The Fire of Ares (17 page)

After eating as much as possible for breakfast, Lysander stood from the bench, stuffed some bread under his cloak to give to Timeon later, and dashed out to join the other boys in the training yard. He slammed right into someone, and cold water splashed on to his feet. He felt a twinge of anger, but then saw who he had crashed into: Boas. The big slave stood trembling, holding a bucket in each hand. He must have come from the well.

‘I am sorry, Master Lysander,' he mumbled, falling to his knee. ‘I did not see you there. Please do not tell Demaratos, I beg you.' Lysander realised he had never heard Boas speak before. Just another anonymous Helot slave.

‘Don't be silly,' he said, waving a hand at his feet. ‘It's only water.'

Boas looked confused, and stood up again.

‘Thank you,' he said, nodding quickly before making off towards the dormitory. Lysander remembered briefly what Orpheus had said about accidents of birth.
In my old life,
he thought
we might have been friends
.

In the yard, Diokles stood in front of all the other boys. They huddled close together, looking at the ground. Diokles' face was purple with anger.

‘I have been informed that one of you has been outside the barracks in curfew hours.'

Lysander felt a chill creep up his spine.

Did someone see me?
he panicked.
They could not have. I was so careful.

‘You all know the rules,' continued Diokles. ‘And you all know the punishment if you break them.'

Lysander swallowed, but his throat was dry. He was afraid, but he also felt disappointed in himself – he had let Sarpedon down.

‘That person was Drako,' said the tutor.

Lysander breathed out slowly, willing his heartbeat to slow down.

‘He was caught stealing food once again, this time from a bakery. Drako, step out!' ordered Diokles.

Silently, Drako presented himself in front of the tutor. They were almost the same height; the Spartan boy walked with a defeated stoop, looking warily at Diokles.

‘Take your position by the flogging post,' said Diokles, pointing.

Without a word, Drako shuffled over to the wooden post where he had been hanging that first day Lysander had come to the barracks. He put his arms around it. He obviously knew what was expected of him. Diokles walked behind him and unravelled the short whip from his belt.

‘The normal punishment for breaking the curfew is twenty lashes, but Drako has shown repeated disregard for those rules. So today he will receive … one hundred strokes.'

The boys in the crowd gasped and there was a shuffling of feet. Drako broke his silence.

‘Sir, you cannot … not a hundred,' he choked. ‘No
one can take a hundred.'

‘You will take what I give you, boy,' thundered Diokles. He gathered himself, rolling his shoulders and giving a few practice swings of the whip against a doorframe. Drako heard the crack and rested his head against the post. His face was pale. His voice was little more than a quaver when he next spoke.

‘Sir, please tell me one thing,' he said. ‘Who told you I was outside?'

‘That is none of your business,' replied Diokles. ‘Now turn around.'

The first blow fell between Drako's shoulders, but he did not make a sound. Lysander pitied him. He could imagine the searing pain, making his legs weak at the knees. Diokles continued, landing stroke after stroke. Drako took the first thirty well, with nothing more than the occasional grunt. Then the blood started to appear through his tunic. First a spot or two, beading from the lacerations on his back, but after fifty, his clothing was sodden with blood. With each blow, he let out a moan, too weak to shout in pain. Still Diokles did not relent. The tutor was now making more noise himself, grunting with the effort, his face red and sweating. His blows were wilder, some hitting Drako's neck, others the backs of his legs. By seventy, the clothing on Drako's back had started to shred away, and Lysander could not watch any more. There was no hiding from the terrible sound of the whip, though. Lysander counted the last thirty blows, watching the
bowed faces of the other boys. Some still watched, but he could see their faces twitching in horror with every blow. His own behaviour flashed across his mind, sneaking out of school each morning. How many lashes would that be worth?
How many could I take?
He felt sympathy tug at his stomach, but there was a stronger feeling: relief. At least that was not his shredded back.

When the hundredth lash was counted, only then did Lysander look up.

