Roma Victrix (7 page)

‘Here,' he said again, handing her a fresh cup. ‘When you've finished that you can leave,' he indicated a door at the end of the room. It was like a barracks, she thought; just rows of beds on each wall, occupied by the dregs of Halicarnassus.

‘I was attacked,' she said, pleading. She could not just leave now, she was too ill.

‘As I said, you were lucky. You've taken a bit of a hiding, but you'll be all right. Nasty bruising on your neck, though, so you won't be working for a few nights, I imagine. Not exactly at your best, are you?' he smiled thinly.

‘Working? I am not a prostitute!' she said. Her cracked voice sounded alien to her.

The orderly sighed. ‘Don't bother lying to me, all right? I've heard it all before. The fact is if you hadn't been beaten, I'd not have taken you in at all.'

‘The hospitality of the Asklepios's servants is legendary.'

‘Listen, love. There are sick people that need our beds. You've no money to make a donation and, frankly, by the look and smell of you, I won't be taking payment in kind. Now be so good as to drink your water and fuck off.'

Lysandra bristled momentarily, but the anger quickly left her.

She could only imagine how she looked. The orderly was already on his way, talking to an old woman who occupied the next bed.

She sipped her water for a few moments when she felt the disapproving eyes of both orderly and patient upon her. She willed herself not to be sick again and climbed out of the bed. She was still dressed in her filthy tunic but there was no sign of her sandals. She knew it would be useless to ask for them. Clutching her churning stomach, she shuffled painfully from the room and made her way outside.

Hunched in pain and squinting in the bright, Carian sun, she left the temple compound and went into the streets beyond. It was crowded as always, but people were giving her a wide berth, and no wonder. She could barely stand herself the stink that emanated from both her clothes and body. Sadness welled up inside her as she wandered the street, unsure as to what to do. With no money, she could not bathe, nor could she get Hades from the stable.

She made her way into an alley between two wine shops and hunched down. Unbidden tears sprung to her eyes and she wept, clutching her arms about herself. How could she have come to this?

Why was she being punished when all she had done was live in service to the goddess? She sat there for some time, wrapped in her own misery. She would climb to some place up high, she decided, and this time she would not baulk; she would give Athene the ultimate sacrifice, her own life! Suddenly full of purpose, she tried to stand, but the pain from her wounds caused her to sway and stumble.

‘A fine sacrifice,' she muttered. ‘You cannot even stand on your own two feet.'

She had never been so low as this, even when she was first at the
ludus
. But then, there had been someone to succour her in her moment of doubt. ‘Telemachus,' she murmured. But she could not go to him. Not now. Not like this. She was so ashamed, so full of regret. What would he think of her? He might even turn her away, recognising her as the worthless profligate that she was. She hauled herself straight. If Telemachus refused to help, it would be a clear sign that her life was worth as little as she feared. She resolved that if this turned out to be the case she would hasten her own death by the swiftest means possible: it was better to die than live in ignominy.

Athene's sanctuary had grown larger under Telemachus's auspices.

What once had been a small haven had now grown to encompass the buildings on either side of it. Lysandra knew that it was a large donation by Lucius Balbus that had sparked the initial expansion and her own stint in the temple at the height of her fame had filled the coffers even more.
The height of her fame
. She smiled bitterly.

That had been a long time ago.

Mustering all the courage she had left, she walked down the steps that lead into the sanctuary. It was cool inside and she was grateful for the sudden relief from the unmerciful sun. The same statue of the Goddess stood at the far end of the temple, but the space inside was much widened. Telemachus had knocked out walls to increase the capacity. It was odd that the place was empty at this hour, but she was grateful for it. She sank onto a bench.

She glanced around, noting that the paint was peeling from the walls and there was a musty smell that the meagre smoke from the incense burners could not mask. Much like herself, it seemed that Telemachus's shrine was all but destitute within.

‘Can I help you, lady?'

She looked up to see her friend emerging from his rooms behind the statue. He had lost much weight, she noticed, and there was more grey in his beard then when she had last seen him. ‘Telemachus,' she croaked.

