Melantha.
How Lysandra hated her. She delighted in their every failure even though everyone knew that it was she who was a bad teacher, never explaining anything properly so she had an excuse to hit them. Lysandra swore to Athene that when she was big enough she would take her revenge on Melantha: she would beat her spotty red face in.
The only time they had away from their physical training was in the evening when they were led into a small room to be taught proper religious observance. It was a part of the day they all looked forward to as, coupled with their basic reading and writing, this was a time for stories of the goddess and of Spartan heroes past. Though she had heard it said often enough, it was in these sessions that Lysandra truly began to understand why the Spartans were superior to all other races on earth. It was clear that they were chosen by the gods and were the pinnacle of what was best in all people, suffering none of the flaws of the lesser races.
Their teacher was Halkyone, the priestess who had brought Lysandra to the temple and whilst she was stern, she never struck anyone unless they really deserved it. Lysandra rarely received a smack: she was by far the best in the class and she – as well as Halkyone – knew it. In her quiet moments, Lysandra thanked her mother for teaching her letters and numbers; though she had hated it at the time, she was now reaping the benefits.
At the end of their lessons, they would make a sacrifice to Athene and stumble, exhausted, to their bunks.
‘I don’t like it here,’ her roommate, Deianara, whispered one night after lamps out. Deianara had stood next to Lysandra on their first day, the blonde girl with whom she had shared a smile.
‘I don’t think we’re supposed to like it,’ Lysandra offered. ‘One day, we’ll be priestesses – it will be better then.’
‘But that is ages away,’ Deianara whined, as loud as she dared.
‘It is ages away,’ Lysandra agreed, Deianara’s melancholy rubbing off on her. ‘But it also seems that we’ve been here forever. I wish I were home. But we cannot go home. We cannot ever go home.’
Days turned into weeks and with each dawn the trials the girls endured became ever sterner. From simple exercises and marching in step they were taught the rudiments of combat, armed and unarmed. Weighed down with undersized yet heavy shields, spears and armour, the girls formed the phalanx, wheeling and charging to the high-pitched wailing of the pipes. They learned fast: the beatings for failure here were far worse than anything they had suffered before. When subjected to her own thrashing at the gleeful hands of Melantha, Lysandra was appalled to find that the older girl had made her bleed. She had screamed in protest but received only more punishment for this most terrible of transgressions whilst Melantha had simply told her to ‘get used to it!’
There was no time now for homesickness and remorse and Lysandra was coming to realise the truth of her words to Deianara: her parents could not come to her aid in this place. All she had to rely on were her friends, most especially Deianara herself. They shared a bed, stood next to each other in line and soon became all but inseparable.
One morning they formed up on the palaestra; instead of the usual array of armour and shields there was a pile of wooden swords. Lysandra nudged Deianara at the sight of them: this, she thought, would make a welcome change.
‘Greetings, worms,’ Melantha strode out before them. ‘Gods on Olympus but you are a pitiful sight! Are you even Spartan at all? More likely you are the brood of bastards foisted on us . . .’
She went on in this mien for quite some time; it was hardly unusual and Lysandra found the whole harangue needless. It was clear to her that she and the group were improving, so it had to be pure mean-spiritedness on the acolyte’s part to keep upbraiding them regardless. As Melantha continued, Lysandra stopped listening, her eyes fixed on the cache of wooden swords.
Eventually Melantha barked an order and the line broke up, the girls trotting over to the swords. Lysandra shoved her way to the front: she was taller and stronger than most of the others and she doubted that anyone would take issue with her. Stooping, she selected two weapons that looked sturdy. They were much heavier than they looked.
‘Here,’ she passed one to Deianara. ‘These ones look good.’
‘Stop your chatting and get back to your line!’ Melantha shouted, ‘once you’ve selected a weapon, back into formation!’ She punctuated this by kicking one of the slower girls in the rear, sending her to the ground. ‘Now then,’ Melantha eyed the group before collecting the final sword from the ground. ‘First rank . . . six steps forward! Third Rank . . . six steps back! Give yourselves room, worms! You will need it! What have you noticed about these swords? Any of you?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Lysandra raised her hand and Melantha nodded. ‘They are very heavy,’ Lysandra said.
