Gasping, the two skidded to a halt and composed themselves – it would be unseemly for two senior acolytes to burst into the classroom: exuberance was tolerated on the palaestra but nowhere else.
‘I am going to kill you one of these days,’ Lysandra whispered as they went inside.
‘You will have to catch me first,’ Deianara nudged her in the ribs. It was true: Deianara was queen of the quick dash and Lysandra, despite her longer stride, could not match her for pace.
The two entered the classroom, Lysandra remembering to adopt an air of controlled nonchalance. The girls in the room were her peers and, in many respects, her competitors and she had to maintain an aura of superiority – especially now as the goddess had revealed her true purpose.
The room was set up much like the mess tent, long benches and trestle tables facing the front, where Halkyone sat at her desk reading. As Deianara and Lysandra strolled to their places, her eyes flicked up and she smiled. Her expression was almost indulgent; if any of them could get away with bending the rules it was Deiannara, and Lysandra was indulged only by association.
‘Now that we are all here,’ she said, rising to her feet, ‘we can begin today’s lesson. We shall discuss Thermopylae . . .’
Halkyone began by describing the build-up and training to the battle, focussing on the élan of the Spartan warriors that held off the Persian barbarians at the Hot Gates. The story went on for quite some time, encompassing the entire battle, and Lysandra found herself sighing. This was one battle that they had ‘discussed’ many times and she felt that there were more relevant campaigns that they could talk about but never did. There was so much more to be learned as she had discovered in the library. Besides which, Thermopylae – whichever way you dressed it up – was a defeat.
‘So in many respects, ‘Halkyone was saying,’ Thermopylae was a Spartan victory.’
It was not, Lysandra thought to herself, but there was little point in bringing it up.
‘What did you say, Lysandra?’ Halkyone’s voice rang out.
Lysandra looked around to see all eyes in the room upon her. Had she spoken aloud? She could not have done. ‘I said nothing, ma’am,’ she replied with a smile. Halkyone liked her after all, but she faltered as she saw a look of iron in the older woman’s eyes. ‘I said nothing,’ she repeated.
‘I heard you,’ Halkyone accused her. ‘Everyone heard you say “it was not.” Are you so arrogant as to offer an alternative to my lesson?’
Lysandra felt a prick of anger at this: it was not arrogance to speak the truth, even if she had not meant to speak. The thought raced through her mind that perhaps now was the time to show Halkyone and indeed her peers that she knew more than they. That she knew better. That had to be it – the goddess had spoken through her and set this in motion. ‘It is not arrogance to speak the truth,’ she gave voice to her thought, ignoring the appalled gasps from her fellow acolytes.
‘It is arrogance to presume that you know more than your instructor, Lysandra,’ Halkyone said. ‘I can only suppose that you were stating the obvious: in military terms, yes, a defeat. But in moral terms, a victory, showing our superiority over the Persian barbarians . . .’
‘We could and should have held them longer,’ Lysandra interrupted. Halkyone’s eyes narrowed dangerously and Lysandra saw the ire behind them, but she would now not be cowed: the goddess had spoken to her – spoke through her, in fact.’ It was possible to do so.’
‘You compare your strategic knowledge to Leonidas’s, Lysandra? You believe that you know better than the most illustrious Spartan in history?’
‘Of course not,’ she snapped. ‘But after the first day, when the Immortals attacked, Spartiates must have been wounded – unable to carry shield or spear. I would have sent these men who could not fight to oversee the Phocian rearguard that guarded the secret pass. You have told us many times that the Phocians were taken by surprise and hence it is my opinion that if there were Spartans commanding them, this would not have occurred.’
‘You would have sent these men!’ The pitch in Halkyone’s voice rose with incredulity. ‘Be silent, girl. Your arrogance is offensive to me and the memories of our forefathers.’
Lysandra could see that her anger was genuine now and for a moment an apology began to form on her lips but she quashed it – she should not apologise for being correct. ‘Are you saying that the Phocian pickets would have been surprised and overwhelmed if under Spartan supervision?’ A collective gasp went across the room. Lysandra found that she was rather enjoying the confrontation. All the attention was on her and she was clearly going to win the debate.
