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Authors: Michael Ford

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He pushed his wooden dish away. Climbing over the bench he walked towards the door. Diokles stepped into the room and barred his path.

‘Our punisher!' he said loudly, a smile spreading across his face. ‘Your right arm did Sparta proud this morning.'

A few boys cheered, and Diokles continued. ‘Take your seats, everyone. I have news.'

Lysander reluctantly returned to the bench beside Orpheus. He heard the boy called Hilarion whisper, ‘What's happening?' No one ventured an answer.

Diokles stood at the top of the table, leaning his weight on his massive fists. The tutor's dark beard was
freshly trimmed, but his eye patch was the same piece of brown leather as always. He stared at them with his one good eye as they settled.

‘Sparta is the greatest State in Greece, and her men are the strongest. That is why we take you from your parents at seven years. Not like those chubby Athenians who grow up in their mothers' bosoms, learning to sew clothes. You boys have been in Spartan training for six years now. Some – the weak – have died. Their deaths are testament to your will and determination. Now it is time for you to become young men. You must prove yourselves in the mountains.'

Lysander felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.

‘You will be sent into the Taygetos Mountains in pairs,' boomed Diokles, his eyes scanning the boys. ‘There you must survive for five nights using only your wits, your strength and your will. They say the snows are coming early this year, and icy winds blow from the north. Food is scarce. You will drink from the rivers and eat only what you can catch with your bare hands.' He looked towards the doorway. ‘Solon! Enter!'

Lysander turned with the others as a stocky young man entered. He wore a red cloak and limped forward. His black hair was short and tightly curled. A deep pink scar ran down from his forehead, over his closed left eye. Half of his nose was torn away, and his top lip forked in two. His front teeth were missing as well.

‘Solon is approaching the age of manhood,' said
Diokles. ‘The injuries you see were suffered on his Ordeal five summers ago. Tell them, Solon.'

The visitor stepped forward beside Diokles.

‘I was looking for food when it happened.' His voice was slurred because of his disfigurement. ‘It was the fourth day, and I was in the forest when I heard what sounded like a puppy mewling. I followed the sound until I came to a tree. There was a hollow in the base of the trunk and, as I peered closer, I could see animals squirming in the darkness. You get so hungry in the mountains, you'll eat anything: leaves, moss, even the bark from trees. I fell to my knees and thrust my hand into the hole. I grabbed one of the creatures by the hind legs and pulled it out: a fat little piglet. Hunger drove me wild – I couldn't wait to skewer the tender meat over a fire. I would have eaten it still dripping with blood. Then I heard another noise behind me, and pain ripped through my leg. I turned to see a huge sow with sharp yellow tusks. Her teeth had gone through my ankle tendon as though it were soft cheese. Then she came for my face.' Lysander heard a whimper from among the students. ‘That's the last thing I remember.'

Lysander's heart was beating fast, and he felt sick.

‘Leave us, Solon,' said Diokles. ‘And bear your injuries with pride, like a true Spartan.' Solon gave a small bow and left. The students were silent, their faces pale.

‘You will live like animals,' said Diokles. ‘There are dangers besides wild beasts that can tear you apart:
loose rocky cliffs, bitter cold, poisonous plants. This is the test of a Spartan.' Diokles stared straight at Lysander. ‘Those who are weak and do not pass, shame their families by their failure and death.'

The door to the dining hall creaked open. It was Sarpedon! Lysander had not seen his grandfather since the awful night of the Festival Games, when the old man had been humiliated at the hands of the Helots. Lysander remembered Sarpedon on his knees, bleeding from a cut to his head, his grey hair dishevelled and his tunic torn. Only his eyes had retained their dignity, showing no fear of the blade that was held to his throat by his own treacherous slave, Strabo.

Now he stood with his shoulders pulled back, the tallest man in the room, with his red cloak immaculate and his silver hair carefully tied back. Lysander smiled, but his grandfather did not acknowledge the greeting. What could Lysander expect? Sarpedon was an Ephor, one of the most powerful men in Sparta. Far too important to acknowledge a grandson. His duty to the State came before any love for his family.

Diokles gave a shallow bow of the head as Sarpedon greeted him, then he stepped back to allow the Ephor to address the room.

