The Fire of Ares (2 page)

He barely noticed the rest of the afternoon pass. He swung the sickle back and forth, fuelled by his frustration and rage, until a voice interrupted his thoughts. It was Timeon.

‘Lysander, slow down. You already have one hundred bushels.'

Lysander breathed out heavily, put his hands on his hips and looked up at the sun. It was a rich orange smudge a few finger widths above the mountains to the west. Hundreds of years ago, before Prince Kiros was even born, all the land between those hills and the western sea had belonged to Lysander's people. They had reaped the crops they sowed and lived in peace. Back then they were free.

Lysander heaved the last of his bushels on to the overseer's cart, then watched in silence as Nestor and another man, with their jaws set hard, lifted Cato's lifeless body carefully on to the back. They straightened out his crooked legs, and tucked in an arm that swung loosely over the side. A solitary fly buzzed over one of the dried red eye sockets, and Nestor waved it away. With a smack of the overseer's whip, the two oxen
pressed into their halters and the cart jolted forward. Lysander walked behind with the other Helots, trying not to look at the grim cargo. He was glad that no one was talking.

At the barn they joined the queue of Helots waiting for their wages – a tenth of what they had harvested that day. The rest went straight to the Spartans.
But I'm one of the luckier ones
, thought Lysander, surveying the other workers. Some of the men and women were old and bent, and still expected to labour in the fields. Their sagging faces wore a look of defeat.

Lysander's stomach was growling with hunger by the time he reached the front of the line and faced the overseer, Agestes. He was a brute of a man, with coarse dark hairs matting his chest and arms, and an untidy black beard covering most of his jaw and cheeks. His small, squinting eyes glinted black, and under his thick moustache Lysander saw rotting gums and barely a tooth left in his head. He had only recently taken on the job of overseer, but already had a reputation for cruelty. On his first day he'd made an example of one of Nestor's sons, breaking his left wrist with a thresher after he asked for more water. Lysander held out his hand to receive his wages, but only one small sack of grain was thrown on to the table in front of him.

‘Next!' shouted the overseer. Lysander stood for a moment.
There must be a mistake
, he thought.

‘That is not enough,' he protested. ‘I am owed at least twice as much.'

Agestes narrowed his eyes and leant forward, so close that Lysander could smell his sour breath. ‘Move along,' ordered the overseer, the aggression etched in his face.

‘But we cut one hundred today,' Lysander explained. ‘I worked through the midday sun to bring in my mother's share as well.'

The overseer smiled insincerely.

‘I need the extra grain to trade for her medicine – she is very ill.'

The overseer made a show of looking at the empty space on Lysander's right and left.

‘I can't see your mother here, boy,' he said, folding his arms.

I'm being made a fool of!
thought Lysander.

‘I told you,' said Lysander, trying to control the anger in his voice. ‘She is too ill to work – she's coughing blood – that is why I laboured like an ox in the fields today.'

Lysander heard gasps come from the Helots stood behind him. Agestes's smile clouded over.

‘Well, Helot worm, tell your mother that she can have her grain when she comes here and gets it herself.'

A hand at his side caught Lysander's attention. It was Timeon. His eyes were full of fear. ‘Come on, Lysander. We ought to go.'

The overseer was a free-dweller; still not a Spartan citizen, but one rung above a Helot. He could do as he
pleased with slaves.

Behind Lysander, the other field workers were becoming impatient. He could hear grumbles of ‘Move along!' and ‘We want to get home'. But he did not budge.

‘I am feeling generous today, young one,' the overseer said. He seemed to be thinking. ‘You can take the full quota of grain, but on one condition. You take six lashes. My arm is in need of some practice.'

Lysander was no stranger to the harsh bite of a whip.

He didn't hesitate.

‘I'll take the lashing.'

Lysander was led by the overseer over to the wall of the barn, where a huge cartwheel stood upright, awaiting repair.

