The Fire of Ares (15 page)

‘Lysander, step out!' he bellowed. A murmur rippled through the crowd and Lysander walked to the front, ignoring the mutterings of those around him.

‘Lysander, you are excused to go with this slave,' he said.

As Lysander walked along the line, Demaratos hissed:

‘But come back soon, Helot.'

The journey with Strabo took place in silence and Lysander was grateful to climb off the uncomfortable donkey. He rushed into the courtyard, just as the first drops of rain began to spatter on the mosaic floor.

Sarpedon was knelt at one side by a smoking tripod. His head was dipped and his lips moved in silent
prayer. Lysander waited patiently under the sheltered portico, wondering which of the Gods of Olympus his grandfather was speaking to. The rain fell more heavily, hammering the roof. It lifted the scent of flowers to Lysander's nose.

When Sarpedon had finished, he turned to Lysander and smiled.

‘Greetings, my grandson,' he said, striding over and stepping between the columns. He offered his arm in formal greeting, and Lysander took it.

‘Greetings,' replied Lysander. ‘Is my mother well?'

‘She is a little better,' said Sarpedon. ‘I have sent a maid to tend to her until she feels strong enough to make the journey. If all goes well, she should be here by nightfall.'

‘Thank you,' said Lysander. He dared to hope that she would all right.

‘Tell me, boy, it is your third day in the barracks. How is your training progressing?'

Lysander was embarrassed.
Can I tell him how much I hate it?
He could not even meet the Ephor's gaze.

‘What is wrong, Lysander? I know Spartans do not like to waste their words, but I asked you a simple question. How goes life in the agoge?'

‘Badly,' replied Lysander, tracing the mosaic floor with his eyes. ‘The tutor is a bully. He seems to enjoy beating me at every opportunity, and putting me in humiliating situations. He hates the fact I'm a Helot, and treats me like I should not be there. The other boys
follow his lead. I cannot sleep at night because of the whispering.' Lysander wanted to tell his grandfather everything. Perhaps he could help? ‘And it is all because I haven't got the Fire of Ares. I do not have the strength to continue. Every day is harder than the one before …' He looked up, expecting to see sympathy in the old man's face. Instead, anger furrowed the older man's brow.

‘Well, what did you expect?' said Sarpedon coldly. ‘This is not a soft school of Athens. This is Sparta.' Sarpedon stood to his full height and turned away, walking into the courtyard. Rain quickly darkened his cloak, and plastered his hair across his forehead, but Sarpedon didn't seem to notice. Lysander was reminded of the stranger he had met that first time in the dark alleyway by the slaughterhouse. The Ephor breathed slowly and faced Lysander again. Rivulets coursed down his face. The anger had drained from his features and he looked pained.

‘Have you understood nothing? Boys have been through the same thing as you for generations. I endured it myself. Once I was beaten so hard by my tutor that I could not walk for a week. What you single out as unfair punishment, we call education. Any Helot would bless the Gods for what you have: a chance to escape slavery. A chance to be somebody the future will remember.'

Lysander felt shame flood him, prickling up under his skin. He dropped to one knee. ‘I apologise,' he said.
‘I will not disappoint you again.'

‘This is not about displeasing me,' said Sarpedon, his voice inflamed with passion. He came back towards Lysander, and pulled him up roughly. Lysander was locked in his grandfather's stare. ‘This is about you, and your father. You have a chance to make Thorakis proud, and to continue his family name. The Fire of Ares comes second to that; it is the heart that beats beneath it that will get you through. Spartan blood flows through it – a warrior's blood. The amulet is a symbol, a stone, little more.'

The Ephor's deep voice resounded in Lysander's ears, and each word seemed to build on the previous one to make him feel strong.
Perhaps I can get through the agoge. After all, I am still alive now. I just have to take one day at a time.

‘I have another proposition,' Sarpedon said. ‘I'd like you to come here for some additional training before the Festival. Each morning, be here as the sun rises. Can you do that for me?'

‘Will Diokles allow it?' asked Lysander.

‘It is doubtful,' Sarpedon replied. ‘I could force him, but it would be unwise to draw further attention to your case. No, you must come in secret. Stealth is also part of a Spartan's training. Slip out and make sure that no one sees you. Understood?'

