‘Not too much, my girl,’ he said. ‘It will make you sick. Just small sips.’ He offered her the cup again. She took it from him and nodded.
‘You’re lucky,’ Quintus said. ‘You have a thick skull.’ Lysandra shot him a venomous look, but the surgeon grinned at her. ‘It didn’t crack at least,’ he went on. ‘Whether what you had in there has turned to mush is still to be seen however.’
‘Thank you so much for your observation, Hippocrates,’ she muttered, handing the cup back.
Quintus shrugged and then winked at her. ‘My bedside manner does leave something to be desired,’ he said. He rose and poured her more water from a pitcher. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Sick,’ she responded. ‘Dizzy and weak.’ It was senseless to lie to a physician.
Quintus made a noise at the back of his throat. ‘You’ve had a concussion,’ he said. ‘It occurs, obviously, when a blow is received…’
‘I know what a concussion is,’ Lysandra cut him off. ‘I am not an idiot.’
‘Hippocrates recommends trepanation as a treatment,’ the surgeon retorted dryly. He smirked as Lysandra’s hand flew to her head, seeking a hole. ‘But I did not think your condition serious enough to warrant it.’
‘That is reasonable,’ Lysandra agreed, her own lips twisting in an answering grin.
‘You should smile more often, Spartan. You are pretty when you do so.’ He held up his hand, cutting off any response. ‘You must stay here and rest, at least for a few days. You cannot risk further injury to your head, it’s not safe.’
‘It does not matter,’ Lysandra told him. ‘I am to be sold, as I am fully aware that my performance was not up to standard. I doubt if my next owner will require me to fight for him.’ Her tone was bitter and self- reproaching.
‘I’m afraid you don’t get away from here quite that easily. It seems as if Balbus has given you another chance. None of the women are to be sold.’
Lysandra was about to respond, when the door to the infirmary opened. Varia peered into the room and, seeing Lysandra sitting up, she squeaked with delight and bounded towards the bed.
‘She’s been here every free moment she’s had,’ Quintus whispered before announcing more loudly, ‘I’ll be in my office!’
‘Lysandra!’ Varia skidded to a halt by the bed, her face wreathed with smiles. ‘It is good to see you awake! I knew you would be well.’
Lysandra smiled back at the youngster, and held out her hand.
Tentatively, the little slave reached out and clasped her fingers with her own. ‘It is good to see you too, Varia,’ she said. ‘The face of a friend is the best sight when one has woken from a long sleep.’ Lysandra realised that this was the first time she had called the child her friend. It was the first time she had admitted it to herself. Varia beamed at her.
‘You are not to go to the blocks,’ she said.
‘So Quintus tells me.’
‘Isn’t that wonderful?’Varia was enthusiastic. ‘We can be friends forever,’ she added with childish hope. Lysandra did not respond, unwilling to dampen the girl’s spirits. In her heart, she knew that nothing had changed, that she had lost the will and desire to fight. Her next bout would carry the same result.
Varia chatted on, oblivious to the dark turn in her mood. She spoke of a child’s matters: that she had adopted a kitten she had found, an offspring of one of the cats that so plagued the kitchens.
‘I’ve called her Sparta, after your home,’ Varia confided. ‘I know she will grow to be the best hunter of mice ever.’ Lysandra nodded and smiled, hoping that she kept a bitter cast from her face. Varia continued in a similar tone, updating Lysandra on the gossip from the recent bouts, but much of what she said was lost to her. Lysandra’s thoughts turned to what her future held.
Balbus had arranged to meet the priest at daybreak and was pleased to find the man punctual. The lanista had ensured his business matters were closed and, as promised, had made an offering at Fortuna’s temple. He wanted to be on his way, and Telemachus too seemed eager to get their journey started. For some reason the priest had brought with him several leather buckets, each full of scrolls.
‘I don’t think we’ll be on the road long enough for you to read all of those,’ Balbus commented.
Telemachus grinned at him. ‘I like to be prepared for all eventualities.’ Balbus grunted, and the little group got under way.
The lanista found the priest to be a witty and engaging travelling companion, the journey becoming increasingly enjoyable as they went. Telemachus had what seemed to be an endless supply of stories and fables with which he regaled Balbus and his guards. The Greek had no shortage of the more ribald tales too and the men laughed long into the night at his retellings of the myths with his inimitable earthy slant. Interspersed with the stories, Balbus told the priest what he knew of Lysandra: how she had been found amidst the wreckage of a destroyed ship and of her self-proclaimed title of Mission Priestess.
The days passed quickly, thanks to Telemachus’s incessant chatter, and soon the ludus came into sight. Balbus always felt a sense of pride as he approached the complex, knowing that he had built up his empire with his own sweat.
‘Impressive,’ Telemachus acknowledged.
Balbus spread his hands, affecting a modest expression. ‘Things can always be better, but we are in profit and that’s the main thing.’
‘I should like to bathe and change before I speak to your Spartan,’ Telemachus said as they drew closer to the ludus. ‘It would be unseemly for a priest of the goddess to meet one of her handmaidens covered in road grime.’
‘My home is yours,’ Balbus said.
Balbus’s facilities were excellent, rivalling the city-based baths that Telemachus frequented. After they had bathed and enjoyed a massage, the lanista gave him a short tour of the ludus. Telemachus was surprised at the good conditions that these fighters lived in.
To see inside a ludus was an opportunity not often afforded to a common member of the populace, but he had heard that arena fighters were often treated in a shameful manner.
‘That is largely a myth,’ Balbus told him when Telemachus broached the subject. ‘These slaves are expensive to buy, and they only really fetch a good return if they perform well. It’s like owning a team of racing horses,’ he elucidated. ‘One treats one’s horses well, gives them the best food, attention and training in order that they will produce results on the day of the race.
These women are prized assets, and I should go out of business very soon if by the time they came to fight they were so broken that they were killed in their first bouts. That is not to say I am not an advocate of discipline, but I see little sense in ruining a fighter by oppression. I find that giving the women a sense of worth increases their efforts. One needs spirit to survive in the arena.’
‘A wise policy, lanista.’ Telemachus saw sense in the Roman’s methods. ‘Talking of lack of spirit, it is about time I saw your Lysandra.’
Balbus rubbed his hands together. ‘Excellent. I shall have her brought to the main house and we can interview her there.’
Telemachus shook his head. ‘With respect, I should see her alone.’
‘As you wish,’ Balbus shrugged. ‘She is in the infirmary. I shall take you there and ensure that you are not disturbed.’
Dusk had begun to darken the sky as Telemachus entered the infirmary. The Spartan sat on her bunk, staring into space. The priest was at once struck by her beauty as the half light fell upon her. She turned slowly as he approached her and he saw that her eyes were the colour of ice.
‘Greetings, Lysandra of Sparta, Handmaiden of Athene, Priestess of the Mission,’ Telemachus raised his hand. ‘I am Telemachus, and I too am in her service.’
The Spartan cocked an eyebrow. ‘Greetings, Athenian.’
Telemachus resisted the urge to grin both at her rustic accent and her instant recognition of his own. ‘Have you come to take me from here?’
‘No.’ Telemachus sat at the foot of her bed. ‘That is not within my powers, and even if it were, I would not.’
‘So you have come to gawp at me?’