‘Strip, Helot!' barked Agestes, uncoiling the whip from his side and flexing his arm. Lysander slowly pulled his tunic down over his shoulders, slipping the Fire of Ares safely out of sight in the folds. The overseer bound his wrists to two of the wheel's spokes, wide apart. Lysander told himself that Spartan boys went through this many times as part of their brutal training. The crowd from the queue gathered to watch. Even though Lysander was one of their own, he could feel the other Helots' eyes drilling into his back.

Lysander bowed his head. He could hear the overseer shift his feet in the dirt, establishing his position.
Anything a Spartan can take, so can I
, thought Lysander, gritting his teeth.

‘I am ready. Do what you –' His words were interrupted by the crack of the whip across his shoulder blades. At first, all Lysander sensed was the sudden cold of the leather across his back. But then came the pain, as the burning spread out in prickles like a thousand pins simultaneously driven into his flesh. His vision went white, and he tasted the iron tang of blood where he was biting down into his lip. He managed not to cry out. The crowd roared, ‘One!'

As each blow fell, Lysander shrank deeper into himself, becoming more mind than body. His heartbeat slowed and the noises of the jeering mob grew distant. He concentrated on the pendant that blazed under his clothes. Its red glow seemed to give him strength and hope. One day he would escape slavery. He would take himself and his mother away from this place, where his once-proud people were made to toil by Spartans too proud to work the land themselves. He would taste freedom.

By the time the last stroke fell, the crowd's bloodlust had subsided. Only a few of them murmured, ‘Six.' His hands were untied, but still gripped the wheel rim like stiff claws. Lysander's legs threatened to give way beneath him. The evening breeze that gusted through the yard made the broken skin of his back throb, and the blood pooled in the folds of fabric around his waist. He pulled his tunic back up without a grimace,
walked over to the overseer's table and seized two bags of grain – his by right all along.

‘Taken like a true Spartan,' scoffed Agestes, but the overseer could not meet Lysander's eye.

The horizon burned red with the setting sun. The strength returned to his legs, Lysander lengthened his stride and marched towards the outskirts of Limnae, one of the five villages that made up the central district of Sparta. Timeon, whose head came only a little above Lysander's shoulder, struggled to keep pace alongside. They passed the street vendors who lined the roads, trying to sell the last of the day's wares.
Ripe watermelons
–
perfect after a day in the fields! Roasted hazelnuts
–
only three bags left!
Normally, Lysander would have stopped and shared a joke or two, but not today.

‘You should let my mother look at those wounds,' Timeon said nervously. ‘They might become infected.'

‘I'm fine,' replied Lysander, pressing on. His back stung like it was being held too close to a fire, hot and itchy. Every now and then, his tunic pulled away from where it was caked to the drying wounds. Each time, Lysander had to dig his nails into his palms and try not to whimper. There was not much time to get to the
physician's store before it closed, and he needed his mother's medicines.

‘Agestes won't forget this day,' said Timeon. ‘I wish you had seen his face when you didn't cry out – like the blacksmith God Hephaistos hammering at a stubborn piece of iron.'

Lysander was pleased that Timeon could not see his face in the failing light. He knew his cheeks were flushed with shame.
Where is the honour in courage
, he thought,
if it comes with humiliation?
He did not want to talk about it.

The medicine store was attached to the front of the physician's house, some distance from the centre of the village. As they neared the door, Timeon tried a final time to break the silence.

‘And the other men, they respected you. Not many of them would have stood up to the overseer like that.'

Lysander rounded on his friend.

‘Don't be so foolish, Timeon. The other men don't respect me. They laughed and jeered through it all. Because I don't deserve respect. I … and you … we are slaves, Timeon. We own nothing. Not even our own bodies. We are worthless. Don't you understand?'

Timeon looked up at him, but then let his eyes drop. Lysander's blood quickly cooled. They were outside the medicine shop.

‘I'm tired of being called a Helot, a slave. I'm a Messenian, Timeon. So are you. The land over the mountains once belonged to us, and our people lived
in peace. They were brave when they had to be, but otherwise they grew their crops and reared their livestock, and they were happy. Now we're forced to work the land of a Spartan prince. Do you never wonder what it would be like to be free, as our ancestors were, before the Spartans invaded our land?'

