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had always found Halicarnassus fascinating. The city was a mixture of cultures, ancient and modern, and somehow always seemed at odds with itself: the gross Roman architecture piled alongside superior Hellenic designs, which in turn were built atop the old Carian stonework. Dominating the city was the crypt of old King Mausolos, beautiful in an old-fashioned way. And of course, as she went further into the city proper, there was the arena.
    Its edifice could be seen from most side streets, beckoning people to its bloody embrace. From the outside, it looked so much smaller than it actually was. Then, Lysandra supposed, when one stood on the sands, the place was bound to be more awe-inspiring. No matter how experienced a fighter became, it was impossible not to feel a pang of trepidation when stepping out from the Gate of Life. She realised that a part of her missed that feeling, but there was little enough to be done about it now. She tore her gaze away from the amphitheatre’s walls and moved on.
    Halicarnassus pulsed with a life of its own and it was a different kind of animal at night, its industrious façade flung away, the city embracing all manner of revelries. Crowds of people moved from tavern to tavern, performers and hawkers delighted and annoyed in equal measure; the very air was alive with the tang of cooking meat, torch smoke and the heavy pomades worn both by reveller and whore.
    Lysandra kept one hand on her purse, knowing full well that thieves preyed on the unwary. She shouldered her way through the throng, deciding in that moment to steer clear of both the Hellene quarter and the more affluent central area where she might be recognised. Though she had not fought in some time, she still had her admirers and she did not want to be bothered by well-wishers.
    She wondered if a part of her was also ashamed to face those who had once chanted her name.
    Away from the main walks the crowds were less thick and the inns and taverns less full. That suited her well, and she turned sharply into an establishment that looked enticingly middle-class.
    It was one of those artistic places she realised as she went inside, full of actors, poets, dramatists and other low-life dilletantes. Of course, there was a place for war poetry and paens, but Lysandra considered the rest of it to be Athenian nonsense. When one had Homer, what else was needed?
    â€˜What can I get you?’ If the proprietor had noticed her disdainful glance at his clientele, he did not show it.
    â€˜Do you have a room for the night?’
    â€˜I’m sorry’ the man spread his hands. ‘We’re full – there’s a new troupe from Hellas who are to perform in the amphitheatre,’ he gestured to a group of perfumed fops with their adopted expressions of artistic intellectualism. ‘I can offer you a drink,’ the barkeep continued smiling, ‘and send a slave to find you lodgings at the nearest inn? All part of the service – I get a cut, see.’
    This was more like it, and for the first time since her drinking session, Lysandra began to feel something like her old self. ‘Excellent,’ she said. Even as she spoke, the barman gestured to young Carian boy who took off in the direction of the door. No doubt expecting a tip on his return, Lysandra thought sourly.
    â€˜What’ll it be?’
    Lysandra hesitated, realising that her uncontrolled outburst to the gladiatrices had been the result of drinking on an empty stomach.
    But she had decided to get drunk – yes, she had acted shamefully, but she had consumed an awful lot of wine and no food and it was well known that that was a fatal combination. She was Spartan, and she would control herself. ‘Dinner – whatever’s going that has barley – and some Falernian.’
    â€˜Of course,’ the barkeep gestured to a table. No sooner had she sat than a slave was bringing bread, olive oil and the brimming krater of amber wine.