The Fire of Ares (7 page)

‘Thank you, sir,' she said to the overseer. ‘We understand perfectly. We would just like to get on with our work now.'

With a snort of disgust, Agestes turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the air behind him thick with his stench.

Lysander's face burned as he worked beside Athenasia, turning over weeds with a hoe. He could see that she was barely able to remain upright. A sickly sweat shone on her pale forehead. Shame came upon him in bursts, like arrows shot into his mind.
I can't even protect my mother! I should have killed that fat stinking hog of an overseer with my bare hands.
His mother must have seen the tortured look on his face.

‘It wouldn't have helped, you know,' she began. ‘Fighting only creates more fighting. The Spartans would do well to remember that.'

Letting out a weak groan, she sank to one knee. Lysander dropped the hoe and rushed to hold her shoulders as the coughing racked her body. When she stopped shaking, Lysander saw that his mother's eyes were dulled and unresponsive. He had never seen her so bad before.

‘
Enough!
' said Lysander. ‘I am taking you home.'

He looked round for Agestes, but he was nowhere in sight. He hoisted Athenasia's frail body into his arms. She didn't protest as he carried her out of the fields. The other Helots looked on in sympathy, but none
stepped out to help. What could they do? Old Nestor, his lips pressed together, gave a small nod of the head.

On the path between the fields, Lysander saw Agestes at a distance, yelling at a group of three female Helots – Lysander recognised them as the three daughters of Hecuba, a friend of his mother's. As he watched, Agestes suddenly marched forward and swung the back of his hand across the face of the youngest, Nylix, who fell to the ground with a shriek. Her sisters cowered beside her.

There was no turning back. Lysander gritted his teeth and readied himself to face the overseer. As he drew nearer, Agestes turned and stared in disbelief. He slowly stepped into the middle of the path and folded his arms.

‘You, boy, are going nowhere. And neither is your mother. Get back to work at once!'

‘Not this time,' said Lysander. He lowered Athenasia, who managed to find her feet. He could feel her quaking, but instead of backing off, he took a step forward. ‘I will not watch my mother die in the fields.'

Agestes raised his bear-like hand and bellowed:

‘Back to work! Now!'

Lysander didn't move, and he was ready when Agestes brought down his arm. He ducked to the side but kept his foot extended. Agestes's hand hit nothing but air, and his weight carried him over Lysander's outstretched leg. He crashed to the ground. For a moment he lay fighting for breath, winded by the fall.
Picking up his mother, Lysander walked as quickly as possible in the direction of their village. Agestes didn't follow, but called out in anger:

‘You'll die for this, Helot! You'll suffer, I promise!'

Lysander did not look round.

Lysander placed his mother on her bed, and looked around their shack – the few pieces of rough furniture, the cooking pans and the half-melted candles. Was this all their life amounted to? Was this all a Helot could expect?

‘How can they do this to us?' No one answered. Lysander buried his face in his hands and wept. He could not hold back the tears any longer.

A fist thundered on the door. The voice of the overseer bellowed from outside.

‘Open up, boy!' The hand pounded the wood again. His mother stirred, but didn't wake.
So this is it
, thought Lysander.
Six lashes will not be enough this time
. He stood, and dried his eyes with his hands, before walking to the door. He opened the wooden latch, blinking into the sunlight. The overseer stared at him, his jaw twitching and a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

‘I'm coming now,' said Lysander, straightening his back. ‘Just let my mother sleep.' To his surprise, Agestes didn't protest. Instead, he spoke through gritted teeth.

‘You will not be returning to the fields today. You have been
summoned
elsewhere.'

Dread gripped Lysander's insides.

‘Summoned where?' he asked quietly.

‘You are to go to the house of the Ephor Sarpedon.'

It took Lysander a moment to register the name. Then all the moisture seemed to evaporate from his throat. The old man who had saved him from the Spartan gang was an Ephor!
He cannot be!
After the two kings, the five Ephors who formed the Ephorate were the most powerful men in Sparta. Some said they were even more powerful than the two Kings themselves, because without them the Kings could not declare war. They were the ultimate guardians of Spartan law.