‘It is enough for you to know that the Spartan way has ensured our freedom. Even now, when the Romans own the world, we have never tasted defeat . . .’
‘We lost at Leuctra!’ The words were out before Lysandra could stop them and she felt suddenly sick with dread.
The rosy tint of anger that had coloured Halkyone’s cheeks drained away and her eyes widened in horror. Silence weighed heavy in the room and, despite her outburst, there was a part of Lysandra that revelled in the fact that she was proving to the other class-novices that she knew more than they.
‘It is too early in your education for you to know of such things,’ Halkyone’s voice was tight and controlled. ‘But I can guess how you came about this knowledge. You are forbidden to speak that word again – to anyone. You will be punished to remind you of this.’ Halkyone‘s eyes bored into Lysandra’s own – harsh, hard and unwavering and for the first time, Lysandra felt a tremor of fear. ‘If you are going to spout out the knowledge of a full priestess, Acolyte Lysandra, then you will be punished as one. Let us see if your back can support the weight of your tongue,’ Halkyone said. ‘The rest of you – take her outside. Those of you who have had issue with our strategos here are reminded that she is in disgrace and should be treated as such.’
There was a sudden scraping of seats and the girls came at her in a rush. There was nothing Lysandra could do – she was in disgrace and could not fight back. Deianara was closest to her and spun her around, pulling her head to her chest. ‘Keep your head down, I will do what I can . . .’
But they were too many and Lysandra was torn away from Deianara’s grasp. She saw her go down as one of the girls punched her full in the face as she was dragged out. Blows rained down on Lysandra, now; they pulled her hair, spat on her, kicked and abused her. Through the pain, Lysandra took solace in the fact these were lesser people taking their petty vengeance on their betters but such thoughts soon fled in the disorientating fog of the assault. Some took pleasure in what they were doing, others were simply obeying orders but did not spare their hand. Outside now, they pushed her from one girl to the next, each of whom took her chance to get in a blow and soon Lysandra fell to the ground, curling into a ball as they laid into her.
There was nothing else to do but take it. They had all suffered beatings before and this was no different – Lysandra knew she just had to grit her teeth and get through. There would be worse to follow.
‘Enough!’ Halkyone’s strident voice rang out and at once the constant rain of blows ceased.
Dazed, Lysandra sat up and spat blood from her mouth. Her face felt strange as though it was swollen to twice its normal size. It was numb yet punctuated with sharp pinpricks of pain. She puffed out her cheeks, spots dancing before her eyes.
‘Take her to the posts,’ Halkyone ordered.
The girls hauled Lysandra to her feet and dragged her across the palaestra. All work, she noted, slowly came to a halt as she was pulled along and she heard Halkyone barking orders to form a general assembly. Girls and women began to form their lines as Lysandra was pulled over to the twin posts at the far end of the training area. Here, her tunic was removed and her arms secured to the leather straps attached to the poles.
Lysandra had witnessed this many times before: public flogging was the usual punishment for transgressions. It served two purposes: the first, obviously, to cha
stise the offender but also it afforded her penance and a chance to show her Spartan virtue. Since their first day at the temple they had been taught to ignore pain, and this was a test of that resolve.
‘This acolyte,’ Halkyone’s voice rang out, ‘is guilty of insubordination. She considers her knowledge equal to that of any priestess. Indeed, she believes herself to be the strategic better of Leonidas Agiad himself! The acolyte will learn some humility. Melantha!’
‘Ma’am!’
‘You were one of the girl’s trainers when she was a neophyte. She has shamed you. You will carry out the punishment.’
There was silence then as Melantha must have been making her way forward and Lysandra’s resolve began to crumble as fear wormed its insidious way inside her. Perhaps if she apologised now she would yet be spared the agonies to come – or at least the worst of it. She opened her mouth but then clamped her jaws shut, picturing the other girls not only in her group but all the rest. She would not falter, she decided, even in the face of her death.
This was a test, she realised. Athene had spoken – now the goddess was putting her on trial, assessing her worthiness.
