Gladiatrix

by Russell Whitfield

  ‘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.

  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.

  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 pro
blem.’ 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.