Drako was no longer standing. He was on his knees, breathing shallowly, but most of his body weight was supported on his shoulder, which leant against the bloody pillar. There was no skin on his back at all, just pink flesh and half-clotted blood. His clothes were nothing but tatters gathered loosely around his body, and the ground beneath him was stained dark.

Diokles threw down the whip and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. His whole body was shaking.

‘Clean him up,' he said. Then he strolled out of the training yard.

Lysander had checked every bed in the dormitory for the pendant, but with no success. He had almost given up hope. Nevertheless, time passed quickly. At the barracks, Demaratos and his cronies continued to torment Lysander, but he concentrated on training for the Festival Games. Even without the Fire of Ares, he was determined to succeed. There had been no sign of Drako since the day of the flogging. Some said that he was being cared for by his mother and sisters outside the barracks, a shameful way to live. Lysander could not believe a boy had nearly been killed just for letting his hunger get the better of him. A few boys grumbled that the food rations were not enough to keep them strong, but Lysander found the broth, loaded with shreds of meat and chunks of vegetables, much better than he was used to. He always spared some for Timeon, too.

In some ways, his days as a Spartan were not so different from his life as a Helot. Instead of working in the fields for Agestes, he trained in the barracks for
Diokles. Both were hard, bullying masters. Where before he had secretly crept to the millhouse before dark, now he slipped out to Sarpedon's villa for extra tuition. But the similarities ended there. His grandfather exercised his mind as well as his muscles, teaching him about philosophy and history. Where Diokles used orders and fear, his grandfather used encouragement and questions.

Injuries were common as the competition became fiercer for the honour to represent each squad. A boy broke his ankle in a one-against-many, and Lysander badly twisted his wrist throwing the javelin.

The morning after his injury, he rose from his bed stiff and in pain. He walked to his grandfather's, cradling his forearm. As he trained, Lysander noticed how gloomy Sarpedon seemed to be. They had finished a leg-strengthening lesson, and Lysander sat with his back cooling against a column as Sarpedon mixed a poultice for his wrist in a dish over a tripod. Without turning round Sarpedon began to speak.

‘This will be our final lesson for some time.'

The words took Lysander by surprise. He had come to rely on these morning tutorials.

‘Why?' he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. His grandfather stopped mixing the ingredients and laid out a bandage.

‘Because war is coming,' he finally said. ‘War with Argos.'

Lysander was confused. He thought Sparta was at
peace with the Argives. ‘But why does that mean we have to stop our training?'

Sarpedon spooned out brown sludge from the dish and on to the bandage. ‘Because,' he replied, ‘when Sparta goes to war, one king stays in the homeland, and the other leads the country to battle. The laws state that he must be accompanied by two Ephors. That is what my meetings have been about. Ten days ago the Council of Elders sent a messenger to the Oracle at Delphi.'

Like all Greeks, Lysander knew about the Oracle. It was the most sacred place in the world, where the prophets of Apollo told the future in riddles.

‘The Oracle told us that we must kill the mother snake before she bears her children.'

‘But what does that mean?' asked Lysander. ‘You have to fight?'

‘Do not fear, boy,' said his grandfather, ‘I will not be in danger – I'm too old to hold a shield and spear in battle. I will leave that to better men than me. But Spartan law must be obeyed. I have been selected to follow King Cleomenes to the north. If we do not take action now, the Argives threaten to arm the Helots, and that cannot be allowed to happen.'

Arm the Helots
, thought Lysander. He thought back to Cato, dead in the fields, and old Nestor with his midnight gatherings. Now he had seen first hand the ruthless barracks training of the Spartans, the brave Helot plans for revolution seemed naive and
misguided. They had no idea what they were up against. ‘But surely the Helots are not a threat to Sparta. They are just farmers, labourers …'

Sarpedon gave a hollow laugh and picked up the bandage.

‘Hold out your arm.'

Lysander extended his painful wrist. His grandfather carefully placed the bandage underneath. He wrapped one side around Lysander's thumb, then again over his wrist. The heat from the brown mixture was instantly comforting. It was fascinating to watch Sarpedon's huge, scarred hands perform such a delicate operation. He wrapped the bandage around several times before tying it off. He then looked hard at Lysander, and sighed deeply.

