The Fire of Ares (3 page)

‘Remember what I said, Lysander. We have to do the best with what we've got – each other and our families.' As he drew away, he pressed a small bag of his own grain into Lysander's hand. Timeon started to walk away, but called back over his shoulder, ‘Don't worry, my family are all working. You need it more than us.'

Tears of gratitude gathered in the corners of Lysander's eyes. But there was also sadness: Timeon's close family were all alive and in good health. Lysander and his mother had only each other. His father was dead even before he was born. He shook himself and set off to buy provisions.

Most of the stalls in the centre of Limnae had closed up for the night, so all Lysander managed to get was some bread, hard green olives and dried fish. Still, it was enough. Lysander made for home in the dark. The sky was cloudless and the stars twinkled in clusters. As he scanned the sky, Lysander picked out the brightest constellation: Kastor and Polydeukes. The Spartans called them the
Dioscuri
, the Twins.
If all Greece worshipped the same gods, why aren't all Greeks equal?
wondered Lysander. He uttered a prayer under his breath, the same one as always: ‘Warrior sons of Zeus, let me be free.'

With a last glance at the night sky, Lysander set off towards a short cut he knew beside the slaughterhouse. He could not remember the last time he and his mother had been able to afford fresh meat. But maybe Timeon was right. Perhaps life was not as bad as he thought. With the medicine, his mother would get better and be able to work again; they would bring in more money …

Suddenly, a voice came out of the shadows.

‘Surround him,' said the voice, laughing. ‘This one is dangerous, boys!'

Lysander poked his head around the corner of the slaughterhouse and peered into the gloomy alley. He saw a group of three young men gathered around a smaller boy, who held out a piece of wood with his shaking hand.

‘Stay back,' he said, thrusting the stick through the air.

Draped in their distinctive red cloaks, it was clear the gang was made up of Spartans. One was bigger than the others. He seemed to be giving the orders:

‘We'll have to take his legs. A soldier can't fight when he is on the ground.' He gestured to a stocky friend. ‘Ariston, you're next.'

A Spartan stepped forward. The small boy was probably a free-dweller caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. He shifted his feet to meet his new attacker. He clearly lacked any training. His arms and legs were thin, and he swung the stick wildly, but all
the time the Spartan called Ariston easily managed to keep out of range.

‘I haven't done anything to –' said the small free-dweller.

Without warning, Ariston dived at the boy's legs and sent him flying on to the ground. Dust flew up as the rest of the pack waded in.

Lysander could not stand and watch any more. He stepped into the alley.

‘Stop that!' he called out.

The Spartans paused in their attack. Lysander watched the young men turn in his direction.

The world seemed to shrink, and Lysander felt very alone.

The large Spartan, the leader, stared at Lysander as though he was something he'd scraped off his shoe.

‘A Helot pig out after dark! That could be dangerous.'

All attention was on Lysander now, and the younger boy took advantage of the distraction to scuttle down the far end of the alley. One of the Spartan gang gave chase, but their leader shouted to let him go.

‘We have another hare to hunt now,' snarled the Spartan with a flash of white teeth.

Lysander turned to go back the way he had come, but saw to his dismay that two more Spartans, both lean and wiry, blocked that end of the alley.

‘Have I missed any sport, Demaratos?' one of them asked.

‘Not at all, Prokles,' said the leader. ‘You've missed the first course. Now we have this Helot pig as the main dish.'

Ariston spoke next.

‘Yes, and we all know what happens to pigs out after dark.'

Panic rose in Lysander's chest as the alleyway filled with young men, three at one end, two at the other. As the two groups closed in on him, one word pounded inside Lysander's head:
Krypteia
. Was he going to die here, in this dingy alley?
You fool
, he cursed himself,
you should have kept out of this.

But as the five approached, the silver glance of the moonlight revealed that they could not be an experienced murder squad. They were Spartan boys of about his own age. Lysander was relieved, but knew he was still far from safe. As a Helot, his life was worth nothing to them. The leader, Demaratos, was tall and broad, with fierce eyes and a mouth that naturally curled to a sneer. His black hair was cut short and neat, and his cloak hung off muscular shoulders.