Timeon met his gaze once again, and gave a brief smile, before speaking slowly and deliberately.

‘Of course I do, but I don't dwell on it. I was born a Helot, Lysander, just like you. Hope is a dangerous thing.'

Lysander leant forward and put his hand on Timeon's shoulder. He spoke his next words more quietly.

‘I'm not the only one who dares to hope, my friend. You know of the Resistance as well as I. All the men are talking about it. They meet at night. I have heard them near our house. It's said they are waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. We don't have to accept this fate, Timeon. Every year the Ephors declare their war on us. But one day we will throw off our chains. I only hope I can play my part.'

‘Just don't end up like Cato,' Timeon said. Then he seemed to think for a moment, before continuing. ‘And what makes you think the Spartan lot is any better? Spartan boys are beaten often. And even if some die in this
training
, they think it makes the rest stronger by example. It's madness to want to be like that!' As usual, Timeon knew how to reason with him. Lysander brought his hand up to Timeon's shoulder and gave a
friendly squeeze.

‘I'm sorry, my friend, today has tested me more than usual. Come, let's go in.'

The interior of the physician's shop was gloomy, lit only by the fire that blazed at the far side of the room. Several cooking pots hung at different heights over the bank of flames, and the air was filled with woody smells. Sacks of powders and dried plants sat along the back wall, and the shopkeeper stood over the counter, pounding a concoction with a pestle and mortar. He eyed the two boys over his hooked nose.

‘And what can I do for two Helots?' he asked, showing the sparkle of silver in his two top teeth. The owner was another free-dweller. Spartans were forbidden to take on any trades. Their lives were dedicated to war, and war alone. It was the free-dwellers and Helots who ran the markets and kept society functioning.

‘I need some more medicine for my mother,' replied Lysander. ‘The last batch doesn't seem to have helped – she's still sick.'

‘She still lives, though,' smirked the shopkeeper. ‘I would say the medicine has worked well indeed.' He chuckled at his own joke, and Lysander clenched his jaw. The physician noticed the look on his face.

‘We'll try something else, then.' Reaching into an earthenware jug, he measured out a small pile of dark leaves. ‘This is black hellebore. You'll need to crush a small handful of these with sap from poppy seeds, then
bring the mixture to boil in some water. The hellebore should help her chest, and the poppy will ease her pain and help her sleep. It will not taste nice, but then what do the Spartans say?
Do not trust a doctor who prescribes honey.
'

‘I wouldn't trust a free-dweller at all,' whispered Timeon, under his breath. Lysander suppressed a smile.

When the owner had wrapped the precious leaves in a small cloth bag, he placed it on his side of the counter.

‘And now, for payment?' he enquired.

‘I have grain,' offered Lysander, holding up one of his sacks.

The owner reached over and took it from Lysander's hand, peering inside.

‘Very good,' he said, pausing to look into Lysander's other hand, ‘and that one as well.'

Lysander was not sure if he had heard correctly.

‘But … but last time it was only one, and that was expensive! The price can't have doubled in a week.'

The physician slammed his fist down on to the counter, upsetting the pestle and mortar and sending seeds scattering across the floor. Timeon let out a gasp.

‘Listen, boy, these ingredients are more expensive and I've got grain enough to fill Mount Olympus,' he spat. ‘When you start paying in proper currency – iron – like everyone else, then
you
can dictate prices to
me
. Now pay what you owe or take your filthy Helot grain out of my shop and watch your mother die!'

For a moment, Lysander thought of grabbing the medicine and running, but the look on Timeon's face convinced him otherwise. Whereas Spartan children were encouraged to steal as part of their survival training, life as a Helot was very different. If Lysander was caught, death was almost certain. Lysander placed his other sack of grain on the table and took hold of the wrapped medicine.

‘Let's go home,' he said to Timeon.

It was dark as the two friends parted company outside a baker's. The smell of fresh bread made Lysander's mouth water. He knew that there were only stale crusts waiting for him at home, probably spotted with blue and green mould. He said farewell to Timeon, gripping his forearm, as was the Helot custom. His friend leant forward and spoke in his ear.