The Fire of Ares
Authors: Michael Ford
SPARTAN QUEST
MICHAEL FORD
For Rebecca
With thanks to Emile Farley
Thorakis tugged back on the leather reins, and his stallion skidded to a halt on the dusty track.
âGood work, Hermes,' he said, patting the horse's jet-black flank.
Thorakis looked across at Demokrates. His younger brother sat alert in his saddle. The breeze from the Aegean Sea behind them ruffled the red plume of his bronze helmet. Above, slender wisps of cloud floated across the blue sky.
As Thorakis gazed up a solitary hawk glided past, hanging in the air.
âThe priests would call that a good omen,' said his brother.
âWe don't need omens,' replied Thorakis. âI already know my destiny lies here â¦' He patted the sheathed sword at his side.
The light wind stilled, and Hermes pricked his ears. Thorakis heard it too â the noise of distant battle creeping over the brow of the hill: the clash of iron on
bronze, the war cries. And there was no mistaking the smell â the odours of blood, of sweat, and of men's fear.
The scent meant something else as well: glory. The glory both Spartans lived for. They had fought this enemy â the Tegeans â before. They were fierce opponents.
With a nod to his brother, Thorakis pushed his shield high on to his shoulder, and gripped the reins tightly.
âFor the Dioscuri!' he cried, calling on the twin gods most sacred to Spartans.
âFor Kastor and Polydeukes!' shouted back Demokrates.
Both men kicked their heels into the stallions' sides, and galloped over the hilltop, scattering rocks and loose soil.
They plunged into the fight. The massed ranks of Spartan soldiers â the phalanx â were still in order, but reduced, and the Tegeans threatened to break through at any moment. Across the ground lay a tangle of wounded, dying and dead bodies, and the torn, muddied scarlet cloaks of fallen Spartan infantry.
The sky darkened. Thorakis heard his brother shout out â
Archers!
He raised his shield above his head. With a sound like deafening hail, arrows buried themselves in the bronze. Thorakis's elbow buckled under the deadly shafts, and he bent his knees to take the strain. Beside him, Demokrates was already bearing down on one of the enemy, a Tegean soldier from the north. With an overarm thrust of his spear, the man fell with a cry and
was trampled beneath the hooves of Demokrates' horse.
Then the Spartan phalanx broke. Enemy soldiers poured through the gap in the line.
âDemokrates!' yelled Thorakis. âFill the breach!'
If they could not drive back the enemy, the battle was lost. Instinctively, Thorakis reached inside his cloak, his fingers brushing the amulet that hung there â the Fire of Ares, God of War. It had been in his family for generations, since the age of heroes. The red stone that shone in the centre of the amulet was the only talisman he relied upon.
Thorakis picked out the largest of the enemy soldiers, a giant of a man who swung two axes above his head. Releasing the pendant, Thorakis felt adrenalin flood his veins. He lowered his short sword and pointed it towards the Tegean. Their eyes met, and Thorakis prepared to charge.
But suddenly a curious sensation, cool at first, then molten, spread through his belly. His strength leaked away. Looking down, his vision blurred through a veil of pain. Thorakis saw that the tip of a sword had pushed through his tunic at his stomach. âStabbed from behind,' he muttered, his voice cracking. He had seen enough of death to know that the wound was mortal â he would not make it from the battle plain alive. Never again would he see his homeland or his love, nor would he see his unborn son. But worse, he might be thought a coward.
Thorakis slipped from the saddle like a loose sack of grain, and hit the ground with a heavy thud. Waves of pain coursed along the length of the blade in his belly.
Helpless, he watched as the hulking enemy soldier approached and knelt down, pulling a dagger from his belt.
Let this be quick
, prayed Thorakis. The cold blade rested against his neck. But the killing thrust never came. With a twist of his wrist, the Tegean jerked Thorakis's leather thong away from his neck. He climbed to his feet, clutching the Fire of Ares in a dirty, bloodstained fist. It must have become visible in the fall! As he watched the soldier lift the amulet to his face, Thorakis's vision faded even more. Colour drained away. All colour but the one red stone.
Over the din of the raging battle, he heard a new sound. His ancestors, brave warriors before him, were calling him towards the Underworld. He felt one foot in this life, and one in the next.
Not yet
, he thought,
I must rescue the Fire of Ares!
But he could not pull himself up.
A sudden flash of scarlet.
Demokrates appeared and lunged forward, plunging his eight-foot spear into the Tegean's neck. The warrior's face registered shock, before his eyes rolled white and he collapsed to the floor. He was dead before his face hit the dusty plain.
Demokrates pulled the Fire of Ares from the corpse's fingers, and fell to his knees at Thorakis's side. Tears welled in Demokrates' eyes as he carefully eased off his
brother's helmet.
âDo not weep for me,' croaked Thorakis. âTell others that I died facing the enemy. I will enter Sparta with honour, on my shield. When my soul embraces my father's over the River Styx, I will be in good company.' He coughed as the blood welled up in the back of his throat. âKeep safe the Fire of Ares, Demokrates, and give it to my son when he is born. Do this for me.'
