‘Oh!’ Lysandra felt herself blush, which was rather unseemly, but the suddenness of the priest’s gesture had caught her unawares.
Carefully, she unwrapped the cloth bundle and drew forth a brand new chiton. It was long, and dyed in scarlet.
‘Is it the right shade?’ Telemachus asked, grinning. ‘There’s a fellow who works in the market who claims to have spent time in Sparta. He swears that this is the colour of your Order.’
‘It is so.’ Lysandra beamed with delight. ‘This is so that the enemies of Sparta will never see the colour of our blood.’
‘Well, I don’t imagine there will be any enemies around here, but I am glad it meets with your approval.’
‘Oh, it does, Telemachus, it is a most lavish gift!’
‘Hardly. But I am pleased that you are pleased.’ He got to his feet. ‘Well, get changed, then. I shall see you in the shrine. It will be good for me to put my feet up for once and simply watch.’
Telemachus was well pleased with Lysandra’s progress. With help and care she was coming to terms with her grief; she spoke of Eirianwen often, but the bitterness in her voice was slowly replaced with a yearning sadness. Of Nastasen she said nothing, but he knew that the Nubian still haunted her dreams. He frequently asked the soldiers assigned to town watch if there were any news of the trainer but they had found nothing. He did not mention this to Lysandra, lest he distress her, but that she had agreed to conduct the ceremony showed a marked improvement. There was, he admitted to himself, something to be said for Spartan stoicism.
Telemachus waited at the entrance to the shrine, greeting the worshippers as they filed in. If some thought it was a little odd that he was not already in his place to begin the ceremonies, none mentioned it. Soon, the building became full and he closed the doors, marking the sign to inform others that no more would be admitted for this service.
Incense hung thickly in the air. He grinned to himself. Spartans might be austere but it seemed that Lysandra had been heavy handed with burners. Still, it all made for good theatre.
From behind the statue of the goddess, Lysandra emerged, carrying the Ritual Spear in her hand. There was a muted gasp from the gathering. Her wounds healed, Telemachus realised that she was truly beautiful. In the dim, half-light of the shrine, her form obscured by the smoke, it appeared as though Athene herself had come from Olympus to grace his small place of worship.
Lysandra’s voice resonated strongly through the small shrine, lifted in hymn to the goddess:
I start to sing of Pallas Athena, City Guard, The fearsome, who with Ares cares for warlike deeds, The sack of cities and the battle-cry of war; She saves the soldiers as they come and go away.
Be welcome, goddess, give me fortune and good cheer.
Lysandra continued in a typically Spartan manner, exhorting the people to bear hardship with fortitude, speaking on the evils of excess and extravagant living. Telemachus realised that the address was well rehearsed and often spoken. The girl’s rhetoric was flawless, even if it was delivered in the rustic Laconian accent.
He did wonder, however, whether the words would have much bearing outside of her strange little polis. Modern folk did not want to be told of sacrifice, duty and moral obligation: the world had changed and the old- fashioned values adhered to by the Spartans were so outmoded as to be almost quaint.
Lysandra finished her lesson, her ice-coloured eyes sweeping over the people for a moment. There was a pause — then a youth at the front began to applaud. The others took up his motion and soon the shrine echoed to appreciative shouts and cheers, hailing the priestess’s words. Telemachus was taken aback. He had certainly had not expected the dour service to be received so enthusiastically. He clapped politely himself, feeling a little self- conscious.
‘Is there anything specific a worshipper wishes to ask of the goddess or her priestess?’ Lysandra said when the cheering died down. The youth raised his hand, and she gestured to him.
The lad stood, looking this way and that, urged on by several of his fellows who flanked him. ‘I wanted to ask,’ he cleared his throat, ‘if you were… I mean… are you Achillia?’
Telemachus put his hand to his forehead. He had been an idiot. Of course the crowd had not been enamoured of Lysandra’s speech. They were enamoured of her, the gladiatrix. He knew the girl and was not blinded by her recently acquired fame; he had all but forgotten that the public would be unfamiliar with Lysandra as a person. All they knew was that the heroine of Aeschylus’ games, a Hellene heroine at that, had come to lead them in prayer.
He saw Lysandra’s nostrils flare, and she drew herself up. ‘I am she.’
‘I think you’re brilliant.’ Telemachus could almost see the boy’s cheeks burning through the incense smoke.
‘That is as maybe, young ephebe,’ came the Spartan’s response.
Though it was stern, the priest could see that Lysandra was fighting the urge to grin at the recognition. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘that is not relevant to this time or place. Do you have a question?’ The boy hesitated, and then sat down, being nudged mercilessly by his compatriots until a glare from Lysandra quietened them.
There were several supercilious queries from the older members of the gathering, which were answered laconically by the Spartan (‘How can I raise my sons to be good men?’ — ‘Discipline breeds goodliness’) but most now seemed anxious to get the service over with because, Telemachus realised, they could then meet and talk with the priestess. Lysandra bade the people make their offerings to Athene and this done, the ceremony would be over.
No sooner had Lysandra closed the ritual than the doors were flung open and people spilled into the street, awaiting ‘Achillia’.
Telemachus noted too that some of the gathering had already begun to spread the news to passers-by that the gladiatrix was in the shrine.
‘Are you sure about this?’ he said to Lysandra as she moved to the door.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Have you seen the offerings?’
Telemachus rushed to the altar, to see the bowl overflowing with coin. Normally, a mere few sesterces rattled about at the bottom of the pot but, this day, people had been more than generous. He gathered the fame- garnered loot quickly and glanced up at the statue of Athene. He could swear that the cold marble lips were curled in a half-smile.
‘The goddess looks after her own,’ he muttered. The irony was not lost to him. His efforts to help Lysandra were totally selfless, made out of a desire to somehow retain a balance between the good and ill in her life. But her mere presence in the shrine this single day had paid more in offerings than Telemachus was used to seeing in an entire week. And each day she was with him the coffers would grow.
Outside, the people had begun to chant ‘Achillia, Achillia,’ over and over again. The priest chuckled. ‘Why not,’ he said aloud. He could understand why they were cheering: the Hellenes were a proud race, yet in the Empire they were not regarded as true equals. More, the sands of the arena were usually the dominion of barbarian champions. That Lysandra was Hellene gave them someone to cheer for, someone who carried their pride like a badge of honour.
He moved outside to see Lysandra being swamped by many admirers. Pieces of parchment were being thrust into her hand in order that she make her mark as a souvenir. Others just wanted to touch her dress for luck. The priest was taken aback when he looked upon her. The girl was basking in the adulation; beneath her severe facade, it was evident that she was revelling in the attention. She seemed to grow in stature, feeding off the energy of the crowd. Telemachus was buffeted about in the rush to be close to Lysandra and momentarily feared for her safety. Yet, she seemed to know instinctively how to handle the mob of people, easing them back, so that she could greet them in an orderly fashion.
He stepped back, ignored by the well-wishers, into the quiet of the shrine and leant against the wall. That Lysandra was scarred by the loss of her lover and her ordeal was undeniable. Yet Telemachus perceived that in the adoration of the mob she had found her own salve. It healed her in a way that handholding and quiet words never could, burying her hurt beneath an avalanche of self-indulgence.
Being Spartan, she would never see it that way, of course. Self-indulgence was anathema to the harsh Lakedaimonian code. But he could see in Lysandra a recovering of egocentricity. Perhaps, he thought, that was not as great an evil as self-neglect; yet, if not tempered, this confidence, this love of popularity could turn quickly to conceit.
The mob was fickle. They would love Lysandra as Hellene and their champion. Yet, if she were to falter on