‘Spartans,' Sarpedon began in his deep, gravelled tones. ‘Your tutor has told you it is time to face the Ordeal. Before the next full moon, you will all be tested, but I am here to select the first pairing to enter the wilderness.'

A low murmuring passed along the table.

‘Who do you think it will be?' Hilarion asked his neighbour. ‘I hope it's not …'

‘Quiet!' boomed Sarpedon.

Lysander was sure he would not be chosen. It was a great honour to be picked first, and surely Sarpedon couldn't be seen to choose his own grandson for such a privilege.

‘The first two,' said Sarpedon, ‘will be the winners at the Festival Games, Lysander and Demaratos.'

Everyone in the room gasped. All the other students looked at Lysander with a mixture of amazement and envy. All apart from one. Standing between Ariston and Prokles, and taller by a handspan, Demaratos stared at him with unconcealed hatred. His eyes were as black as his cropped hair.

‘How could they pair me with my hated enemy?' Lysander muttered under his breath. Since the night of the Games, they had barely spoken. Demaratos's dislocated shoulder had been slow to heal, and he massaged it now, all the time holding Lysander's gaze. He had fallen awkwardly during their wrestling match at the Games, and had been forced to withdraw. Demaratos could not forgive Lysander for this injury. Lysander could not forgive Demaratos for stealing the Fire of Ares, when he and his cronies had attacked Lysander in a side street.

‘But …' Demaratos stood up and started to object.

‘Silence!' shouted Diokles. ‘How dare you interrupt an Ephor!'

Demaratos shrank back beside Prokles and Ariston. Sarpedon continued.

‘The winners of the Games will be rewarded with five days' rest in the mountains,' he smiled. ‘Don't fear. You will not be alone. Each pair is accompanied by one of the
ephebes
, who will make sure life is not too … leisurely.'

Lysander had forgotten that there would be an older boy with them. An
ephebos
was the name given to a student on the cusp of manhood, one who had reached eighteen years.

‘Demaratos and Lysander will be guided by Agesilaus.' The name meant nothing to Lysander. ‘Enter!'

A heavy-set young man walked into the room and took his place beside Sarpedon. His appearance was unusual for a Spartan. His hair was pale yellow, almost white, and his eyes were vivid green like a cat's. One of his forearms was covered with scar tissue, pink, shiny and hairless. Lysander had spotted him once or twice before, training with the older boys from a nearby barracks. He didn't speak, but his eyes gazed out at Lysander with cold ferocity. Lysander suppressed a shiver.

‘Fetch your cloaks,' said Sarpedon, ‘and gather outside.'

His grandfather turned and strode out of the room with Agesilaus following close behind. The students scrambled from their seats and poured through the door. As he was leaving, Lysander heard Demaratos speaking with Diokles.

‘How can I go into the mountains?' he said under his breath. ‘My shoulder – it isn't properly healed.' He pulled aside his tunic. A pale green bruise still covered the area where the joint had become dislocated.

‘It is called the Ordeal, because you must suffer,' said Diokles coldly. ‘There will be no special treatment.' As Lysander walked past, Demaratos gave him an icy stare. ‘If you're lucky, you'll escape with your lives. If not, you deserved to die anyway.'

In the dormitory, Orpheus held out a hemp sack to Lysander.

‘Make sure you take a blanket – it'll be freezing up there,' he said.

‘They won't let you take a blanket,' sneered Demaratos from across the room. ‘You take your cloak, and that's it. No weapons, no food.'

Nevertheless, Lysander opened the wooden chest beside his bed, and took out his sling. He dropped it into the sack, along with a thin blanket, the only one he had.

‘Take this as well,' said Leonidas, reaching into his own box. He offered Lysander a leather pouch. Inside were two stones.

‘What are these?' asked Lysander.

‘One's a flint,' said Leonidas. ‘The other is a stone containing iron. Striking the flint on the stone will create a spark. Hopefully, there'll be some dry tinder in the mountain to light a fire.'

‘Thanks,' said Lysander. ‘I still can't believe Sarpedon picked me.'

‘The Gods are smiling on you,' said his friend. ‘I was praying the Ephor would choose me.'

‘You'll have your chance,' said Lysander. He wanted to say more, but there was a commotion further down the room. A few of the boys had gathered at the end of the dormitory, where the joker of the barracks, Hilarion, was talking.

