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Authors: Michael Ford

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BOOK: Birth of a Warrior
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‘What's happening?' asked Lysander. He was ashamed at how weak and small his voice sounded. The look in his tutor's good eye was as cold as the wind. Diokles sneered.

‘Surely, Lysander, son of Thorakis, you will not suffer such offence?' He pointed to where Timeon was standing. ‘A Helot's foot grinding your face into the dirt?'

‘They made me do –' Timeon blurted out. A hand grabbed him by the throat and dragged him backwards, choking his words out of him.

‘A slave's foot in the face of a Spartan warrior-in-training?' Diokles went on. ‘It cannot be tolerated.'

Timeon's face was turning red as the Spartan continued to squeeze his throat.

‘Don't hurt him,' pleaded Lysander.

Diokles chuckled.

‘Oh,
I
won't hurt him, boy. But
you
will.'

Lysander swallowed back the dread that rose in his throat.

‘What do you mean?' he asked.

Diokles pushed his thumb hard against the gash on Lysander's head. Lysander gritted his teeth, determined
not to show his pain. Diokles pulled back his hand – the pad of his thumb was smeared in Lysander's blood.

‘The offence was given to you,' said his tutor. ‘So you must repay it.' Understanding washed over Lysander. Diokles' one good eye glinted coldly. ‘Blood, for blood.'

‘No,' said Timeon. ‘Please, Lysander, they came to my home, they threatened my family. My mother, my sister Sophia. I had to do what they told me …'

Timeon was thrown to the ground. One of the black-cloaked Spartans kicked him hard in the stomach, forcing Timeon to curl up into a ball. Diokles drew himself up to his full height and spoke more loudly now, addressing Lysander so the rest of the men could hear.

‘A Helot enters a Spartan barracks at night. He drags a Spartan from his bed and humiliates him in front of his peers. I ask you again, Lysander, what will you do about this insult?'

Lysander climbed painfully to his feet and looked at Timeon, who was still sitting hunched on the ground. The five members of the Krypteia stood around, like black crows eyeing carrion in the fields. Lysander didn't know what was expected of him. He sensed any answer would be the wrong one.

‘I won't do anything,' said Lysander quietly. ‘I shall be lenient.'

Diokles barked with laughter. ‘That's ridiculous! At the very least he must be flogged until his blood soaks into the earth.'

‘No, please …' whimpered Timeon.

Diokles gave a curt nod to his comrades. One of them seized Timeon by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. He was pushed forward and jostled up a nearby slope. Diokles seized Lysander and dragged him in the same direction. Suddenly Lysander realised where they were – it was the bottom end of the Helot settlement, near where he and his mother used to live. As they came over the crown of the hillock, the low huts of the Helot village came into sight, and the air filled with the sounds of wailing and moans.

Torches lit the way along the tracks between the houses, and Spartan soldiers were standing guard outside the huts.

From the doorway of one, Lysander saw an elderly man fall to the ground, then crawl forward on his hands and knees. Lysander recognised him as Hector, Timeon's uncle. A Spartan soldier stepped up to him and delivered a blow to his back with the flat side of his sword.

‘Hurry! I don't have all night.' An elderly woman stumbled out of the same house. As the moonlight caught her face, Lysander recognised Melantho, Timeon's aunt.

‘Please, don't hurt him,' she pleaded. ‘He's a harmless farmer.' Another soldier pushed her to the ground.

All along the pathways between the houses, Helot men were being dragged from their houses and into the streets. The women – mothers, sisters and daughters
– rushed about, screaming and crying, and were pushed away.

Timeon was forced towards a water trough. A horizontal wooden bar at waist level lined the rim of the trough. Diokles shoved Lysander in the back.

‘Put your hands on the post,' said one of the Spartans. Timeon looked at Lysander, fear crumpling his face as tears streamed down his cheeks. How had it come to this? Half a year before they were boys working in the fields, looking after each other. Now his best friend was being terrorised and there was nothing Lysander could do.

The man beside Timeon thrust an open-handed blow into his midriff and Timeon doubled over, steadying himself with his hands on the wooden bar, and choking for breath. Two of the Krypteia bound his hands to the post.