The priest hesitated. ‘I'm sorry, you have the better of me'. He spread his hands, that winning smile appearing on his gaunt face.

‘But I can see that you are in need of…
Lysandra?
'

‘Yes. It is I…' She was about to say more, but no words would come. Then, he was by her side, pulling her to his embrace, holding her close. She felt the warmth of him engulf her, the strength of his arms protecting her from the ills of the world. ‘Oh, Telemachus,' she whispered. ‘I am a mess.'

Even though his slave had bathed and clothed her in a clean tunic, Telemachus was saddened by the sight of her. Lysandra's hands shook and her face was bloated and the once imperious, ice-coloured eyes were dull and glassy. She ate hungrily, like the lowest beggar, her eyes constantly fixing on the wine krater before flicking away again.

After a time, she seemed to lose her internal battle and reached out to refill her cup, adding less than the proper amount of water.

‘I am sorry to impose on you like this,' she said.

‘It is no imposition,' he said. ‘I feel bad that we have not seen each other in so long.' That was the truth. Lysandra was evidently in need and he felt no small measure of guilt that he had been so wrapped up in the affairs of the temple that he had not thought to visit her. She would not think to visit him, of course, but with Lysandra one had to accept that her friendship was unique to say the least.

‘I will not be under your feet,' she promised. ‘And I will pay you back the money you have loaned me, naturally.'

She had told him the whole story of her attack and the loss of her funds. The physical evidence of that encounter were plain to see but, as she tipped back the wine, Telemachus realised that this was not the same austere gladiatrix that he had once known. ‘You need more water in that,' he indicated the wine cup and at once noted the spark of anger in her eyes before she masked her gaze and complied.

‘I have had a trying few days,' she offered by way of excuse. ‘I just needed a drink or two to calm my nerves.'

‘I see.'

‘What do you see?' She looked up, anger once again in her eyes.

Now, Telemachus knew, was not the time for constraint. He assumed an expression of hurt confusion. ‘Nothing… I… meant no offence,' he said, marvelling at how contrite she instantly became.

She was, he realised, as credulous as ever.

‘I apologise for my rudeness, then.' She bent her head and continued to eat.

‘How are things at the
Deiopolis
?' he asked, changing the subject.

Lysandra scooped up the last of the food and poured more wine.

‘It goes well, though there is much work to be done. I have to double-check everything that goes through there else we would be fleeced blind by these Carian thieves.'

Everything in that case would have to be triple-checked, Telemachus reasoned. Probably by Titus and Nikos: Lysandra had many talents but business acumen was hardly among them – though he very much doubted that anyone would have the guts or bad sense to tell her that. ‘It has become quite the attraction,' he smiled. ‘You have done what you set out to do, haven't you? As
Gladiatrix Prima
, you honoured Athene, and then as
victrix
you set up the finest temple to the Hellenic gods in Asia Minor.'

‘Hellas!' Lysandra raised her cup. ‘To Sparta and Athens!'

‘Sparta and Athens,' Telemachus toasted. ‘So, what next for Lysandra?' he asked.

Lysandra lapsed into silence for a time. ‘I do not know,' she said at length. ‘I received an invitation to fight in Rome, but my fighting days are over. So many things have changed since we first met.' She hesitated. ‘Telemachus… I have had a vision… but I made no sense of it. I think…' she flushed with shame, ‘I think that it was Dionysus who sent it to me, not Athene.'

This was as close to an admission that drink was her master as he was going to get. Telemachus knew her well – it would have been an excruciating decision for her to admit to it. ‘Tell me of the vision,' he said.

‘It was some time ago. I wrote it down, but have not had time to think about it much.'

‘Tell me what you can recall. We Athenians are masters of interpretation, you know. After all, there's an advocate in every one of us just bursting to break free.' It was a small joke, like the ones they had so often shared in the past with each other, mocking their respective
polis'
s foibles, and he was gratified to see her smile.

