The Fire of Ares (10 page)

Beyond them stood a wooden frame, hanging from which was a row of hoops of different sizes and at different heights. A queue of boys took it in turns to thrust wooden poles into each of the holes. Lysander realised it must be some type of spear practice. One boy expertly jabbed his pole several times without touching the sides of the hoops.

‘Good head shots,' said Diokles. ‘His brain would be on the end of your spear.'

In two lines in the centre of the yard, one row of young Spartans attacked with wooden swords, while opposite them, another row defended with circular wicker shields. They were following a pattern of prearranged moves, and both rows moved with precision and in symmetry. The boys shouted a count to stay in time, and the swords crashed on the shields, hard enough to shatter bones. Lysander was impressed.

More boys to the left seemed to be lifting weights in pairs. One squatted by the side of a rock as big as a watermelon. Placing his arms either side, the veins in his head stood out as he tried to lift it. Finally, with a
gasp, he managed to stand straight, and place the rock on to a platform at head height. His partner then picked the rock up and ran with it to a post a few paces away, and then back again. They repeated the exercise.
Could I lift that?
wondered Lysander.

‘You two, out of the way,' someone shouted, and Lysander turned to see a boy sprinting towards him at full speed. Everyone watched as the boy pushed off from the ground and sailed through the air, landing in a pit of sand.

‘This is where you will do your indoor training. You will go outside for marches, and javelin and discus.'

As they worked their way through the crowd, Lysander began to understand why the Spartans were so powerful. All of their male citizens went through this. Almost every day, of every year, between the ages of seven and eighteen. Even after that, men continued to train together and live together until they were thirty. Only then were they permitted to live in a house of their own.

Timeon stood close by his side.

‘It feels like being a mouse surrounded by cats.'

Lysander was about to respond when an unusual sight caught his eye. In the far corner of the yard, a boy was tied by his wrists to the top of a wooden pillar. His body hung down, so that his feet dangled above the ground. His naked torso glistened with sweat, and the muscles on his arms bulged. But the boy's face showed no emotion.

‘How long has he been there, sir?' Lysander asked.

‘Who?' asked Diokles, then he saw what Lysander was looking at. ‘Oh, Drako, is he still there? It must be time to bring him down.' He walked behind the pillar and unhooked a rope. The boy fell to his knees on the ground.

‘Thank you, sir,' he managed to say to Diokles in a deep voice. Drako got to his feet. He was heavy with muscle and as tall as Sarpedon.

‘His arms are as wide as my legs!' whispered Timeon.

‘Drako was caught out after dark last night – he feels the need to supplement his rations by theft. Fine, of course, but he was foolish enough to be caught. This was his punishment,' the tutor informed them. His manner was so offhand he might have been speaking about the weather.

The group they came to next seemed to be playing some sort of one-against-many game. One boy stood with his back to them as others rushed in from all sides to set upon him with their bare fists and feet.

‘This is to teach a Spartan how to face several adversaries at once,' said Diokles. ‘On the battlefield, you can't expect our enemy to fight one-on-one.'

The victim was quick on his feet, dodging and changing his position to meet his attackers. Each one was sent crashing to the floor or beaten back, but still they came. Lysander could see the single Spartan was getting tired. He panted for breath. Finally, one of the hunters managed to seize him around the middle and
draw him to the ground. The others piled in too.
Surely they've got him now
, thought Lysander. But no! With a mighty cry, the Spartan broke free and threw the others off. He stood over them, victorious, and then walked out of the ring. But when he saw Lysander his face went deadly cold. His dark, flashing eyes, the curl of his lips and the arrogant gait were unmistakable.

Lysander reeled backwards.

‘What is wrong?' asked Timeon.

‘That boy,' said Lysander. ‘He was the leader of the gang in the alleyway.'

‘That's enough,' called out the tutor. ‘Well done, Demaratos. You have proved yourself again. Your team will have extra rations this evening.' Diokles called out to everyone: ‘Spartans!'

The boys ceased their activities.

