The Fire of Ares (18 page)

Lysander was becoming angrier with Leonidas than with the boy in front of him. It was clear the prince was not going to help a Helot slave. Lysander pushed Demaratos's arm out of his way, and stormed into the equipment room.

‘We will finish this later!' his tormentor called after him.

Inside the room, he saw Leonidas walking quickly
away past a pile of damaged shields. Lysander ran over to him and caught him by the shoulder, swinging him round. Leonidas looked shocked – and guilty.

‘Lysander! What are you doing here?' Leonidas's false cheeriness fooled no one. Lysander and he both knew that the prince had been watching – and doing nothing.

‘You're supposed to be my friend!' hissed Lysander. ‘Why did you stand by and watch when Demaratos threatened me?'

A cloud passed over Leonidas's face. ‘I … What are you talking about?' he said defensively.

But Lysander was not ready to let this go. He seized Leonidas by his collar and pulled him close. He wanted to throw the prince to floor, and call him a coward, the ultimate offence against a Spartan. But the inner door was pushed open, and four boys rushed into the room, laughing. They stopped when they saw Leonidas and Lysander squaring up to each other.

‘What are you looking at?' said Lysander, his blood still hot. But his brain told him now was not the time to fight. He shoved Leonidas in the chest. The prince stumbled backwards.

Lysander watched the prince leave. He had learnt a new lesson today. Strength was no guarantee of bravery, and cowards were not always to be found among the enemy. They could be your friends, too.

It did not take long for the news of the war against Argos to reach Sparta. Rumours spread through the dormitory like a river flooding its plain.

‘They say forty Spartans faced a thousand men,' said Hilarion as they sat eating one evening. His father was away fighting, and his son got all the latest news. ‘The Argives thought they would crush us, but the phalanx held firm. The enemy ended up trampling their own men to death, and many died with spears in their backs, running away.'

Prokles chipped in:

‘Yes, and did you hear that the warrior Kleon challenged their best to single combat? He sliced his opponent's shield arm, but then spared him. A Spartan would never want to live without his left arm. He would rather die than be unable to join his comrades in the phalanx.'

But it was not all glory. There was news of death, also. As Lysander left the training yard one day to visit
the latrine, he came across Hilarion sitting by the barracks wall in the shade. In his hands he clutched an adult helmet, and he was sobbing. Stepping closer, Lysander could see that the bronze crown of the helmet was marred by an ugly open gash – it looked as though a sword blow had torn through it. Lysander did not need to ask what had happened – Hilarion's father was dead.

As the conflict entered its second month, the stories died down. It began to look like the war was less than clear-cut. Some said the Athenians would help their neighbours and drive the Spartans away. Lysander lay awake at night thinking of the possible outcomes. Perhaps the soldiers of Argos were fighting back. Perhaps they would march into Spartan territory, driving the Spartans away to the sea. It would be a chance for Lysander's people to be free.

It was almost time for the late summer harvest. The fields were ripe again with barley, and the boys were out on a long march in full armour. They wore breastplates, leg guards and helmets and carried their spears and shields. Lysander had hand-me-downs and unwanted kit from previous years. His breastplate and the apron that covered his groin were worn leather, frayed at the edges, and the bronze lining was flaking off. The greaves on his shins were rusted from not being properly cleaned, and his helmet was too tall and narrow for his head, blistering the tops of his ears and shaking loose every so often. On the night of the
Games they would have to present themselves to the spectators before the real competition began. Lysander dreaded to think what a sight he would make.

The midday sun pounded down, and all Lysander could see through the narrow slit of his helmet was the boy in front. The soles of his feet had become hard, and were ingrained with dust. Sweat glued his tunic to his body. He felt faint, and his tongue was thick and dry in his mouth. He longed for just a sip of cool water. They were rounding the turning point on their run, the shrine of Zeus, and heading back to camp, when the pounding of hooves pricked Lysander's ears. The others looked round as well.

‘Halt!' Diokles held up an arm for the boys to stop, raising his spear.

