The Fire of Ares (19 page)

‘What are you crying for, my boy?' she croaked.

‘I cannot bear to see you like this,' he replied.

‘Wrapped up in Spartan luxury?' she asked, smiling.

Lysander laughed shallowly through his tears.

‘Are you in pain?' he asked.

‘No, Lysander,' she said. ‘I can feel very little. Kassandra – she has been good to me. A special girl.'

Lysander nodded his head and swallowed back more tears. He touched his mother's head with the cloth.

‘Listen well, my son. I have lived a hard life, but not an unhappy one. Your father – Thorakis – he was a wonderful, brave, gentle man. I can see now that you
will be just like him – a Spartan warrior.' The tendons tightened under the skin of her neck as a silent coughing fit shook her body. She did not have the strength to fight it. Lysander held her thin shoulders. She gave a long sigh.

‘Find the Fire of Ares, Lysander. Make me proud …'

‘Please, Mother, not yet … do not leave me yet …'

‘I will never leave you,' she said.

Athenasia's eyes closed.

Lysander's mother was dead.

By the time Lysander left the room, he was dry of tears. He had said his final farewell to his mother, and stroked her face until the warmth left it. He had never seen anyone die in front of him before. It was just like a candle going out.

Now the bright daylight stung the rims of his eyes, and the colours of the flowers in Sarpedon's garden came as a surprise to him. They seemed gaudy and irreverent. Soft steps behind him caught his attention.
Not Strabo again!
But it was Kassandra. She had lifted her hair away from her face, and tied it back with a long, ivory pin on top of her head.

‘Is she …?'

Lysander nodded, fighting back fresh tears.

‘Athenasia was a brave woman, and she loved you dearly,' said Kassandra.

His mother's name was like an open wound still, and Lysander could not help but lash out.

‘Why would you care? She was just a Helot, like me …'

Kassandra flushed and let her eyes drop. Lysander immediately regretted his words.

‘I'm sorry, I…' He stopped short as she put a hand on his shoulder.

‘I misjudged you before,' she said quietly. ‘We Spartans are taught that we are better than Helots, and it takes a lot to believe otherwise. I am not making excuses, but … well, your mother has made me realise I was wrong. I know you cannot forgive all of Sparta for enslaving your people, but maybe you can forgive me?'

Lysander was moved by her words.

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘Friends?'

‘Yes, friends,' she smiled. ‘Sarpedon is expected back this evening, and he will arrange for your mother's death-rites. You should get back to the barracks. I have heard Diokles is very strict.'

The name caught Lysander by surprise.

‘But who has told you that?' he said. Kassandra's eyes dropped.

‘Oh, no one …' Then, ‘It must have been Sarpedon … or Strabo …' but her words were too quick.

Lies
, thought Lysander.

‘Who was the person I saw you talking to that day in the street?'

‘Um … Oh, you mean the other morning? He was a tradesman. I was arranging supplies for my horse.' She
sounded sure of herself, and Lysander felt guilty for supposing she was up to something. He started to leave, but she called him back.

‘Lysander, tell me one thing. When your mother first came here, she mumbled something in her fever about a Fire of Ares. She said you had to find it. What did she mean?'

Lysander paused in his tracks. Could he trust her? He was not sure. They were cousins, part of the same family, but until today she had shown him nothing but contempt. On the other hand, his mother had said she was a good person. He decided to tell her the bare minimum.

‘It is an amulet,' he said. ‘A red stone that belonged to my father. It's very special to me.'

‘It sounds beautiful,' she said. ‘I truly hope you find it.'

Lysander was touched by her concern. His emotions were in tatters.

‘Well, goodbye,' he said, ‘and thank you for the care you gave to my mother.'

‘Goodbye, Lysander,' she replied.

As Lysander started back towards the barracks, thoughts of the Fire of Ares soon fell from his mind. He would never sit and eat a meal with his mother again, never hear her laugh or see her smile. His heart was heavy with grief. But there was also hope. And determination. His parents were both dead now, but he would make them proud.

The night of the Festival Games had arrived.

