Roma Victrix (15 page)

Lysandra tried to conceal her shock. ‘You mean I have been making a fool of myself these past years.' It was a statement of fact and she hated the words on her lips.

‘No, of course not.' Thebe's tone was gentle. ‘As far as everyone is concerned, you are the one that has built this. Without Achillia the
Deiopolis
would not exist. Your name opens many doors to this day. It's a unique temple you have built here, Lysandra, and that is no mean feat. But really – base commerce is hardly something you should trouble yourself with. You are a warrior and a priestess. Not an accountant.'

Lysandra was about to respond but Thebe's words suddenly cut through the anger. ‘
Not an accountant
,' she repeated, a smile forming.

Thebe grinned and then exploded with laughter. ‘The truth hurts, Lysandra,' she gasped.

The Spartan could not hold back and she too collapsed into gales of mirth. It felt just like back in the old days when there had been no temple, no money, no commerce: all they had was the cama-raderie of their sister gladiatrices. Perhaps, Lysandra thought, as she tried to compose herself, things might be the same in Italia.

Varia was restless. She had been at the inn for over a week and there was now a nagging sense in her that she had to move on.

A part of her regretted her decision to leave the
Deiopolis
in such haste, but Lysandra's insufferable arrogance knew no bounds and she could not bear it a moment longer. Varia had
wanted
to bridge the gap that had grown between them. After all, there had been a time when she idolised Lysandra. The Spartan gladiatrix was all that the bullied slave girl of Balbus's
ludus
wanted to be. But that admiration had lessened as the years passed and Varia had begun to despise the older woman. Lysandra was a shadow of her former self, a deluded braggart who drowned herself in wine and lived on past glories. The Spartan often mocked Titus for his boring war-stories, but the truth of it was Lysandra was no better. Once she had been a champion, but what was she now? She did not even manage the
Deiopolis.
Everyone, save Lysandra herself, knew that the business was done by brokers and the Spartan's interference in these matters increased rather than lessened everyone's workload.

Lysandra acted as though she owned Varia just as Balbus once had. Lysandra made the decisions on Varia's education; Lysandra decreed that Varia could not fight in the arena. But it was not Lysandra who had to endure the taunts of the other girls who were allowed to fight. What was the use of all the training if she was never allowed to test herself ?

In her heart, she knew Lysandra was only doing what she thought best. Varia had tried to reason with her, tried to tell her how she felt, but Lysandra was either too obstinate or too stupid to listen. She constantly shamed her in front of others, and her casual dismissal at the dinner party had been the final abuse. She had been trying to
help
Lysandra, to support her when the others were against her but typically the Spartan had thrown this show of solidarity back in her face.

Varia could take no more.

Furious, she had forced the scribes to write up several drafts that would allow her to withdraw money from the the money-changers' offices. They could not refuse her. She was Lysandra's ward. Now she sat with documents that entitled her to a fortune should she wish to draw upon it. She would need the money: she had no intention of returning to the
Deiopolis
.

Now she was forced to confront the wider question of what she would do next. The
Deiopolis
, as insufferable as it had become, was all that she knew. The other women there had often told her that the world outside was not the same. Women had few rights in the real world – this she had heard time and time again, in different stories. That she was rich meant she could buy her way through life for a while. It also meant that any sort of prominence money brought her would also attract flatterers and suitors.

And if she became the talk of the town, they would learn of it in the
Deiopolis
and then there would be an excruciating exchange, as she knew Lysandra would demand her return. It was a confrontation in which she had no desire to become involved. Her mind was made up: whatever Lysandra said, she would not return. Nor would things ever be the same between them again. The Spartan had a need in her to control others. Varia doubted if it was malicious or even conscious but, nevertheless, it was there. Some, like Thebe, ignored it or mocked it. Titus seemed to enjoy having someone give him directions, but Varia could no longer close her eyes to it.

The truth of it was that Lysandra needed to be taken down a peg for her own good.

Perhaps, Varia thought, that she herself was the woman to do it.

