We were celebrating with the others.’
‘You mean you were drunk,’ Titus growled. The two trainers stared sheepishly at the floor.
‘… And it couldn’t have been just anyone, you imbecile!’
Balbus stood up, his stomach lurching. ‘She was locked in a cell, you say. By your own hand! So whoever did it had to have a key.’
‘Keys can be stolen,’ Catuvolcos offered.
‘And has anyone reported one missing?’ Balbus shouted him down. When this rhetorical question was met with silence the lanista threw up his arms. ‘I can’t leave you two alone for one night!’ he blustered. ‘Every night is party night for Stick and Catuvolcos, but when Balbus takes one night off — one — what does he find? The place in disarray and his most promising gladiatrix raped, beaten and stabbed near to death. I’ll bet you’ve not even begun to get the other women on to the carts, have you?
No. And who’ll have to foot the bill to the arena for the over-stay? Lucius Balbus will!’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Catuvolcos mumbled.
Balbus glared at him. ‘Sorry, are you? You’ll be more sorry if I have you nailed to a board for your idiocy,’ he waved a finger, ‘and that includes you, Stick.’ The two trainers said nothing, merely looked down at the ground, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘Damn the pair of you,’ he added in a tired murmur.
A silence hung in the room for some time while Balbus pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying to let the anger drain out of him. This was just not fair: not when he was on the verge of the biggest deal of his life, the greatest purse that any lanista outside of Rome could hope to make and the fame that the proposed extravaganza would bring him. ‘What did the surgeon say?’ He decided to ask a practical question. Better to hear the worst, and get it over with.
‘She’s in a bad way,’ Catuvolcos said at once. ‘Balbus, terrible things have been done to her. The surgeon says…’ He paused, and swallowed. ‘The surgeon says it must have been a group that attacked her. It was — he said to me — not like she was just raped — they treated her in the vilest manner they could. There was hatred behind this attack.’
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.
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 n
ot 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.
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.’
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