Roma Victrix by Russell Whitfield Page B

saw the blow coming. She even could have blocked it. But her brain would simply not allow her to believe it was happening. Only when the stinging pain registered did she realise that it was real.
    Telemachus’s face crumpled from furious to aghast, his eyes registering the shock of his action. ‘Lysandra,’ he began, ‘I…’ but she raised a hand, silencing him.
    Her temper was doused in an instant by the look of horror in the priest’s eyes. If she could not believe he had slapped her, it was evident that neither could he. Now that the heat of anger was gone, Lysandra realised that his plight must be grim indeed. She took a deep breath. ‘I apologise,’ she said. Again he made to speak, and again she over-rode him. ‘You are an excellent priest: I was angry and I used my words like weapons to hurt you. There was no truth in that, Telemachus, and I am sorry.’
    â€˜I struck you.’ The statement was part incredulity, part self-loathing. ‘Please forgive me, Lysandra.’
    â€˜It did not hurt,’ she dismissed it with a wave of her hand. She understood why he had reacted so, but she had spent most of her life learning to endure: a few years of soft living were not going to change that. ‘You must not let such a thing bother you, Telemachus,’ she tried to make him feel better. ‘Really, you do not hit very well at all.’
    He shook his head, but she saw the relief in his eyes at her forgiveness. It pleased her that she could demonstrate the superiority of Spartan manners by showing her magnanimity in such a way.
    Telemachus sat heavily on the bench and she joined him. ‘Well, I am glad that is over,’ he said. ‘We have never had cross words before.’
    â€˜Why were we having cross words?’ Lysandra asked. ‘As I said, we were having a conversation and something upset you. I would like to know what it was,’ she paused, an idea occurring to her. ‘I can recommend some very good artisans if the state of the temple is the issue?’ Athenians valued finery, so perhaps that was it. Still, having a Spartan point out inferior décor must be like eating nails, so she tried to soften the blow. ‘It will not do to have the place looking shabby…’ she trailed off, the expression on his face telling her that she was not helping. ‘All right, then. Why were we having cross words?’
    Telemachus hesitated for a moment. ‘I am all but ruined,’ he said quietly. ‘The temple is falling into disrepair because I don’t have the money to fix it. I could sell my slave, but he’s not worth much and, even so, that would only be a temporary solution. The truth is that this temple is somewhat surplus to requirements in this quarter of the city.’
    â€˜Do not be absurd,’ Lysandra was derisive. Self-recrimination was something that she had dealt with all too recently and she recognised it now in the Athenian. ‘The Hellenes here would not abandon the goddess.’
    â€˜They have not,’ Telemachus admitted. ‘They now go to the Deiopolis .’
    The shock of his admission caused a lurch in her stomach that was almost like a physical blow. This then was why the shrine was in such a state of disrepair: her fault that her friend was struggling when she lived in the lap of such luxury that she had allowed herself to fall into the ways of drink and debauchery. And in her hour of need, with no thought of himself, once again Telemachus helped her. She felt sick with guilt that she had also come to him asking for money. Admittedly, her plight was temporary but, still, it shamed her that she had presumed upon him. ‘Why did you not tell me?’ she asked. ‘I am rich – more than rich. At the stroke of a stylus I could have refinanced you!’
    â€˜It is a hard thing to ask, Lysandra. I am not a beggar to ask for handouts.’
    â€˜A handout is what one gives a