!’ The Greek smiled, and tapped his nose. ‘The heart of the matter. For centuries, Spartan power was based on the subjugation of her neighbouring state, Messenia. The Spartans put the entire population to slavery. To a Spartan, the enslavement of another race is a proud part of her heritage. But to make a slave of a Spartan…’ He shook his head. ‘You have m
ade your Lysandra everything she despises. You have taken away that which makes up her psyche and she is as lost as a babe. For all their prowess, all their training, these priestesses are very flat in their thinking. All Spartans are, but they especially so. Things are very simple to them, and they can rarely find a middle ground as more cultured people can. To her, as you say, it appears that the goddess has turned her back, abandoning her to the most shameful, the most ignoble fate a Spartan can imagine. It is no wonder she cannot function.’
Balbus felt utterly defeated. ‘She has the potential to become my greatest asset,’ he said. ‘Are you saying there is no way to convince her to fight,’ he patted his chest, ‘from her heart?’
‘No.’ Telemachus drained his cup. ‘I think perhaps I could find a way to convince her.’ As he poured more wine, he sighed. ‘But unfortunately, my work is here, and I cannot afford to leave. The people around here are not rich and the votive offerings barely cover the expenses of the shrine.’
‘I see.’ Balbus smiled, now on familiar ground. ‘Of course, I can understand that. If you can find it in your heart to take a short leave of absence to aid this poor child, I would be extremely grateful, both to you personally and to the goddess herself.
Though earthly things cannot compensate for the good work you will do, I am sure that my provision would be such as this temple has never known before.’
‘The goddess loves a generous man, lanista,’ Telemachus said.
‘Shall we say twenty thousand denarii?’
Lucius Balbus balked inwardly at the sum but reasoned that Lysandra had come to him for nothing and so perhaps this was the gods’ way of balancing the scales. She was a rare piece of merchandise — young, fit and already trained. She would have cost a lot more if he had bought her on the open market, that much was certain. ‘Twenty thousand, friend Telemachus,’ he agreed.
XIII
Nastasen should have felt elation but there was only a strange sense of emptiness. In his mind’s eye, he saw the scene played out many times. The Spartan whore facing the German, her staid movements, her clumsy attacks, her woeful defence. And her humiliating defeat. His heart had leapt for joy when he had seen her topple to the sand, utterly beaten.
But that joy had passed too quickly to be replaced by the injustice of it. He should have been the one to break her. The night-borne silence of his room mocked him as he twisted the strands of hemp inside an earthenware jar before lighting the ends from a nearby lamp. As soon as they started to glow, he put down the lamp, leaned over the mouth of the jar and inhaled deeply.
He had hated her from the moment he laid eyes on her: the arrogant swagger in her walk; the supercilious mien she used when she spoke to any and all, including himself. He, Nastasen, son of princes, from a line of warriors famous when the Spartans were still herding goats in their rough little corner of Greece. So, she had proven she could take a beating; but any fool could do that. For all her talk, all her disdainful manner, she had been found wanting. It was all bluster.
And that had disappointed Nastasen.
He had wanted to bring her down at her peak when the arrogant bitch had felt she had come to the height of her powers. She had been resilient to the vine staff, but there were other ways of breaking the spirit. He would have fucked some humility into her.
His lips closed around the cone of smoking hemp, seeing her struggling beneath him, begging him to stop as his greater strength, his power, overwhelmed her. Savouring the look on her face as he forced himself into her, hearing her agonised scream as her tender flesh tore open to receive him.
He grew hard at the thought of it.
Visions swam in his mind as the opiate took hold of him, images of the delicious cruelties he would inflict on her; cruelties only a man could mete out to a woman. He lay back, his skin tingling and, almost unconsciously, he began to stroke himself, gasping at the drug-heightened pleasure of his own touch. There was Lysandra, proud and arrogant, as he, Nastasen, came to her, tearing the clothes from her body. He laughed at her shock, and laughed again as his great fist smashed into her face. He was bearing her down, holding her wrists to the ground as he pushed between her splayed legs. Splayed like a whore’s. And the unimaginable pleasure of that first, bleeding violation…
He gripped himself tightly, cutting off his impending orgasm, his heart pounding, sweat coursing over his body. Sitting up, he blew softly on the smouldering hemp until the ends glowed brightly. Why just imagine he asked himself? Had she not done enough merely by despising him? She deserved to be punished.
The drug coursing through him, he allowed his initial arousal to wane but he still felt a heavy, urgent desire to spend his seed.
The Spartan would be his receptacle.
