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Lysandra ignored it as the girl poured and started on the bread. There would be no loss of self-discipline, she told herself. Only when the first piece of flatbread had gone down did she pour a cup and watered it in the Hellenic fashion. It tasted weak and soulless, so she decided that the next cup would need a dash more bite.
    The food, when it arrived, was excellent and she wolfed it down with gusto. The Carian boy returned, and she tipped him more than she should have even though his directions to her lodgings were vague at best. A few cups of wine had lifted her mood from the crushing depression that had weighed on her like Atlas’s burden.
    It was good to be away from the Deiopolis , she thought; a chance to get things into perspective. She was putting too much pressure on herself and Varia was right; there were others to do the tasks and, the truth of it was, the Deiopolis had become too big a propo-sition for any one person to manage. Of course, Varia’s astuteness was down to Lysandra herself. If not for the girl’s upbringing, she would not have had the foresight or temerity to advise her.
    Lysandra’s hand strayed out to pour herself another cup, but she clenched her fist, deciding against it. She had drunk just enough to regain her equilibrium and did not want to tip herself over the edge into drunkenness. She got to her feet and paid for her meal, advising the proprietor to keep the change before stepping out into the night.
    It had begun to rain heavily whilst she had been inside, forcing people into whatever shelters they could find. It was an eerie contrast to before, the once-packed streets now all but deserted. Lamps hissed and sputtered making the air stink of cheap oil, and rats moved here and there as their holes began to fill with water. Spartans feared nothing, Lysandra told herself as one particularly fat specimen chattered past, but her flesh crawled with revulsion at the sight of it. She glanced at a wall to get her bearings: she prided herself on her excellent memory, and the boy’s directions sprung to mind when bidden. They were, however, less than accurate. The rain grew heavier, sheeting down and sluicing the streets clean but also putting out lamps and torches, making it even more difficult for her to find her way. Lysandra resisted the urge to curse: she knew she was getting lost and now all the roads were beginning to look the same. To compound her darkening mood, the pleasant level-headedness that the wine had bestowed was being doused by the incessant downpour.
    She started as she noticed a man walking towards her. He raised a hand in greeting, smiling easily. Shorter than she by a head, he was bearded and trim, dressed in a tunic that was so loud she could make out its gaudiness even in the half-light. He greeted her in his barbarian tongue, but Lysandra had not deigned to learn the local language – everyone spoke Hellenic or vulgar Latin after all. ‘I do not understand…’ she began.
    She felt fingers grasp at the back of her tunic.
    Lysandra had no time to think. She lunged forward, her body remembering the hard-learned pankration that had served her so well. Her hand lashed out, the ridge slamming into the grinning Carian’s throat, smashing his larynx to sauce. He collapsed, choking on his own blood. Lysandra whirled about – too slow as a heavy blow caught her high on the temple. Heart racing, she stumbled, her back smashing into the side of a building. A man, bald and muscular, charged at her, hands outstretched as he reached for her.
    Lysandra kicked for his groin, but he was too fast, swarming all over her as he tried to bear her to the ground. Even as she struggled, another assailant waded into the fray. His movement distracted her and now the bald one had her in a grip and dragged her down.
    Snarling, he scrabbled for her purse.
    The darkness. The weight of the man on top her.
    Nastasen. The cell. She lived it all again in that