‘An E–Ephor?' he managed to say. ‘What would he want with me?' Of course, Lysander already knew.
He wants the Fire of Ares
, his mind screamed.

A smirk crept across Agestes's face.

‘You had best find out,' he said. He pulled a piece of parchment out of a pocket inside his tunic, and held it out to Lysander. ‘You are to take this with you. It will ensure safe passage – or so they say.'

Lysander hesitated before taking the parchment. It felt fragile in his rough hands. It was forbidden for Helots to enter the Spartan district without permission. Looking closely he saw the sheet was covered in writing. Agestes laughed.

‘What? Do not pretend a dunce like you can actually read!' he said. ‘You couldn't even write your own name?'

Lysander felt the blood rise to the surface of his cheeks. It was true, he could not read or write, but
what Helot could? Certainly not Agestes.

‘Take the western road from Amikles, then the right fork at the shrine of Apollo,' said the overseer. He stalked away. After he had gone a few paces, he turned and spoke one last time.

‘See you tomorrow in the fields … if you are lucky!'

The village of Amikles was about an hour's walk from the house Lysander and his mother shared. The midday sun blazed overhead. He followed the river for most of the way, which wound its way from the Taygetos Mountains to the southern sea. At this time of year, the water was low and the current hardly noticeable. By the banks, thrushes swooped, gorging themselves on insects that swarmed in the heat. Muddy islands rose in the middle of the river, too, and Lysander watched as a solitary stork paraded on its skinny legs, eyeing the shallow water for fish. Lysander had never set foot in this district before. He heard it housed only the wealthiest Spartans. There were no Helot settlements blotting the landscape here.

On the outskirts, Lysander passed the men's dining messes. These great barracks halls were where Spartan men ate, slept and trained together until they were thirty years old. Such barracks were scattered through the Spartan territories as a constant reminder of
Spartan power. As he watched, the gates of one creaked open. Two columns of red-cloaked men marched out, carrying matching glinting shields. The voice of a commander carried across the empty air.

‘Phalanx positions!'

Soundlessly, the two columns each ordered themselves into four rows, several men long. The two sets of men stood facing one another, perhaps fifty paces apart. From his vantage point, Lysander could not make out their faces. The commander shouted again:

‘Attack drill!'

Each group proceeded forward, first at a walking pace, then a jog, then faster still. As they drew together, both sets of men were running at full speed. They met with a crash. Lysander could see that several of the front row had fallen, but the remainder pushed on, leaning their combined weight against the opposing side, digging their heels into the ground. The thick afternoon air carried their shouts, until the side of the left began to gain the advantage. Their opponents were being shifted backwards. One by one they were turned or fell. The conquering phalanx did not stop, but simply walked over their fallen comrades. Finally, the right team collapsed entirely, and the winning squad ran straight past them. Lysander shuddered. It was hard to imagine that no bones had been broken in the brutal exercise. But Lysander was exhilarated too. As he continued on his way, the victorious chanting of the winners made his skin tingle.

The barracks faded into the distance as he reached the town itself. Passing the western side of Amikles, Lysander was surprised to see that some of the homes were not much grander than his own, but as he climbed the hill, wooden and mud walls gave way to stone. He walked by a residence with wide, columned gateways, through which he glimpsed a Helot slave, rushing with a platter of food. The streets were quiet.

Sarpedon's house was in the wealthiest area of the village. At a junction Lysander followed the right fork and soon saw the house set back from the road. His feet slowed as he gazed upwards. The building looked more like a palace than a house to him. It was two storeys tall, and gleamed white in the bright sunshine. The roof was covered in neat red tiles. A row of grapevines, laden with fruit, separated the house from the path, and his stomach rumbled.

I am about to enter the house of an Ephor – the men most hated by the Helots!