‘Correct. Why?’
‘To make our arms strong.’
‘Partly. But also, if you ever get good enough to use the real thing, it will feel as light as a feather. It’s better to sweat now than bleed later! Always remember that, worms! Now, I will show you a basic thrust . . .’ Moving slowly, Melantha adjusted her stance, putting her weight forward on her right leg and extending her blade, her left leg shifting back.
She returned to a neutral stance and repeated the manoeuvre. ‘See how I am balanced. It is about economy of movement . . . doing more with less,’ she stood straight. ‘At full speed . . .’ she exploded into action, repeating the step so quickly it made Lysandra blink, ‘this most basic of attacks is devastating.’
For the first time ever, Lysandra saw a slight smile play about the neophyte’s lips: she had probably enjoyed startling them with her sudden, lethal movement. ‘Now, worms . . . Thrust!’
The girls reacted to the order but some of them stumbled and lost their balance as they tried to execute the move.
‘Slowly, idiots!’ Melantha harangued them. ‘Technique first, you know that already, how many more times do I have to tell you not to rush? Slowly! Now, do it again!’
Lysandra tried again and found her balance: it somehow felt right as though she instinctively knew how to shape her body. As she settled into the thrust position, her eyes flicked over to Melantha whose nod was barely perceptible. But it was the first sign of approval that she had ever had from the acolyte and she felt a warm glow of pride. As her parents had told her, she was special – as were all the girls of the temple. But where they struggled, Lysandra excelled. Perhaps, she thought, she was more special than most.
‘At ease!’ Melantha commanded. ‘And . . . thrust! Pathetic! At ease . . . and . . . thrust!’
And so it went on. Each day, they were pushed harder, the swordplay added to the usual regimen of fitness and drill, but Lysandra found herself enjoying the challenge. She was good – better than the others of her age and was soon reaping the benefits of her endeavours with lighter duties. No more cleaning and scrubbing for her, no more doling out food at meal times.
Excellence, after all, ought to be rewarded.
Lysandra awoke in agony.
She sat up, screaming in pain as she looked down at the gaping wound in her side. Blood pumped out all over her thighs. People were surrounding her, two strong men with beards and a woman, her eyes filled with fear and concern.
Another man ran to the cot, a clay pot in his hand. ‘Hold her down!’ he shouted.
‘It’s alright, Lysandra,’one of the bearded men said in a weird accent. Athenian?
They pushed her back and though she struggled, the pain was too great. ‘Get off me,’ she rasped. ‘Get off me!’ The feeling of two men forcing her onto her back filled her with a terrible fear and she began to scream in terror. At once, her nose was gripped and they were forcing vile liquid down her throat.
‘Shhhh . . .’ the woman crouched by her, stroking her face. ‘Lay still, Lysandra, lay still. All will be well. Try to relax.’
The pain and panic began to recede and the voices in the dark room became distant.
‘Will she li
ve?’ It was a Spartan voice, full of fear and concern.
‘Hard to say. We thought she was dead already.’
‘The goddess will protect her.’ This from the Athenian. ‘She always has.’
‘Not today she didn’t.’
‘The wound is deep,’ the Spartan said.
‘I’ve seen this before,’ the one who had poured the liquid into her mouth said. Then Lysandra felt a sharp pain in her side, like she had been pricked with a needle. She looked down to see that the man who had poured the drink into her was indeed stitching her side. Somehow, that did not bother her. ‘Sometimes, after a really bad wound, the body goes to sleep – almost like it is protecting itself. It can look as though the person is dead . . . but as you can see, that isn’t always the case.’
‘Yes, but will she live?’ the insistent Spartan asked again.
‘I told you, I don’t know,’ the man replied easily. ‘As the priest there says – it is really up to the gods now.’
