The Fire of Ares (14 page)

Cool water moistened Lysander's dry tongue. He opened his eyes, squinting in the light. Someone was holding a cup to his mouth. A trickle escaped over his lower cheek. As he shifted slightly on to his elbows, a dull ache spread across the right side of his head and his stomach churned. He started to choke as water filled his throat.

‘Take it slowly.' came Timeon's voice.

His friend was sitting over him, wearing a concerned expression.

‘I didn't win the one-against-many?' asked Lysander.
He attempted a weak grin but the pain in his head made him wince.

‘No, and if you don't come quickly, you will miss lunch.'

Despite his protesting head, Lysander climbed to his feet and accompanied Timeon to the dining hall.

Ariston and Prokles sniggered as Lysander walked past them in the dining hall.

‘Are you hungry?' jeered Demaratos. ‘Not full after eating all that dust?'

Lysander ignored them, and none of the other boys seemed to take any notice of him. He supposed someone getting knocked unconscious was nothing special in the agoge. Prince Leonidas did give him a small nod, though. Towards the end of the meal, there was a banging at the far end of the table. Lysander saw Diokles standing with his arms folded.

‘Silence, students,' he called out. ‘The Council of Elders has announced the date of the Festival Games in honour of the Goddess Artemis Ortheia, Protector of the Young. They will take place in thirty days' time, on the night of the full moon.

‘Each of the two squads must nominate ten boys to represent them in the athletics competition. Demaratos will lead one squad, Leonidas will command his. First you will all have to wrestle a boy from the other team. If you win you go through to round two – the javelin. Here the five furthest throws will progress to the final:
the foot race. Quickest over two lengths of the stadium is the winner of the competition. Train hard and do not let me down. Good luck, boys!'

The whole room erupted in a cheer, but Lysander kept his eyes on his plate. He wanted to prove himself, but the task seemed impossible. There were over a hundred boys in the barracks and only twenty places. Over the last few days he'd been battered, starved, bruised and scorched by the sun. His strength had vanished and the passion that had once driven him was cold and dormant. The memory of the Fire of Ares gleamed red and burned in his mind's eye.

‘Have cheer,' said Orpheus from beside him. ‘The Festival is the most exciting time of the year. It can make a boy famous for the rest of his life.'

‘I won't even get in the team,' said Lysander.

‘Not with that attitude,' replied Orpheus. He put a hand on Lysander's back. ‘You need to put your faith in the Goddess Artemis Ortheia; she'll guide you to victory.'

Lysander wasn't so sure. ‘I haven't seen much evidence of the Gods lately!'

‘That's because you aren't looking hard enough,' said Orpheus. ‘You've a great deal to give thanks for. Without the Gods, Demaratos might have pushed you down that well.'

‘It was Diokles' hand that stopped me falling, not the Gods',' said Lysander.

‘Perhaps,' said Orpheus, rising from his seat, ‘they are the same thing.'

It was javelin practice straight after lunch, and Lysander was dreading it. He had never even held a javelin before. He came out of the dormitory, where he had concealed a couple of oranges to give to Timeon later on. He found the barracks students queuing behind the dormitory huts by a wooden rack that held around ten javelins. Lysander joined the back of the queue.

Diokles stood in front of them, by a line he had drawn on the ground. He scanned the row of boys.

‘Leonidas, you will be first.'

The prince stepped forward, and took a javelin from the rack. It was not as large as a Spartan spear – the shaft was shorter and thinner. Around the middle was tied a piece of leather. Lysander followed closely, as Leonidas threaded his index and middle fingers into the two loops of the leather thong. He steadied himself, then took five steps and launched the javelin. Lysander watched as the shaft spun and sailed through the air. For a long time it seemed to hang horizontal before the tip dipped. Then it thudded into the ground just a few paces beyond the well.

‘Very good,' said Diokles. ‘Lysander, you are next.'

‘But I haven't –' he began.

‘No excuses!' bellowed the tutor.

Lysander did as he was told, and lifted one of the javelins from the rack. He tried to do the same as Leonidas and placed his fingers in the thong. But it
didn't feel natural. The shaft didn't balance well on his hand.

‘Hurry up!' said Diokles.

Lysander stepped to the line, and drew back his arm. He concentrated all his power in his shoulder, as he brought it forward. But as he was about to release it, he heard Demaratos behind him.

‘Take care you do not throw it in the well,
Helot
.'

His concentration was broken. Something went wrong. He tripped. The point snagged in his clothing. A loud rip, and the javelin left his hand at an angle, clattering to the ground a few feet away. A raucous laugh burst from the Spartans behind him, and he scrambled to his feet to see them doubled over. He looked at his torn tunic, which hung off his body.

‘Get inside and get changed,' ordered Diokles.

Lysander's cheeks burned with shame and he hurried inside.

In the cool, still air of the dormitory, Lysander let his heartbeat steady. He had been humiliated again, and felt utterly worthless. How would he ever compete with these boys? How could he hope to match them without the Fire of Ares?

He darted over to the doorway and quickly glanced out. The javelin practice had resumed. He might have a little while longer before they came looking for him. He crept over towards Demaratos's sleeping area. It must be in his chest.

He knelt on the floor and ran his fingers over the rim. A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead as he lifted the lid. He opened the chest, and delved inside. Nothing but a few carved figurines, a scrap of parchment, a golden belt clasp, and some clothes.

Lysander stood up, and kicked the box in anger. Pain shot up his toe, and he fell to the ground. He sat there furiously rubbing his foot, and cursing himself.
I am so stupid. I'll never find it.

