The Fire of Ares (5 page)

There was a scuffle to his right, and from between two huts Timeon peered out. His straw-coloured hair was messy from sleep. His friend tiptoed over, and winced as his eyes fell on Lysander's face.

‘What happened?' he whispered.

‘I met some Spartans on my way home.'

‘Are you sure you are well enough to train?' asked Timeon.

‘Herakles did not cease after eleven labours,' answered Lysander. ‘Come on.'

Even though his muscles ached for more time to recover, Lysander jogged away from the settlement with Timeon. His legs were warmed up by the time the millhouse came into view.

‘Race you the rest of the way?' said Timeon.

‘If you're ready to lose,' replied Lysander. ‘Ready … go!'

Lysander sprinted off. He imagined he was in the foot race at the great Games at Olympia, held every four years for competitors from all over Greece. Every time he thought about slowing down, a make-believe crowd of spectators would spur him on. The other Helots often spoke of a famous Messenian athlete in the age of freedom, a man called Polykares. He was the quickest the Olympic stadium had ever seen, they said, quicker than any Spartan. Lysander reached the millhouse half a stride ahead of Timeon, who gave him a clap on the back.

‘One day I'll beat you.' He grinned.

They let themselves into the deserted millhouse. The rest of the Helots wouldn't be up until the dawn spread its rosy fingers over the mountains. Lysander came to this place three times a week to harden and strengthen his body. One day the Resistance would need him. He might even be the leader.
I may be a Helot
, he repeated to himself,
but I will be as tough as any Spartan.

With Timeon's help, he cleared a space from the millhouse floor. First he took one of the used granite millstones. It was bigger than his head, but he could just lift it. Lying on his back, Lysander held the rough stone in both hands and pushed it up from his chest, as Timeon counted for him.
One!
He lowered and lifted again:
Two!
He soon got into his rhythm:
Three
…
Four
…
Five
… After three sets of ten, the muscles in his arms were shaking badly and Lysander struggled to hold the weight even a small distance off his chest.

Though his body was unwilling, Lysander knew how to keep going. He thought of his mother lying ill in her bed in a draughty hut, he thought of Cato, killed by the Krypteia for fun, as easily as they'd slaughter a chicken for the pot. As long as his rage burned, he would be able to keep pushing himself.

Lysander detached the leather pulley from the crank axle that drove the millstones up and down. He wrapped the strap around his hand and pulled, taking the weight of the stone.
One
…
Two
…
Three
…

‘Come on, Lysander!' shouted Timeon.

Agestes' face rose in his mind, spittle at the edges of his lips, as Timeon counted:
Four
…
Five
… He thought of the stocky Spartan he had punched to the floor, and imagined hitting him again and again:
Six
…
Seven
…
Eight
…
Nine
…
Ten!
Lysander reattached the pulley and sat back, the sweat dripping from his forehead on to the wooden floor and mingling with the fine film of grain dust. His mother's words came to
his mind: ‘Have faith, great things await you – it is your destiny.'

After saying goodbye, Timeon dashed off home for his breakfast. Gazing down into the surface of the millpond where he came to wash, Lysander saw his face for the first time since his beatings the previous day. One of his eyes was a nasty shade of green, and a red and black scab crusted his cheekbone on the opposite side. Beneath that, his top lip was split, though any swelling seemed to have disappeared.
Not pretty
,
but still more handsome than Agestes!
The grin that accompanied this thought hurt his mouth. Lysander plunged his hands into the cool water, shattering the reflection. He tossed the water on to his sore face and neck, cleaning off the grime of the fields and the millhouse. A sharp snap made him look up. The treetops swayed gently in the breeze.

‘Hello?' he called out. ‘Is anyone there?' There was no answer, just the ripple of the river as it entered the pond, and the odd patter of a cricket. He tied back his long hair, stood up and hurried back up the hill towards the field for another day of harvesting.

Timeon was waiting for him, holding the sickle, and chatting to another boy of their age. Lysander waved and started to make his way over. His training had lifted his spirits and he was full of renewed hope.

‘Hey, you!' shouted the overseer. Lysander kept walking towards his friend.