77 A.D.
Sparta
Lysandra opened her eyes to see Deianara leaning over her. ‘Gods, Lysandra,’ she said. ‘Wake up! You are shouting the place down.’
Lysandra blinked a few times, the remnants of the nightmare slipping away from her. ‘Sorry . . .’ she mumbled, giving her friend a smile.
‘It is time to wake up anyway,’ Deianara said.
‘I feel as though I have not slept at all,’ Lysandra complained.
‘We have been roommates for eight years – and in those eight years never once have you had enough sleep.’
‘That is because you keep me awake with your self-pleasuring every night,’ Lysandra shot back.
‘You should try it,’ Deianara chided. ‘It might make you less waspish first thing in the morning. Or I could do it for you. The other girls are all at it, and I’m the only one who lives with Parthenos herself. It’s very frustrating.’
‘We are training to be priestesses of a virgin goddess, Deianara. Besides, it is the Spartan way to be disciplined in all things.’
‘Really, Lysandra,’ Deianara stood and made her way to her own bunk. ‘You are incorrigible.’
‘I am sure you mean incorruptible.’
Deianara stuck out her tongue.
‘Has it really been eight years?’ Lysandra said.
‘I know, can you believe it? Remember when we first came – they shaved our heads. That was awful.’ This made Lysandra grin – Deianara was incredibly vain about her long, blonde hair, even though Priestesses of Athene were supposed to be paragons of Spartan modesty. ‘And Melantha used to beat us all the time,’ Deianara added, her eyes glittering with amusement. After a moment’s thought she said, ‘She was probably like you – no outlet for her passions. Made her a bully.’
‘You know as well as I that she was not a bully.’
‘Easy to say now. Back then, we really hated her – hindsight, Lysandra.’
There was no arguing that, so Lysandra chose to ignore it. ‘We needed discipline and we needed to be taught not to fear pain but accept it as part of life.’
‘Spartans fear nothing,’ Deianara quoted – without the proper reverence in Lysandra’s opinion.
‘It is one of the things that make us superior,’ she reminded her companion as they began to dress. ‘As is proper ritual observance: we need to sacrifice before today’s lessons.’
‘Well, we had best hurry then. I would not want to interrupt your personal communication with the goddess, Lysandra.’
Lysandra glanced over, wondering if she was being mocked, but Deianara had – for once – managed to keep a straight face and Lysandra deigned not to make an issue of it. She loved her roommate, but Deianara had a maddening habit of not treating her duties with appropriate solemnity. They had been brought up to embrace their innate superiority over lesser Hellenes and all other peoples and to embrace the hard training of warrior and priestess. But much of the time Deianara showed all together too much levity. And she hardly ever got beaten – her back had fewer scars than anyone else who had come to the temple in their group – and, in her more peevish moments. Lysandra felt this to be a little unfair.
After all, it was she, Lysandra, who was pre-eminent in all matters to do with their training. She was the tallest, the strongest, the best with sword, spear and shield and the most intelligent. And of course, the goddess spoke to her – even Halkyone had confirmed this was the truth and not something that had grown from a child’s imagination.
Lysandra had not shared with anyone that this was why she did not indulge in the sexual pleasures that the other girls enjoyed. She was tempted for sure, but feared that if she broke her abstinence, the goddess would cease to commune with her. She glanced at Deianara – indulging a fantasy of being locked in a passionate embrace with her . . .
‘What?’ Deianara asked, her head cocked to one side.
‘Nothing.’
The two made their way to the temple proper to make their morning sacrifices, waving a greeting to Melantha who was on guard.
If the palaestra was always full of noise and activity, the temple was an island of serenity. Dominated by the altar of Athene, the temple was austere, its walls decorated only by a frieze that went around all four walls, images of Spartans inspired to feats of greatness by the goddess herself. The statue of Athene behind the altar was far less grand than the exterior one, but Lysandra much preferred it. Far smaller, it looked more real to her, imbued with a sense of life that the grander icon did not have: Lysandra always felt that, no matter where you stood in the temple, the eyes of Athene were always on you and this was a comforting thought.