‘Tell me, how many Spartan soldiers live in the five villages and all of the lands ruled by the two kings?'

‘Um, I … don't know,' replied Lysander.

‘Well, I shall tell you, honestly. The number stands at about thirty thousand. All trained in the art of war. Now, how many Helot men of fighting age do you think there are? In all the fields and villages under Spartan control?

‘The answer is
three hundred
thousand. All trained in the art of farming, building and other crafts. Not fighters, but that is ten Helot men for every one Spartan soldier.' As his words sank in, Lysander felt a mixture of dread and excitement. ‘That is why every pure-born Spartan boy goes through the agoge. It is
true that Helots fear us Spartans, but do not think that we are not afraid too. Our armies are useful for fighting conflicts in foreign lands, but their main purpose is to keep our own back gardens safe. Why do you think we declare the war each year? If the Helots wanted to, they could rise up at any time. They might not win, but there would be terrible bloodshed on both sides.' Lysander could hear something like fear in his grandfather's tone. ‘The Helots are like a dry tinder – it needs only a spark to set rebellion alight.'

When the time came to say farewell, Lysander walked with Sarpedon to the road. His grandfather's words had shocked him. Every morning in the millhouse he had dreamt of a time when he could fight for Helot liberty. Was that day coming?

He offered his arm as usual, and was surprised when his grandfather took it and pulled him close in an embrace.

‘Take care of yourself, my grandson, and I shall hope to see you soon.' They pulled apart and Sarpedon held Lysander by his shoulders.

‘When will you be back?' Lysander asked.

‘I cannot say, but it isn't likely to be before the full moon.'

‘But that's the night of the Festival …' began Lysander. Sarpedon sighed.

‘I would like to be there. But Sparta comes first. You have trained hard, and whether or not I am there in
person, the spirit of Thorakis and your ancestors will be watching.'

Lysander nodded. He chose his words carefully.

‘I hope you come back safely,' he said from his heart.

Sarpedon released him, and Lysander thought he saw the glistening of tears in his eyes.

‘Goodbye, my grandson,' he said, turning away.

Lysander watched the Ephor leave. His brain was a confusion of loyalty and guilt. He had meant it when he wished his grandfather safety, but what he had
not
said was just as important. Of course he wished Sarpedon no harm, but he could not find it in his heart to hope for Spartan success.
What if this is a chance for the Helots to be free?

As he made his way back to the barracks, he was blind to his surroundings. Images flashed through his mind. Argive soldiers marching through Spartan fields, cheered on by Helots. As he approached the barracks entrance, Lysander imagined the building, the symbol of Spartan might, ablaze, with red-cloaked soldiers fleeing a powerful Helot army.

‘And where have you been sneaking out to, half-breed?' came a voice from the shadows of the doorway. Someone stepped out into the light. Demaratos.

‘That's not your concern,' said Lysander, trying to squeeze past. Demaratos thrust his arm across the doorframe, and stepped close to Lysander, pushing him back against the wall.

‘I know this is not the first time you have gone out.
I have heard you, tiptoeing out every morning. So I shall ask you again, what mischief is this?'

A noise behind Demaratos made Lysander peer over his enemy's shoulder.
What if it is Diokles?

‘I thought creeping around at night was something you Spartans were trained in,' he said to Demaratos.

‘Oh, it is, Helot, but we are a lot better at it than you.'

Through a crack in the inner door to the equipment room, Lysander saw who was watching them – it was Prince Leonidas. His gently drooping eyes were fixed on them both.
Why did he not come to help?
Lysander didn't know what to do. He could not afford to get caught – it would mean a lashing from the barracks commander. He needed to be at his peak for the Festival. Still Leonidas's eyes were locked on his. Would Lysander's friend try to help him? Distract Demaratos or step out to break up the scene? Lysander waited.

‘Shall I ring the alarm bell, Helot?' Demaratos was smiling now. ‘Shall I wake up Diokles and see what he wants to do with you?'