‘Prepare the others!' shouted Diokles. As the order was passed down the streets, Lysander saw men being tied to doorposts or lintels. The Spartans standing over Hector pulled him by his arms, his thin knees dragging in the dirt. Timeon's uncle was lashed to the rim of an upright barrel. The soldiers were readying canes and whips. Revenge was being taken at last. This was payback for the rebellion of two months before. The truth hit Lysander like one of Zeus's thunderbolts: this was all his doing. He had been the one who persuaded the Helots to go back to their homes that night. He had told them they would not be harmed.
No, wait
, he
thought,
my grandfather guaranteed their safety as well. He wouldn't let this happen.

‘You have to stop this,' he said to Diokles. ‘Sarpedon promised the Helots that there would be no retribution for their uprising.'

‘The old Ephor said what he needed to so that his throat would not be cut,' shot back Diokles. The tutor took a polished horn from his belt, and brought it to his lips. He looked at Lysander. ‘Helots don't dictate the rules to Spartans. We command them, and now it's time to show them that we are still their masters.' He blew a signal. A Spartan brought his rod down across Hector's back. He wailed as he fell to his knees. Another crack sounded further down the street. Moans of pain and cries of anguish swelled to fill the night air. Lysander didn't need to see each blow to realise what was happening. The whole settlement was being punished.

One of the Krypteia held out a whip to Lysander.

‘Take it!' ordered Diokles.

Lysander looked at the instrument of punishment.

Timeon was shivering with fear now, his eyes shifting from Diokles to Lysander. Diokles snatched the whip and thrust it into Lysander's hand.

The tightly-bound leather weighed heavy in his hand. Lysander knew all too well the damage it could do. He was no stranger to the bite of a whip against his own back. There were knots tied along the length of the leather, designed to tear open skin.

‘He's my friend. I can't do it.'

Diokles seized the back of Lysander's neck and pushed his face towards the water trough. He spat into the water beside Lysander.

‘Your friend? He's a Helot. You're a Spartan. He's not your friend. He's your property.' Timeon's face was reflected in the still water. ‘I knew you were trouble from the start. Let's see what your precious pendant can do for you now, shall we?'

Lysander was trapped. For a moment his eyes caught Timeon's glance in the trough water. What could he do?

Timeon gazed at Lysander. Then he gave a small nod.

He's giving me permission
, thought Lysander. It felt as though his heart would break. He couldn't believe that his friend had to go through this humiliation in order to save Lysander. Anger surged through him and he threw down the whip at Diokles' feet.

‘I won't do it!' he shouted. ‘Punish me, instead.'

The tutor's eye widened, but then he grinned. He stooped and picked up the whip. He nodded in the direction of the huts, where Lysander could still hear the regular crack of whips and the groans of pain. Diokles' eye narrowed to a slit.

‘That won't end until you do your duty as a Spartan.'

His duty. So this was it.

‘Whip Timeon and it will stop,' said Diokles in his ear.

So I can end this
, thought Lysander,
but at what cost?

‘Do it!' shouted Timeon. ‘Just do it.'

With a trembling hand, Lysander took the handle of the whip from Diokles. He pulled back his arm, letting the leather uncoil to the ground.

‘May the Gods forgive me,' he whispered. With a flick of his wrist, he brought the lash down across Timeon's back.

His friend let out a cry of agony, and Lysander saw his knuckles tighten on the post.

‘It gets easier after the first,' shouted one of the Spartans, and the others laughed.

His friend gave another nod. Lysander swung the whip again. And again. Timeon writhed with every blow. On the fifth stroke, something wet splattered across Lysander's face. It was his friend's blood. Timeon moaned, but his eyes met Lysander's once again. Pain had forced a glistening sheen of sweat to his skin. Lysander lost count of the strokes. His own muscles burned as he drew back his arm time after time. Finally he heard Diokles blow the horn once again. The sounds of the flogging were replaced by that of weeping. Lysander's own face was wet with tears. One of the Krypteia drew his dagger and cut Timeon's bonds. His friend slumped to the earth.

A small group of women emerged from between the huts of the settlement.