Lysandra loved this place and knew every inch of it – even those secret areas that were forbidden to neophytes and indeed most full priestesses. Beneath the stone floors was a cavernous library, full of secret knowledge of history and military tactics.
This was part of the reason for the constant tiredness that Deianara had noticed. Lysandra would steal into the temple, avoiding the watchful eyes of the guards, and creep into the library, the entrance to which was situated behind the throne of the Matriarch.
Here, she would pore over the books until the small hours of the morning. It had begun as a challenge to herself – she wanted to see what was forbidden and the truth of it was that most girls who left their quarters at night were out prowling for food or, as they grew older, to meet in illicit trysts and as such, the guards were more often looking outwards than looking inwards. Stealth was a skill that the Spartans had always valued and it pleased Lysandra that she was clearly accomplished at it.
There was already a queue of girls waiting to make offerings and by the time it came to their turn there were only a few doves left in the wooden cages that were placed nearby. Lysandra recalled scrubbing their waste and cleaning the blood away from the altar in her younger days, a task that was thankfully no longer required of her. She selected the best of what looked to be a poor bunch and carried it to the altar.
She whispered her prayers, eyes closed, hoping as always that the goddess would speak to her, but today she was silent. As the Homeric hymn died on her lips, Lysandra slit the bird’s throat, allowing its life blood to gush into the altar bowl and enjoying the warm pulse of the liquid on her skin.
‘There will always be blood on your hands, Lysandra.’
Lysandra started and looked up at the statue: the voice in her mind was unmistakable. Athene had spoken! She waited patiently until Deianara tutted and began to fidget. The goddess was clearly not going to elaborate so, with some reluctance, Lysandra placed the dead bird in a receptacle and left Deianara to her prayers, while her own mind whirled with the possibilities contained in the goddess’s message to her.
It was bright outside, the palaestra now full of girls and women at their training, the air full of the discordant sounds of shouted orders and wooden weapons clacking together. Watching absently, Lysandra plunged her hands into a water-trough to wash away the blood, pondering the meaning of Athene’s
words.
Blood on her hands. Did it mean that she would spend all her days as a priestess or observing the rituals? Her eyes were drawn to the great statue of the goddess, seeking an answer – and then it came to her.
This temple had been built hundreds of years ago after Pyrrhus of Epirus had invaded Lakedaimonia and tried to conquer the Spartans. Under the leadership of Queen Arachidamia, the Spartan women had taken up arms alongside the men and crushed the invader. The victory was of course inspired by Athene herself and so the temple had been built in case the women of Sparta were ever called upon again to defend their lands.
All their training in arms and military tactics was to honour this ancient promise and with a bolt of divine clarity it occurred to Lysandra that this was why she was so much better than her peers; why she was driven not to seek out illicit liaisons at night but rather break into the temple proper and read the military texts. This was why Athene spoke to her: she had been chosen. The blood on her hands would not be that of ritual sacrifice – it would be the blood of her enemies.
‘Come,’ Deianara emerged from the darkness of the temple and rinsed her arms. ‘You are daydreaming again and we have a class to attend.’
Lysandra wondered whether she should share the word of the goddess with her friend but opted against it, feeling that it might be churlish to do so. She smiled. ‘Halkyone’s classes are always good.’
‘I would rather be training,’ Deianara said as they moved off. ‘It is a fine day and I would test my pankration on the sands,’ she indicated the girls who were sparring on the palaestra.
Lysandra arched an eyebrow. ‘Against me, Deianara?’
‘Even you cannot win all the time, Lysandra,’ she retorted.
‘But I do win all the time!’
Deianara did not respond for a moment and then suddenly lashed out, clipping Lysandra about the ear and jumped away. ‘Got you!’ she shouted and sprinted off. Shrieking with laughter and feigned outrage, Lysandra leapt after her, pursuing her all the way to the squat stone building that served at the school house.
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 2