Telemachus grunted, looking at her ravaged body. She could tell that his face was a carefully composed Stoic mask: she looked in bad shape, and well she knew it. ‘It looks far worse than it feels,’ she lied.
‘Does it?’ Telemachus did not seem at all convinced. ‘I will apply the salve, if you have no objection.’
‘Of course not.’ Lysandra settled herself back. ‘Though I am used to the wanton cries of lewd men, I hardly think that you will receive any gratification from the sight of me, Brother.’
‘Just call me Telemachus,’ he said, rubbing the unguent into her shoulders as gently as he could. Carefully, he covered her torso and back with the vile-smelling stuff, but advised her to deal with her personal areas herself. ‘How’s that?’ he asked after a while.
‘It feels strange, as though it is lifting the soreness from the bruises. Not that they were causing me overmuch discomfort,’ she added hastily.
‘Good. I want you to drink this now.’ He handed her a cup.
‘It’s a healing draught. Unlike an opiate it won’t turn you into a walking corpse. But it will help you to rest.’
‘Thank you.’ Lysandra took the cup and sipped the bitter liquid. ‘It is utterly foul,’ she told him after a moment.
Telemachus chuckled. ‘Well, it must be if even a Spartan passes comment on its flavour. But is that not the way of the world, Lysandra? All things that are bad for you taste wonderful, all those that are not taste vile.’
‘Only if one is used to the decadent lifestyle of Athens,’ she said blithely.
‘You’re welcome.’ Telemachus’s expression turned sour, but there was kindness in his eyes. ‘I have this.’ He turned and produced a lengthy chiton. ‘It ties at the front, so you won’t have to struggle in and out of a tunic.’
‘You are most considerate,’ she told him as he helped her into the garment.
‘I’m a priest. It’s part of the job… as we are taught in Athens at least.’
‘Perhaps…’ she said, lying down once again, her voice floating, ‘there is something to be said for that.’
Telemachus watched as Lysandra drifted into slumber. He waited till the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest told him she was deeply asleep before brushing the raven hair away from her face and leaving her to her rest.
There were tasks he had to attend to and the faithful would be gathering soon. His workload had increased threefold since the money he had received from Balbus had been ploughed into the shrine. With better facilities the congregation had increased a great deal, as had his standing in the expatriate community.
That the money had been gained by helping Lysandra the first time had not sat well with him initially. But on reflection, he had realised that things were in balance and he had acted properly. He had performed a service and all parties concerned had been better off because of it. Balbus had his gladiatrix back, Lysandra was prepared for her life in the arena, and the goddess had a more opulent place of worship.
This, however, was different. Balbus had rushed to him after the rape, knowing that a degree of trust must exist between Spartan priestess and Athenian priest. The lanista was not an evil, or even cruel man, and knew that the abiding horrors of Lysandra’s ordeal could destroy her. He had offered Telemachus money to help the girl, but this time the Greek had refused payment.
His day’s work done, Telemachus retreated to what he optimistically termed his library to find some texts for Lysandra to re-copy. The truth of the matter was that he had no such work for her and would have to make some. This took some time, as most of his collection was of the more popular works and he had decided that it would be unfair to engage Lysandra in useless tasks.
So occupied had he become in the task of seeking out older texts, he did not realise the hour had grown late. That his lamp was beginning to flicker told him he’d been searching for some hours now. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the pile of scrolls he had amassed: certainly, it was enough for her to be getting on with.
He rose, his back clicking, and made his way to his room. In the silence of the shrine, the sound of Lysandra’s voice was clear.
She was calling out, desperate for help. Cursing, Telemachus rushed to her quarters, hoping that his lamp would last out.
Lysandra writhed and thrashed on her bunk, in the grip of a terrible nightmare. It was all too obvious from her cries that she was re-living her ordeal at the hands of the Nubian. He rushed to her side.
‘Lysandra!’ He shook her gently, not wishing to hurt her, or snap her from her slumber too suddenly. Her lids flickered open, the ice-coloured eyes wide with fear and panic.
‘Get away!’ she screamed. ‘Get away from me!’
‘Lysandra, it is I…’ the priest began to say, but the young Spartan merely screamed incoherently. She was, he realised, still in the grip of her dream and the presence of a man in her room in the dark could not help her. Defeated and helpless, he retreated, listening as the cries began to abate. Telemachus sighed and sat on the floor outside her room, his back leaning on the wall. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night. But he did not wish to leave her alone.
XXXVI
It took some days for Sorina’s fury to abate.
The hated Spartan’s face swam before her eyes, the grating voice, the strange eyes and, most of all, the arrogant demeanour.
It was obvious now that what Eirianwen had said was true. The Morrigan had marked all three of them, intertwining their destinies.
Clearly, the Goddess of Dark Fate had a competition in mind, where only one would be left alive. Eirianwen was dead by Sorina’s own hand, and the Spartan had challenged her in turn.
Soon there would be only Sorina, as it was in the beginning.
She knew that she had the beating of Lysandra, and she prayed furiously that the Spartan recover soon in order that the matter between them might be settled. The Greek’s overweening conceit grated but, worse, the bitch had thrown the Friendship Gift back in her face. She was sick with anger at Lysandra’s mistreatment of her honour. It had taken a great deal for her, as Clan Chief, to make the first words, yet the ingrate had used this merely as an opportunity to insult her. Well, the challenge was laid at her feet and Sorina had never shirked a foe in her life. In normal circumstances she took life with regret, but in her heart she knew that she would enjoy killing Lysandra. To ram three feet of iron into her belly and watch those ice blue eyes widen in pain and surprise would give her great pleasure. More, to send the Greek to Helle knowing that a ‘barbarian’ had bested her would be revenge of the sweetest kind.
Sorina’s rage gave her strength and helped score out the grief she felt at her slaying of Eirianwen. There was guilt still, but she would wash it away in Spartan blood. If not for Lysandra, none of this would have come to pass. She had come into the world of the ludus seeking to take it over and make it her own. She sought to corrupt the best and bravest of the Tribe, mocking them with her seduction of Eirianwen. There had been times when Sorina had doubted in her conviction of this, but now she knew that she was looking for good where there had been none.
Lysandra was evil. That she had been raped was a sign from the gods that she curb her arrogant ways but the ‘priestess’ had ignored it. Sorina knew that this discounting would cost her her life.
This hatred of Lysandra was a contentious issue between her and Lucius Balbus. The lanista visited her often as she recuperated — more, she knew, to keep an eye on his best remaining asset than over any real concern for her health. Balbus needed his best fighters training and earning, not laid up in expensive arena surgeries. The Roman had quizzed her ruthlessly over the cause of her spat with Lysandra but Sorina had remained tight- lipped.
‘It is something between us, lanista,’ she said.
‘Well,’ Balbus stabbed a finger, ‘I don’t want any more of it.
Lysandra is here to stay so get used to it.’
Sorina grunted. ‘Have it your way, Balbus, but I will not stand to be upbraided or attacked by that little slut.’
‘I’ll see to it that she is kept busy, and far away from you.’
Balbus smiled at her, and changed the subject. ‘How are you doing?’
