The Fire of Ares (22 page)

‘I no longer have it,' said Demaratos.

‘Then who has?' Lysander demanded.

A shadow passed behind him. He realised someone was right there.

‘It seems Demaratos cannot keep a secret,' said a growling voice.

Lysander whipped around to find Diokles standing far too close for comfort. The tutor pulled aside his tunic. Around his neck, scarlet in the moonlight, hung the Fire of Ares.

‘Come with me …' said Diokles, clamping Lysander's arm with his hand. ‘I need your help in the equipment room.' The feasting had begun, and tables were being erected around the parade ground. Musicians were playing, and acrobats had begun their dancing.

Lysander found himself dragged behind the temple to the long building where they had taken off their armour after the demonstration. A few boys still lingered there, but Diokles threw them out.

When they were alone, Diokles closed the door behind him. The room was lit by candles along each wall, and the flickering lights played across Diokles' face, making his expression shift ghoulishly.

‘You fought well tonight, Lysander,' he said, without smiling. ‘Who would have thought a Helot like you would come out top at the Festival?'

‘That pendant belongs to me,' Lysander said.

Diokles' hand caressed the stone, and he laughed as he brushed it with his fingers.

‘You know very well, Lysander, that a Helot owns no property of his own.'

‘And you know very well,' said Lysander, ‘that I am not a Helot …'

‘Ha!' scoffed Diokles. ‘You think, because you have spent a summer training in the agoge, that you are one of us? It will take more than a lucky victory to call yourself a Spartan. Demaratos is still twice the warrior you will ever be.'

Lysander flinched, but wouldn't back down.

‘When I have mastered the Spartan arts of lying, cheating and stealing, maybe then I will be his equal.'

Diokles laughed again.

‘Yes, but even Demaratos needs to learn when to keep his mouth shut. I caught him bragging to those friends of his about a stolen jewel.' As he spoke, he lifted the strap from around his neck and took a step closer to Lysander. After so long, Lysander could not take his eyes off the stone, which glowed brighter than ever in the tutor's grimy hand. Lysander felt its presence like it was a part of him.

‘At first,' said Diokles, ‘I thought it was nothing, but when I laid my eyes upon it, I knew immediately it was no ordinary stone – the Fire of Ares!'

‘How do you know so much about it?' Lysander asked.

Diokles ignored him and turned the pendant over, staring at the markings on the back.

‘You will not know what this says?' he said.

Lysander remembered his mother's words: he knew exactly what the pendant said.

‘Well, I'll tell you. It says
The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous
.'

‘I know that,' said Lysander. ‘It belonged to Menelaos, at the time of the war with Troy.'

‘Very good,' said Diokles, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘That's one part of its story. But, like men, stories change. We have been looking for the Fire of Ares for many years.'

‘
We?
' said Lysander.

‘Yes,' said Diokles, his eyes shifting like a lizard's on to Lysander's face. ‘The
Krypteia
.'

The temperature seemed to fall in the room.
That's how Demaratos knew about Cato!
Lysander realised. His eyes caught the hilt of the dagger sheathed on Diokles' belt. Was that the weapon used to kill the young Helot man?

‘Legend has it that after the war against the Messenians,' Diokles continued, ‘a delegation once visited the great Oracle at Delphi, where the priests talk directly with the Gods. They asked the holy man how they could keep the Messenians under control. The Oracle told them a riddle:
Fear only the Fire of Ares.
At that time, no one knew this Fire of Ares was anything more than a legend. Like many of the Oracle's messages, it was difficult to understand. The Gods work in ways we cannot grasp.' He paused and hung the pendant back around his neck. ‘But we are not taking any risks.'

Diokles reached the door and began to open it. Lysander noticed there was still some commotion outside, but he felt lost.
I can't let it end like this.
Feeling the swell of recklessness within him, he did the only thing possible.

‘I'll fight you for it,' he said.

Diokles stopped, and turned.

‘You will do what,
boy
?'

