The Fire of Ares (9 page)

‘Excuse me,' he said. ‘I'm not used to such rich food.'

‘Indeed,' said Strabo, wiping his own lips with a square of linen.

‘I had better go to the fields,' said Lysander, getting to his feet.

‘How would you like never to toil in the fields again, Master Lysander?' Strabo said.

Lysander laughed, but Strabo was not smiling.

‘You're not serious?' he asked.

‘I am,' replied Strabo. ‘From this day forward, you need never sow or reap another harvest.'

‘And the River Eurotas might flow backwards up the mountains!' said Lysander. With a smile, he made towards the door.

‘Wait, Master,' said Strabo. ‘Sarpedon has a proposition for you.' Lysander stopped. Strabo looked at him with his piercing pale eyes.

‘As you know, Sarpedon is without a male heir. But
now he has found you.' Strabo spoke as though it was a simple domestic arrangement. ‘Sarpedon was wondering if you would do him the honour of entering the agoge.'

Lysander's hand dropped from the door.

‘Me? Enter Spartan training?' he said in disbelief. Lysander knew all about the agoge. It was the system of education undergone by all Spartan boys in order to prepare them for manhood. It was famed for being brutal and uncompromising. Many boys did not make it, and died in the course of the training. It was the reason that Spartans had such a fearsome reputation all over Greece. If you could last the training, you could face any enemy without fear. Lysander felt his heartbeat quicken at such a prospect.

‘Yes, you,' said Strabo. ‘In his youth, Sarpedon was one of the greatest warriors in all of Sparta. He was a natural leader of men, and always the first to throw himself against the enemy. His sons were no different. And now it would be a great pleasure for him to see his grandson become such a man.'

‘Wait,' Lysander said, ‘surely I am too old. Spartans start the training when they are seven years old. I am thirteen – I've too much to learn.'

‘Well, you are right that it's not normal,' said Strabo. ‘But most of their training is physical, and you look strong enough from your work in the fields. You will soon catch up if you apply yourself.'

‘But I am only
half
Spartan.'

‘Again, it is uncommon, but it has been known for
mythokes
to enter the training.' Lysander had heard the word before – the name for children like him, born of Spartan men and Helot women. They were on the fringes of Spartan society, not truly accepted by either the master race or the Helots. Lysander looked at his mother, but her face was unreadable.

Strabo carried on:

‘I have my orders – you must make the decision now,' he said.

‘What about Agestes – the overseer?' asked Lysander.

‘He is of no importance,' Strabo said.

‘And my mother?' he asked.

‘She will be taken care of,' said Strabo. ‘Look, I have some errands to run for my master, and cannot waste any more time. Am I to understand you are refusing the offer?'

Things were moving so fast. Lysander could not help thinking that perhaps this was the great destiny his mother had always spoken of. His hand reached for the pendant at his neck. But of course, it was not there. His mother caught the movement.

‘Lysander, where is the pendant?' The colour had drained from her face. ‘Please tell me it is safe,' her voice trembled.

You fool!
Lysander silently cursed himself. But before he could explain, Strabo spoke first.

‘The pendant was stolen,' he said simply, with his eyes on Athenasia. ‘It seems your son has trouble
avoiding the more criminal elements of society.'

‘Why didn't you tell me?' said Lysander's mother. ‘You know how important the Fire of Ares is …'

Lysander started to speak.

‘I didn't want to worry you. There was nothing I could have done. I was attacked at the market. Someone knew what they were looking for …'

‘Your grandfather thinks the missing pendant might have something to do with the same boys who attacked you two nights ago,' said Strabo. ‘Your best chance of recovering your property lies in the barracks. If you can find the culprit, you can get back this Fire of Ares.'

Perhaps Strabo was right.

‘What about my mother?' he asked. ‘You said she would be taken care of. She cannot live here without me. It would not be in Prince Kiros's nature to look after a slave who isn't earning her keep …'

‘Don't worry about that,' she began. ‘I can look after myself.'

Lysander knew she was lying. There was no chance she could make a living in her current state.

‘I have orders to take her to Sarpedon's home,' said Strabo. ‘She will be given a room there and the best possible medical attention.'

Athenasia let out a gasp of surprise, and Lysander turned to her excitedly. Strabo gave a smile, but it was not reflected in his eyes.

‘It is the least Sarpedon can do,' he said, then added: ‘So, Master Lysander, can I take your answer to him?'

Lysander would be leaving the settlement and everything he knew. Even leaving Timeon. This would be a new life, with new hardships. Another, darker thought crossed his mind.
I could use this to help the Resistance. Learn the Spartan ways. Know my enemy and teach the Helots.

‘Listen to Strabo, Lysander,' said his mother. ‘This is an opportunity to escape the Helot's life, an opportunity I never thought you would have. It is rare for a half-Spartan to be accepted without a great deal of wealth. The agoge will make you into a man, and give you a life after I am gone.'There were tears in her eyes, but happiness too. Lysander turned from his mother to Strabo.

‘Please tell Sarpedon I would be honoured to accept his offer.'

‘There is one more thing,' said the servant. ‘As a trainee, you will need a Helot to wait upon you.'

The thought disgusted Lysander. ‘I won't need a slave – I have been one for long enough. No one deserves to be treated badly.'

‘It is one of the regulations, Master. You do not have to beat your slave, although some boys take pleasure in doing so. Is there no one here – a friend perhaps?'

Of course
, thought Lysander.
There is someone!

‘I'll bring Timeon,' he said to Strabo.

‘Very good,' said Strabo. ‘I will return in the morning. For now, enjoy your time with your mother.'