‘You have to pay the tax to walk our streets, Helot,' he demanded. His eyes travelled up and down Lysander, measuring him up. ‘What do the bags hold?'

Lysander knew his only option was to try and talk his way out of trouble; anything else would be suicide. He wished Timeon were here. People joked that he could talk his way out of the Underworld given half a chance.

‘Look,' he said, trying to calm the tremor in his voice, ‘I've got nothing, just some food, some scraps of food and medicine for my mother. She's very ill, and I need to give it to her as soon as possible.'

‘Show me,' ordered the boy, motioning towards the bag of medicine that he had tucked in his belt. Lysander had no choice. He untied the small sack and held it out. The Spartan boy snatched the precious bag of leaves. He tore the twine off and glanced inside. He was clearly disappointed with his plunder, and the other boys were looking bored now, too. Lysander began to feel the tide turn in his favour.

‘OK, comrades, leave him be,' said the leader, handing back the medicine. But just as Lysander reached out to take the sack, the Spartan youth let go of it. The contents fell to the ground, mingling with the dust.

The gang broke out into raucous laughter, slapping each other's backs. Lysander could have walked away then if he had wanted. But something made him stay where he was. He felt lightheaded, but strong and reckless.

‘You shouldn't have done that,' he said quietly.

The group stopped laughing, one by one. The leader looked straight at Lysander. He took a step closer and bowed his head a little, cupping his ear with a hand.

‘What did you say, Helot pig?'

The hairs prickled along the back of his neck.

‘I said, you shouldn't have done that,' he repeated,
louder this time.

All the good humour had disappeared from the Spartan's eyes. They became as cold and dark as the night air.

‘This Helot pig must think himself as mighty as Herakles. I think it is time we spiked him, don't you, comrades? After all, we are beside the slaughterhouse.'

No one laughed at the coincidence; the mood was deadly serious. Lysander caught a movement to his right as a blade flashed in the hand of the short boy. He had to think quickly. These were Spartan apprentices, trained in killing. If he hung back they would make short work of him; he had to attack first.

He feinted towards the leader on his left, before launching himself the other way, straight at the Spartan wielding the knife. His fist connected against the boy's slack, open jaw, sending him reeling to the ground. The knife flew from the Spartan's hand and landed out of sight. The second of the pair barely had time to react, before he too was doubled over by a kick from Lysander. He fell to the floor with an ‘Umph!', the wind knocked out of him. Lysander was taking no chances with the other three. He saw the gap he had created and set off towards the end of the alleyway, fast.

But then his good fortune ran out. He felt a tightening around his neck – the Fire of Ares! Someone must have grabbed the leather strap. Before he could do anything to prevent it, the tension gave way. Lysander skidded to a halt and twisted around.

‘Looking for this?' teased the Spartan leader, swinging the amulet back and forth on the frayed leather thong. The two others picked themselves up, the shorter boy wiping blood from his mouth.

He heard his mother's voice in his head:
Never take off the amulet – keep it safe. Always
. He had no choice. He couldn't lose the Fire of Ares.

He threw himself headlong at the leader, bowling him to the floor and trapping him between his knees. He lashed out with his fists and elbows, not caring if he missed a few times. He felt one of the others slip an arm around his neck, and while he tried to free himself, the leader drove a punch into one of his kidneys. Lysander crumpled and was thrown off. Blows soon came from every angle, as the other gang members punched and kicked his stomach, face, sides and back. Soon there was no pain, and no noise, just calm acceptance.

He was finished.

‘Stop at once!' came a voice. It had such authority that Lysander wondered if a god had spoken. ‘I said –
Stop
!'

The hammer of blows slowed and then ceased altogether. Lysander stayed curled in a defensive ball as the pain returned, flowing through every limb.

‘What in the names of Kastor and Polydeukes is going on here?'