Catuvolcos was worried, both for Lysandra and for himself. He had seen many women come to the ludus and had inured himself to tender feelings towards them. Balbus was a good master, providing women for his trainers in order that they would not be driven to distraction by the gladiatrices with whom they were allowed no intimacy.
But this was different, the Gaul realised. He felt for this cold, beautiful woman in a way he had for no other. Every time he closed his eyes she was there. He ran his hands through his coppery hair, trying to purge his thoughts of her, knowing it was useless.
He had felt sick with fear when she had fallen to Hildreth, desperately anxious at the fact that the blows had been to her head. He had seen what could happen with the head wound, the wound that sucked the soul but left the body alive. He had interrogated the physician, Quintus, as to her condition and, though the old man had assured him all was well, Catuvolcos’s worries were not assuaged. In truth, he felt he had persisted too much in his inquiry: Quintus had thought it strange that he be so concerned over the fate of a single fighter.
He knew he had to see her for himself, just to be sure. He had had experience on the battlefield; he knew the signs of the head wound that caused damage deep inside. Quintus was competent, but Catuvolcos feared that he may have missed a vital sign.
He was no longer young, and could have made a mistake.
The hour was late but, even so, getting to the infirmary would be a risky undertaking. He was confident that he could pass off a nocturnal wander around the ludus as a need for fresh air or even just a fancy. But if he were seen entering or leaving the infirmary, there would be questions asked and Catuvolcos would have no answers. The best course of action was not to arouse any suspicion by being seen out of his quarters. That would take skill, a hunter’s expertise, and he possessed that in abundance. It was risky but, he decided, a risk worth taking.
Just to see her.
Exasperated, he slapped his palm to his forehead. What was he thinking? He could not afford to care about Lysandra; it was fraught with danger for them both. If anybody discovered his feelings, both of them would be sent to the blocks. He would lose his chance of freedom and rob her of the chance to win hers.
A sudden fear gripped his heart. What if she does not survive? his own voice whispered in his mind. He could not live with himself if he let that happen. His tongue licked dry lips. He must see her. He did not give himself a chance to think the matter over: his decision made, he stole from his quarters, shutting the door quietly behind him.
The night was still and humid, the air heavy with the promise of thunder. The chirping of nocturnal insects was loud and somewhere an owl called its hunting song. Above, the clouds swept across to hide the face of moon, and Catuvolcos felt that the gods were with him.
His eyes scanned the walls of the ludus, seeing the silhouettes of Balbus’s hired guards, some pacing, some lounging on their spears. It seemed that they had relaxed their vigilance somewhat in the absence of the lanista. He paused, his body alive with the thrill of apprehension. There could be no going back.
Catlike, he crept through the darkness, keeping to the shadows, his movements slight and slow. Stealth, he knew, required patience and care; speed counted for little. He slipped between the ho
uses inhabited by the school’s top fighters, Titus and Balbus’s higher ranking servants, moving only when he was sure he was unobserved.
To reach the infirmary he had to circumnavigate the training area. Cutting across it would be quicker, but to cross open ground, even in the dead of night, was to invite discovery. With painful slowness, he skirted the sands of the training ground, passing the locked cells of the gladiatrices. As he moved, he checked again to see if the guards were watching. They were not. Even from this distance, he could hear the sound of chatter and scattered laughter. He smiled grimly, imagining what Balbus would have to say about their slovenly behaviour.
He made it past the cells and the scrubs’ quarters without incident. As he made it to the massive bathhouse, he breathed a little easier. His goal was in sight.
The door to the infirmary was ajar.
Catuvolcos leant around it, his senses alert to the slightest movement or sound from inside. There was none. He let go a breath he had not realised he had been holding. He slipped into the infirmary. Once inside he paused for a few moments letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. It was at that moment that the moon goddess pushed away the curtain of clouds that obscured her face.
A dull light flooded into the infirmary and Catuvolcos’s heart stopped in his chest. Illuminated clearly at the back of the room, was Nastasen.
Naked save for his loincloth, he stood over the only occupied bed in the infirmary. Catuvolcos did not need to see the light of the moon on her pale features nor the hair that shrouded her pillow like a silken black sea to know that it was Lysandra who occupied that bed. The Nubian had not moved. He merely stood like a Promethean statue, staring down at the sleeping Lysandra.
‘Nastasen!’ the word escaped Catuvolcos before he could stop himself.
As if awaking from a dream, the Nubian looked up slowly.
The strange locks hanging about his face and the feverish gleam in his eye gave the gigantic trainer a demonic aspect. Nastasen held his finger to his lips, and moved slowly away from Lysandra’s bed.
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