He saw Lysandra’s nostrils flare, and she drew herself up. ‘I am she.’
‘I think you’re brilliant.’ Telemachus could almost see the boy’s cheeks burning through the incense smoke.
‘That is as maybe, young ephebe,’ came the Spartan’s response.
Though it was stern, the priest could see that Lysandra was fighting the urge to grin at the recognition. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘that is not relevant to this time or place. Do you have a question?’ The boy hesitated, and then sat down, being nudged mercilessly by his compatriots until a glare from Lysandra quietened them.
There were several supercilious queries from the older members of the gathering, which were answered laconically by the Spartan (‘How can I raise my sons to be good men?’ — ‘Discipline breeds goodliness’) but most now seemed anxious to get the service over with because, Telemachus realised, they could then meet and talk with the priestess. Lysandra bade the people make their offerings to Athene and this done, the ceremony would be over.
No sooner had Lysandra closed the ritual than the doors were flung open and people spilled into the street, awaiting ‘Achillia’.
Telemachus noted too that some of the gathering had already begun to spread the news to passers-by that the gladiatrix was in the shrine.
‘Are you sure about this?’ he said to Lysandra as she moved to the door.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Have you seen the offerings?’
Telemachus rushed to the altar, to see the bowl overflowing with coin. Normally, a mere few sesterces rattled about at the bottom of the pot but, this day, people had been more than generous. He gathered the fame-garnered loot quickly and glanced up at the statue of Athene. He could swear that the cold marble lips were curled in a half-smile.
‘The goddess looks after her own,’ he muttered. The irony was not lost to him. His efforts to help Lysandra were totally selfless, made out of a desire to somehow retain a balance between the good and ill in her life. But her mere presence in the shrine this single day had paid more in offerings than Telemachus was used to seeing in an entire week. And each day she was with him the coffers would grow.
Outside, the people had begun to chant ‘Achillia, Achillia,’ over and over again. The priest chuckled. ‘Why not,’ he said aloud. He could understand why they were cheering: the Hellenes were a proud race, yet in the Empire they were not regarded as true equals. More, the sands of the arena were usually the dominion of barbarian champions. That Lysandra was Hellene gave them someone to cheer for, someone who carried their pride like a badge of honour.
He moved outside to see Lysandra being swamped by many admirers. Pieces of parchment were being thrust into her hand in order that she make her mark as a souvenir. Others just wanted to touch her dress for luck. The priest was taken aback when he looked upon her. The girl was basking in the adulation; beneath her severe facade, it was evident that she was revelling in the attention. She seemed to grow in stature, feeding off the energy of the crowd. Telemachus was buffeted about in the rush to be close to Lysandra and momentarily feared for her safety. Yet, she seemed to know instinctively how to handle the mob of people, easing them back, so that she could greet them in an orderly fashion.
He stepped back, ignored by the well-wishers, into the quiet of the shrine and leant against the wall. That Lysandra was scarred by the loss of her lover and her ordeal was undeniable. Yet Telemachus perceived that in the adoration of the mob she had found her own salve. It healed her in a way that handholding and quiet words never could, burying her hurt beneath an avalanche of self-indulgence.
Being Spartan, she would never see it that way, of course. Self-indulgence was anathema to the harsh Lakedaimonian code. But he could see in Lysandra a recovering of egocentricity. Perhaps, he thought, that was not as great an evil as self-neglect; yet, if not tempered, this confidence, this love of popularity could turn quickly to conceit.
The mob was fickle. They would love Lysandra as Hellene and their champion. Yet, if she were to falter on the sands, they could turn against her. How then would she react, if the cheers turned to catcalls, the adulation to scorn?
But that was another matter, he thought. For now, if they could help her heal, then he was content to let it pass.
XXXVII
Lysandra was grateful to Telemachus for allowing her to lead the afternoon rituals. This, coupled with her work on translation and copy, kept her mind fully engaged and she understood that this was his intention. It was, she considered, part of the strange destiny the goddess had marked for her. It seemed her life was to be spent in service to the public — first, her Mission, then the arena, now again the Mission and soon to return to the sands.
But for now, it was good that she had a chance to deliver some proper Spartan teaching to the local Hellenes — they certainly needed to hear them. She had heard Telemachus’s rituals during her stay in the shrine and he preached the misguided and liberal values of the Athenians, which verged on the immoral. Yet, for all this, she realised that he was a good man who had her best interests at heart.
Her fame had undeniably increased his congregation: once word had got around the Hellene community that ‘Achillia’ was serving for a brief period in the shrine, the building was packed to the pillars each day. This was right and proper, as Lysandra fought to honour Athene and this was Her shrine. Her fame was a by-product of this worshipful combat and there was no shame in it.
The expatriate community had come to regard her as their heroine; this was unsurprising, as there was not a Spartan amongst them, and she knew that other Hellenes held her polis in such respect that it bordered on reverential awe. To have a Priestess of Athene amongst them, and she a famous gladiatrix to boot, was a great honour to them and they responded with enthusiasm.
As the weeks passed, Lysandra found that she could now think of Eirianwen without tears though the loss still pained her. The memories were hers forever she realised, and they could not be taken from her. But she knew she must also harden her heart.
She could not afford to allow herself such intensity of feeling again, the pain of loss was too great. Love was a madness that none could fight against. The best cure for this ailment was avoidance and Lysandra vowed that this was the path she would tread.
Sleep was also coming to her more regularly: though her nights were never uninterrupted, she had at least some small peace. The night of terror at Nastasen’s hands was still vivid, as was the feeling of helpless anger at being powerless to stop him. She told herself that, though fear was an alien concept to her race, there must have been some lingering trauma of the attack that was causing her nightmares. However, she was convinced it was evidence of the superior Spartan psyche that she had gone some way to overcoming this. She only prayed that one day she could repay the Nubian for his assault.
Lysandra found that her experiences helped her deliver more accessible truths to Telemachus’s congregation. Having gone through more than any of these suburbanites would experience in a lifetime, she was sure that her example would be an inspiration to all those that cared to listen. That her fame and obvious natural charisma made the people pay attention to her words was so much the better.
She refused to allow herself to drift back into the mindset of being a priestess proper. She was a gladiatrix now. That was her path and it would be folly to think otherwise. She confided this to Telemachus as they shared their evening meal.