The Fire of Ares (11 page)

‘Diokles put you in Prince Leonidas's squad?'

‘Yes, I think so,' replied Lysander.

‘That is my team, too. And if you look to your left …' he gestured with a piece of bread at a boy a few places along the table on the opposite side, ‘… that is Leonidas. He is the second best athlete here after Demaratos, whom you met in the yard. Leonidas's father is one of the two kings of Sparta.' Lysander gazed at the tall, pale-skinned boy. Orpheus continued, ‘Of course, being a prince counts for nothing here. Anyway, he is the second son, so he cannot be king unless his brother dies.'

The groups at the table were breaking up now. Boys finished their lunch and made their way out of the hall. Lysander was hastily eating a few extra mouthfuls of lentils, when a voice boomed from above him, and a finger jabbed at his shoulder.

‘How are you settling in, Athandros?' Lysander turned to see Demaratos and two companions. He recognised them from the fight in the alley: stocky, sniggering Ariston and gangly Prokles.

Orpheus used his stick to lift himself up. He was hardly an intimidating sight, but Demaratos and his gang took a step back when they saw him. A shadow of uncertainty crept across their faces.

‘You are very sure of yourself, Demaratos,' said Orpheus. ‘But remember that the Gods curse the proud. Apollo flayed Marsyas alive for daring to challenge him. He hung his skin from a tree.'

Demaratos and his friends backed away. Ariston tripped over a bench. When Demaratos was at a safe distance, he seemed to regain some of his cockiness.

‘See you on the training ground, mythokos,' he said. Then the three of them walked away.

‘I'm sure you will,' muttered Lysander.

The yard was baking in the afternoon sun, but it was the malevolent stares of the other boys that Lysander felt burning into him. Timeon had gone to help clean up the dining hall with the other Helots. At least they were ignored and anonymous here.

The boys stood lined up against the wall as Diokles paced in front of them. In his hand he held a bronze Spartan shield. It was marked with a shape like an open triangle, which Orpheus said was the Greek letter
L
, to symbolise Sparta's ancient name, Lakedaimon.

‘This is a Spartan's best friend – his shield. Even if you lose your spear and sword in battle, then as long as you have your shield, you will live. When a phalanx meets its enemy, you must stand firm with this shield. It protects not just you, but the man on your left side. The only excuse for leaving your fellow warriors is death. As every Spartan mother will say to her son going to battle: “Return with your shield, or on it.” Remember that, boys. I lost my eye to a cowardly mercenary archer, but I still kept in line. There is no greater shame than cowardice, and no greater honour than death.'

‘Honour and death!' shouted the boys in unison, three times. On the third Lysander joined in. He enjoyed the flame of pride that flickered in his chest.

‘You!' ordered Diokles, stabbing a finger towards Lysander. ‘Do you think you could stand firm in a real battle?' Lysander lifted his chin.

‘Yes, sir!' he shouted.

‘Well, come forward,' said Diokles. ‘Let us see how well you shoulder a Spartan shield.'

He stepped out of the line.
I'll show them what a Messenian can do!

‘Extend your left arm,' ordered Diokles. Lysander thrust his hand out. Close up he could see that the shield was a wide wooden dish coated in a thin layer of bronze. There were two looped wooden handles on the back: one through which to thread his left arm, the other to grip with his hand. It looked heavy, but it would not be a problem. Diokles positioned the shield
and then let the full weight rest on Lysander's shoulder. With a thud the shield pulled his arm downwards and hit the floor. A roar of laughter erupted from the other Spartans, and Lysander felt like a fool.

‘Silence!' bellowed Diokles, though Lysander could see he was enjoying the spectacle as much as the others.
I'll prove them wrong!
Lysander promised himself.
I am the son of Thorakis.
He focused his mind on the shield. Tensing his shoulder muscles, he heaved it from the ground. He could not help the grunt that escaped his mouth, but he managed to hold the shield aloft. His arm started shaking almost immediately, but he stared straight into Diokles' eye. It wasn't a victory, but nor was it defeat.

‘Perhaps there is some hope for you,' said the tutor quietly. ‘Enough.'

Lysander was grateful to put the shield down again. His arm was feather light without the burden.

