Roma Victrix (3 page)

The practicality of the old
ludus
's design worked well – the
Deiopolis
was divided into blocks, each area dedicated to one of the twelve Olympians. Naturally, the centrepiece was the large temple of Athene which housed the
Deiopolis
's sole extravagance: a beautifully wrought marble statue of the goddess. Created at vast expense by the up-and-coming artist, Apollodorus of Damascus, the icon was magnificent. Though smaller in scale, Lysandra reckoned that it rivalled the image in the Parthenon. Modelled on the sisterhood that Lysandra had been part of in Sparta, the goddess was served by priestesses valuing the tenets of both wisdom and war. Many were veterans of Domitian's spectacle and took to the life easily enough; though worshipful observance was part of their duty, marching and parading for the visitors took up much of their time and they all enjoyed the performance.

Indeed, in many of the blocks, cottage industries had sprung up, all of which served to generate more profit for the temple. The fine metalwork of the Hephaestian women was highly prized as were the delicacies created by the servants of the Hestia. The Priestesses of Aphrodite commanded huge fees from their supplicants and brought in the most revenue aside from the Sisters of Ares and after them, the Sisters of Athene – these were the
Deiopolis'
s elite gladiatrices.

Lysandra could not fail to be impressed by her own efforts as she walked through the reality of her vision. She recalled a conversation she had had long ago with the Athenian priest, Telemachus.

He told her that her work on the sands of the arena was divinely inspired, that the hand of Athene herself must have guided her there. His words had lifted her at a time when she had begun to doubt her faith but, more than that, she had realised the truth in them and had carried her Mission out to its ultimate conclusion – the
Deiopolis
itself.

She decided to go to Athene's temple and make an offering to the goddess. The last of the supplicants should have left as the sun was down and the temple closed to the public; despite the fact that she had retired, Lysandra knew she was still regarded by many as the
Gladiatrix Prima
and her fame meant constant interruptions from well-wishers and admirers.

She could not suppress a shiver of anticipation as she made her way across the courtyard to the temple proper – only the heady rush of victory could compare with the ecstasy she felt when communing with the goddess. Several priestesses were sweeping up as she passed and they paused in their work to salute her. She acknowledged them and made her way to the dove-cages, selecting a pure white bird for the sacrifice. It cooed, almost in anticipation, as she lifted it gently from the pen and entered the sanctuary.

The air was heavy with incense, wreathing the beautiful statue with ethereal strands. With great care, Lysandra bore the dove to the altar and, taking the sacrificial knife in her hand, she whispered the prayer taught to her in her childhood:

‘I begin my song of Pallas Athena,
Illustrious goddess with peerless grey eyes.

She, with a heart relentless,

Modest Virgin, Protectress of the city!

The valiant Tritogeneia, roused by Zeus the wise
From his own awesome brow, the tools of battle on her arm,
Glittering and gold: all the immortals were stunned.

Without delay she leapt from the ever-living skull
To come before Zeus, master of the aegis,
And the sharp spear shook in her hand.

Eternal Olympus was sent spinning

By the might of the Grey-eyed one.'

As she went on, her voice lifted in song and she drew the blade across the throat of the dove, letting its blood splash into the font, its warmth spreading from her hands throughout her body. The tang of the incense filled her nostrils as the prayer continued and Lysandra felt her spirit lifting free with the soul of the dove.

‘From every direction the earth let loose a chilling scream.

Waves, deep and dark, stirred up in the seething ocean,
And all at once spray jetted from the sea.

The shining son of Hyperion brought his swift steeds to rest, waiting
long,

Until she shed the godlike armour...

She, Pallas Athena! Wise Zeus laughed!

That is why I say it too: Hail to you, Daughter of aegis-wielding
Zeus!

I always remember you!'

Lysandra's vision tunnelled as she called out the last words of the prayer; she felt a lurch in her stomach so powerful that her legs went from beneath her. Gasping for breath, she clung to the altar, the face of the statue seeming to shift and come alive. The grey eyes of Athene bored into the ice-blue of her own, and in that moment she was lost. Visions swam in her mind – of herself, drowning on the wine-dark sea, an eagle crippled on a bloody field, a horse trampling on the fallen bird of prey. Then, there was a faceless god roaring with fifty thousand different voices, and a bloodied fist raised to the heavens as the god screamed its approval. The marble floor rushed up to her and suddenly all was black.

