She turned, still furious, but stopped short.
‘Hello, Lysandra,’ Telemachus said, smiling at her. His grin faded suddenly. ‘You’re not going to strike me, are you?’
Lysandra drew herself up, fighting back her anger. ‘Do not be absurd, Brother. Servants of the Goddess do not hit one another. I shall reserve my anger for the barbarian bitch you saw me with.’
‘That’s good. You should sit.’ He indicated a bunk. ‘You look as though you will fall down at any moment.’
‘I shall stand,’ Lysandra said defiantly. The fact was that Nastasen’s atrocities had made it extremely painful for her to sit.
Telemachus, however, was insistent. ‘Lie on your side then,’ he said. Lysandra flushed with shame, that he offered this advice meant that he knew well what had been done to her, but, feeling her legs go weak, she complied, forcing her face to stony stoicism: it would not do to show that an action as simple as lying down caused her discomfort.
‘What are you doing here?’ Lysandra asked as soon as she had arranged herself into a position that was bearable.
‘I came to visit you,’ he replied. ‘Balbus asked me, having told me what happened. He considers that we are friends. We are, aren’t we?’
That they had met but once was of no matter, Lysandra supposed. They shared a common ancestry, and practised similar devotions. ‘I suppose that we are.’ She shrugged. ‘I thank you, but I shall recover quite soon.’
‘I’m sure.’ Telemachus nodded. ‘I have asked Balbus that you spend your recuperation with me.’
‘Why?’ Lysandra straightened. ‘My place is at the ludus with the Hellene women. I am their leader, and they will not manage without me.’
‘I’m sure they will survive. And I think that some time away from all of this will do you good.’
‘I am quite well, and have no need of sympathy, Brother.’
‘I’m not offering you sympathy. The fact is that I need your help. I’m well aware of what you have been through with your trainer — and the loss of your friend. Balbus has told me everything, so I feel somewhat guilty asking you at what must be a sad time for you.’
‘What help?’ Lysandra frowned. ‘I am no good for anything at the moment. Though we Spartans bear pain with dignity, I am not so vain as to think that I am at my full powers.’
‘This is so,’ the Athenian agreed. ‘You’re no good for training at the ludus till you get your strength back. But I know that Sparta makes well-learned priestesses with sharp minds. That your body has suffered will not dull the keenness of your thoughts. If you were anything other than Spartan, I would not trouble you after what you have been through.’
Lysandra found herself smiling slightly. Truly, Telemachus was a good man and, as a Hellene and priest, had an innate understanding of the superiority of the Spartan race. ‘You are correct. Great indignities have been visited upon my body and I am somewhat distraught at the loss of my love.’ She felt no shame in pronouncing her devotion to Eirianwen. ‘But if I can help a friend, of course I will.’
‘It’s a big task…’ Telemachus hesitated. ‘I need works from my library copied up: Hesiod, Thucydides, Plato… that sort of thing.
Are you sure you are up to it?’
‘Of course.’ Lysandra answered levelly, betraying no sense of the relief she felt. It would be good to feel something other than utterly useless and abused. It would in no way assuage the helpless anger that she felt at Nastasen’s deeds, but at least there was some practical thing to which she could divert her attentions.
Obviously, Telemachus was guilt-ridden at asking her in her current state, but he evidently could find no one properly qualified in both religion and scripting to aid him. Certainly, their association was a good one; he had helped her in the past, and it pleased her to be able to help him. And, if she was honest with herself, such tasks might also keep her from thinking too much of Eirianwen and the pain those memories brought with them.
Aside from her personal needs, she also considered that her grasp of language and literature would be far better than Telemachus’s. Doubtless she would produce work of better quality.
‘Balbus has agreed to this?’ she asked.
‘Yes. He is pleased to know that a healer of skill will look after you, and that it is costing him nothing.’
‘A healer?’
‘I have no small expertise.’ Telemachus did not waste time with false modesty, she noted.
‘And, in such a way, I shall repay you for your skills with my work.’ Lysandra smiled slightly, refusing to wince as her lip split.
‘Precisely so.’ He handed her a cloth. ‘We have a deal?’
‘Yes, we have a deal. When should we leave?’
‘Right away.’ Telemachus got to his feet and offered Lysandra his hand. She spurned the offer. ‘Follow me,’ he said, turning away.
His back to Lysandra, Telemachus smiled grimly, pleased with his success. When Balbus had come to him, he had realised at once that leaving her to her own thoughts would be damaging to her.
The lanista’s concern had been for his fighter, his stock, but Telemachus’s anxiety was over the girl’s health. In truth, he did not know her well, but then she was a priestess and it seemed to Telemachus that she had had more than her fair share of bad luck. He wanted to help her, both as priest and fellow Hellene.
One thing he did realise was that keeping her mind active would help her with the trauma she had suffered. He had assured Balbus that a change of environment would be the best medicine for the girl’s mind.
He offered a prayer to Athene and then to Nemesis that they would catch the pigs that had raped her — the goddess of justice that they would be found and the goddess of vengeance that they would suffer the torments that their evil deserved.
XXXV
Lysandra surveyed her new surroundings through bruised, puffy eyes. Extensive building work had recently been completed on the shrine, that much was obvious. She could tell that this had once been a fairly modest establishment, but now, whilst not opulent and grand, much space had been added to the rear of the temple proper. Evidently, Athene’s shrine in Halicarnassus had prospered under the auspices of the Athenian priest.
Telemachus led her to a small anteroom, where he placed her bucket of books on a bunk. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this will be yours while you recover. I know it’s not much, but then again…’ he gestured and Lysandra rewarded him with a half smile.
‘It is most pleasant, Brother,’ she said, aware that he would know all about the austerity of both agoge and ludus. ‘Though I should not wish to live in such luxury all the time, whilst I heal, this will be acceptable.’ She saw him take a sidelong glance at her, unsure of whether or not she was being serious. She decided to leave him in the dark. ‘When should I start my work?’
‘Oh, there will be plenty of time for all that,’ the priest replied.
‘It’s not at all pressing. But as I said, there is a lot of it and your help will be invaluable to me.’
Lysandra lowered herself gingerly onto the bunk and lay on her side.
‘Let’s take a look at you, then,’ Telemachus said. ‘I have some healing salves which I will apply for you. I shall bring them.’ He turned and exited swiftly.
Lysandra suddenly felt very tired. Though she was loath to admit it, even the short wagon ride from the arena to the shrine had utterly exhausted her. However, she told herself that wallowing in self-indulgence was no way to get back to full health and so she sat up and began to struggle out of her tunic. It was slow, agonising work and she fought the urge to utter a curse. Nastasen had made even the simplest of tasks a Heraclean effort for her.
Though the tunic caught over her head she struggled on gamely.
There were footfalls and Telemachus was there: a sharp tearing sound and the garment fell away.
‘You know, Lysandra,’ he said, ‘it does not always have to be the hard way.’ He gestured with the knife he had used to cut away the cloth.
‘It is what I am used to,’ she responded. ‘The acceptance of hardship is a virtue, Brother.’
