Imperatrix (Gladiatrix Book 3) Page 4

  ‘That should do for now,’ Melantha said. ‘Sit up – slowly. I will help you with your tunic.’

  Lysandra did as she was told.

  ‘So, while the other girls are diddling each other, you are reading apocryphal texts by lamplight. You know, if any other girl were telling me this, I simply would not believe them. Somehow, with you, I find myself hardly surprised.’

  Lysandra could not quite work out if that was a compliment or not, but she decided to take it as one, despite Melantha’s use of mild vulgarity. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I rather fancy that if we are priestesses of the virgin then we should not be trying to get around our vows and indulging ourselves with . . . diddling.’

  Melantha laughed out loud at this for reasons that Lysandra could not grasp: Lysandra had not been making a joke; she felt very strongly on the matter – though, much as she was loth to admit it to herself, the urges she sometimes felt were almost overpowering.

  ‘Lysandra,’ Melantha shook her head. ‘You are altogether too staid – even for one of us. Stay here!’ she ordered. ‘I will return in a moment.’

  The lithe redhead made off, leaving Lysandra to stare at the grey, babbling waters of the Eurotas and enjoy the blissful numbness in her back. A short time later, Melantha returned with some dry sticks. She dug a small pit with her dagger and soon a little fire was burning. Onto this, she placed a pot filled with water from the river. Lysandra watched as she sprinkled some leaves into it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘I can see that your studies did not reach as far as Hippocrates,’ she replied. ‘This is Egyptian opium. It will help with the pain.’

  ‘My back is quite fine now,’ Lysandra replied, eager to prove to the priestess that she was as hardy as any Spartan.

  ‘You will know all about it when the myrrh wears off, believe me.’

  The two sat in companionable silence as the pot began to boil. The fumes coming from it were the sweetest thing Lysandra had ever smelled and she said as much.

  ‘Opium is a most marvellous thing,’ Melantha said. ‘It eases pain, brings sweet dreams and sometimes can offer solace when your spirits are down. But it is also very dangerous.’

  ‘Poison?’ Lysandra’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘If too much is taken, yes. But it is more complicated than that. If you keep taking it, you will come to depend on it. It will make you its slave and you will not be able to think of anything but the drug. I have read that the same can be said of wine.’

  Lysandra answered without thinking. ‘I find that quite hard to believe. How can wine make anyone a slave? It is merely something with which you quench your thirst.’

  ‘Who knows.’ Melantha grunted and poured the contents of the pot into a cup. ‘But I have read about it, so it must be true. Here. Drink it – and mind, it is hot.’

  Lysandra took a sip and wrinkled her nose. ‘How can something that smells so sweet taste so vile?’

  ‘Just drink it. And make sure you get all the bits down you as well – vile as they are.’

  Lysandra took a few more sips, blowing on the water to cool it down. ‘I should have shown more control,’ she said after a while. ‘I should not have spoken out against Halkyone in such a way.’ She tipped down the rest of the drink, wincing at the foul taste.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Melantha nodded. ‘But then, Lysandra, you have always been that way. Always first, always strongest in your group, always the best at everything. Despite today, you will make a fine priestess when the time comes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lysandra said, feeling a sudden rush of warm affection for Melantha. It was very good of her to take the time to help in this way. She smiled at the priestess, trying to think of a way to express this sudden gratitude. But the words would not come, and after a time Lysandra realised that she was just sitting there, grinning like an idiot. She tried to compose her face into a stoic mask, but was unable to stop smiling.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Melantha asked, but her voice sounded distant and muffled, as though she were speaking through a pillow. Then, to her shame, Lysandra could not remember what the priestess had just said. A spike of embarrassment pierced the sudden balmy veil that had descended over her senses, but it was gone in a moment. Melantha spoke again, asking her how she was feeling.

  ‘I feel . . .’ Lysandra languidly shook her head from side to side, enjoying the feeling of her hair playing about her face.’ I feel good. Just right in fact.’

  Melantha peered at her for a moment and gave a satisfied nod. ‘Yes, I can see that you do. Come on,’ she rose to her feet. ‘I will take you back to the temple now.’