‘Timeon?' said a female voice unsurely. One girl had broken away from the group. It was Sophia, Timeon's younger sister. ‘Brother! Timeon!' she cried as she fell to her knees, throwing her arms around him. Timeon
groaned softly, his eyes only half open. Sophia looked down at her hands, now covered in blood. Her look of grief vanished when she caught sight of Lysander. Her face registered puzzlement, then horror. Lysander was speechless and light-headed. How could this be happening? How could he explain?

Diokles took the whip from Lysander's hands.

‘Your father would have been proud of you today,' he said with a tight smile.

As the horse thundered back towards the barracks, the Fire of Ares knocked against Lysander's chest. The pendant felt more like a curse than a talisman. It was the symbol of his ties not only to his father, but to Sparta. A place that thrived on the blood and sweat of Helot slaves.

The other boys at the barracks were lined up outside. They must have been told what had happened. Lysander dismounted and made his way towards the entrance, head bowed.

‘Welcome back Lysander!' shouted Diokles. ‘The Earth Goddess was thirsty for Helot blood, and he poured her a fine offering tonight.'

Lysander felt his fists clench, but he didn't look back. A few of the boys slapped him on the back, murmuring words of encouragement.

Orpheus alone, leaning heavily on his stick, stepped out of the crowd. He hobbled forward and placed a hand on Lysander's shoulder.

‘Are you all right, Lysander?'

He stopped and faced his friend.

‘Haven't you heard? I'm one of you now. A true Spartan.'

Lysander turned and walked inside.

CHAPTER 3

‘You have to eat, Lysander,' said Orpheus as they sat in the main hall of the barracks at the long table. Boys along the benches on either side were chattering through mouthfuls of food. A handful of Helot slaves waited patiently along the wall, ready to receive instructions. Lysander's friend, Leonidas, looked up from his food – he hadn't spoken to Lysander all day.
He probably doesn't know what to say
, Lysander thought. Leonidas was the second son of one of Sparta's two Kings. Only the first-born was spared the agoge, the barracks upbringing.

Lysander stared at the bowl of lentils in front of him. He had washed the dried blood from his face and hands several times since that morning. Even after the water ran clear, he still felt stained.

‘Those Helots deserved what they got,' said Prokles from further down the table. ‘We couldn't let them go unpunished.' Others nodded in agreement.

‘I wish I had been there,' said Ariston. ‘Diokles says
the streets ran with blood.' A fist of guilt closed tightly over Lysander's heart. He felt sickened by what he'd done to his friend.

‘You had to do it,' said Leonidas from across the table – quietly, so that his voice would pass unheeded beneath the din. ‘If the whip hadn't been in your hand, one of the Krypteia would have lashed Timeon. And harder too.'

This didn't make Lysander feel much better. It sounded like a coward's argument. Lysander still had doubts about the prince's bravery. After all, Leonidas hadn't come to Lysander's aid when the Krypteia dragged him from his bed.

‘Have you heard any news of him?' Lysander asked softly.

Neither of his friends answered, so he reached across the table and laid a hand on the prince's arm.

‘Leonidas, is Timeon recovering?'

Leonidas swallowed and eventually looked Lysander in the eye.

‘The word among the Helots is that he's being cared for at the settlement by his family. They won't say much more.' Leonidas paused. ‘It doesn't look good.'

A groan escaped Lysander's lips, and he buried his head in his hands.

‘You should go and visit him, Lysander,' Orpheus said. ‘We can make excuses for you with Diokles.'

Lysander swallowed back tears, and looked up at Orpheus.
What's stopping me?
he asked himself.
Timeon's my oldest friend
.

‘You're right!' he said. ‘I will go. I'll tell him how sorry I am, explain that I had no choice …'

Even as he spoke, Lysander imagined Timeon's wounds, leaking blood through whatever dirty dressings his mother had found. He pictured the look of betrayal in his friend's eyes. Lysander's confidence evaporated.

‘I can't …' he said. ‘Not yet.'

‘The sooner you go and see him, the better you'll both feel,' said Orpheus.

Lysander knew it was true, but the thought of seeing Timeon terrified him. His guilt rested on his shoulders like a yoke, and he didn't have the strength to throw it off. There was more to courage than facing your enemies. Facing your friends could be worse.

BOOK: Birth of a Warrior
3.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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