Draca’s ripostes were becoming slower and less frequent as she backed up under the furious assault. Penelope redoubled her efforts, sensing that the other woman was almost spent. She slammed her shield into the Syrian’s, knocking her off balance.
For the merest instant, Draca’s guard was down — and Penelope struck. She lunged forward, her blade screaming towards the throat of the hoplomacha.
Draca dropped low, ramming her sword into Penelope’s abdomen with savage ferocity. Penelope stiffened and wailed in agony as the iron invaded her flesh, slicing upwards into her vitals.
Louder than the roar of the crowd, she could hear the Syrian’s triumphant yell of victory. Blood sprayed from the wound, drenching both fighters and she screamed again as Draca twisted the blade, feeling it grate on her ribs. Only then, at the white-hot peak of her agony, did the easterner drag her weapon free, leaving Penelope free to collapse, clutching desperately at the wound. She rolled into a foetal position, retching into the steely confines of the helmet, aware only of pain.
After indeterminate moments, rough hands grasped her and dragged her from the ground. In a final moment of brief lucidity, Penelope realised that she had been given the missio.
It was unseemly to show emotion. One must remain implacable at all times, for it was a weakness to show too much concern for another. This was the Spartan way: though camaraderie and love were to be expected between fellow warriors, when the gods decreed that it was a comrade’s time to pass, the hour must be met with solemn dignity. But to see Penelope moan and cry on the surgeon’s pallet was a trial Lysandra had never gone through before. Penelope’s legs kicked in response to her pain and so much blood flowed from her that it covered the pallet and dripped to the floor.
Danae knelt by Penelope’s side, holding her hand, whispering meaningless things to her as the surgeon tried desperately to staunch the flow of blood. There was always a bonus for arena doctors should they save the life of an expensive arena slave but, after a brief struggle, he gave up. He looked up at Lysandra, and shook his head slowly.
‘Have you no opiate?’ she demanded. Whilst the examination had been going on, she could understand why the man had not given her friend a drug for the pain. Such things could complicate medical procedures, but now it would not do to have Penelope go to the Styx crying like a baby.
‘Of course,’ he said resignedly. ‘But I am not supposed to give it to those that are going to pass. It is expensive, and if my master found out he would have me whipped.’
‘I understand,’ Lysandra said. ‘But this cannot be.’ She indicated Penelope who had begun to shake uncontrollably, her eyes rolling in her head, her mind eroded by pain. ‘Where is it?’ Lysandra stepped forward.
‘Just there.’ The surgeon turned, indicating a shelf that held medicines and salves. He was about to speak again when Lysandra lashed out, her fist exploding into his jaw. The surgeon dropped like a stone and lay crumpled on the floor. Calmly, she stepped over him and retrieved a small pot. She sniffed the contents and was satisfied.
‘What are you doing?’ Danae was stunned at this sudden violence from Lysandra.
‘He is a decent man,’ Lysandra said as she returned to the pallet. ‘It would not be fair of us to allow him to be whipped for breaking the rules. In this manner, he can merely tell the truth.’
‘But you will be whipped for hitting him!’
Lysandra pressed her lips into a thin line as she poured the glutinous liquid down Penelope’s throat. ‘I think the pain I shall bear will be somewhat less than hers.’
They waited for the drug to take effect and, slowly, Penelope’s agonised spasms began to abate. As the pain receded behind the veil of the opiate, Penelope began to speak. Her words were strange, as if she were a child, and Lysandra thought perhaps that she was reliving events from her youth. It was appalling to watch.
Only that morning, Penelope had been among them, laughing, joking and telling her ribald tales. Now she was just a quivering chunk of meat, breathing her last in a drug-induced stupor. It was a sobering thought.
Danae was weeping copiously, her head resting on Penelope’s hand as she held it.
They waited in silence, hoping that Penelope would regain some lucidity, that they could tell her that she was not dying alone. But it was not to be. It seemed as if she drifted off to sleep, but her chest had ceased to rise and fall.
‘It is over.’ Lysandra’s voice was harsh.
Danae looked up, her face haggard. ‘Poor Penelope,’ she cried.
Lysandra nodded. Inside she felt a terrible sense of sadness at her friend’s passing, but she knew that this must not be revealed.
Spartans never wept for the slain. With force of will, she closed off that part of herself that cared, hardening her heart. It was strange but, in some ways, she felt somewhat less than human as she did this. ‘Come, Danae. We must go now.’
‘How can you be so heartless? Our friend is dead!’
‘Yes, but that is what she was here for, Danae.’ Lysandra tried to be gentle, but the strain of the moment caused her to snap.
‘That is what we are all here for. That could be you or me. Do you think the comrades of the woman you killed felt any less grief than you do now? Sooner or later this was going to happen to one of us. I blame myself that I have not prepared you to bear this grief.’ Danae was struck speechless for a moment by this last comment.
‘As if it is for you to prepare us for such things, Lysandra,’ she spat. ‘You are no different to us, despite what you might think.
You are not our leader. You are merely an arrogant bitch who likes the sound of her own voice too much for my liking. For anyone’s liking.’
‘Danae…’
The Athenian pressed her hands to her ears. ‘Shut up, just shut up!’ she screamed. ‘I can’t stand to hear your voice any more.’
She scrambled to her feet and ran from the surgery in tears.
Lysandra watched her go. She knew that Danae was merely lashing out in her grief. Anyone else would have taken her words to heart, but Lysandra was pleased that she was above such things. Now was the time that the Hellene women would need her leadership most. It occurred to her that this more personable, caring side of her nature had been brought out by Eirianwen.
She leant over the corpse that had been Penelope and whispered a prayer for the dead. She did not know if the gods would accept her words but this was a duty she felt she must fulfil. She had no coin for Charon, and hoped that he would understand this, allowing Penelope to pass over the Styx to Elysium.
That was all she could do.
XXII
Lysandra decided that there was no time like the present to console the Hellene women. Certainly, they would all be upset at Penelope’s demise but it was her opinion that Danae’s histrionics would only make the situation worse. Now was a time for cool heads and calm voices, not for funeral wailing.
That Penelope was gone was tragic, but a warrior must not only be prepared to meet death but walk with him as a constant companion. The reasoning may have sounded hollow even in her own mind but it was her duty to convey strength to the others.
She made her way through the warren of tunnels beneath the arena, back towards the Hellene women’s cell. On her way, she spied Sorina and her entourage walking purposefully to the Gate of Life. The aging barbarian was not clad for battle and Lysandra paused, interested to see which one of the more experienced fighters from Balbus’s ludus would take to the sands. As they passed her by, her throat caught as she saw Eirianwen among them.