‘I will do my best,' said Lysander. ‘Thank you.' His grandfather's grip softened and he pulled Lysander towards him in a hug.

‘You have great strength in your heart,' said Sarpedon, ‘and the blood of Thorakis flows in your veins.'

The words fired Lysander with new hope. He wanted to be the best, to make Sarpedon proud. He was ready to find the Fire of Ares, and to prove himself a warrior. Their dawn lessons would be the first step towards that. They would tread the path together.

Lysander awoke from unsettled sleep early, his stomach fluttering with nerves. He sat up and let his eyes get used to the darkness. The other boys all lay still, and their steady breathing was the only sound. It was now or never. He stood up slowly, tying on his sandals in silence. Taking care to watch where his feet fell, Lysander tiptoed towards the exit. He was just three feet away when Prokles, his grubby feet protruding from the end of his cloak, grunted and turned over. Lysander froze. But Prokles' eyes didn't open, and his mouth was slack in sleep. Lysander slipped through the door.

Outside, the air was chill and moist, and Lysander was glad of his ragged cloak. He was now fully awake. Rain had fallen during the night, and he splashed though puddles. Through the thick cloud, the full moon was nothing but a smudge of pallid light. As Lysander descended into the centre of Amikles, haunting wisps of mist drifted at ground level. He tore
through them, imagining he held a sword that slashed his enemies aside. Despite the cold and wet, Lysander felt more alive than ever as he made his way along the deserted streets. It felt like the dawn of a new era. In the solitude, there was no one to threaten him as a Helot, or cast doubt on him as a Spartan warrior. He felt free to be anything he wanted. He reached Sarpedon's doorway without meeting a soul – Spartan, free-dweller or Helot.

In the courtyard, a fine layer of condensation made the marble glisten and the floor was slippery. Sarpedon emerged to meet him, wrapped in a thick, woollen cloak.

‘Good morning, Lysander. I trust your journey was without incident?'

‘Yes, thank you,' he replied.

‘Part of the Festival Games will involve throwing a javelin. Have you much experience with a spear?'

‘Only one lesson,' he admitted, remembering the previous day's embarrassment. Sarpedon looked disappointed.

‘Well,' said the Ephor, ‘spears are for thrusting into the enemy line. Throwing should be a last resort, as you are then giving your weapon to the other side. So before you can learn to throw, you need a strong arm and good balance.'

Sarpedon walked over between two columns and took hold of a spear that was leaning against the wall. It was much longer than the javelins they had thrown at
the barracks. The shaft was at least two heads taller than Sarpedon himself, but not much thicker than the javelin. It was perfectly straight and looked slender but deadly. The old man handled it with ease. Lysander had never seen such a weapon close up. At one end was a narrow, tapered bronze head, and the other end was a wider, heavy spike.

‘The shaft is made of ash wood, which is rare in this part of the world. Though it feels light, it will bend a good deal before snapping, and flies through the air smoothly.' Sarpedon hoisted the spear aloft in a smooth movement, his fingers shifting their grip to balance the weight. He stabbed it forward in an underarm thrust, and closed one eye, gazing along the perfectly straight shaft. The tip did not wobble in the old man's grip. ‘The spearhead is used for thrusting into your enemy. You see the ridges from the point?' Lysander nodded. ‘They are to let the blood escape. The heavier end – we call it a “lizard sticker” – is for finishing him off as he lies on the ground. When you get to the battlefield for the first time, you will learn that a man does not often die quickly, and sometimes you have to help him on his way. The lizard sticker also helps balance the spear for throwing.

‘When fighting in the phalanx alongside fellow Spartans, you can either thrust the spear over-arm, aiming for your enemy's head, neck or chest, or underarm, going for the groin and stomach.' Sarpedon demonstrated both actions with a firm lunge. Lysander
winced to think of facing the Ephor, even now, in battle. ‘It depends on how the other soldiers are holding their shields. I took this spear from a Tegean in the years just after Thorakis was born. He managed to stab me right through the thigh, shattering the bone.' Sarpedon pulled back a fold of his tunic. There, on the outside of his leg, and indented into the flesh above his knee, was a pale, puckered scar.