She told herself that if she could do that, she would finally be free.

Lysandra was afraid.

It was absurd, irrational and acutely embarrassing. She composed her face into a stoic mask but her stomach churned and flipped more than it had in her fighting days. Back then she had been taut and ready – like the bowstring before the arrow flew. This was different. Her hands were clammy, she felt sick and she began to rehearse what she would say to get her out of this situation. Excuses, lies, anything to escape; she was ashamed of herself for even entertaining such thoughts, but she could not force the terror from her limbs.

‘She looks like a fine ship,' Titus observed.

‘Thank you, Admiral Themistocles.' Even to her own ears, this response was a little mean-spirited.

‘I've been on a fair few in my time,' Titus muttered.

He was standing with her and Telemachus and Thebe on the Halicarnassus docks. It was a scene of chaos; sailors, slaves, merchants and passengers swarming about with no apparent order at all. Beasts were being driven up gangplanks, adding their own bleats and bellows to the cacophony. The stench was worse than the arena after the
venatores
had been at work, Lysandra thought to herself.

‘It
is
a fine ship,' Telemachus commented. ‘Trust me,' he added.

‘I'm from Athens and we know our ships.'

‘You have not been in Athens for twenty years,' Lysandra replied.

‘Things could have changed. It is too small.' She looked around.

‘We should postpone until a larger vessel can be found. I will not end up in Poseidon's palace because the boat I decided to travel on was undersized.'

‘It looks big enough to me,' Thebe said, ignoring the venomous look Lysandra shot in her direction. ‘Are you all right, Lysandra?' she asked after a moment. ‘You look unwell.'

‘It is not the Spartan way to complain of ill health. But it would be remiss of me not to admit it now – I might have a fever and I could infect all the sailors on the boat. Then, how could they sail?

No, I think it is better if we postpone.' She hated herself for saying it. She sounded like a trembler of the worst kind – a coward who did not deserve the honour of wearing Spartan scarlet. How hypo-critical of her in one moment to speak of the Spartan way and in the next completely go against its ethos.

A stocky, balding man shoved his way through the crowd, making his way towards them. He had one of those faces that must have made him look old before his time and now belied his autumn years. Titus raised a hand in greeting which was returned by the newcomer. ‘
Salve,
Bedros,' the Roman grinned and extended his arm.

‘
Salve,
Titus,
salve
one and all,' he smiled and nodded at the group. Despite a lack of hair on top, Bedros made up for it all over his body. To Lysandra's eyes he looked like some sort of ape. His accent marked him as an Asiatic and therefore not a real Hellene at all and his name – which meant ‘rock' – was hardly reassuring.

Rocks, after all, did not float.

‘You are the one, eh?' He kept smiling and looked Lysandra up and down. ‘I'm honoured to have one so famous aboard my humble vessel.'

‘I am thinking that I might postpone my journey after all,'

Lysandra said to him. ‘I am unwell and your boat looks a little small for ocean travel.'

Bedros's grin hardly slipped, but Lysandra could see in his eyes he was affronted. ‘She's a
ship
, my lady. Boats are for rivers. But the
Galene
is a ship to sail the Great Green, no mistake. Look at her – no, no –
really
look at her.' His pique seemed forgotten as he gazed admiringly at the vessel. ‘Come, come,' he gestured Lysandra forward.

She glanced at her companions for support but none was offered, so she reluctantly followed the sailor.

‘It has no oars.' she observed as they drew closer.

‘
She
is not a warship, my lady. She's not built for speed but for space.
Galene
is a merchant ship, and she's much more comfortable than any 'reme on the sea.'

Now that she was closer, Lysandra could see that the ship was bigger than she first thought but she knew that, no matter how impressive ships might look in harbour, they were all nothing but insignificant chips of wood on the enormity of Poseidon's realm.

Thinking of her first and only voyage made her stomach churn with renewed fear: the roaring waves smashing into the hull, the screams of men as they were torn from the deck; the splintering sound as the mast sundered…

‘You have sailed before, my lady?' Bedros asked, interrupting her horrific reverie.