Through the growing shadow of unconsciousness, Thorakis felt Demokrates heave him on to his saddle and gallop from the battlefield.
His death came softly like the waves of the Aegean at sunset.
âThat's fifty. Stop now!' Lysander heard from behind. He let his sickle drop on to the sheared stalks. Stretching to his full height, the muscles of his back lengthened, and he turned to face his friend Timeon, who was tying a bundle of barley. The sun still blazed high in the sky. The day was sweltering, and the Taygetos Mountains shimmered in the distance. No breeze swept the plain and he could hear the trickle of the River Eurotas nearby.
Fifty already!
A full day's toil even for a grown man. Lysander tipped back his head to swallow a mouthful of water from his flask, before offering it to his friend. His long locks, heavy with sweat, begin to cool against his neck.
âYou must slow down,' urged Timeon, walking up to take a drink.
âYou know I can't,' replied Lysander, ânot today.' He paused, looking across the fields all around them. They were dotted with other slaves harvesting the crops of
the Spartan Prince Kiros. He made a rough calculation in his head. âAnother fifty before sunset will be enough.'
Timeon spluttered on his drink.
âListen, Lysander, how can you help your mother if you have sunstroke?'
Lysander had known Timeon since before they could walk. After twelve years of friendship, he was the closest thing to a brother Lysander had.
âFifty bushels will only buy us food,' said Lysander, âand she needs more medicine if she is to recover.' He could see that his friend wanted to argue, but was holding back. Two of Timeon's cousins had already been taken by the wasting disease.
âFifty more,' he said again to himself, tying the flask back to his side.
Fifteen bushels later and Lysander's body was begging for rest, but he resisted.
Don't stop
, he ordered himself. The handle of the heavy sickle was smeared with blood from the open blisters that stung his palms. He ignored the pain. It wasn't the Spartan way to whimper, to complain, or to give in. Spartans endured. Lysander imagined himself as a Spartan foot soldier in the heat of battle, pressing forward against the enemy, one step at a time; the sickle, his spear, cutting down his foe.
But Lysander wasn't a Spartan. He wouldn't even be allowed to speak to a Spartan without being spoken to first. He was a Helot, a native with no rights, no future,
lower than a Spartan's dog. Each year the five Spartan Ephors â the Guardians â declared a ritual war on the Helots who lived in their midst, each year they pledged to prolong the slavery.
Lysander watched the tendons of his arms tighten and relax as he swung the sickle through the dry barley. Anger gathered in the well of his chest, and burned red like the stone that lay against his breastbone â the Fire of Ares. He had worn the pendant for as long as he could remember. He feared that if a Spartan ever saw the brilliant red jewel, he would be sure to lose it â by law, Helots had no property of their own. The Spartans could take anything they chose to. Lysander's mother, Athenasia, had always been secretive about the amulet:
Do not ask where it comes from. Just keep it close and keep it secret
. Not even Timeon knew it hung there.
Two black crows flapped up out of the barley ahead. Among the tall stalks something pale caught Lysander's eye. He stopped swinging the sickle.
âWhat is it?' panted Timeon, some distance behind him.
âI don't know,' replied Lysander, walking over to investigate.
As he drew closer, his steps slowed and his heart sped up. The pale object was a hand, and he recognised the body that went with it.
âIt's Cato,' he called to Timeon. Lying on his back facing the sky, Cato might have been asleep if it weren't for the ragged red gash across his throat. The birds had
obviously been at his eyes. Timeon came up alongside him and looked down. He lunged away and was violently sick. A few rows over, someone must have heard his retching. A lighthearted shout came across: âWhat have you found there, friends?'
It wasn't long before a crowd of harvesters had gathered around the corpse. Nestor, an older man who lived near Lysander and his mother, was first to speak.
âIt must be the Krypteia,' he said grimly.
Krypteia
â the word made Lysander's throat feel tight. The Spartan death squads were part of life as a Helot, though thank Zeus he had never met them. They roamed the territories at night, looking for easy prey and practice in killing. Although neither he nor Timeon had been close to Cato, Lysander knew that he had been lively and hard-working, even if he had one too many harsh words about their Spartan masters. He had obviously been overheard and paid the price.
âWhat shall we do with him?' asked Lysander.
âNothing, until the overseer returns,' replied Nestor. âWe'll take him to the road for now.'
At Nestor's command, two young Helots picked up Cato's body by the shoulders and knees, and carried him away. One by one, the crowd returned to their work. Nestor was the last to go but, as he left, he turned back to Lysander.
âHow does your mother fare?' he asked.
âShe's no worse,' he replied.
Nestor gave a small, slow nod.
âWell, thanks to the Gods for that,' he muttered, before walking away.
Lysander focused on the harvesting, though he could not shake off the image of the dead man, with the awful second smile under his chin.
