by Michael Ford
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Also by Michael Ford
For Rebecca
PROLOGUE
Lysander circled his opponent. Each breath scorched his lungs and he could feel his arms being dragged down by the weight of his armour. He blinked away the sweat that stung his eyes.
Demaratos stared back at him, his eyes filled with hate. Lysander swung an arm at his opponent, but Demaratos skipped out of the way and smirked. The spectators let out a raucous cheer.
He’s too strong, thought Lysander.
Lysander scanned the crowd again, looking for his grandfather, Sarpedon. He wasn’t there.
Demaratos lunged forward. His fist caught Lysander in the gut and he collapsed to his knees, trying to suck in air. None came. Lysander felt as though he were drowning. Demaratos punched him again, this time in the face. There was no pain, but he toppled sideways, crashing into the sand. He couldn’t move.
It was over.
Demaratos lifted his hands in the air and the crowd roared. A figure came forward to offer him the prize. It was Lysander’s cousin, Kassandra. She held a wreath of olive leaves over Demaratos’s head. But as she lowered the wreath, it transformed into a leather thong with a red pendant. The Fire of Ares.
‘That’s mine!’ cried Lysander, but no one listened. No one cared.
The scene changed. Lysander found himself beside a cart that carried a linen-shrouded body. His mother. The grave was to one side of the path, a black hole in the earth. Lysander turned back to the cart, and saw that Orpheus and Leonidas had appeared beside the body. They were here to bury his mother.
Orpheus took the head and Leonidas the feet. Lysander wanted to help, but he stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.
Then the shrouded body twitched.
‘Wait!’ shouted Lysander. He tried to stop them from lowering his mother into the grave, but his feet were like ice-cold marble.
The legs of the body were twisting now.
‘She’s alive,’ shouted Lysander. ‘Can’t you see? She’s not dead!’
But Orpheus and Leonidas paid no attention. They carried the writhing body to the edge of the grave. Lysander could feel an iciness climbing up through his chest, where his heart thumped with fear. There wasn’t long left. Orpheus moved to one edge of the grave and Leonidas to the other. The body of his mother, struggling weakly in their grasp, hung above the black hole in the ground.
‘Please!’ Lysander begged. ‘Don’t drop her! She’s alive. Please, you’re my friends!’
Neither Orpheus nor Leonidas looked up. Lysander’s mother disappeared into the blackness.
CHAPTER 1
‘No!’ Lysander shouted. He sat bolt upright in bed, his chest heaving with panic.
‘Shut your mouth, half-breed!’ hissed Demaratos from the other side of the room. Straining his eyes against the gloom, Lysander could make out the shapes of his fellow students huddled beneath their cloaks. They lay in rows on their mattresses of river rushes, one along either wall of the narrow, low-beamed dormitory.
‘Another nightmare?’ mumbled Orpheus sleepily from the bed beside him.
‘Yes,’ whispered Lysander.
‘Quiet!’ ordered Demaratos. ‘Or I’ll give you something to have a nightmare about.’
Lysander lay back on his bed of rushes, waiting for the terror of the dream to seep from his veins.
Wind buffeted the barracks, howling along the walls. Summer was long gone and chill air fell heavily from the mountains. The timbers creaked ominously and somewhere a hatch banged. Lysander pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders and brought his hand up to rest on the pendant that hung from his neck. The Fire of Ares.
Lysander turned over in his bed, trying to get comfortable. Since the early summer, his life had been transformed. Without the family pendant – the red stone mounted in bronze – Lysander would never have learnt the truth. He would not have discovered that his grandfather, Sarpedon, was one of the most powerful men in Sparta; that his father was not a Helot of the fields, but a Spartan warrior, killed before he was even born. For thirteen years his life had been a lie. But his mother had shared the truth with him in the end.
His new existence wasn’t without danger. Lysander would forever be known as the half-breed ‘mothax’ who had stood in the way of rebellion and humiliated the Spartans. He had saved his grandfather from the hands of murderous Helots. Lysander had been victorious at the annual Festival Games. But at what cost? His nightmare told him how easily his victory could have turned to defeat.
Burying his head into his cloak, Lysander recalled the second part of his nightmare, a twisted version of his mother’s funeral. Two days after his victory at the Games, accompanied by his grandfather Sarpedon and his cousin Kassandra, he had made his way to the family tomb on the southern road out of the city. Orpheus and Leonidas hadn’t been there. Nor had there been any party of hired mourners wailing their dirges to the Gods. The death of a Helot woman didn’t merit it. Instead, his mother’s body had ridden on a cart pulled by a single mule.