Lysander was buckling on his battered breastplate. Though Timeon had done his best with the polishing, there was no hiding that his equipment was secondhand, left by a boy in the year above him. It was small, too, and pinched his chest in the tight straps. Demaratos's armour gleamed like the sun. Every boy wore a new red cloak to symbolise passing to the next level. All but Lysander. He still made do with the tattered reminder of Athandros.

‘You bring shame to the barracks,' Demaratos scoffed. A few boys turned, but most were focused on preparing themselves for the parade.

‘Your clothes are of no importance,' replied Lysander. ‘It is how you behave that counts.'

‘Well, you had better be on your best behaviour,' said Prokles.

A creak came from the doorway at the far end of the barracks. Timeon ran in, carrying a bundle wrapped in
sackcloth. He placed it on the bed carefully.

‘What have you got there?' asked Lysander.

It took his friend some time to regain his breath.

‘Why don't you have a look?' he said.

Lysander leant down and folded back the material. He gasped. There was a stiffened leather breastplate, covered in a layer of bronze, with a lion's head drawn in fine silver lines. That was not all: there were two matching leg guards and arm fastenings, each showing the design of a lion's claw. A helmet with a red crest completed the set. The workmanship was breathtaking. There was also a sheathed sword and silver-studded belt.
I can't believe it,
he thought. Looking up, he saw that Timeon was beaming from ear to ear.

‘They are from Sarpedon,' he said. ‘Strabo brought them here for you. They belonged to both his sons when they each passed through the agoge.'

‘My grandfather is back?' said Lysander, testing the weight of the sword. He could see his reflection in the polished surface.

‘Yes,' said Timeon. ‘Strabo said the two Ephors and the king arrived back yesterday on horseback. The soldiers are marching a day behind.'

With Timeon's help, Lysander clipped on the armour. It fitted perfectly. He knew what this meant – it was more than a gift. Sarpedon was telling everyone that Lysander was his grandson. There would be no more secrets. Ariston and Prokles stared.

‘That is the mark of Thorakis, from the house of
Sarpedon,' Prokles said, gazing round at his friends in astonishment. ‘Lysander must be …'

He did not have a chance to finish what he was saying. Demaratos pushed through the crowd, shoving the boy aside.

‘It will take more than fancy craftsmanship to give you victory tonight, half-breed.'

‘Well,' said Lysander, ‘may the best Spartan win.' He offered his hand to Demaratos, who slapped it away and left the dormitory. An uncertain ripple of laughter escaped the other Spartan students.

‘I would ignore him,' said Orpheus at his side. Lysander wondered what this night would be like for the lame Spartan: he wouldn't be taking part in the ceremony or the Games because of his bad leg. But Orpheus surprised him.

‘Here,' he said to Lysander, holding out his own new cloak, ‘take this.' It took Lysander a moment to understand. A Spartan's cloak was his symbol of power, his second skin. For Orpheus to make a gift of his touched Lysander to the core.

‘I cannot –'

‘Don't be foolish,' Orpheus cut in. ‘You can't wear that ragged thing with your new armour. Please, take it, I would be honoured. Just make sure you win.'

The ranks of boys made their approach to the Temple of Ortheia for the start of the Festival. It was a cloudless night, and the light from the moon and stars twinkled
on the polished shields. As they drew near the temple, the way was lit on either side by flaming torches and the smell of incense drifted on a light breeze.

Tonight, Lysander was proud to be a Spartan, and prouder still to be representing the squad of Prince Leonidas.

Spectators lined the shallow grassy banks on three sides of the parade ground. Most were Spartans, mothers and fathers of the students, but there were also a few wealthy free-dwellers. Helot slaves rushed around, purchasing snacks and drinks for their masters. At the fourth side stood the temple. Lysander had only ever seen the structure before from a distance, when its red columns gleamed in the sun: six across the front, and thirteen along the side. Now, as it rose beside them it was by far the most spectacular building Lysander had ever seen. Above the columns scenes of hunting were carved into the stone: an archer stood ready to fire on a stag, while dogs reared around his feet. Lysander longed to know what was inside the temple. But he knew he would never be allowed to enter. Only priests and other initiates were permitted to witness the mysteries of the Goddess Artemis Ortheia.