There was no going back.

‘You heard me,' he said. ‘The Fire of Ares belongs to me, and I will not let you take it.'

Diokles stood impassive at the doorway, and Lysander wondered what he would do next. Would he walk straight out, with the Fire of Ares? Or would he stay and fight – give Lysander one more chance? Diokles pushed the door closed with his foot. He interlaced his fingers.

‘You know I cannot resist a challenge,' he said, cracking his knuckles. ‘And I have not killed a Helot for a while.' He bent his knees into a crouch and held his arms out. ‘When you are ready,' he said.

What in the Zeus's name have you done
? Lysander asked himself.

What you had to do
, a voice inside him answered.

As Diokles came forward, Lysander did his best to keep out of reach of his arms. If the bigger man got hold of him, it would be over. Every time Diokles came near, Lysander skipped away while trying to land blows on the outside of his tutor's arm. Every time
Lysander dodged his tutor's lunges, the more determined Diokles became, his arms swinging in wild arcs. Finally, Lysander found himself pushed back towards a corner of the room. There was nowhere to go.

Diokles swung a fist but the blow only glanced off Lysander's shoulder. Because of his bulk, the weight of the punch spun Diokles off-balance. This was Lysander's chance. He leapt on to the tutor's back, and wrapped his right arm tightly around his wide neck. Then he squeezed. Diokles' arms scrabbled to tear Lysander's strangling grip away, and then to claw at Lysander's face. He buried his head in Diokles' shoulder to keep his eyes out of the way, and with his other hand reached for the pendant. Once his hand wrapped around it, he felt immediately stronger.

The pair crashed around the room.
Surely someone can hear us
, thought Lysander.
They will come soon and put an end to this.
Beneath the din, he could hear the Spartan's wheezing breath, becoming shallower. Diokles was weakening in his grip, his hands becoming less frantic.
Just hold on
, Lysander told himself,
do not let go
.

Diokles threw himself backwards against the wall with all his weight. The mud-brick stayed firm, but a cloud of dust fell from the ceiling. Lysander felt the soft crack of a rib breaking, and had no choice but to let go. He fell to the floor among the pile of shields. Diokles keeled forward, landing on his knees and gasping for breath.

Lysander lay on his side, unable to stand, and looked
on in terror as Diokles rose to his feet. The eye patch had slipped down – there was nothing but a thin layer of scar tissue where the tutor's eye should be. Diokles readjusted the patch and rubbed his neck slowly with his hand. Lysander saw the tutor's fingers feel the empty space where the Fire of Ares had been. The pendant now sat snugly in his own fist.

‘You nearly had me,' Diokles said. ‘But it is over, Lysander. Give me the pendant.'

‘No,' said Lysander. ‘It belongs to me.'

‘Then you can take it to the Underworld with you.' Diokles raised his foot above Lysander's head, ready to stamp.

Lysander knew that he was going to die.

He closed his eyes and waited.

‘Stop!'

The voice shattered the moment and a draught of cool air flooded the room.

‘Stop! Please!'

Lysander dared to open his eyes. The tutor was frozen above him, and slowly lowered his foot. Lysander stared at the door of the hut.

‘No, please, he has done nothing wrong,' Kassandra pleaded. But something was not right: she had her back to them. She was looking outside, towards the stadium and the sanctuary.

She was pushed roughly aside, and four Helots burst into the room. Two were carrying daggers, one held a javelin, a fourth had a wooden thresher from the field. It was old Nestor. Without hesitation, Nestor stepped forward and, swinging the farm tool, caught Diokles on the side of the jaw. The tutor's head snapped round with the force of the blow, and three teeth flew out of his mouth, rattling against the wall. His knees gave way
and he dropped to the floor. Was he dead? No. A low, steady groan escaped the Spartan's lips. The javelin carrier came forward with a piece of twine, and manhandled Diokles' arms behind his back, tying his hands tightly together.