‘Have you heard the stories about Agesilaus?' said Hilarion loudly. ‘I can tell you a true story about Agesilaus and his brother Nisos.' Lysander gathered his cloak around his shoulders and joined the back of the group. Everyone was listening to Hilarion's tale. ‘In a barracks tournament one year, the brothers were drawn against each other in a wrestling match. Their father was one of the Council, and told them both to make him proud. The match was long and violent. Neither wanted to admit defeat. Nisos broke Agesilaus' ankle, but he fought on. Finally Agesilaus managed to get a stranglehold on his brother as they lay grappling on the ground.'

‘What sort of hold?' asked Prokles.

‘I'll show you,' said Hilarion. He pulled Prokles towards him. ‘Sit down.'

Prokles was grinning and did as he was told. Hilarion sat behind him, and wrapped both legs around Prokles' waist. He looped his arm around Prokles' neck and leant backwards.

‘He wouldn't let go,' said Hilarion, as Prokles' hands began to flail and claw at him. ‘When Nisos' face started to turn purple, the referee tried to stop the contest, but Agesilaus held firm.' Prokles' face was turning red. His smile had turned to a grimace as he fought for breath. ‘Eventually, the referee had to strike Agesilaus several times on the back with his rod before he finally released his brother.' Hilarion let go of Prokles, who immediately threw himself at the storyteller. Everyone was laughing at the spectacle, and even Lysander smiled. Demaratos and Ariston managed to pull Prokles off the smaller boy.

‘You could have killed me!' Prokles shouted.

‘You asked,' grinned Hilarion.

‘Enough,' said Demaratos. ‘Tell us what happened to Nisos.'

‘He was lying face down on the ground,' said Hilarion quietly. ‘When they turned him over, there was a lot of blood. The vessels in his nose and eyes had burst. He died there in the dirt. Agesilaus turned away from his brother and went to accept his prize.'

The boys fell silent. Orpheus was first to speak up.

‘And what about Agesilaus? Was he punished?'

‘After Nisos had been carried away,' said Hilarion, ‘Agesilaus' father approached his son, his face unreadable. Many thought he would slay his son on the spot. He looked down at Nisos' blood in the dust, and then placed his hands either side of Agesilaus' face to look him in the eye.'

‘And?' said Prokles.

‘He said, “I see I have raised at least one good son” and walked away.'

‘Is that all?' exclaimed Prokles.

‘That's all he said,' replied Hilarion.

Lysander turned away from the group. He tucked the Fire of Ares into his tunic and walked out of the dormitory carrying his sack. He didn't look back. Lysander was about to go into the mountains with his enemy, Demaratos, and another boy who was a monster. He was to fight for his life, flanked on either side by two people he couldn't trust. And back in the Helot settlement, his oldest friend lay with flesh ripped apart by Lysander's own hand. As he stepped outside, he looked up at the mountains that loomed to the west.

‘If the Gods help me,' he muttered, ‘it's more than I deserve.'

CHAPTER 4

‘Hurry up!' ordered Diokles.

Lysander left through the barracks gates, carrying only the canvas sack that hung from his shoulder by a cord. Leonidas and Orpheus came behind him, and the other students followed in a trickle. On the road beyond, which would take them west to the Taygetos Mountains, Sarpedon was waiting. He held the reins of Pegasus, his horse. The stallion swished his tail against his black flanks to ward off flies.

Lysander was surprised to see Kassandra standing beside her grandfather. She was wrapped in a thick woollen sheath dress, embroidered with silver flowers. The breeze ruffled her hair, which hung loosely tied with a gilt clasp. Lysander had thought of his cousin often since the night of the Games, and each time the memory sparked his anger. He had trusted her, but all along she had been meeting Demaratos secretly. He wouldn't be so naive again. At his approach, her gaze fell to the ground.

Sarpedon beckoned Lysander aside. They walked a few paces away from the crowd.

‘I hope that you appreciate the honour I have shown you, Lysander.'

His grandfather's face was unreadable.

‘Yes,' said Lysander, ‘but why must I go with Demaratos? We hate one another.'

‘Listen, my grandson, no man in a red cloak is your enemy. You must learn that. And besides, it will be good for you to leave Sparta for a while,' he said. He looked over the top of Lysander's head, straight at Diokles. ‘Away from … influences.'

BOOK: Birth of a Warrior
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