Strabo stood and was gone.

That evening, Lysander and his mother sat outside their hut, enjoying the last of the sun's rays. They had spoken little since Strabo left the house, and Athenasia had slept through the afternoon. Other Helots passing home from the fields gave them odd looks, but no one asked why they hadn't been in the field that day.

‘Mother,' said Lysander, ‘what is so special about the Fire of Ares?'

Athenasia kept looking at the sky, where the sun smeared the horizon. She pressed her lips tightly together.

‘I never wanted to tell you, because the knowledge would place you in even greater danger. It belongs to a life I never thought you would share. It was your father's. And Sarpedon's before him. And his father before him. All the way back to the Trojan War, six hundred years ago. Do you know the story about King Menelaos?'

Lysander shook his head.

‘Well, many hundreds of years ago, Sparta had only one king, rather than two. His name was Menelaos. His wife, Helen, was the most beautiful woman in all of Greece, but she was kidnapped by men from over the Aegean Sea, men from the city of Troy. As well as Helen, the Trojans also took all of her riches and jewels. All but this one piece. Menelaos found it on the beach from which the Trojan thieves had departed: that is how he knew they'd taken his wife. Menelaos called it
the Fire of Ares, and swore on the charm that he would get Helen back. The markings on the back are in the old language. It says,
The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous.

‘With his brother Agamemnon, Menelaos assembled a huge fleet and sailed to Troy. They were victorious, but only after ten years of fighting. In all those ten years, the Fire of Ares kept Menelaos safe, but after the conflict Helen gave the pendant to their daughter, Hermione. It has been passed down since then.'

‘Can the Fire of Ares really have survived all that time?' asked Lysander.

‘Don't underestimate the power of the jewel,' his mother replied, with deadly seriousness. ‘The same power that drove King Menelaos to batter down the walls of his enemy will belong to the wearer of the Fire of Ares. It represents the family – the ancestry – to which you owe your very existence. The red of the stone is your bloodline, and your tie to the past.'

Lysander
had
to recover that jewel, whatever it took. His mother reached over to him.

‘I am sure you will make me very proud,' she said. She squeezed him close as the sun set.

Lysander stood outside the barracks with Timeon and Strabo.

‘And we are going in
there
?' said his friend, gazing at the building in front of them. ‘They could have made it more pleasing to the eye, couldn't they?'

Lysander had to admit his friend was right. The barracks was a huge, one-storey square building built of wood. He could only see two sides, but it looked as though there was a single door in each, and a row of windows along the top, well above head height.

‘Wait here,' Strabo said, then disappeared inside.

Looking at the barracks, Lysander wondered if he had made the right decision. This one building would be his home until the age of eighteen. Nearly six years! He would eat, sleep, learn and train here with other boys of his own age.
Can I really live here?
he asked himself.

‘The other Helots didn't trust their ears. You! A Spartan warrior,' said Timeon. ‘Agestes's face was a sight
to behold.' Timeon mimicked the overseer's booming voice: ‘
I hope they use him for target practice.
'

Lysander burst out laughing, but had to straighten his face when Strabo came out of the barracks door accompanied by another man.

‘He's bigger than Herakles!' whispered Timeon. Lysander nodded. When the two men reached them, Lysander had to lift his chin to look the stranger in the face. A thick dark beard climbed his cheeks, and one of his eyes was covered with a patch. The top half of his left ear was missing, and Lysander found it hard to keep his eyes off the ragged pink scarring.

‘Lysander, this is Diokles. He's a tutor at the barracks. He will be your guide in the agoge.' Something about the way Strabo said the word
guide
made Lysander uneasy.

‘So,
half-breed
,' snarled Diokles, ‘you must think yourself a Spartan already.'

‘I …?' Lysander didn't understand.

‘Well, look at your hair, boy. It hangs around your shoulders. Only Spartan warriors and women are permitted to wear their hair long. You will have to have it cut. Is this your slave?' He waved his hand towards Lysander's friend.

‘His name is Timeon,' said Lysander.

Diokles struck Lysander in the chest with the heel of his hand. The blow was like a charging bull, and Lysander slid across the dirt. The tutor stood over him, his face red with fury.

‘You, boy, will call me
sir
, and I will call your Helot whatever I wish. His life is worth less than yours here. Do you understand?'

Lysander was dazed and shot a look to Strabo, who stood by. Diokles leant down and took hold of Lysander's jaw, turning it so that their eyes met.

‘Do. You. Understand?'

Lysander nodded.

‘Y–yes, sir!'

Diokles released him.

‘Follow me!' ordered the tutor, striding back towards the barracks door. Timeon helped Lysander get to his feet.

‘Are you all right?' he asked.

‘Yes, I think so,' replied Lysander.

Diokles was disappearing inside the barracks and Lysander and Timeon ran to catch up. Just as they reached the door, Lysander turned to say farewell to Strabo, but Sarpedon's servant was already walking away.

Inside the building it was surprisingly cool. They were in a small vestibule area, with doors leading off to the left and right.
Those must be the dormitories
, thought Lysander. Looking directly ahead, he realised that the building was not a solid square after all, but four long sides surrounding a central exercise yard.

‘This way,' instructed Diokles, and led them straight ahead and into the yard. He spread his hands. ‘Welcome to the arena.'

Boys filled the training ground. Immediately to his left two boys wrestled, their arms locked around each other. They circled, each looking for the advantage, grunting while their feet kicked up clouds of dust. One boy pushed a foot behind his opponent and, with a twist of the hips, threw the other boy to the floor, before landing on top. The dust stuck to the sweat on both boys' bodies.