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at that age, an active gladiatrix was at the peak of her powers. A pity then, that the match could not take place. Lysandra was no fool: she knew that she could not return to the arena; she would be cut to pieces. It had been too long since she had fought and, besides, that part of her life was over. There was the Deiopolis now, and the people who had come to depend on her.
    Those same people who laugh at you, she thought bitterly – and with every right.
    She tossed the letter aside and stood on unsteady feet. The krater beckoned and she turned away from it with effort. She could not face the stares of her women. Not now. Not after her performance that afternoon. In the half-light, she threw on a clean tunic and filled a purse with money, resolving to ride at once for Halicarnassus.
    She scribbled a note for Titus, advising him that she was taking some rest from the Deiopolis for a few days. She had to get away until things had moved on, until her antics were no longer the topic of discussion.
    Lysandra paused at the door, thinking for a moment. Hung on the wall were her old weapons, the twin swords of the dimachaeria ; their presence in the room coupled with the letter from Domitian seemed to mock her. She sighed and took them down – an unarmed woman riding alone would be too tempting a target for the brigands that preyed on the route to Halicarnassus. Even if she was no longer worthy to wield the weapons, she hoped that their presence would dissuade any would-be attackers. Stepping out into the night, she made her way swiftly to the stables and rode out, offering the guards a few mumbled assurances before galloping away, wrapped in her own mantle of gloom.
    As night turned to day, Lysandra began to feel the full physical effects of her drinking session. Sick and miserable, she hunched in the saddle, sipping from her water sack. Halicarnassus was less than a day’s ride from the Deiopolis , and soon she began to encounter caravans of traders and other travellers. She was cordial enough to those that greeted her with a smile or a wave, but her demeanour let it be known that she had no desire for company.
    Lysandra tried to blot out what had happened at the Deiopolis , but the thought of it stayed with her, worsened by her hangover.
    The day passed as though she was a shade wandering the banks of the Styx, where she could see the world but seemed somehow distanced from it. She must have dozed off, because the horse jolted her and she glanced up to see the city walls looming suddenly ahead of her. Her mount, Hades, knew the route well enough, having carried her here often. The sun had sunk low in the sky, reddening the horizon and she realised that she could not remember the last time she had eaten. Her stomach growled in agreement, and Hades glanced over his shoulder, eyeing her as if demanding that he would receive a meal too. She patted him on the neck in assurance as they made their way to the main gate.
    Even in late afternoon there was still a long queue to enter the city. Roman bureaucracy assured that visitors would be searched before entering the metropolis, an insurance against malcontents and smugglers. It was pointless to get annoyed, so Lysandra dismounted and waited her turn. To busy herself, she wrapped her swords securely in canvas, ready to hand over to the duty watchmen.
    Civilians were not permitted to carry weapons inside the city walls and, though it was almost an impossible law to enforce, Lysandra considered it beneath her to try to secrete her swords like some sort of criminal.
    The guards on duty hardly bothered to search her and looked genuinely surprised when she passed over her swords and asked for a receipt. However, it was all procedure and the army – even these auxiliaries – excelled at procedure, so her weapons were taken to a guard house and she was issued a receipt by a bored-looking optio who then instructed her to stable her mount and be about her business.
    Lysandra