  ‘The temple . . .’ Lysandra agreed and made to stand up. At least she thought she had, but it seemed that her legs had not heard her thought so she remained sitting on the floor. ‘Why are you being so kind to me?’ she asked. ‘This is not the Spartan way.’

  Melantha stooped and helped her to her feet. ‘You only know what you have been taught so far,’ she chided. ‘The Spartan way is not only about beating each other with sticks, fighting and reminding ourselves that we are superior to all other people – of course we are,’ she added quickly. ‘But what makes us so is that we love each other. This is because our blood is pure and untainted. Our Spartan blood is precious and, in times of need, we succour each other.’ Melantha was silent for a moment. ‘If they choose to punish you as an adult, then I will help you as a sister priestess would.’

  Melantha steered Lysandra into the back of the cart and laid her down on her front.

  ‘Sister priestess . . .’ Lysandra mumbled. ‘One day . . . sister . . . I will fight for Athene.’ Despite her earlier reticence to speak of the matter she now found that she needed to speak of it. ‘The goddess told me that I will always have blood on my hands. I think I will be remembered as Arachidamia is remembered. As a warrior.’

  Melantha’s laugh was far away. ‘You have a long road to walk before that day, Lysandra. Come on,’ she helped her into the back of the cart, laying her down on her front. ‘Sleep well little sister.’

  Lysandra did not respond and soon the cart was moving, its gentle sway carrying her off to the embrace of Morpheus.

  79 A.D.

  Sparta

  The Aegean Sea he pitch and roll of the ship woke her, snatching the dream of her childhood away.

  ‘Ah, it’s awake,’ her friend Pavo commented as she opened her eyes. ‘Did you have sweet dreams, priestess?’

  Lysandra frowned, trying to remember. ‘I was dreaming of my youth in Sparta,’ she said. ‘And also – I am not sure that they were sweet. There was a nightmare in there somewhere too – I was lying on a table, covered in blood. I cannot recall it all now.’

  ‘This is a fuc . . . this is a nightmare, too’ he said. The soldiers of the Sixth Century always watched their language around her, something that she appreciated; she could not abide vulgarity.’ I hate ships,’ he added.

  ‘This is my first time on a ship. I too am learning to hate it,’ she replied. ‘But we have sacrificed to Poseidon . . . Neptune,’ she corrected herself with a sigh. The Romans could never understand or accept that their religion was an utter plagiarism of the Hellenic pantheon. It was one of the reasons she had sought the position of Mission Priestess at the temple. She was the youngest ever to be granted the honour and the Matriarch had been sure that she, of all the women in the temple, was best suited to give Romans and other barbarians the truth and perhaps make some small part of the world better for her teaching.

  She and the legionary were wedged into a corner, surrounded by the men of the Sixth Century. The ship stank as it was and this, coupled with the pungent odour of sweating bodies and belly gas made the air below deck so thick that she felt she could almost chew on it.

  ‘Well, with you on board, everyone knows that if the rest of the legion goes down, we won’t. The gods look after their own – eh, priestess?’ Pavo was trying to sound lighthearted, but she could see fear in his dark eyes.
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br />   Lysandra wanted to reassure him and any of the other men that were listening in; they had faith in her and faith in Athene – or Minerva as they insisted on calling the goddess. ‘Though I am a Priestess of Athene, not Poseidon, I am sure that all will be well.’ She did not think it prudent to mention that Poseidon and Athene hated each other and it was only the will of Zeus himself that kept his brother and daughter from being at constant odds. Lysandra thought it was all rather childish of Poseidon – clearly, Athene had bettered him in the contest to name the city of Athens and he should have accepted it instead of carrying a grudge over the millennia.

  As the thought occurred to her, the ship plunged downwards sharply and she reflexively pushed herself tighter into the corner.

  Pavo puffed out his cheeks. ‘Scared?’ he asked.

  ‘Spartans fear nothing,’ she replied at once. Which, most of the time, was true, but in her heart, she was feeling a little uneasy. ‘We will be ashore soon enough,’ she added.