‘Groups of three – sword practice!' commanded Diokles. With barely a word, the boys began to order themselves, but each way Lysander looked, eyes were averted. Clearly no one wanted a new boy in their group.

‘Over here,' came Orpheus's voice. Lysander saw that he was with Leonidas, and he jogged over to make up a three. At an equipment stand on the edge of the yard, Orpheus picked up a wooden shield, slightly smaller than the one Diokles had used for the demonstration and without the inlaid layer of bronze. Leonidas took a
wooden sword and handed another to Lysander. He looked at the weapon, confused.

‘What am I to do?' he asked.

‘Why, attack me, of course,' said Orpheus.

Lysander watched as the groups around them began to fight. Swords crashed on shields, as two boys attacked each single shield bearer. It did not look like a game.

‘Come on!' said Leonidas, and lunged at Orpheus, who parried the blow.

Lysander stepped forward and swung his sword slowly at Orpheus's shield.

‘No, you're doing it wrong,' said Orpheus. ‘You're aiming at my shield, not me! I won't have that luxury in battle.'

And so Lysander attacked again, aiming at Orpheus's chest.

‘Faster,' said the lame Spartan. ‘Like you're trying to hurt me …'

And so it went on. Lysander soon discovered that he could not have hit Orpheus even if he had wanted to. Even when he was sure one of his shots would hit its target Orpheus seemed to manoeuvre his shield into position, or flex his body out of harm's way. Soon Lysander was feigning and thrusting as fast as possible, trying to batter through Orpheus's defences. Still, not a single shot was successful, as Orpheus ducked and dodged to protect himself. He moved fluidly, despite his bad leg. Orpheus had had a lifetime of living with his lameness. It was clear that any disadvantage it might
once have been had disappeared. Lysander's friend was as good a fighter as anyone.

‘Change over!' boomed Diokles. This time it was Lysander's turn with the shield. It was much lighter than the adult one, but still difficult to manoeuvre. Diokles watched them closely.

‘If you two go easy on him, you will be punished.'

‘Ready?' asked Leonidas.

‘I think so,' replied Lysander.

Leonidas thrust at his chest, and Orpheus towards his legs. He dropped his shield to stop one blow, but the other hit his shoulder. He could tell they were not being as powerful as they should, but the wood still bruised.

‘Faster!' ordered Diokles. ‘He has to learn.'

This time the blows came harder. One hit his shin, the other his stomach. They made him angry, with both Orpheus and Leonidas, but also with himself.

‘Just relax,' said Leonidas. ‘Your body is so tight, you cannot move smoothly. Imagine you are like water, flowing around an object.'

Lysander tried to do what the prince suggested, and it worked a little. Orpheus's sword rang out against his shield, and Leonidas's missed altogether as he ducked to the left.

‘Better,' said Orpheus.

As they fought, Lysander began to recognise when a blow was coming and in what direction by looking for little movements in his opponents' arms. Still, he was
jerky and stiff, and several shots landed. Every time he blocked successfully, they congratulated him. It was slow, but he was learning. By the end of his turn, though he was dripping with sweat, he wanted to carry on.

‘Good for a first attempt,' said Leonidas, shouldering his shield for his stint defending, ‘but you'll hurt later.'

Lysander didn't believe him. Feeling the sword balanced in his hand, he felt he could carry on all day.

The prince was right. With dinner over and the dusk muting the colours of day, Lysander lay on his back, unable to sleep. His cloak was wrapped tightly around him, keeping the cold out at least, but the rushes hardly softened the ground at all, and every time he shifted, a new ache appeared. The angry purple bruises across his arms and thighs throbbed in the darkness, despite the lavender ointment that Timeon had found for him. A light draught fingered its way through the windows and made the room pleasantly cool. But it was not only his sore and heavy limbs that were bothering him. This was the first night he had spent away from home, and away from his mother. He wondered how she was feeling. He was grateful that Orpheus had been able to swap berths with his neighbour. It made him feel a bit safer to have an ally nearby.