‘We have a new arrival.' Lysander watched the boys' eyes fall upon him, but no pair burned more fiercely than those of Demaratos. ‘This is Lysander. He will be joining the barracks from today.' A murmur went through the crowd, and Demaratos raised an eyebrow. ‘He will be allocated a place in the squad of Prince Leonidas, but I trust you will all give him a …
warm
welcome.' The other boys laughed.

Demaratos walked over. Under the single watchful eye of Diokles, Demaratos held out a hand for Lysander to shake.

‘Welcome to the barracks, Lysander. If you need anything …' his grip tightened, crushing Lysander's
fingers, ‘… anything at all, let me know.'

Lysander squeezed back, but Demaratos was too strong for him. He was grateful when the Spartan released his hand and returned to his pack of friends.

Lysander saw a fair-haired boy looking at him. He stood tall, with lean taut muscles. He approached Lysander cautiously.

‘Don't let him worry you,' he said, giving a wry smile in Demaratos's direction. ‘He likes to be head of the roost here.'

The boy did not address Timeon at all. It was as if Helots were invisible. Lysander wanted to talk more, but Diokles seized both him and Timeon by the elbows. They left the training area by another gateway, which opened directly into what looked like Diokles' own quarters. The tutor rummaged around in a basket to one side and pulled out a dirty red piece of material. He threw it at Lysander.

‘Put this on,' he ordered. Lysander held the heavy woollen material out in front of him, and realised what it was.
My first Spartan cloak!
He wrapped the cloak over his shoulders, and attached it with a wooden clasp that Diokles handed to him. The garment was coarse and covered in dust, with a smell of sweat and mould, but Lysander did not care. He felt strange. Protected. He saw Timeon looking at him oddly.

‘It will take me some time to get used to you in that,' his friend said. And then, wrinkling his nose, ‘I think it needs a wash too!'

Diokles snorted. ‘A Spartan boy is given a new cloak at the beginning of every year, and only one. You will train, sleep and forage in that cloak, so look after it.' Lysander looked at the grubby frayed edges of the cloak. Diokles raised his eyebrow in Timeon's direction.

‘Your slave's job will be to make sure all your equipment is kept clean and tidy, and to cook your meals with the other Helots. Make sure you beat him if he fails to perform his duties to your satisfaction. Helots are naturally lazy without discipline.'

‘Yes, sir!' said Lysander, but gave Timeon a smile.

Diokles pushed them both through the door, and now they were in the dormitory proper. The long room had a low ceiling, with exposed beams spanning its width, and sleeping areas spread along both walls. No one was in there now. As they walked along, Lysander noticed that each boy's area was largely the same: a simple wooden chest for belongings, a pair of leather sandals and a folded cloak, and the odd blanket as well. At the head of each low bed rested a round shield and beside it a pile of equipment. Lysander recognised a polished breastplate and some sort of hollowed-out shoulder guard. There was little to tell the sleeping areas apart, other than the occasional charm or wooden carving.
Probably to remind them of their families
, thought Lysander.

When they reached three-quarters of the way down the dormitory, there was a gap between the beds.

‘This is yours,' ordered Diokles.

Lysander looked at the empty space in confusion – it was bare earth. ‘Where is the bed?' he asked.

‘I'm not your mother – you have to make your own here,' came Diokles' reply. ‘What did you expect, a mattress made of swan feathers? We raise Spartan men here, not Athenian boys! Most of the others go down to the river and pick a few rushes to sleep on. Itchy, but at least you will keep yourself warm with scratching. Be back before the lunch bell.' He stalked away.

Lysander looked at Timeon. What had he come to?

‘I swear by the Gods that the ground shakes when Diokles walks,' said Timeon.

‘I wouldn't want to cross him,' said Lysander. ‘He makes Agestes look like a puppy.' Lysander and his friend stood up to their knees in the waters of the Eurotas, gathering the tops of the bulrushes. Without a knife it was difficult to break the stems, but working together they managed to steadily fill Lysander's cloak. The water was icy cold and Lysander could not feel his feet any more. But he was glad to be out of the barracks. Being confined with so many Spartans frightened him. Half his mind wondered whether or not to simply run back to the fields and his old life. But the other half was on the Fire of Ares. He did not know how he would ever find the jewel – perhaps it was not in the barracks at all. One thing was for certain, he needed as much help as he could get. It was time to tell his friend.