‘How did you survive?' Lysander asked.

‘I pulled it out and put it through his chest,' replied the Ephor.

Lysander looked at his grandfather's face. It was easy to imagine him thirty years before in his prime, raging on the battlefield. What must it be like to face such a man in the fury of the fight? Lysander looked at the spear in a new light.
This weapon has actually taken someone's life; perhaps it has even been used to kill a Spartan!
He pictured Sarpedon tugging it out of his own torn flesh, and then using all his weight to drive it through a gap between shield and body. The point breaking through the resistance of armour and skin, perhaps the crack of ribs, blood coursing down the shaft.

‘You try,' said Sarpedon, and tossed it to Lysander, who lurched forward and caught it. The spear was not heavy and fitted comfortably into his hand. Lysander felt powerful. The spear was lethal, but it was beautiful too.

‘Right,' said Sarpedon, ‘hold the spear high above
your head, keeping it horizontal.' Lysander lifted the shaft to above shoulder height, and found his hand naturally sat two thirds of the way along from the head. He wondered how far he'd be able to throw the weapon. ‘Now, stand on just your left leg, and put your right out behind you.' As Lysander did what he was told, he found his right arm, holding the spear, rotated forward to retain his balance. Now the shaft was vertical and its weight, no longer balanced, pulled his arm downwards towards the ground.

‘Very good,' said Sarpedon, nodding his head. He walked away to the door at the far end of the courtyard. When he reached it, he turned and said, ‘Hold that position until I come back. Do not let either your right foot or the spear touch the ground.'

Then he was gone.

The sun had come up and Lysander saw that the roof-tiles above were catching the first of the day's rays. Though the sheltered courtyard was still in the shade, Lysander's forehead streamed with sweat and he could see the condensation misting off his body.

He was not sure how long Sarpedon had been gone, but it seemed like an age. His standing leg was trembling uncontrollably and he struggled to control his breathing. Panic was fighting its way in – what if he slipped and fell on the slick marble floor? He would have failed. He kept his eyes focused on the tip of the spear, which hovered just a few finger widths off the
floor. His shoulder burned, and he longed for nothing more than to let his burden rest on the ground. He wondered if the old man was watching somewhere from the shadows. ‘I can do this,' Lysander said through gritted teeth. He heard footsteps behind him.
Thank the Gods
, he thought.

But it was not the Ephor. From his right emerged the young girl – Sarpedon's grand-daughter – Kassandra. She was wearing a pale violet tunic, and her blue eyes rested intently on him. She walked around him in a slow circuit, her steps light on the stone floor. Lysander strained to look over his shoulder and saw her smile. There was no pity in her gaze, only amusement. Finally, she spoke.

‘You seem to be struggling, slave-boy. Perhaps you shouldn't be playing with a Spartan's weapons.'

Lysander said nothing. He had no energy for arguments. He focused again on the spear tip. Kassandra leant in closer and pushed down gently with a fingertip on Lysander's extended right arm. Pain screamed through his muscle at even this lightest of touches.

‘Does that hurt?' she asked. Lysander screwed his eyes and managed to keep the arm steady.

There was a clapping from the far end of the garden.

‘That is enough, Kassandra,' said Sarpedon, walking back out. ‘You can rest now, Lysander.' As the girl backed away, Lysander let the spear clatter to the ground and he fell to his knees. For a few moments, he sat on the floor, rubbing his sore shoulder. When he
looked up, Kassandra was gone.

‘Well done, Lysander! You didn't give up. That is the Spartan way.' Sarpedon offered a hand, which Lysander gratefully took. He was hoisted to his feet. ‘As a reward,' Sarpedon went on, ‘perhaps you would like to visit Athenasia?'

The name shot through his brain, erasing the pain in his limbs in an instant.
My mother!

‘Is she here?' he asked. ‘Now?'

‘Yes, come this way,' said the Ephor. For the first time that day, Sarpedon seemed more like his grandfather than a Spartan noble.

It was still dark in the bedchamber where Athenasia lay, and Sarpedon lit a candle before leaving the room. Lysander carried the cup of hot, honeyed milk to his mother's bedside. At first she seemed confused to be woken, but familiarity soon smoothed the lines of her face.