‘Hey, whipping-boy, I'm talking to you!'

Lysander turned and saw Agestes's ugly face bearing down on him. His body stiffened and his fists clenched.

‘Are you deaf?' yelled Agestes. ‘Has yesterday's performance not taught you some manners?'

‘What do you want?' asked Lysander, lifting his chin to look Agestes in the eye. The overseer squinted back, and seemed to consider his options.

‘Not looking good today, Helot!' he said, eyeing Lysander's face. ‘We're down to our last few grain sacks. I need someone to go to the market at Limnae and buy some new ones.' He looked Lysander up and down. ‘Get moving. We need forty at least.'

Lysander immediately thought of the grain he needed to buy food for himself and his mother. Every moment away from the fields would mean less payment.

‘But if I have to go to market, I won't have time to earn –' Lysander began to protest.

‘Well, then, the quicker you get there and back, the better,' Agestes said, sneering. ‘Unless you wish to feel some more of this?' He fingered the whip that hung at his side.

Lysander turned towards the village.

Limnae had grown up around the businesses and markets run by the free-dwellers. As Lysander made his way through the district where the free-dwellers lived, he saw a few men and women going about their
business – hanging washing, airing their bedclothes. They watched him with mild curiosity, inspecting the bruises and cuts. A slave boy jogged past, no doubt sent to fetch something, or deliver a message. The houses here were larger and sturdier than the tiny shack he occupied with his mother, and the gardens contained vegetables and the occasional fruit tree. In the small fields that surrounded the houses, goats and hens nosed and pecked for scraps of food. It was not the same lifestyle the Spartans enjoyed – Lysander could see their homes in the distance, nestled in the mountain foothills – but it was certainly a step up from the breadline existence of the Helots.

Hairs pricked on the back of Lysander's neck and he spun round. Was someone watching out of more than curiosity?
I must be getting paranoid
, he thought, shaking his head. But he knew now that those Spartan boys patrolled these streets. He dreaded bumping into them again. He couldn't always rely on one charitable Spartan appearing to rescue him. He continued quickly on his way, overtaking a cattle merchant driving his herd to the market. The great beasts must have come from the river, because their coats were slicked wet and the animals steamed in the rising heat of the sun. They moved aside lazily enough as Lysander pushed past. His mind was occupied with calculations: how much quicker would he have to work to make his wages today? Working in the fields was hard enough, without being an errand boy as well.

Then he
did
see someone. A figure – a man perhaps – darting between the cattle, crouching low. This was not his imagination. Lysander quickly ducked into a side street, and crouched by a wall. Opposite a dog cocked its head with curiosity, and watched with its tongue lolling from the side of its mouth.

‘Just you stay quiet,' said Lysander under his breath.
Was it Demaratos and his thugs?

He watched as the slow procession of bulls disappeared over the brow of the street, and all the street was calm again. Lysander strained his ears. There was definitely something there – soft footfalls. Then they stopped. Was that breathing? If it was one against one, he still had a chance. But what if the attacker was armed?

Lysander bunched his fingers into fists, took a deep breath, and readied himself to fight.

He jumped out into the street.

‘Get away!' he shouted, hands raised.

But no one was there; the street was empty.

The dog scratched at its neck with a foreleg and scampered off.

Despite the early hour, the market at Limnae was already busy. Sellers shouted their business to anyone who could hear: ‘Line up for your figs. Juicy figs!'; ‘Sheep bones, pig bones, beef bones. Perfect for broths.' Lysander's mouth was moist at the thought of thick, flour-fattened stew. He threaded a path among the people, past a plump young man selling charms to ward off evil or coerce the Gods: ‘Bless yourselves, curse your enemies!'

The market spread out from a central square, and the stalls became more closely packed the nearer Lysander got to the square. The place was overwhelming. To his left a hosier was selling materials ranging from simple white cloth to fine linens. The rich smells of dried fish filled Lysander's nostrils as he walked past a stall where fillets lay in salt and long eels dangled from a beam, dried almost black in the sun.