Diokles called for lights out, and Lysander leant across to extinguish his candle. Now the whispering started, at first no more than a rustle in the darkness,
but soon coiling like snakes around his bed. He could here snatches of conversation all around him. The voices seemed to jump around the room: ‘He shouldn't be here', ‘What good is a Helot going to be in battle?', ‘Who is his father?' Lysander tried to block out the sounds. But then the voices started to address him.

‘Are you missing your mother, Helot?'

He peered into the darkness nearby where he knew Orpheus was lying. Could he not hear the taunts? Lysander felt suffocated and afraid.

‘Do not close your eyes tonight,
Athandros
.'

That name again. The voices sounded like they were all around him now, closing in, like evil spirits shifting and swirling in the blackness.

‘Athandros, Athandros, Athandros.'

Lysander shot out a hand to protect himself.

‘Ouch!' said Orpheus. ‘What did you do that for?'

The spell was broken. The voices stopped suddenly and Lysander's eyes adjusted to the gloom. He saw his friend roll off his front and half sit up.

‘Orpheus,' he hissed. ‘Who is Athandros?'

The Spartan made a show of rubbing his bad leg a little as he leant close to Lysander.

‘I'll tell you,' he said, ‘but you must not fear.'

‘I'll be fine,' replied Lysander. The other boys had tired of their bullying. One or two had even started to snore. Orpheus whispered his story in Lysander's ear.

‘Athandros was another mythokos, just like you. He was in the intake above us when we joined at the age of
seven. His father was one of the High Council, the twenty-eight men and the two kings who govern with the Ephors, so he could afford to send to the agoge a child he had fathered with a Helot woman, a half-breed. That was Athandros. He was a great warrior, even though many of the boys hated him. Diokles, especially, used to be tough with him. But Athandros took it all – the rough treatment only seemed to make him stronger. Until earlier this year …' Orpheus tailed off.

‘What happened to him?'

Orpheus gave a sigh. ‘When a Spartan boy reaches his sixth year of training, he must undergo a special challenge. He is sent out into the wild mountains for several days with nothing but the cloak upon his back. It is a chance to prove his worth. He has to fend for himself for those days: catching or stealing his own food, fighting the dangers of the forests and hills. After that, he is ready for the next stage of the training.'

‘And?' said Lysander in the pause.

‘Athandros went out but never came back. Some say he was murdered by other members of his own barracks.'

‘And that is why they call me Athandros, because I am a half-Helot like him?

‘Well, that's not all.' He grimaced. ‘I said they didn't find Athandros. But they did find his cloak. You are wearing it.'

Fear tightened Lysander's chest, and he threw off the cloak.

‘I'm sorry I had to tell you,' said Orpheus. ‘Ignore their whispering. It is superstitious nonsense. Trust in the Gods, train hard, and you will be fine.' Orpheus lay back down to sleep.

The rushes from the river were itchy when not covered by the cloak, but Lysander could not bear the thought of the rough wool on his skin. Now he knew of its past, the mud stains had taken on the scent of blood. It felt like a death shroud. Perhaps he was wrong to think the Spartans had it better than the Helots!
But at least they are free
, a voice replied in his head. While Lysander's tired body dragged him towards sleep, his imagination turned over terrible images in his head. He saw Athandros, out in the cold mountains, fear gnawing his insides. What terrible thing had happened to Athandros out there? And did a similar fate await him?

A hot slap stung the side of Lysander's face, and a sudden white flash blinded him. Instinctively, he tried to lift his head off the floor, but a rough palm pressed over his nose and mouth. He struggled to breathe as his skull was forced to the hard-packed floor. Someone was sitting across his chest, squeezing the air out of him. He tried to wriggle free but his arms were being held down firmly. He could not kick out either – his whole body was immobilised. He felt weak. Pathetic. A voice whispered in his ear, and hot, stale breath fell on his cheek:

‘So, you think you can be a Spartan warrior?'

It had to be Demaratos. ‘Stop struggling, and this will be over a lot quicker for all of us.' In the darkness, a blade caught the meagre light. It looked like a pair of shears used for taking the wool off sheep. Lysander writhed in fear, trying to put as much distance between the sharp blades and himself as possible. He felt as though his veins would burst, but there was no
escaping.
Where was Orpheus?
Demaratos's voice was back at his ear.