Then he noticed that the chest had moved slightly. There was something unusual about the ground beneath it – a space. Suddenly the pain in his foot vanished, and he leant over to inspect the hiding place. Lysander pushed the heavy chest further aside. A hole about a foot wide and half a foot deep had been excavated from the soil, and in it was a smaller, simply carved wooden box. Lysander lifted it slowly out, and brushed the loose earth off the top.

This must be it! This must be the Fire of Ares.
Lysander could almost feel the pendant calling to him.

He opened the lid.

His heart plummeted like a stone in a well. The box was empty but for a piece of fine linen embroidered with a word. Lysander's reading was coming slowly, but he could make out the letters: DEMARATOS. Delicate red flowers were stitched around the name.

A love token!
He didn't think Demaratos was the sort. He had been so sure that his enemy had the amulet.

A noise outside made Lysander jump. He crossed the room quickly to his own bed, and pulled his torn tunic over his head as Hilarion came in.

‘Diokles wants you outside right away,' he said.

Lysander threw on clean clothes and ran outside.

Diokles was waiting, javelin in hand.

‘Throwing the javelin is not just about distance, it is about aim too. There is no use throwing your spear at the enemy if you are more likely to hit one of your own men. So now we are going to do some target practice.'

He hoisted his javelin aloft and hurled it through the air. It landed between the barracks and the schoolroom. Lysander felt anxiety gnawing at his insides, but he hoped he would be able to acquit himself better this time.

Diokles shielded his eyes with a hand, and peered at where his javelin had fallen.

‘I cannot see where it landed,' he said. ‘Lysander, go and stand by it.'

Lysander did not know what the tutor was up to, but he ran over to the javelin. It was about a hundred paces away. When he got there, he turned and looked back to where Diokles and the students were standing.

‘Stay right there,' shouted Diokles, before turning to the others. ‘Boys, you have your target.'

‘But –' Lysander started to speak.

‘Stop your Helot tongue!' yelled Diokles. ‘Or I shall come over there and tear it out of your head! If you want to be a Spartan, you have to show courage. On the battlefield, when the spears and arrows of the enemy are raining on you like hail, you cannot simply run away. You have to stand firm by the men at your side.' He pointed to the boys in front of him. ‘Show him no mercy. If your javelin falls further than ten paces from him, I'll hang you upside down by your legs until the blood leaks from your ears. Do you hear?'

The students looked at Diokles, and then at each other. No one spoke.

‘I said, do you hear me?' spat Diokles.

‘Yes, sir,' said the students hesitantly.

‘Good,' said Diokles. ‘If any boy hits him, I shall personally donate a roasted suckling pig for your supper. Leonidas, you are first.'

Lysander didn't know what to do. He felt his legs
shaking, and locked his knees together. Should he run? If so, he doubted Diokles would hesitate to spear him.

Leonidas stepped forward with his javelin. Even at this distance, Lysander could see there was no expression in his eyes. He pleaded mentally to the prince, with his lips moving silently:
Please don't do it!

But Leonidas did. As the javelin left his hand, Lysander fought the instinct to close his eyes. His insides tightened as he stood transfixed. The javelin seemed to move in slow motion until it reached the top of its arc, then descended with terrifying speed. It landed about six feet away, thumping in the earth. The shaft wobbled for a few moments and then was still. Lysander felt his muscles relax.

‘Who wants to go next?' asked Diokles.

‘I will,' said a voice, and Prokles grabbed a spear.

What a coward!
thought Lysander.
I'd like to see him roast over a fire like a pig.

Prokles lined up and launched the javelin, but he threw it too hard, and it landed well behind Lysander. The Spartan kicked a foot in the dust and Lysander allowed himself a sigh of relief. But he knew the trial was not over.

‘Don't look at the javelin,' said Diokles. ‘Look at where you are throwing it.'

‘My turn,' cried Demaratos, striding over to the javelin stand.

Lysander watched him test the weight of one of the spears, then replace it. He seized a second. This one
seemed to be more to Demaratos's liking. He took his time adjusting his fingers in the straps and then lifted his head, staring straight at Lysander.

He took four long, slow paces back from the throwing line, lifting the javelin to shoulder height.

He paused.

He stepped forward and threw.

As soon as the javelin left his hand, Lysander could see he was in trouble. It glided perfectly straight, and then began its descent as a single dark point in the sky. Lysander's whole body seemed to become light, and he hardly felt attached to the ground any longer. This time he did close his eyes, and imagined the sharp tip hammering into his chest, sinking through his soft flesh and bursting through his back.

He heard a low thrum, and then a
thwack!

He opened his eyes. The shaft of the javelin was touching his arm, vibrating still. The point was buried in the ground less than a finger's length from his foot. For the first time in his life, he was sure of the Gods.

‘It is important that every Spartan soldier is able to endure long marches into enemy territory,' barked Diokles later that day. Lysander stood outside with the others by the front gateway of the barracks. ‘So this afternoon we will be strengthening your legs. We are going to run to the outskirts of the free-dweller settlements and back again, and we shall do so in formation. Assemble yourselves!'

The clouds had gathered and dulled throughout the morning. Now the sky was a leaden grey. Lysander followed as best he could at the rear of the ordered rows and columns of boys. Orpheus, he noticed, stood to one side, leaning on his stick. Clearly he was excused these forced marches. All the other students were barefoot, in order to toughen the soles of their feet.

‘If any boy falls behind, he will be made to carry additional weight on his back. There is no place for weaklings in –' Diokles was distracted by a figure approaching slowly on a donkey. As the rider came closer, Lysander recognised him.
Strabo!
After Strabo dismounted, he and Diokles spoke briefly, both flashing glances in the direction of the gathered students. Diokles turned to them.