  ‘And to a new home. I liked Greece, though,’ he said.

  Lysandra nodded. ‘I will admit to some excitement myself,’ she replied. ‘I have never left Hellas. Indeed, when I came to the legion, it was the first time I had left the temple in Sparta.’

  ‘Your ma and pa must be really proud of you. You know, being a priestess and all – and travelling with the best legion in the empire.’

  ‘I have not seen them in many years,’ Lysandra said. ‘When I left the temple, I was going to visit them, but then I thought to myself that perhaps I should not see them when I had accomplished . . . well, accomplished nothing in fact. When I return home, then yes – I think they will be proud. After all, I am the youngest priestess to be granted the Mission.’

  Pavo chuckled despite his evident nerves at the increasingly violent pitch and yaw of the ship. ‘You were the talk of the legion for a bit. A lone girl, dressed up in armour demanding that she should be allowed to travel with us and serve the goddess. No sooner was it out of your mouth than it was all over the camp.’

  ‘That is because you soldiers gossip like old crones.’ Lysandra smiled as the memories came back to her.

  After the outburst to her old teacher, Halkyone, and the subsequent thrashing, she had kept her own counsel and knuckled down to her work with quiet efficiency. If this had not endeared the other girls to her it had at least gone some way to blunting the outright hatred that the more envious of them felt towards her. She had become the model acolyte and was soon promoted to full priestess – before the others in her group, naturally.

  Though Lysandra could have used her newfound status to take revenge on her former peers, she rather enjoyed the fact that she had not. It all went to demonstrate that not only was she physically and mentally superior to them, she also possessed a higher moral code.

  When she had asked for the coveted role of Mission Priestess, Lysandra considered that if Athene’s message meant that one day she would have to fight, where better to learn about the military than in the all-conquering army of Rome? Also, being with the legion would afford the opportunity to travel to barbarian lands and educate them on correct religious practices. It was all well and good telling stories of Athene to those already familiar with them, but it was the duty of civilised people to educate the savages that lurked in the distant western empire.

  So she had donned her armour and ridden directly to the camp of the Fifth Macedonian Legion and spoken to the legate. Clearly he was not a religious man – the Roman upper classes had little respect for the pantheon they so blatantly plagiarised – but the men in the field were a superstitious lot as she would soon discover. Lysandra had won him over with a combination of oratory and competence: she knew how to tend the sick, the goddess was with her and it would be, she had told him, a slight to Athene herself to refuse an offer from her priestess who only wished to serve the goddess.

  The ship lurched violently, plunging downwards and causing her stomach to churn. The timbers around them groaned in protest and Lysandra saw the soldiers stirring, sitting up and looking around in shock.

  ‘Stay still, you gutless scum!’ snarled Clemens, the Sixth’s centurion. ‘This is just a squall! It’ll pass soon enough!’ The bravado was feigned; Lysandra could see the fear in his pallid face. And, as if to contradict him, the ship was suddenly smashed sideways as though struck by the hand of Poseidon himself.

  Soldiers were hurled across the underbelly of the ship and all at once chaos erupted, men shouting in fear and anger, Clemens roaring for calm – but to no avail. The famous discipline of the Roman soldier had no place here and the centurion was shoved aside as the terrified troops rushed to escape.

  A sick dread welled up inside Lysandra but she scrambled to her feet. ‘Come on, Pavo!’ she shouted aware of the shrillness in her voice. ‘We have to get out of here!’ Bare feet slamming on the hard wooden floor, she bolted for the steps that led out of the oppressive tomb of the under-deck, Pavo in tow. There was a crush at the door to the top, men fighting each other to get away.

  Even Clemens had given up, he too surging for freedom. Even as she pushed and shoved to escape, Lysandra knew that it was madness: there was nowhere to run, but she was filled with a desperate need to be free of the stygian belly of the ship. She piled out with the others onto the upper deck, ignoring the shouts of the sailors who were frantically trying to keep the ship in order.

