Roma Victrix by Russell Whitfield

silence as he examined her, evidently expecting him to recognise her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at length, his eyes flicking back to the sword. If she was going to be affronted, he decided that he would kill himself before she and her nearby harpies got her claws into him.
    â€˜I’m not surprised,’ she hissed, her accented Latin full of contempt.
    â€˜I have seen you many times, lapdog. You sat at the side of your master Frontinus as I killed for your entertainment. Too high and mighty to know those who died for your games. ’
    Yes . He could see it now in the way that she carried herself in the shape of her body. ‘ Amazona,’ he whispered. ‘ Gladiatrix Prima .’
    Her lip curled in something between a smile and a sneer. ‘Very good.’ She nodded slowly, as if considering something. ‘Very good.
    Hai!’ she called out to her warriors. Valerian was confused for a moment, but the sickening realisation that she meant to have her fun tormenting him after all rushed up to him. He leapt for the sword, but with the merest touch of her knee, Amazona’s horse stepped forward and knocked him from his feet. He scrambled up, but more horsewomen had come to surround him, their spears levelled at his chest.
    Amazona’s eyes were as cold as her voice. ‘You had your sport with me. Now we will have our sport with you,’ she said.

VII
    Lysandra had wanted to send a letter to the Deiopolis advising them of her intentions, but Telemachus would have none of it. He insisted that she return to her temple and tell those closest to her in person. At first, the thought of facing them all again was too much to bear but, as the days passed, Lysandra found that she could think of meeting them without cringing in shame.
    Telemachus had housed her in her old room. It seemed to her that she was coming full circle as, many years ago, she had lain on the same bed in dire need of help. It was the Athenian who had succoured her then as now, never asking anything in return. She was grateful, but it was not the Spartan way to gush grateful plat-itudes: indeed, her acknowledgement might shame the man. He knew she was indebted without her having to say so.
    A few days with a clear head did wonders for her psyche . She admitted privately that the days were easy enough, but her nights were restless and sleep did not come easily even though exhaustion weighed heavily upon her. It was in the silence of her room in the darkest hours that the shame returned, though its fury ebbed each successive night so that it only came now in waves and not the crashing flood it once had been.
    She had thought to test herself by drinking only watered wine, but decided against it. Lysandra knew that she was possessed of Heraclean resolve and had little doubt that she would manage not to indulge to excess, but it was a foolish mortal that tempted the Moirae. So water sufficed as her refreshment as they ate.
    â€˜You are looking much recovered’, Telemachus observed, a week into her stay. ‘Your bruises are all but healed and…’ he trailed off.
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜And you look almost like your old self,’ he finished hastily.
    Lysandra’s smile was bitter. ‘If you mean I look less like a haggard, battered whore, then you are correct. But I fear there is a long way to go before I am my old self again.’
    â€˜Well, there’s plenty of time.’
    They lapsed into silence for a while. Lysandra found her gaze wandering around the room and she decided to mention the shrine’s state of repair. She knew Telemachus well enough to be forthright, and besides which he would expect nothing less. ‘This place also is not what it once was.’ She saw Telemachus’s cheeks colour even under his beard.
    â€˜I’m just going through a bit of a lean patch,’ he shrugged. ‘The offerings are down at the moment, but I am sure things will pick