Rough hands pulled her head up and Lysandra found herself looking at the pockmarked face of Melantha. ‘Bite down on this, worm,’ she said quietly, pushing a piece of leather between her lips. ‘It will help.’ Lysandra gripped the band between her teeth, noticing that there was something behind Melantha’s eyes – it was not sympathy, Lysandra thought, but understanding. Of course – Melantha had been here before.
‘The acolyte is ready!’ Melantha announced.
‘The punishment will commence!’ Halkyone responded.
‘How many lashes, ma’am?’
‘Until one of you breaks.’
‘Ma’am?’ Melantha queried, surprise evident in her voice.
‘You have your orders, priestess. Carry them out.’
Lysandra tensed, eyes staring straight ahead at the pitted stone of the temple wall. She heard a hiss and sharp crack and for a moment there was no pain. When it came it was sharp, tingling but not as bad as she had feared. Then she was hit again, the tip of the lash scoring into her back. This time it burned, but still – she could bear it. The third blow landed and it made her stiffen in her bonds and she bit down hard on the leather strap to avoid the shame of crying out. Sweat began to ooze from her body as she concentrated on shutting out the physical, compartmentalising the pain, ignoring it.
Again the lash ate into her flesh and she could feel the first rivulets of blood begin to snake down her back as her skin broke under the assault. She breathed in and out sharply through her nose and she heard a strangled cry emit from her throat as Melantha hit her again.
At ten lashes, Melantha paused. ‘Acolyte Lysandra, are you broken?’ she asked formally. Lysandra was tempted to nod her head, but her pride would not allow it so she shook it, no.
There was a pause and then the familiar hiss and crack followed by the molten bronze fire flooding over her back. Lysandra hung her head low, her black hair now sodden with blood and sweat. Again the lash fell and she bit down hard on the leather strip, the cords on her neck standing out as she tried to bite through the pain. Stars flashed in front of her eyes and, to her shame, she felt tears leak out from beneath tightly shut lids. It came in sickening waves now, peaks and troughs of agony from which there was no respite. She had lost count now, her mind beginning to play tricks on her.
‘Acolyte Lysandra, are you broken?’
Lysandra shook her head, no. Athene was testing her worthiness now, testing her true Spartan nature: she would not fail her.
Again, Melantha asked the question and somehow Lysandra realised that she had not moved her head. She shook it with all the vigour she could muster even though the movement nearly made her vomit.
Without warning she was hit again and her body twisted in her bonds, self-preservation disobeying her will, desperate to escape the punishment. This time, Melantha worked faster, the lash cracking onto Lysandra’s tortured flesh in rapid succession. Lysandra felt a hot rush as her loincloth became soaked with urine but she was now too far lost in her agony to feel the shame of it.
Three more times the whip exploded onto her back and then she felt her legs go from under her. Now as the lash fell, she saw bright explosions of light before her eyes and then the glimpse of a darkened room – the room from her dreams.
‘Acolyte Lysandra, are you broken?’
Do not give in, a voice from the back of her mind insisted, recalling the lessons drummed into her since the first day in the temple. You are a Spartan. Spartans do not fear pain. Spartans fear nothing.
‘Acolyte Lysandra, are you broken?’
She made a guttural noise from the back of her throat, an animal sound but it must let them know that she would not be defeated.
‘Priestess Halkyone,’ Melantha’s voice sounded far off. ‘I am broken.’
She heard Halkyone speaking but could not make out the words and suddenly a whiteness filled Lysandra’s vision, blotting out everything else.
‘She is dying!’ A woman’s voice pierced the light.
‘No, she is not!’ This time it was the man with the Athenian accent.‘The goddess will spare her handmaiden. Athene on Olympus, hear our prayer. Save her, we beseech you!’
‘I am not dying . . .’ Lysandra mumbled. ‘I am not dying.’
The shock of the near freezing water startled Lysandra back into consciousness. She gasped, memories of the savage beating coming back to her in a rush and, as they did, her back began to crawl with tendrils of pain.
She was sitting under a small waterfall in the Eurotas and before her was Melantha. The priestess had locked her legs over Lysandra’ships and was holding her head close to her chest so the water did not cascade over it.