  Lysandra broke free of the mob for a moment, her eyes widening in shock at the sight of the ocean. Gone was the twinkling, white foamed surface of the sea, replaced by an angry grey churning mass. Above them, the sky was filled with clouds as Zeus added his rage to his brother’s, hurling lightning bolts at them from lofty Olympus. She could see other vessels in the fleet bobbing in the tumult, tiny figures of men running here and there on the decks.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Pavo grabbed her and pulled her to face him, his eyes full of fear. ‘Priestess, you must pray! Make it stop!’

  He was right. Athene had power and she could aid them still. Lysandra opened her mouth to begin the paean, but the words died on her lips, stilled by what she saw.

  Taller than a mountain, a huge wave was bearing down on the ship, its white fingers seeming to scrape the sky itself. It moved fast, an unrelenting inexorable mass from which there could be no escape. Movement on the deck ceased as all eyes turned to the wave and for a few moments there was an awed calm amongst them. Then, like the storm itself, it broke and both soldiers and sailors began to scream and shout in terror.

  Lysandra turned and bolted towards the stern of the ship. Risking a glance behind her, she saw the wave was almost upon them and made her decision. Legs tensing, she jumped from the ship, hurling her body into the unmerciful ocean.

  The water was colder than ice, the shock of it nearly driving the air from her lungs. Lysandra kicked for the surface but suddenly the current took hold of her. Through the murky gloom she saw the ship pounded by the wave’s fury, plunging downwards. It was about to take her with it, trying to pull her to the murky depths of Poseidon’s realm.

  She would not end this way. She was the handmaiden of Athene and the god of the sea would not claim her. Fighting the panic rising within her, Lysandra kicked hard, using all her strength to drag herself from the god’s grip. The effort was causing her lungs to burn, but she tried harder. She would not die here, she told herself.

  But for all her efforts, she was drawing no nearer the surface and, like the wave itself, she could not hold back the panic as her body begged for air. The strong, assured kicks now became a desperate flurry as Lysandra gave into her fear.

  Then, her head broke the surface.

  Choking, Lysandra treaded water, looking about her. Debris was strewn over the water and like her, men bobbed about in the furious waves, straining to stay afloat.

  ‘Priestess!’ Pavo’s voice came to her over the cacophony of waves and shouting men. She turned in the water to see him swimming towards her. ‘I’ll help you!’

  ‘N
o, Pavo,’ Lysandra coughed in response, but it was clear that he could not hear her. He was just about to head towards her when he cried out in pain and shock and suddenly began to flail about in the water. ‘Pavo!’ Lysandra shrieked.

  ‘Help! Help me! My legs!’ his cries were full of panic.

  He had cramp, she guessed. ‘Hold on!’ she shouted. Exhausted as she was, she could not just let him drown, but the sea was pulling him further and further away.

  ‘Priestess!’ Pavo was screaming for her now, then choking as the seawater went into his mouth. ‘Help . . .’

  With awful suddenness, he disappeared beneath the roiling grey waves. Lysandra held her breath and ducked down, pushing away from the surface she had tried so hard to gain, eyes straining to see him through the dark waters. She swam in the direction he had been, staying under as long as she could, but there was no sign of him. She surfaced and dived again, deeper this time, but Pavo was lost to her and now exhaustion was threatening to overwhelm her. She came up for air and could not summon the strength to dive again.

  The waves had carried her far, and she could now only see the occasional flash of a red tunic in the distance as the sea bore her away. A length of mast or spar swept by and she pounced, grasping it and hauling her trunk over its length. It remained afloat and she gripped it tight, knowing that to let go now would mean death for her.

  The sea was still churning, but with nothing like the fury that had destroyed the ship. Clearly, Poseidon’s anger was now spent, leaving only a cold drizzle in its wake. Lysandra was helpless to do anything but hold on and drift. She kept looking out for soldiers who might also have been pushed out as far as she had, but the only ones she saw were floating dead on the water. It was a sickening sight and she recognised some of them. A short time ago, they had been alive, grouching about their predicament – as had Pavo. His death weighed heavily on her mind: he had been killed trying to help her and – worse – he trusted in her and her ability to summon the protection of the goddess.