There were other Helots in the market, helping the free-dwellers run their stalls or carrying out duties for
their Spartan masters. The crowds became denser as Lysander reached the centre of the market, and he lost his sense of direction.

‘Excuse me?' he asked a young woman. ‘Do you know where I can buy some hemp sacks?'

‘That way,' she nodded. ‘Go past the dressmaker's and you will see it.'

Lysander set off towards the opposite street. Two beggars blocked his path. One was missing his right leg, and the other was blind.

‘Can you spare some food?' one pleaded, his pale sightless eyes swivelling in their sockets.

‘By the Gods, by the Gods, sir, alms for the poor!' said the other.

‘I'm sorry,' replied Lysander, ‘I have nothing.' The men must have been soldiers in the long wars against the Arcadians. Though the Spartans prided themselves on the greatest army in all of Greece, free-dwellers like these rarely received credit for their part in the battles.

The street was so narrow that Lysander had to muscle past people. He was finding it difficult to breathe. He started to feel trapped and panicked.

‘I am looking for a stall that sells sacks,' he asked a small woman wearing an apron. ‘Can you help me?'

But she pushed him aside: ‘Get out of my way, slave.'

It was hot in the street, and the air seemed thick. Lysander turned to make his way back to the open space of the central square, but he was being jostled towards a space between two stalls.

‘I need to get that way,' he said loudly, but a deep, accented voice whispered into his ear.

‘Do what I say and you may live today,' hissed the man.

Lysander tried to turn, but a hand rough with calluses gripped his neck and pushed him hard against a wall.

‘No, no, slave – you weren't listening.'

Lysander saw the knife – a simple, rough blade used by the Helots. Before he could react the cool flint was pressed against his throat. It hovered over his pulse.

‘Look,' he said, ‘I'll do anything you want.' He thought of the iron bar Agestes had given him. ‘I … I have money.'

‘I don't want your money!' said the voice. The hand on his neck loosened and for a moment he thought he was being released. But in a flurry, Lysander felt a hard shove in his back and his head crashed into the wall. Everything went black.

Lysander took some time to get to his feet. He touched his head, and when he drew his fingers away they were smeared in sticky blood that oozed from under his hairline. He brushed himself down, feeling the pouch where Agestes's iron bar remained safely contained.
Thank Zeus for that!
His hands clutched his chest beneath his neck. The Fire of Ares was gone!

Lysander's mind filled with panic. His legs were numb as he rushed through the crowd. He ignored the
shoppers who called out complaints after him. From the centre of the square, where a spice-seller sat surrounded by sacks of bright powders and chillies hanging from a frame, Lysander turned full circle, scanning the crowd, letting his eyes dart from face to face. Despite the protests of the storeholder, Lysander stood on one of the unopened sacks and looked again. How tall was the man who had stolen the pendant? What colour was his hair? Lysander realised he had no idea. Sweat poured off his face. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach as he climbed down.

The Fire of Ares – his most precious possession – was gone without a trace.

Lysander made his way back through the crowds of buyers.
What can I tell my mother?
he thought.
I have broken my oath.
He was walking, with his head lowered, when he stumbled straight into someone. He just had time to see the shocked face of a boy roughly his own age before they both fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs. A shopper shuffled out of the way, grunting displeasure. Lysander scrambled to his feet, and looked down. The boy had tight curly hair, which was almost black.

‘You should watch where you are going!' he said, rubbing his elbow. Lysander registered the red cloak the boy was wearing, and his heart missed a beat: a Spartan. This could mean serious trouble. Even looking at a Spartan the wrong way could get a Helot severely punished.

‘I … I'm sorry,' stammered Lysander. ‘I didn't see you.' He offered an arm.

‘I do not need a Helot's help,' said the boy, and began to climb to his feet. Only then did Lysander notice the Spartan's leg where his cloak had fallen open. The right was normal, but the left … it was obviously thinner and a little shorter too. A patch of wrinkled, paler skin spread along the top of his knee, and the whole leg was twisted so that the foot pointed slightly inwards. Lysander let his gaze rest a moment too long and caught a flicker of shame across the Spartan's face. He pulled back the edge of red cloak quickly.