‘I saw an eagle trampled by horses,' she said. ‘And then a god that had a thousand faces and voices, roaring in terrible hunger, and a bloody fist, raised in victory. And I saw myself drowning – like before, during the storm that brought me here. Drowning in the wine-dark sea.' She lifted her cup and drained it. ‘It seems that I drown overmuch these days. Telemachus, I am ashamed.'

She told him of the aftermath, of how she had made an exhibi-tion of herself. When he probed deeper, he determined that drink had owned her for nearly two years now. No wonder she was in such a state, he thought.

‘And there you have it,' she finished. She was half drunk by now, but seemed to be controlling herself. ‘I tell myself each time that I will never drink to excess again, and yet when the krater is before me I forget my remorse, my good intentions and the shame of what has transpired before. Telemachus, you must understand,' her eyes implored him, ‘I do not acknowledge or even ignore what I have promised myself. It just does not occur to me. I cannot understand why this is so but, as soon as I see the drink, it is as though I have no memory of the bad things that always happen when I have too much…' she trailed off. ‘Sometimes I just want to die, the shame of it is too much to bear. But then it passes, life goes on and all is well. I do not drink to excess each time the wine cup touches my lips. But, sooner or later, Dionysus curses me and,' she spread her hands, ‘you can see the result.'

Telemachus was touched by her words. Lysandra's seal had always been her pride, her refusal to seek help when she needed it. It was this self-reliance that had made her a supreme fighter, her iron will that had cast her into the invincible
Gladiatrix Prima
. But, like a shield wall, if that will was broken, she was all too vulnerable. He cursed himself that he had not found time to see more of her: perhaps he could have averted her fall, saved her from herself. But it was not too late. Lysandra was a Spartan. All Spartans were unimaginative and, thankfully, easily led. ‘I can see the result,' he said at length. ‘But it is not your doing that things have come to this.'

‘I should have more self-control,' she sighed, and he realised that, though she was not totally inebriated, the melancholy of the drunk was descending upon her.

‘Athene has spoken to you,' he said gently. ‘But Dionysus screams so loudly in your ears that you have not heard. I think I can understand most of your vision.
Drowning in a wine dark sea
, I am afraid, is all too obvious. The god with a thousand faces and voices – Lysandra, this is the arena that you once ruled. It hungers for you, as you hunger for it. The bloody fist raised in victory –
your
fist. The horses and birds of prey… that is unclear,' he admitted. ‘Maybe your soul is being trampled… or it could be nothing. That's the trouble with visions sent by the gods – they're never
that
straightforward.'

‘I do not know what to do, though. I cannot carry on like this.'

‘That is one thing we can agree on, Lysandra. The goddess Athene walks by your side as ever,' he said. ‘Though it may not seem like it. For her own reasons she has a hand in your life, but you are but mortal and cannot always see clearly. It helps to have another person's perspective from time to time. Like before, when we first met.

Athene had her purpose then, and I believe she has it now.'

‘I fail to see it.'

‘Your mind is dulled. I am sorry to say it, but it is true. And no wonder – the Spartans' greatest strength is also their greatest weakness. You don't need me to tell you that, our jokes aside. Remember that Sparta hated sending men away from the embrace of the city.

Too long spent away from Sparta would lead to corruption, would it not?'

‘That is so,' Lysandra agreed. ‘The debauchery of inferior societies is an affront to Spartan eyes.'

‘An affront?' Telemachus raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps. But also a seducer. Lysandra, you have lived your whole life under the savage rod of discipline. From your
agoge
to the
ludus
your life had rules, structure and meaning. Your Mission was to bring Athene's word to the people, your role in the arena was to honour her and your
polis
. You built a temple to all the gods on the back of your success.

And then…' he paused for dramatic effect, ‘and then what? All your aims achieved, all your labour done and you not even near thirty years old. Discipline fled… and what is left?' He gestured to the krate
r
. ‘You are many things, Lysandra, but the administrator of a temple? I think not.'