There was a clash of cymbals and Diokles called them to stop. The crowd fell silent and turned their heads towards the temple.

Five young women, dressed in gleaming white tunics, emerged from between the two central columns of the temple entrance. To Lysander, they seemed to
glide down the steps. Three held a single wreath of olive leaves, and one held a deep drinking bowl in both hands. The fifth held a kithara – a sacred lyre. Once they had taken position either side of the altar, she began to pluck its strings. The notes rang clear in the still air, and the music seemed to cast a spell over the spectators. The other four girls began to sing. The words were holy, a prayer to the Goddess Artemis Ortheia:

Hear us, Guardian of this sanctuary and of Sparta herself.

Hear us, Artemis Ortheia.

We honour the Gods always, and this night we honour you above all.

Bless these young men.

They offer themselves to the Goddess in the name of Sparta.

Bless their spears, bless their shields and bless their blood

We pray they will one day give all three to you in battle.

As their song drew to a close, a tall robed man stepped out from the temple with two bare-chested attendants – young Spartan soldiers in their prime. The priest's face was enclosed in a terracotta mask – a symbol that he was sacred to Ortheia. As he approached, the priestesses drifted soundlessly out of the way, until he alone stood in front of the altar. Holding up his arms, he intoned:

‘In the name of the Ortheia, Great Huntress and
Protector of the Young, bring out the sacrifice.'

From behind the temple came a soft lowing, as the great bulk of a white ox was led out by a rope. It surveyed the crowds with heavy, doleful eyes. Its horns had been painted gold and red markings were drawn over its flanks.
It must not know it's about to be killed
, thought Lysander. The bull stood calmly as the priest took out a long knife, sparkling with precious stones, and placed it against the animal's throat.

‘Mighty Ortheia, we offer to you this creature from our fields, that you will bless this night of celebration.'

The holy man stroked the beast's head as the two Spartans positioned themselves on either side. The priest slid the knife quickly into the animal's throat. The creature spasmed, but was steadied by the Spartan helpers. Lysander saw the priest twist his wrist and withdraw the blade. As the point cleared the dewlap, a fountain of blood spurted on to the ground, splashing the priest's feet. The bull's front knees buckled, and it sank to the ground, lolling on to its flank. As its eyes rolled back, the flow of blood pumping from the gash became less. The female attendant came forward with the bowl and filled it with the thick liquid. Lysander could not help but think of Cato, slaughtered in cold blood like an animal.

Remember where you come from
, he told himself.
Make the Helots proud.

When he looked up again, the bull was lying on its side, its chest heaving slowly as it lay in the dust. The
priestess knelt beside it, gathering blood in a shallow bowl. Later, the meat would be eaten in celebration, the bones and entrails burned as an offering to the Gods.

Now came the dance. The boys lined up in front of the crowd of spectators, each holding a shield and spear. Lysander could not see Sarpedon among the sea of faces, though he knew he must be there somewhere.

A clash of cymbals heralded the start of the sequence, and drums kept them in time. Lysander and the others stepped, lunged and parried imaginary attacks, all in unison. Lysander knew his part off by heart. He didn't need to look to his side, and anyway, the narrow slits in his helmet prevented him from seeing much more than the boy in front. By the end, he was sweating, but proud. The audience cheered the display.

After the dancing ended, the two teams separated from the other boys to begin the wrestling contest.

A pit of about twenty feet square had been filled with sand, which was now being raked over. Lysander stood on one side, his back to the ring, preparing himself by rubbing oil on his torso and legs. It would help him escape the clinches of his opponent. Lysander had been drawn against Sinon, a fast and devious member of Demaratos's team. But he was confident. He had seen Sinon fighting in the barracks, and he thought he could beat him even without the Fire of
Ares. But Timeon had bad news.

‘Sinon had to drop out of Demaratos's team unexpectedly,' his friend told him, as he rubbed oil into Lysander's back. ‘So, it's a replacement.'