Two horsemen burst from a copse of trees and galloped towards them. They were not Spartans. They carried light bows, with a quiver of arrows tied to the sides of their mounts. Small round shields were slung over their shoulders. Lysander felt dread fix him to the ground, but Diokles lowered his weapon and greeted the men with a salute.

‘Megarans,' one of the boys whispered. ‘You can tell from their shields. They are our allies against Argos.'

The two soldiers slowed to a canter as they approached the ranks of students, and Diokles stepped forward to take the reigns of the lead rider. The horse was small and lean, snorting and stamping its front foot. The horseman patted its neck until it was calm and
dismounted. He was covered in dust.

‘News from the plains of Argos,' said the Megaran, still panting. ‘They sent us because we are the quickest …'

Lysander held his breath. Could the Argives be marching south, ready to free the Helot people?

‘I come to announce a brilliant victory for Sparta,' continued the messenger. ‘The Argives are completely vanquished.'

A cheer went up, but Lysander did not join in. The Helots' dreams were dashed.

‘We must press on to the Council of Elders with the good news,' said the Megaran, swinging himself back on to his mount. ‘Tell everyone you see that the glory of Sparta is intact.'

‘Of course,' said Diokles. The two riders set off and soon crested the hill that led down to the Spartan valley beyond. Diokles turned to his students.

‘It is a great day for Sparta. The enemy broke like waves upon our shields. As a celebration, there will be no more training today.'

The students raised another shout of joy. As they began the slow march back to camp, Lysander blocked the other boys' excited chatter from his mind. The Helots would never be free.

‘Are you not happy, Helot?' It was Demaratos, and he was looking at Lysander in disgust. ‘We have proven once again that Sparta is the most powerful city in all Greece.'

‘Of course I am,' Lysander said, trying to mask his
anger. Demaratos was right. No one could conquer the Spartans.

Orpheus, Lysander and Leonidas sat at the back of the classroom while Anu demonstrated something he called an
abacus
from his native land. It was a wooden board threaded with beads for counting. Lysander was impressed with the way it could calculate sums quickly.

‘Mathematics is boring,' grumbled Prokles. ‘Counting is for free-dweller traders, not soldiers.'

‘Is that right?' said Anu. ‘And when you come to lead a campaign against your enemies, how will you calculate the amount of food your men need? I anticipate your glorious army would turn back before it even reached the battlefield, starving and humiliated.'

The Games were just two days away now, and few boys were interested in mathematics. Everyone was waiting for the squad leaders to announce their teams.

In the row in front of them, Demaratos was flexing his muscles, and talking about victory as though it were already his.

‘My father says he will have a statue dedicated in my honour at the Temple of Ortheia,' he boasted. ‘There is no boy in the barracks who can beat me. I've come first every year since I entered the agoge.'

Lysander bristled. He had been training hard and, despite still being without the Fire of Ares, he felt better than ever before. His new confidence gave him added strength. He came up alongside Demaratos.

‘You should be careful, you know,' he said casually. ‘The Gods do not favour proud mortals.'

Demaratos laughed.

‘And who are you to talk to a Spartan about his Gods? I suppose you think you would be a match for me.' The rest of the class were watching, expecting a fight. Demaratos turned to his audience. ‘Who here thinks Lysander can take me on? Who thinks a Helot could beat a Spartan?' The other boys looked away. Demaratos walked over and shoved Pausanias in the chest.

‘Do you think Lysander would win, Pausanias?'

Pausanias shook his head. Demaratos pointed at Hilarion.

‘What about you? Are you on the Helot's side?'

Hilarion was silent.

No one spoke up. Demaratos laughed cruelly at his easy victory, his eyes scanning the lowered heads around him. Only Lysander kept the bully's gaze. Demaratos shook his head.

‘What a bunch of –'

Someone cleared his throat. Lysander looked round. It was Orpheus.

‘I do!' said his friend.

Demaratos's smile slipped for a second – but only a second. Orpheus was well respected, but he was still only one boy.

‘Anybody else?' Demaratos called out.

Come on
, thought Lysander.

Demaratos was enjoying himself. ‘I said, does anyone else think this snivelling Helot is a match for me?'

Lysander looked around, but all the other boys just stared at the ground.