At the grave site, beside the low marble stone that marked his father’s resting place, the Helots from his mother’s settlement had lowered Athenasia into the ground. Lysander had placed her few possessions on top of the linen: an ivory comb, and a bracelet hung with small iridescent shells.
Now, he felt hot tears on his cheeks and he dug his face further into his cloak, trying to mask his sobs from the rest of the barracks.
‘I miss you,’ Lysander whispered into the night. Then he closed his eyes and tried to sleep again, praying that the nightmares would stay away.
Suddenly the quiet dormitory was filled with the sound of pounding feet. Lysander’s bed was surrounded by dark shadows – tall black shapes against the wall. One was shorter than the others and stood back a little. Lysander scrambled up the bed and pulled his cloak protectively around his shoulders.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked, trying to make out faces in the darkness. Strong hands gripped his ankles and hauled him across the floor. Lysander reached out, trying to find something to grab on to. His attackers dragged him by his feet towards the door, the muscles of his back catching on the packed earth. The other students were awake now, craning round in their beds to see what the commotion was about.
‘What’s all the noise?’ said a sleepy voice.
But only one student left his bed to help – Lysander’s friend, Orpheus. He clambered to his feet and came forward, leaning on his stick.
‘Leave him alone!’ he said.
One of the men pushed him roughly to the floor. ‘Crawl back into your bed, cripple!’ he spat.
Lysander managed to kick free and scrambled to his knees.
‘Don’t touch him!’ He threw himself at the soldier, but a foot slammed into his back and the men closed round him again. A hand grabbed the back of his neck, and a coarse hemp sack was pulled over his head. A cord tied the hood down, biting into his flesh.
Complete darkness. The damp smell of the hemp filled his nostrils and he could feel his breathing become
quick and shallow as panic flooded him. What are they going to do to me? he thought.
Someone punched him in the side of the head and Lysander fell sideways. He collided with another body and that person shouldered him off. Lysander lost his bearings and tripped into something hard – a wall or doorway.
‘He can’t even walk straight,’ mocked a man’s voice.
A final shove sent Lysander out into the cold night air. He stumbled over what must have been the threshold and he fell on to the ground, crying out in pain. He couldn’t put his hands out to break his fall and his head cracked against a rock. Blood trickled down his temple.
‘What do you want?’ he said, his hot breath muffled inside the hood.
‘Keep your mouth shut, half-breed!’ someone said gruffly.
More than one man took hold of his arms and waist and he was hoisted into the air. His hands touched something warm. Coarse short fur bristled beneath his fingers and an animal smell filled his nostrils. A horse. His legs were tugged into position either side of the beast’s back. Feeling the live, twitching animal beneath him brought a cold feeling of dread. Someone mounted in front of him. Unbalanced, Lysander gripped the other rider’s waist. There was a grunt and the horse moved forward.
As they rode, Lysander buried his head against the back of his kidnapper. His mind reeled. Where were they taking him?
He wasn’t sure how long they rode for, but as the horse juddered to a halt, Lysander’s mind suddenly cleared. If he was going to be killed now, he would meet his death bravely. Hands pulled him off the back of the horse and he thumped to the ground on his side. His breath escaped him and panic filled his chest. He tried to suck in some air. The cord was untied and the hood whipped away.
He could see little at first: the stony ground, a few bushes and the dark silhouettes of cloaked figures. A blow to his ear dizzied him, and he sank to the ground.
‘Hold him down!’
The voice was distant. Nothing happened.
‘I said, hold him down!’
The sole of a sandal pressed his face into the dirt. The earth tasted damp and gritty against his lips. Lysander didn’t struggle. He was defenceless. At any moment the blade of a sword would end his life.
It didn’t come.
His eyes had time to adjust to the faint moonlight. At the edges of his vision, Lysander saw thick swathes of cloud sweeping through the blue-black sky. The person pinning Lysander down shifted his weight, relieving the pressure on Lysander’s head. He turned his neck and managed to glimpse the face of his attacker. For a moment the dizziness returned.
This didn’t make any sense.
The figure standing above him looked back. His sandy hair was messy, as though he too had been woken from his bed. He stared at Lysander, his eyes wide with fear. Then the boy shot a glance back at the other men.
‘Sorry,’ he said, unable to look back down at Lysander.
It was Timeon.
CHAPTER 2
Timeon was Lysander’s friend. The boy who had come to the barracks to serve as his slave. They’d known each other for as long as Lysander could remember.
‘Why?’
Timeon didn’t answer. Something wasn’t right. A red graze scored his cheekbone.
‘I didn’t want to …’ he began, his lip trembling, but he was yanked away. Lysander could see some of his attackers more clearly now. The moonlight reflected in their eyes as they stared at him. Their features were set stern like granite. The black cloaks told Lysander exactly who they were. The Krypteia. The Hidden Ones. The Spartan death squads who terrorised the lives of innocent Helots and killed without mercy.
