‘Yes, but you are not able to fight yet.’ The priest poured her a stiffer measure of wine and she took it, knowing that to walk with Dionysus was to keep Nyx at bay.
Telemachus watched as Lysandra threw back the un-mixed wine.
There was a chilling eagerness in her voice when she expressed her desire to return to the ludus, but to send her back to the sands before her mental scars had healed would be tantamount to assisting her suicide. He did not see fit to bring this up with her, as she would only deny it. ‘Have another drink,’ he offered.
‘It is not always the answer, but sometimes it helps.’
Lysandra did as she was bidden and in time she became drunk, and erupted once more into floods of tears, rambling about Eirianwen and the attack in the cell. It was all Telemachus could do to keep a tear from his own eye at her plight. He was, by nature, a cynical man, but he could not fail to be moved by the desperation in the girl’s voice when she spoke of the Silurian gladiatrix. As for the terror she had suffered at the hands of Nastasen, Telemachus prayed that the giant would be brought to justice and suffer such an end that would even turn the stomachs of the hardened Carian mob.
Eventually, Lysandra became incoherent, her head falling forwards onto her chest. When he was sure she had passed out, Telemachus carried her to her room and laid her gently on her bunk. This done, he made to prepare a healing draught, as he knew well that she would be sorely ill when she awoke.
The first month of her stay with Telemachus passed slowly for Lysandra. The nightmares were a constant plague to her, but Telemachus was always there, shaking her awake, saving her from reliving the pain of the past. The presence of a man in the dark had panicked her at first, but once she became sufficiently accustomed to him to realise that she was not in danger, Lysandra was truly touched. She did not mention this to him as she felt it would shame them both.
True to his word, Telemachus was a healer of some accomplishment. His potions and salves quickly restored her physical health, so that she was able to move about unassisted in short order. More, the unguents had prevented any scarring to her face: whilst it was not the Spartan way to be vain, Lysandra had secretly feared that she would be disfigured by the beating she had received.
Thankfully, this was not so.
‘How would you like to help me today?’ Lysandra looked up from her work, a passage from Thucydides, as Telemachus entered her room.
‘I am almost complete with ‘ The History of the Peloponnesian War ’ she said. ‘I have made no amendments though Thucydides is, frankly, biased.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ He sat on her bunk. ‘I meant in the shrine.’
She put her stylus down carefully. ‘In what capacity, Telemachus?
I am a priestess no longer.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ he responded.
‘I have been known by a man,’ she swallowed. ‘This is forbidden.’
‘In Sparta, perhaps,’ Telemachus said, making a dismissive gesture.
‘It would do you good, I think, to help others commune with Athene. Truth be known, Lysandra, it is not for the Orders of Men or Women to cast out a priestess. This is vanity, I think.
Athene will look after her own.’
Lysandra’s heart beat a little faster. True, she knew she could not return to the life of priestess; yet to help, to enjoy the rituals once more, to hear the goddess speak to her in the sanctity of a temple; it was something she had thought denied her forever.
‘I would be honoured to assist you,’ she said finally.
‘Excellent. I thought you would. To that end, I have a gift for you.’ He handed her a small package.
‘Oh!’ Lysandra felt herself blush, which was rather unseemly, but the suddenness of the priest’s gesture had caught her unawares.
Carefully, she unwrapped the cloth bundle and drew forth a brand new chiton. It was long, and dyed in scarlet.
‘Is it the right shade?’ Telemachus asked, grinning. ‘There’s a fellow who works in the market who claims to have spent time in Sparta. He swears that this is the colour of your Order.’
‘It is so.’ Lysandra beamed with delight. ‘This is so that the enemies of Sparta will never see the colour of our blood.’
‘Well, I don’t imagine there will be any enemies around here, but I am glad it meets with your approval.’
‘Oh, it does, Telemachus, it is a most lavish gift!’
‘Hardly. But I am pleased that you are pleased.’ He got to his feet. ‘Well, get changed, then. I shall see you in the shrine. It will be good for me to put my feet up for once and simply watch.’
Telemachus was well pleased with Lysandra’s progress. With help and care she was coming to terms with her grief; she spoke of Eirianwen often, but the bitterness in her voice was slowly replaced with a yearning sadness. Of Nastasen she said nothing, but he knew that the Nubian still haunted her dreams. He frequently asked the soldiers assigned to town watch if there were any news of the trainer but they had found nothing. He did not mention this to Lysandra, lest he distress her, but that she had agreed to conduct the ceremony showed a marked improvement. There was, he admitted to himself, something to be said for Spartan stoicism.
Telemachus waited at the entrance to the shrine, greeting the worshippers as they filed in. If some thought it was a little odd that he was not already in his place to begin the ceremonies, none mentioned it. Soon, the building became full and he closed the doors, marking the sign to inform others that no more would be admitted for this service.
Incense hung thickly in the air. He grinned to himself. Spartans might be austere but it seemed that Lysandra had been heavy handed with burners. Still, it all made for good theatre.
From behind the statue of the goddess, Lysandra emerged, carrying the Ritual Spear in her hand. There was a muted gasp from the gathering. Her wounds healed, Telemachus realised that she was truly beautiful. In the dim, half-light of the shrine, her form obscured by the smoke, it appeared as though Athene herself had come from Olympus to grace his small place of worship.
Lysandra’s voice resonated strongly through the small shrine, lifted in hymn to the goddess:
I start to sing of Pallas Athena, City Guard, The fearsome, who with Ares cares for warlike deeds, The sack of cities and the battle-cry of war; She saves the soldiers as they come and go away.
Be welcome, goddess, give me fortune and good cheer.
Lysandra continued in a typically Spartan manner, exhorting the people to bear hardship with fortitude, speaking on the evils of excess and extravagant living. Telemachus realised that the address was well rehearsed and often spoken. The girl’s rhetoric was flawless, even if it was delivered in the rustic Laconian accent.
He did wonder, however, whether the words would have much bearing outside of her strange little polis. Modern folk did not want to be told of sacrifice, duty and moral obligation: the world had changed and the old-fashioned values adhered to by the Spartans were so outmoded as to be almost quaint.
Lysandra finished her lesson, her ice-coloured eyes sweeping over the people for a moment. There was a pause — then a youth at the front began to applaud. The others took up his motion and soon the shrine echoed to appreciative shouts and cheers, hailing the priestess’s words. Telemachus was taken aback. He had certainly had not expected the dour service to be received so enthusiastically. He clapped politely himself, feeling a little self-conscious.
‘Is there anything specific a worshipper wishes to ask of the goddess or her priestess?’ Lysandra said when the cheering died down. The youth raised his hand, and she gestured to him.
The lad stood, looking this way and that, urged on by several of his fellows who flanked him. ‘I wanted to ask,’ he cleared his throat, ‘if you were… I mean… are you Achillia?’
Telemachus put his hand to his forehead. He had been an idiot. Of course the crowd had not been enamoured of Lysandra’s speech. They were enamoured of her, the gladiatrix. He knew the girl and was not blinded by her recently acquired fame; he had all but forgotten that the public would be unfamiliar with Lysandra as a person. All they knew was that the heroine of Aeschylus’ games, a Hellene heroine at that, had come to lead them in prayer.