‘Timeon,' he said. ‘There is something I have been
keeping from you.'

Timeon looked up and grinned. But the smile melted away as he looked in Lysander's eyes.

‘A secret?' he said seriously.

Lysander told Timeon about the Fire of Ares, about its past, and the theft. By the time he had finished, Timeon stood with his arms hanging limp by his side.

‘I thought we were friends,' he said.

Lysander waded over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘We are. I'm sorry I never told you before,' said Lysander. ‘But I made a promise to my mother. I did not know how important the pendant was until last night.'

‘And you think it might be in the barracks?' said Timeon.

‘It's possible, but I think the thief might have been dressed as a Helot. The knife was made of flint. I need you to keep your eyes and ears open for me. You are the only one I can trust.'

‘I'll do what I can,'Timeon said.

In the distance they heard the clanging of the lunch bell.

‘Quick,' said Lysander, scrambling to the bank, and gathering the four corners of his cloak into a knot. ‘If we don't get back it could be us hanging from that pillar.'

Timeon went to arrange Lysander's bed. The dining
mess was in the back section of the barracks, and long trestle tables occupied the length of the room. Spartan boys sat along the wooden benches tucking into their food. Huge loaves of bread and shallow dishes of olives were spread out along the table, while bowls held half-melted animal fat. Not so different from a Helot's diet. The other boys tore off chunks of bread, and ate without plates. They scooped cups of water from buckets along the table. The sound of their shouting and raucous laughter filled the room. It seemed like a free-for-all.

Lysander saw a place to sit, but as he drew nearer two boys shuffled along to close the gap. No one looked at him, but he heard someone mutter, ‘No room here for you, Athandros.' He walked further up the table, towards another gap. He was about to sit, when a boy placed his hand firmly in the space. ‘Sorry, Athandros, this place is taken.' A few chuckles spread along the table and Lysander's face burned. Someone shouted out: ‘Nowhere to sit, Athandros?' The message was clear, but why were they calling him by that name? He could not let them get to him. If there was nowhere to sit, he would eat standing up. Lysander reached on to the table to claim a piece of bread. But before he could take it, the person in front grabbed it. When the boy turned, Lysander saw that it was Demaratos.

‘Sorry, Helot, you have to train to earn your food. Not splash around all morning in the river.'

Lysander made a lunge for the piece of bread, but Demaratos was too quick for him. He threw it down the table, where another boy caught it. A familiar voice rang out from further down the hall.

‘Lysander! There's a space for you here.' Looking down the length of the table, Lysander saw the boy from the market the day before.

‘Orpheus!' he said. The rest of the table suddenly went quiet, and Demaratos's brow creased in confusion.

‘Better run away,' he said.

Lysander made his way towards Orpheus. It was a relief to see a friendly face. All eyes on the table followed his steps. Lysander slipped into the space beside Orpheus. A collective gasp escaped the other diners.

‘I should have realised you'd be here,' he said. The lame boy gave a wary smile back.

‘Well, I could say the same thing. I saw you this morning in the training yard.' Orpheus leant closer and whispered. ‘People say you're a mothakes – is that true?'

Lysander nodded, and Orpheus cast a glance along the table.

‘Well, you should be careful. Demaratos and some of the others have got it in for you; they say you should not even share the same table as a true Spartan.' He must have seen the look of concern on Lysander's face, because he added, ‘Just watch your back. Here, I saved some hot food for you.' He pushed a small bowl of
stew towards Lysander. ‘You will need some energy for this afternoon's training.'

Lysander thanked him, then thought back to what the other boys had said to him.

‘Orpheus, why did they call me Athandros?'

His friend stopped chewing, and looked down at the table. After a couple of heartbeats, his eyes returned to Lysander.

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘Don't dwell on it.' But Lysander could see that the Spartan's smile didn't reach his eyes.
What's he hiding from me?
Before he could ask, Orpheus changed the subject.