Lysander opened his eyes slowly – at least one of the lids was already swelling up. He made out a shape
approaching. As he let his body relax, the shape became a man, standing over him and holding a flaming torch. Nearby, in the dust, Lysander spotted the Fire of Ares, and scrambled over to grab it. Once it was back in his hand, he felt safe.
Did the older man see the pendant?
He didn't know. His attention was focused on the gang of youths, who all looked terrified.

‘Is this what your training has taught you?' the man demanded, his voice full of disgust. ‘To take on one defenceless boy in the dead of night when no one can hear him cry out?'

The boys looked at Demaratos for an answer. After considering for a moment, he took a step forward.

‘But he's just a –' he began.

‘Just a what?' cut in the stranger. ‘Just a Helot?' He waited a moment for his words to sink in. ‘He hasn't wronged you. He poses you no threat. Yet you set on him like a pack of jackals. Your mothers should have left you on the slopes of Mount Taygetos. What are you doing out of the barracks?'

The boys looked at each other. They clearly didn't have an answer.

‘Get back there immediately, unless you want this incident to reach your trainer's ears?'

Respect for one's elders was a cornerstone of Spartan society, and Lysander knew enough of Spartan discipline to know that misbehaviour was severely punished.

‘Get out of my sight!' roared the man. The boys
turned and fled out of the alleyway. Their leader followed last of all, walking backwards and staring at Lysander.

‘This is not over,' he whispered.

A voice came from one of his comrades at the end of the alley: ‘Come on, Demaratos! He's nothing.'

A few seconds later, Lysander was alone with the Spartan warrior.

‘Are you badly hurt?' he asked, leaning down to offer his hand. Lysander was too afraid to take it. Crouching on the floor, he scrambled about, picking up the leaves for his mother's medicine. The food lay trampled into the ground, so he salvaged what he could. He glanced up at the man in the light of the torch. The man was tall, and despite being at least sixty, his back was unbent and his legs looked solid with muscle. A dark cloak draped from his shoulders and almost brushed the ground. He had long greying curls, hanging loose, and a great black beard, also flecked with white. A deep pale scar extended by the side of his left eye and many other smaller ones were scattered across his face.

‘I am Sarpedon,' continued the Spartan. He spoke as though the name should mean something. Lysander climbed gingerly to his feet. None of his bones seemed to have been broken in the beating.

‘You are not so talkative, I see,' grunted the old man. ‘A Spartan trait.' He paused, looking up the alley to where the gang had fled. ‘The Spartan upbringing is hard on children, and it takes them time to learn when
they should fight, and when they should be peaceful. Be assured, their lessons will be painful.'

Lysander smiled.

‘Tell me, Helot, what do you know of a Spartan soldier called Thorakis?'

‘Nothing,' said Lysander, ‘nothing, at all. I am a Helot, a field worker …' But the name did mean something to him – it sent a shiver through him that he did not understand.
What does that name mean?
he thought.

‘Well, then,' Sarpedon continued, gesturing with a hand. Lysander noticed that two fingers were missing beyond the second knuckle – no doubt a memento of battle. ‘Tell me instead about that jewel I saw on the ground.' Lysander fought to keep the fear out of his face. ‘Come now, don't be difficult. I despise thieves as much as bullies.'

Lysander gripped the amulet even tighter. His mother's words echoed in his head:
Keep it close. Keep it secret.
Could he escape one old man if he had to?

‘I'm not a thief,' he heard himself shout out. ‘The amulet was a gift from my mother.' He cursed himself.
I've already given too much away
.

‘And nor am I,' Sarpedon assured him. ‘I wish only to see it a little closer. I give you my word as a Spartan.'

There was something in the old man's voice that reassured Lysander. The weight of the day's ordeals fell upon him. Weariness hung on his limbs, and he knew he could not face any more struggles. He dropped the
pendant into the warrior's scarred hand.

Sarpedon lifted the amulet to his face, and gazed at it for a long while with his head bowed. Would he take it, after all? thought Lysander. Lysander's breath caught in his chest. What would his mother say? Would she believe him, or think he had lost it carelessly in the fields?

With deliberate care, Sarpedon handed the jewel back. Lysander breathed again.