‘Yes,' she replied. ‘Once.' She glanced at the mariner to find him looking at her, his dark gaze glittering and intent.

‘Had a bad time of it, eh? I can see it on your face. Afraid to set sail again?'

‘Spartans fear nothing,' she replied automatically, but she thought for the first time that this was not true.

‘What happened on your last voyage? Bad storm? Pirates, maybe?'

‘Bad storm,' Lysandra replied, trying not to remember the horror of the rolling boat, the roar of the wind and the pitiful screams of drowning men. The despair in the eyes of her friend, Pavo, as he sank beneath the waves.

Bedros sighed and patted her arm in what she thought was an altogether too familiar manner. ‘She went down, eh?' he shook his head. ‘Terrible, terrible when that happens. Twice in thirty years at sea it's happened to me,' he held up two stubby brown fingers.

‘It takes courage to face the Great Green again after you've felt her wrath. I guess a different kind of courage to what you're used to, my lady. To face someone sword-to-sword, you're relying on yourself. At sea, even the greatest pilot and the mightiest ship is at the mercy of the sea. She can turn on you,' he snapped his fingers, ‘like that. And there's nothing you can do. Not like a sword-fight,' he pantomimed waving a sword in the air. ‘If you lose a sparring match, you think “I should have done this,” or “I should have done that, I should have trained harder.” In the arena, you raise your finger for the
missio
. But the sea is implacable – and there are no second chances.'

‘You are not instilling me with a great desire to set sail once again,' Lysandra snapped.

Bedros spread his hands. ‘I'm just telling you how it is, lady. I honour Poseidon, I am a skilled pilot and, at this time of year, the Great Green should be as flat as a table.
Should
. But sometimes – as you yourself know – things can change. But,' he laughed then, -uch things are rare. You survived your ship; I survived two of mine.

The question is, my lady, is your fear of the sea greater than your need to traverse her?'

Lysandra did not answer, lost in thought. His gruff voice washed over her and in a few almost Laconic words he had seen straight to the heart of the matter. Life was about choices; the left hand path or the right. She could turn now, go back home and train there.

But then, things would be no different.
She
would not be different and, eventually, she would have to face this journey – the emperor would not take an outright refusal well. Lysandra knew she had to get away and, as Bedros regarded her, she knew that he already had his answer. She smiled tightly. ‘No – my need to travel is very great,' she said.

Bedros chuckled with genuine pleasure. ‘Good, good. It is my honour to have you on board. Shall I send some men to get your things?'

‘Do that,' Lysandra ordered, feeling better now that her decision was irrevocable. ‘I will speak with my companions, then I will board your fine… ship.' Lysandra made her way back through the crowded wharf to Thebe, Titus and Telemachus.

Before she could speak, the Athenian pre-empted her. ‘Titus and I have ensured all is in order in Italia,' he said. ‘Bedros will take you to Brundisium, and from there you will travel across country to the town of Paestum. I have ensured that you have a small dwelling rented near the
ludus
there. You don't need to worry about anything.

When you have docked at Brundisium, look for the offices of Memmius Grumio, our agent there. He will see you safe to your destination and cater to all your needs.'

‘You have thought of everything, Telemachus,' Lysandra smiled.

‘It's an Athenian trait. And Titus assisted me,' he acknowledged.

Lysandra regarded them – her friends who had been with her since the beginning. She was acutely aware that Varia was not with them as she should have been and somehow that made the parting even more difficult. Lysandra felt an inappropriate rush of emotion and it took all of her willpower not to embarrass herself. Thebe had not such qualms and was already welling up with tears, as was Telemachus.

‘Well,' Lysandra decided that matters would get out of hand and she should curtail them. ‘I had better be going.' With that, she turned away and walked towards the ship.

‘Goodbye, my friends. I will miss you.'
She could not say it, of course. Now there was no room for softness in her, no place for weakness. Lysandra knew well that she must become again what she once was. Only the hard and strong could call themselves Spartan.