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.’