He glanced about furtively again, the need for the drug gnawing away at him, heightening his paranoia. His companions had agreed that it was best that they spilt up and take their own chances. Nastasen regretted that now, because if they were taken, they would name him.
He made his way to the lower town, the city’s underbelly, inhabited by the dregs of Halicarnassus. Here, whores rubbed shoulders with thieves, murderers and indeed rapists. No questions were asked in this part of town; money ruled, and could buy discretion.
He found a grimy inn and, having paid the boil-faced keeper, retreated to his room. At once he cast his cloak onto the bed and fumbled for the twists of hemp in the satchel at his hip. He lit one of them with room’s solitary dirty lamp, blew out the flame and watched it smoulder. At last, the room was full of the pungent aroma of the narcotic. Nastasen put his clay cylinder around it and allowed it to fill with smoke before inhaling deeply.
He felt his heartbeat slow, his thoughts become less ragged.
What a fool he had been to fear, he realised. None of the city watch would be eager to track him, not a man of his known skill. He would kill anyone who came after him and he was wise enough to know that the local urbanae would not risk their lives for the pay they received. Especially over a slave, which, despite what she may think, Lysandra most assuredly was.
He grinned and sniffed his fingers, savouring the female fragrance mingled with fresh blood. She had loved it, he knew.
Oh, certainly she had writhed and cried out but there were moments when he saw the wanton gleam in her eye as they degraded her — he was sure of it. She wanted more, the slut.
He grew hard at the thought of it.
A plan formulated in his mind. He would flee the city and buy passage on a ship to his homeland. Once there, he would be greeted as the returning hero, honoured by his tribe. Yes, he had been foolish to be fearful. Drawing the last of the smoke deep into his lungs, he lay back on the bed and began to stroke himself, imagining the sight of Lysandra’s pale white skin and the sound of her cries loud in his ears.
XXXIV
It was hard for her to move, but Lysandra persevered. She was beaten to an extent that merely lying down caused her pain, and sitting brought its own agonies.
Yet she was could not simply lie there. She had been in the bed for over a week — an unbearable eternity of nightmare, misery and pain.
Sorina was convalescing too but the Amazon had made no effort to speak, for which Lysandra was profoundly grateful.
With painful slowness, she edged herself from the bed and tottered towards the doorway, and looked out at the now silent corridors. Tired suddenly, she leaned heavily on the wall, hating her weakness. She knew that the physical hurt would pass; but a rage burned inside her that Nastasen had escaped unpunished for his crime. The surgeon had told her that every effort was being made to track him down, but Lysandra reckoned that it was unlikely he would be found. Never in her life had she felt so powerless, so unable to meet life on terms that she dictated.
Had she not risen above slavery, conquered her captors and the mob with her skill and genius? But this was something she could do nothing about. Nastasen and his friends would escape and live out their days knowing they had won, that they had taken their pleasure from her and that she was helpless to prevent it.
They had forced her to submit, and the shame of it burned within her like acid. What she would give to have Nastasen before her with a sword in his hand. She would cut the bastard to ribbons and bathe in his blood. That he still lived mocked her.
She smacked her fist into the door, and regretted it instantly, for the action sent a wave of agony through her.
‘Feeling better?’ Sorina’s voice sounded from the stillness of the room.
This was all she needed. They had not spoken in all the time they had been in surgery, and she could do without the old bitch’s meaningless inanities. ‘I shall be well,’ she replied shortly, realising that to ignore her would be to sink to the level of the barbarian.
Sorina hoisted herself from her bed with difficulty, and Lysandra sneered at this open show of her discomfort. A Spartan may suffer pain like any other mortal but would not show it — especially to an enemy. She was certain that, even in her drugged stupor, she had not let herself down in such a manner.
‘I am sorry for what happened to you,’ Sorina said. ‘It is a crime against all women that a man should do this.’
Lysandra recoiled. How dare she have the gall to offer her sympathy? It was insulting. ‘Perhaps you should be more sorry for killing Eirianwen,’ she snapped, feeling the cords that held her temper in place begin to fray.
‘I am. Truly. I loved her as a daughter. But I could not have fought less than my best. To do so would be to dishonour Eirianwen.’
She was, Lysandra noted, making a good show of genuine regret, but it did not fool her; Sorina was trying to assuage her guilt by making amends. ‘Spare me your platitudes,’ she hissed.
‘You, in the autumn of your worthless existence, destroyed someone who was only pure and good. Your vanity would not allow anything less; you claim to have loved her as a daughter? Then you are the first ‘mother’ I have heard of that would put her own life before that of her child. You murdered her, Sorina, for I know she did not come at you with her best.’
‘Lysandra, you don’t understand the ways of the Tribes.’ Sorina’s voice was gentle, almost pleading.
‘Do not speak of your barbarian nonsense to me. I will not be Ate to hear your confession,’ Lysandra declared, naming the Goddess of Guilt. ‘My body may be injured, but my mind is sound. And know this: you are marked, old woman. I will kill you for what you did.’
Sorina’s hazel eyes flared with anger. ‘You arrogant bitch,’ she spat, struggling to her feet. ‘I was trying to make a peace between us that Eirianwen might be at rest, but you throw it in my face.
I have my pride, yes, but it is not the blind arrogance that taints your soul.’
‘You have nothing to be proud of, kinslayer,’ Lysandra said, hurling out the word Eirianwen herself had once used. ‘I know that you are a spent force, and that you used Eirianwen’s care of you to your advantage. Well, hear this: I challenge you. And I will not spare my hand, I swear by Athene. I will cut you down with impunity, and nothing will give me greater pleasure!’
‘You don’t have the skill.’ Sorina took a tentative step forward.
‘I beat you before when you crossed me at the ludus — if you were not too drunk to remember it! I will do so again. With a sword, or without it.’
‘Come then!’ Lysandra’s temper snapped and she lunged forwards, blind to everything save the need to crush the life from the Amazon.
Just as she came within striking range of Sorina, strong arms gripped her from behind, and hoisted her away. Unable to turn and see who held her, she kicked and screamed furiously struggling to break the iron grip.
Alerted by her howls, the surgeon rushed into the treatment area, with Stick and Catuvolcos in tow. ‘What in Hades name is going on here?’ he demanded.
‘I will kill her!’ Lysandra screamed, as the surgeon and Catuvolcos rushed past to restrain Sorina who was now hobbling forwards, screeching obscenities. Lysandra lashed out to kick her, but Stick lunged and grabbed her flailing legs.
‘Get her out of here!’ the surgeon barked, and Lysandra was powerless to prevent herself from being borne away.
‘We came to see how you were doing…’ Stick grunted as she struggled to break free. ‘Stop now, Lysandra!’
She glared at him, but was too weak to continue the fight. In silence, the two men bore down the corridor and to a cell; here, they let her to her feet.
‘Fine way to act in front of your friend,’ Stick glowered and jerked his chin at the man behind her before stalking off.