Resisting the urge to stuff his mouth with grapes, he walked towards the wide entrance. There was no door, and what he saw through the opening took his breath away: a huge, sun-filled courtyard, open to the sky, filled the central section of the house. Trees and other plants that he didn't recognise grew in pots and there was even a pond in the centre. Exotic purple flowers floated on the surface of the water. The luxury was beyond anything Lysander had ever seen. Around the edges of the yard was a shady colonnade, supported by wide,
blue-and-white painted columns. Lysander spotted a girl of about his own age. She was dangling a strip of brightly coloured linen. At her feet a pet tortoise ambled, stretching its scaly neck to bite the end.

‘Hello,' said Lysander, taking a few steps into the courtyard. The girl turned quickly and looked him up and down. Her dark hair was gathered loosely in a band. Her face was a long oval, a little like his own. Picking up the tortoise, she walked away without saying a word.

Lysander was left alone, and ill at ease. He noticed that the floor beneath his feet was decorated with hundreds of tiny coloured tiles, intricately arranged. As he stood back, he could see they formed the image of two horses facing each other.

‘I see you're admiring my mosaic!'

Lysander looked up to see Sarpedon striding towards him. Today he was not dressed in his cloak, but a simple white toga fastened with a metal clasp at the shoulder. Lysander dropped swiftly to one knee, bowing his head.

‘Rise, boy! And welcome to my house,' said Sarpedon, and then, waving his hand towards the floor, ‘it is the work of a man from Rhodes. Wonderful, is it not?' Lysander was confused and didn't respond. ‘Rhodes is an island across the Aegean Sea. All the most talented craftsmen come from there.'

‘Yes, it must have taken a long time,' was all Lysander could manage.

‘Come, sit down,' said the Ephor, gesturing to a wooden bench beside a low table.

Lysander did as he was told.
Is this really the man who seemed so terrifying last night?
he asked himself. Certainly the scars across his face didn't look so menacing in the light of day.

Sarpedon sat beside him, before calling out, ‘Kassandra, please bring refreshments. Our guest must be thirsty.'

The young girl appeared at another doorway and walked over, holding a tray with two wooden cups and a terracotta jug. She placed the tray on the table and proceeded to pour the water, glaring fiercely at the cup. She would not meet his eyes. Her role fulfilled, she was gone.

‘You will have to forgive my grand-daughter. She's not accustomed to waiting on Helots.' He smiled. ‘Nor should she be!'

Lysander felt annoyed but also knew he could not say anything to protest. What was the point? Sarpedon was right – Spartans
did not
have to wait on Helots. He waited for Sarpedon to pick up his cup, before raising his own to his lips. The water was flavoured with mint. He gulped down the whole glass. Sarpedon poured Lysander a second cupful.

‘I think you know why I have asked you here … Lysander,' he said. ‘It took most of the morning to find you, but my messengers did a good job. Your face means that you stand out in the crowd.' Lysander's
tongue felt out the tender cut on the inside of his lip. Sarpedon continued: ‘Show me that jewel again.'

‘I cannot,' he replied. ‘It was been stolen.'

Sarpedon raised an eyebrow, and Lysander could tell that he was in no mood for games. Lysander had better go straight to the truth. It was a risk. But did he have any choice? Sarpedon could have him whipped to death if he sensed dishonesty.

‘I was visiting the market at Limnae this morning. Someone put a knife to my throat and took the pendant.'

‘And you didn't put up a fight?' asked Sarpedon.

‘I couldn't follow the thief. He knocked me out.' Lysander lifted his hair to show the bloody mark where his head had struck the wall. The Spartan looked troubled.

‘Even if it has been stolen, where did you get that jewel from?'

Lysander paused, and Sarpedon cut in, his voice raised and impatient.

‘Come on, boy. I will not be deceived. You stole it, did you not?'

Lysander felt trapped, but angry. He was not a thief.
Just tell the truth,
he told himself.

‘My mother gave it to me when I was born. She said it would give me strength and keep me safe. I swear to the Gods that I am telling the truth.'

‘Leave the Gods out of this,' said Sarpedon sternly. ‘You say the amulet was a gift from your mother. What
is her name?'

Lysander dropped his head.

‘She is called Athenasia,' he said.

The cup dropped out of Sarpedon's hand, rattling across the mosaics.