She had no idea how long she had been there. Lysandra felt sick and disoriented as though she had drunk too much. Confused, she gripped the altar and hauled herself to her feet. Her hands were tacky with dried blood and the incense holders had long since burned out. Not even a wisp of smoke escaped them and the air was now cold – she must have lain on the floor for some hours. No one had come to check on her as the priestesses knew well that she liked to worship alone. She tried to recall her dream – her vision – but like trying to grasp wisps of smoke, the memories were already fading.

Thinking quickly, she dipped a finger into the ash from the altar and scrawled what she could remember on the marble floor. She was no oracle like the Delphic Pythia, but she knew well that animals were powerful omens – and Athene had spoken: it was her duty to bring some meaning to these portents.

Outside, she ordered the night guards to ensure that her words were copied down and delivered to her in the morning. Both women on duty kept their expressions neutral, and that made Lysandra wonder if she had been shouting and raving in a goddess-inspired frenzy whilst she knelt at the altar. Certainly, she must have looked less than regal, her hair wild and her forearms as red as an augur's; but then, despite the devotions of the temple women, there had been little reported in the way of actual communion with the goddess.

Perhaps it was only she who was worthy of Olympian notice. It was a pleasing realisation and she would meditate on it later. But, for now, she needed a drink.

Lysandra could not spend as much time contemplating her experience as she would have liked. Managing the
Deiopolis
was a constant battle and, though it troubled her, the truth of it was that she did not have time to allocate to her religious devotions. Athene, she reasoned, could well send her a clearer portent when her mind was calm; and so Lysandra resolved to disencumber her thoughts the following morning. But the news Titus, her former trainer, brought – coupled with the thick head she had from the previous night's wine – was hardly conducive to a meditative state.

‘Who can say what happened,' the old man offered. ‘Could have been a storm. Could have been a less-than-honest-captain. Or even pirates.'

‘Pirates! Do not be absurd, Titus. Everyone knows that Pompeius Magnus rid the seas of their filth a century and a half ago.'

‘That,' Titus observed, ‘is a bit like the governor of Judaea claiming that all resistance in the province has been crushed forever.'

Lysandra bit back a sharp retort. It was hardly Titus's fault that their latest shipment was now decorating the palace of Poseidon.

She ought to go and make an offering to the capricious sea god but she could barely bring herself to enter his temple – which she had only included in the
Deiopolis
because it would invite bad luck otherwise. She should have trusted her instincts in the first place and just left him out.

‘The risks were explained to you over and over again.' Titus sat down without being asked, and poured himself a drink. ‘Trading is a huge investment – we've lost a lot of money on this one. On the bright side, the chances of this happening again are rare. We've got the capital to ride out our misfortune, and the next voyage should more than compensate us. Think of it as a sacrifice to Neptune.'

‘Poseidon,' Lysandra corrected half-heartedly. She regarded Titus for a few moments: the years had not changed ‘the centurion' and he seemed no older now than when they first met – tough as leather cuirass and unyielding as a shield wall. ‘What other news do you have for me?' she asked.

‘Aside from the shipping losses, we're in good shape. Really, we'll recoup on the shipment in no time. It helps that we don't pay tax, mind. Anyway, I'd best be about the place… Gods know how the training has been run whilst my back has been turned. You're the only other person I can trust to train the girls properly, but I can tell you aren't out in the
palaestra
as much as before,' he added, jerking his chin in the direction of the training ground. ‘You're looking more womanly than ever I've seen you.'

‘What?' Lysandra felt her cheeks go pink. ‘What do you mean?'

‘What I said. Don't let it go to your head, Lysandra, but aside from me, you're one of the best trainers in the province. And you were the
regina
of the sands in your time.' Titus placed a scroll down on the table in front of her. ‘You have a letter from Rome. It looks official.'