‘Come on, you,' Nestor said to Lysander, pulling him from the floor. Lysander winced as pain stabbed where his rib had snapped.

‘What is happening?' Lysander asked. The Helots did not reply, but it soon became clear when he stepped out of the hut.

The sanctuary had completely changed. Instead of the sounds of music, the night air was filled with angry shouting, screams of terror, pleas for mercy, and the occasional whimpering of fear. The neatly arranged tables were overturned and Helots rampaged through the Spartans on the hillside. All the slaves were carrying arms, some improvised from tools – sickles, plough handles, mattocks – others stolen from their Spartan masters. It was everything that Lysander had dreamt of for so long – a Helot uprising. Amid the chaos, he saw Kassandra a few paces away. Her fine dress was torn at the shoulder and three Helots pushed her between them, from one to the other. She could do nothing to stop them and the whites of her eyes glowed in the night. Lysander began to run over, the pain in his side shooting waves of nausea through his chest. He tripped on a rock and lost sight of them for a moment, his vision blurred. Then he saw that it wasn't a rock he had
stumbled on, it was a body, tangled in a red cloak. A Spartan soldier, dead. As he struggled to regain his feet, he saw one of the Helots push Kassandra to the ground. All three laughed.

‘No!' said Lysander, but his voice was weak. His head spun and his legs gave way again.

Lysander ground his fists against the earth.
Get up!
he commanded himself. Ahead, the laughing Helot who had pushed Kassandra suddenly spun round, the smile turning to a look of surprise. Lysander saw blood gush from his abdomen, and a figure launched in front of Kassandra. Demaratos. He held his injured arm to his chest. But in his other hand, Demaratus held a short sword dripping with blood. He lunged at the Helots, forcing them back. Lysander admired his bravery. But where there were two Helots, a third joined. Then a fourth. This was a one-against-many that Demaratos couldn't win. While he fended off one brawny Helot, another caught his legs with a piece of rope. Demaratos hit the ground, and a Helot kicked him hard in the side of the head. Demaratos lay still. The Helots seemed to have forgotten Kassandra now.

‘Put him with the others,' said one, taking up Demaratos's sword. Two helots took hold of the Spartan's legs and dragged him away.

Kassandra brushed the dirt from her face, rushed over to Lysander and helped him to his feet.

‘What can we do?' she asked, tears streaking her face, and her hair tangled with dirt. Lysander could not
answer. Helots rushed from within the desecrated temple, carrying off sacred tripods and other objects. Many others carried torches and were setting them to the wooden structures nearby. As Lysander's eyes took in the pandemonium, there was a cry from the top of the slope where the spectators had been seated, and a wave of Helots flooded over the brow of the hill. This was no spontaneous rebellion – it was planned. Lysander watched helplessly as the Spartan men, women and children were rounded up into ragged groups and bound with rope. With most of the army still away, they were helpless. The atmosphere was deadly. Lysander caught sight of Timeon. He was grouped with some of the other Helots from the barracks, and they stood in a circle around a group of elderly Spartan men, armed with short flint daggers. His face shone with determination. Could he have known about the uprising all along?

‘We have found Lysander!' shouted Nestor over the gathering. A cheer went up among the Helots. It was a sound Lysander had never heard before. His people were so used to being oppressed, they normally had little to cheer about. A pathway opened up among the crowd and Lysander was jostled along. Men clapped him on the back and blessed him. Lysander felt proud and powerful.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the spectacle before the Temple of Ortheia. Kassandra's scream cut through the night.

In front of the altar knelt his grandfather, and above him stood a man in Helot dress. He was wearing the terracotta mask of the priest. Lysander knew this was sacrilege – a crime against the Gods. In the Helot's hand was the jewelled sacrificial knife used to kill the bull before the start of festivities. Sarpedon, with his arms bound tightly to his side, did not move or struggle – his cloak was ripped, his hair matted with sweat and blood, and his face emotionless like a granite carving. He had clearly put up a fight before they had overpowered him.