‘Hold still, worm,’ Melantha said. ‘You do not want to float away like a lost turd. How is your back?’
Lysandra bit back the automatic and honest response. ‘It is much better.’
‘Already,’ Melantha mocked. ‘So as well as being the better of Leonidas in tactics and strategy are you now possessed of Athene’s aegis as skin?’
‘It is not the Spartan way to admit pain,’ Lysandra gasped – all too aware of how pained her voice sounded.
‘The water will numb you up soon enough,’ the priestess told her. ‘If a beating is bad, the pain after is worse. Trust me, I know.’
It had been a long time since she had been held by anyone. And despite this being her former instructor and recent punisher, Lysandra found herself taking some comfort from the closeness of the older woman. Naked, their bodies were pressed close together and it felt strange under the cold water. ‘What happened,’ she asked after some time. ‘After you . . .’
‘After I had to admit defeat or beat you to death, you mean?’ The chuckle in her voice took the sting from the words if not from Lysandra’s tortured back. ‘I put you in a cart and drove you down here. Immersing the body in cold water after a thrashing is an old trick, Lysandra. Every priestess knows it and passes it on – we all take the lash to harden us against pain. But there is no sense in bearing agony for agony’s sake: the trick now is to heal as soon as you can. At the moment you are simply a burden to the temple.’
The cold water was working as Melantha had said it would, the endless drumming on her back seeming to wash away the hurt. ‘I will not be a burden for long,’ Lysandra said. ‘I will heal.’ She raised her head to look into Melantha’s eyes. ‘But why you? Why did you bring me here and not Deianara?’
‘Because I asked to,’ Melantha replied. ‘You impressed me, Lysandra,’ she went on. ‘Not many girls of your age would take what you took.’
Lysandra was surprised: this was the first time, save for the formal query during her punishment, that Melantha had referred to her as anything other than ‘worm’, ‘idiot’, ‘scum’ or some other derogation. ‘Thank you . . . Melantha,’ she said hesitantly.
‘Come,’ the pr
iestess said. ‘My toes are beginning to turn blue and I think yours are too. Slowly now.’
Lysandra bit her lip to keep the pain at bay as Melantha helped her up. The air was cool and she began to shiver as the wind chilled her naked flesh. ‘Must be the shock of the lashing,’ she said, not wanting to admit to the priestess that she was cold.
‘Must be,’ Melantha replied, her own skin coming up in goose pimples as the two staggered towards the shore. ‘Lie face down on that blanket,’ she instructed. As Lysandra did so, Melantha made her way to the cart, patting the mule’s flank as she did so. ‘I have a pot of myrrh here,’ she called, pulling her scarlet tunic over her head and tying it at her waist. ‘You will learn to love it if you keep on testing Halkyone as this will be the first of many beatings you are going to get.’
Melantha settled down on the grass beside Lysandra, tipping some of the precious, sweet smelling oil onto her back. ‘So, Halkyone told me that you were spouting off about Leuctra. How do you know of it?’ she asked as she began to work the unguent into Lysandra’s wounds.
Lysandra paused before replying as the feeling of relief spread over her back and the myrrh started to lift away the pain. ‘Halkyone forbade me to speak the word,’ she said at last.
Melantha chuckled. ‘Tell me in generalities.’
‘There is not much to tell,’ Lysandra said, really just wanting to lie quietly and recover. But Melantha had asked – and could make her entreaty a command if she wanted. ‘We are taught that stealth is an admirable quality. I believe that we are subtly encouraged to exploit opportunities to break rules at the temple and as long as we are successful, no one is the wiser. Many of the girls meet to . . .’ she trailed off, not quite knowing how to describe these midnight liaisons. ‘To . . . well, talk I suppose. Others to steal food. Some for just the thrill of it. I like to read. I want to be the best priestess here. Learning more than my sisters will give me an advantage. So I break into the library to study. I have learned much – and I know that not everything that we are taught is quite the truth.’ She stopped short of telling Melantha of her recent communion with the goddess; that was something she had learned, painfully, to keep to herself for the present.
Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 3