‘That is what I thought,' said Demaratos triumphantly. ‘Just the Helot and the cripple. I have never seen two worse examples of Spartans.'

‘I think he can beat you,' said a quiet voice. Lysander saw Leonidas step out from the back of the crowd. ‘I'm going to put him on my team. Then we will really see who is best – in a
fair
fight.'

Lysander felt his throat tighten. After their argument, Lysander and Leonidas had been avoiding each other. He could imagine how difficult it must have been for Leonidas to take that small step forward. The prince had been born into a life of privilege, and Lysander had seen for himself that he struggled to always make the right choice. But for once, Leonidas had found strength of character. And for him – a Helot.

Demaratos looked astounded.

‘If you want your team to lose, then go ahead,' he spat.

A few of the boys dared to lift their gazes from the ground and now they were watching Demaratos with open curiosity. They had probably never seen him challenged like this before, Lysander realised.

Demaratos fixed his eyes on Lysander.

‘You think you are so tough, don't you, Helot? But I have a secret weapon, something that can really help me win …'

The Fire of Ares!
It had to be.

‘Don't let him trouble you,' muttered Orpheus, touching Lysander's arm. He shook it off.

A few other boys started to pay attention.
He's got it!
thought Lysander.
He's got the amulet. Is he wearing it now?
He stepped closer to Demaratos.

‘And what might that be?' said Lysander, holding Demaratos's stare with his own. His enemy folded his arms and smiled knowingly at Lysander.

‘Why, the heart of a Spartan warrior, of course.'

Demaratos marched out of the barracks

‘And the soul of a snake,' muttered Orpheus.

Lysander turned to Orpheus. Leonidas was standing with him.

‘Thank you,' he said. He held a hand over Leonidas's shoulder and brought it down in a firm, friendly slap. Words were not necessary.

‘We should get out there and train, if we are to beat that thug. I promised him a thrashing,' Leonidas said, nervously joking.

As they trooped across the yard, Lysander heard his name being called out. It was Diokles. He gestured from his quarters. Lysander ran over.

‘Lysander, it is your mother …'

Lysander's skin went cold. ‘Is she all right?'

‘No. You are excused lessons for the afternoon to go and see her. Be back before sunset.'

Lysander ran all the way to the far side of Amikles, his
panic masking any tiredness in his legs. The only noise Lysander heard was the blood rushing in his ears.

With Sarpedon still away in the north, the villa seemed empty. Making his way across the mosaic tiles, Lysander was surprised to see Strabo. Normally an attendant would accompany his Spartan master to war. But then he remembered that Strabo was a free-dweller. He was carrying a stack of linen.

‘Greetings, Master Lysander,' he said.

‘I was called to see my mother.'

‘She's in her room. Kassandra has been looking after her.'

Lysander hurried to the chamber. He did not know what to expect. When he reached the curtain covering the door of the room, a noise made him hesitate. Someone was in there with Athenasia. He hooked a finger around the screen and peered inside.

Leaning over her patient with a damp cloth was Kassandra. She was wearing a simple cream tunic, tied in the middle with a black belt. Her black hair fell around her cheeks. Lysander's heart sank: his mother lay very still in the bed, her skin pale with blotches of red. The girl dabbed at her forehead. Lysander could see that her lips were moving, but he could not hear the comforting words she was offering. Was this really the same girl who had cursed him as a Helot not a few days before? He stepped into the room.

Kassandra looked up. Wordlessly, she passed him the cloth and walked out. The room smelled of citrus, no
doubt from the medicines Athenasia had been given. There was another scent that Lysander did not recognise, coming from some blocks of yellow resin smoking on a low table. Tears of gratitude pricked at Lysander's eyes. The thought of his mother enduring her illness in their former hut was unbearable now.

He stepped to her side and took hold of her hand. The skin was dry and thin, stretched over the knuckle joints. Looking at her lying on the bed, Lysander thought that she seemed only half in this world. Her body was gradually giving up its spirit. He kissed the back of her hand. At the touch of his lips, her eyelids opened just a crack and she smiled. Lysander caught a glimpse of the old Athenasia, before the illness came upon her. A tear trickled down his cheek, and landed in the folds of his mother's blanket.