Something stirred in the back of Balbus’s mind.
‘Where’s Nastasen?’ Titus said beating him to the question.
‘Still in his quarters, I suppose,’ Stick said.
‘Guards!’ Balbus screamed. Presently, an arena watchman appeared in the doorway. ‘Get me Nastasen here. You know who I mean, boy? The big Nubian trainer from my ludus?’
The lad nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
The four of them waited in silence for the guard to return from the arena. None were surprised to learn that Nastasen was nowhere to be found.
Sorina felt a sense of keen disappointment when she had opened her eyes. Her last thought before consciousness had fled in the arena was that the gods would take her. The sight of Eirianwen falling, her hand reaching out for her Spartan lover, and the blood — so much blood — haunted her. That her own wounds pained her was nothing compared to the emptiness she felt in her heart.
She could she realised — and perhaps should — have turned her head from Lysandra and Eirianwen. Hindsight was so easy, the closeness of death putting things into harsh perspective.
Clan Chief: the title mocked her now. Chief of what, she asked herself. Itinerant slaves from all over the world — where was the honour in that? Was honour worth the death of one whom she had come to regard as daughter? She tried to sit up in her cot, gritting her teeth as her wounds pulled.
‘Lie back.’ A man’s voice broached no argument. Moments later, the surgeon was leaning over her. ‘I spent a long time stitching you up, Sorina, and I don’t want you splitting your wounds. You must lie still; I have others to attend to. Do you want some water?’
Sorina nodded, finding that her throat was too cracked and dry to speak. The surgeon tilted her head, and tipped some water onto her lips. The taste was heavenly and she tried to take more.
‘Not too much,’ the surgeon admonished. ‘Just a sip. You can have more soon.’ He laid her head back and moved on. Sorina followed him with her eyes and was stunned to see Lysandra in the cot next to hers. It was the long, raven-coloured hair by which the Amazon knew her for the Spartan was disfigured by so many bruises as to be near unrecognisable.
‘What happened to her?’ she croaked.
‘Rest now.’ The surgeon looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Don’t worry about her, concentrate on your own mending.’
‘What happened?’ Sorina injected as much force as she could into her voice.
The surgeon sighed. ‘She was raped, beaten and stabbed — probably by your trainer, the Nubian. Does that knowledge make you feel any better, Amazon? Now, do as I say. Rest.’
Sorina laid her head wearily on the pillow. She found that there was still hatred in her heart for Lysandra. If not for the Greek, none of this would have come to pass. Yet she was still womankind and rape was the vilest act that could be committed upon her. It was an abomination against the goddess herself.
No one, not even the Spartan, deserved that.
Her eyes were drawn once again to her unmoving form. That Lysandra would be much changed by this, she knew well. On the steppes, she had seen women who had been taken and so abused. Some recovered, some broke — but none were ever the same after such an ordeal.
She and Lysandra could never be friends, that was certain; yet, even though she still despised her, Sorina decided there should be a mending between them. Eirianwen was gone, the cause of their dispute passed on. Life without her would be intolerable enough and abiding hostility between herself and the Spartan would be a constant reminder of Eirianwen’s passing. But Lysandra would never make such a gesture, would not deign to lower herself to make peace with ‘the barbarian’. It would be she, Sorina, who must make the first move.
That would hurt her pride sorely, but it was something that had to be done for the good of all concerned.
XXXIII
‘A ve, gladiatrix.’
Lysandra opened her eyes, aware only of the pain that coursed through her body. Every nerve was alive, as if burnt raw with fires of agony. Though her vision swam, she could make out the surgeon. For a moment, confusion reigned, then the memories came crashing back.
The cell.
Nastasen.
What they had done to her.
She shuddered and shrank back on the bed, crying out suddenly at the pain of moving.
‘It’s all right,’ the surgeon said gently. ‘You are safe here. No one is going to hurt you, Achillia. Here, drink this.’ He held up a small cup. ‘It is an opiate,’ he added. ‘It will help… with everything.’
Lysandra allowed him to lift her head and tilt the bitter liquid down her throat. She almost gagged at the acrid taste but she managed to keep it down. No sooner had the vile stuff been emptied from the cup than the surgeon was giving her water to rinse her mouth. He let her head rest back on the hard pillow and she squeezed her eyes tight shut, but tears burned hot down her face.
She could see them, feel them, their hands all over her, inside her, their laughter, the stench of their sweat.
‘Oh, Athene,’ she whispered. ‘Help me.’
‘She will help you,’ the surgeon said in Hellenic. ‘The goddess does not forget her own.’
Lysandra could feel the opiate flowing through her veins.
The pain of her body retreated and, though the memories remained, she found that it was as if she were looking upon them as a detached observer. The whole scene, the terrible ordeal, was played over and over again in her mind, tearing open a wound in her soul that was numbed by the drug in her system.
As the narcotic took hold of her, Lysandra found herself not knowing if she were asleep or awake; she floated in a netherworld of dreams, images from the past month ebbing and flowing before her. Penelope died again before her eyes, as did Eirianwen.
She watched herself with indifference as she cut down her opponents, the fierce joy and triumph she had felt at her victories now fled. And again, the rape.
Her rape.
She could hear men’s voices talking by her bedside, and though she tried to open her eyes, the lids would not respond. Cool hands touched her forehead, wiping away the sweat, and she found that she was not afraid.
As the voices became distant, some part of her realised that she would have to face up to the truth of what had happened when she was lucid.
But for now, she embraced Morpheus.
Nastasen moved as fast as he could through the crowded streets of Halicarnassus. At every second step he took, he found himself casting a glance over his shoulder. Every passer-by seemed to be staring at him, as if they knew he was on the run.
Sweat coursed over his gigantic frame, the heavy cowl he was wearing unbearably hot in the noonday sun. Yet it was necessary to bear the discomfort, for he could not risk being recognised.
He needed to find a place to hide, to breathe the hemp and let the drug ease his mind. He felt queasy and sick, a gnawing need inside him to taste the peace-giving smoke. He knew that once he had taken the smoke, all would be well. He clutched his cloak closer to him, noting his blood-encrusted nails.
Lysandra’s blood.
That the bitch had got what she deserved, and secretly wanted, was not at issue. But Nastasen was unsure whether the thrust from his knife had killed her. He cursed himself for a fool. He should have checked that she was dead, but he had been lost in the drug, lost in the pleasure. But if she were still alive, she would name him, and all would be out to hunt him down. Perhaps, even now, agents of Balbus were looking for him and there were always citizens out to make a fast sesterce by capturing an escaped slave.
Everyone was against him.