‘Yes,' Lysandra ignored the parchment. ‘But what did you mean,
womanly
?'

Titus began an orderly withdrawal. ‘You look beautiful,' he said, the word sounding odd in his gravelled baritone. ‘That's what I meant.'

Lysandra rose to her feet. ‘Are you saying that I am fat?'

‘How could you think that? I was trying to give you a compliment!' Titus was all wounded innocence, but Lysandra could see in his eyes that he was lying. ‘You're not a fighter anymore,' he went on, ‘so it is good that a lady of your social standing should carry a bit of extra padding. Makes you look less…dangerous…' he trailed off, beginning to wilt under her furious gaze. ‘Well, I'm going to see to my things anyway.' He did a swift about-face and marched off briskly before a counter-offensive could be launched.

Lysandra sat down slowly, the pain of Titus's remarks striking her as hard as iron. True, she did not train as hard as she once had, but she was no overweight heifer as he had accused her of being.

Just because he was feeling tired after his journey, she felt it was unjust of him to take out his frustrations by insulting her personally. Besides, it was patently untrue. Exasperated, she got up once again and moved to her full-length bronze mirror – a gift an admirer had sent her when she was a gladiatrix.
Gladiatrix Prima
. The Queen of the Sands.

She pulled away her
peplos
to reveal her torso. The woman revealed in the reflection was not the
Gladiatrix Prima
. But nor was it an obese matron as Titus had implied. Her breasts were high and firm, her stomach flat.
Though not as hard as once it had been
, an accusing voice in her mind whispered. Covering herself, she went to the wine tray and poured herself a cup. Yes, it was early in the day, but Titus had upset her and besides which, she was working too hard as it was. She threw back the first cup, wincing at the full-bodied taste, and then poured herself another.

Wine, she contemplated, truly was a gift from the gods. For many years, she flirted with Dionysus only occasionally, but since her retirement from the arena, she had got to know the old god quite well. Of course, it was not the Spartan way to err to excess, and Lysandra knew well that she was in control. If she got drunk, it was because she had chosen the time and place to be drunk. It was not so with other people; some could not command their passions, their base desires. She glanced at her undone paperwork, feeling the fire of rebellion spark in her belly. It seemed ages since she had just done nothing. Everyone else seemed to have time off for revels, free time to do as they pleased, but never her; from her youth in the priestess's
agoge
to the training in the
ludus
to the running of the
Deiopolis
, her life had been dominated by routine.

It was hardly fair, but still there was work to be done. She sat at her desk and began to go through her papers. As she wrote, she found her responses to various requests were amusing her – proving to herself that a comedic bent was not the sole province of Athenians.

She glanced at the scroll that Titus had left; it looked intriguing.

She decided that she would read it after the more onerous tasks were done with.

After spending a little more time on correspondence, she decided that she had done enough for one day. She pointedly ignored the remaining dockets and moved to her couch. ‘Nikos!' she shouted, calling in her secretary.

The wiry, dishevelled-looking Asiatic Hellene appeared in her doorway. ‘Yes, my lady,' he said.

‘Have a priestess of Apollo attend me,' Lysandra ordered. ‘I want to hear the lyre and some singing. And I'll need more wine too, this krater is almost empty.'

‘It is only just after noon, lady,' Nikos observed. ‘I was hoping to send out some more dispatches that require your signature…'

It was true that Lysandra had never applied the same strict Spartan discipline on her employees that she herself had been subject to in her formative years, and now she was reaping what she had sown.

Insubordination was insinuating itself into the very walls of the
Deiopolis
: first Varia's defiance, then Titus with his rudeness, now Nikos with his blatant disregard for her instructions. She felt her temper snap. ‘I did not ask what time it was,' she stormed. ‘I just gave you an order, man! Get on with it, or by the gods I'll have the skin flayed from your ungrateful back. You were a slave of Balbus, now you are the freedman of Lysandra – do not take your status for granted or I will cast you out of here. Now get out of my sight!' Nikos bowed stiffly and left, disapproval evident in his gait. If the secretary started getting above himself, Lysandra swore that she would make good on her threat and have him expelled.