Another familiar face came into view. Diokles. Since the night of the Festival Games, the barracks tutor had given Lysander a wide berth, but he had always suspected that revenge would come. There was no way Diokles would forget the humiliation of being at the mercy of a Helot – he was missing several teeth where a thresher had caught him across the jaw. Diokles crouched beside Lysander and cocked his head to one side. Lysander struggled to hold his gaze as the tutor leant forward. Lysander knew that Diokles was one of the Krypteia.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Lysander. He was ashamed at how weak and small his voice sounded. The look in his tutor’s good eye was as cold as the wind. Diokles sneered.
‘Surely, Lysander, son of Thorakis, you will not suffer such offence?’ He pointed to where Timeon was standing. ‘A Helot’s foot grinding your face into the dirt?’
‘They made me do –’ Timeon blurted out. A hand grabbed him by the throat and dragged him backwards, choking his words out of him.
‘A slave’s foot in the face of a Spartan warrior-in-training?’ Diokles went on. ‘It cannot be tolerated.’
Timeon’s face was turning red as the Spartan continued to squeeze his throat.
‘Don’t hurt him,’ pleaded Lysander.
Diokles chuckled.
‘Oh, I won’t hurt him, boy. But you will.’
Lysander swallowed back the dread that rose in his throat.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
Diokles pushed his thumb hard against the gash on Lysander’s head. Lysander gritted his teeth, determined not to show his pain. Diokles pulled back his hand – the pad of his thumb was smeared in Lysander’s blood.
‘The offence was given to you,’ said his tutor. ‘So you must repay it.’ Understanding washed over Lysander. Diokles’ one good eye glinted coldly. ‘Blood, for blood.’
‘No,’ said Timeon. ‘Please, Lysander, they came to my home, they threatened my family. My mother, my sister Sophia. I had to do what they told me …’
Timeon was thrown to the ground. One of the black-cloaked Spartans kicked him hard in the stomach, forcing Timeon to curl up into a ball. Diokles drew himself up to his full height and spoke more loudly now, addressing Lysander so the rest of the men could hear.
‘A Helot enters a Spartan barracks at night. He drags a Spartan from his bed and humiliates him in front of his peers. I ask you again, Lysander, what will you do about this insult?’
Lysander climbed painfully to his feet and looked at Timeon, who was still sitting hunched on the ground. The five members of the Krypteia stood around, like black crows eyeing carrion in the fields. Lysander didn’t know what was expected of him. He sensed any answer would be the wrong one.
‘I won’t do anything,’ said Lysander quietly. ‘I shall be lenient.’
Diokles barked with laughter. ‘That’s ridiculous! At the very least he must be flogged until his blood soaks into the earth.’
‘No, please …’ whimpered Timeon.
Diokles gave a curt nod to his comrades. One of them seized Timeon by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. He was pushed forward and jostled up a nearby slope. Diokles seized Lysander and dragged him in the same direction. Suddenly Lysander realised where they were – it was the bottom end of the Helot settlement, near where he and his mother used to live. As they came over the crown of the hillock, the low huts of the Helot village came into sight, and the air filled with the sounds of wailing and moans.
Torches lit the way along the tracks between the houses, and Spartan soldiers were standing guard outside the huts.
From the doorway of one, Lysander saw an elderly man fall to the ground, then crawl forward on his hands and knees. Lysander recognised him as Hector, Timeon’s uncle. A Spartan soldier stepped up to him and delivered a blow to his back with the flat side of his sword.
‘Hurry! I don’t have all night.’ An elderly woman stumbled out of the same house. As the moonlight caught her face, Lysander recognised Melantho, Timeon’s aunt.
‘Please, don’t hurt him,’ she pleaded. ‘He’s a harmless farmer.’ Another soldier pushed her to the ground.
All along the pathways between the houses, Helot men were being dragged from their houses and into the streets. The women – mothers, sisters and daughters – rushed about, screaming and crying, and were pushed away.
Timeon was force
d towards a water trough. A horizontal wooden bar at waist level lined the rim of the trough. Diokles shoved Lysander in the back.
‘Put your hands on the post,’ said one of the Spartans. Timeon looked at Lysander, fear crumpling his face as tears streamed down his cheeks. How had it come to this? Half a year before they were boys working in the fields, looking after each other. Now his best friend was being terrorised and there was nothing Lysander could do.
The man beside Timeon thrust an open-handed blow into his midriff and Timeon doubled over, steadying himself with his hands on the wooden bar, and choking for breath. Two of the Krypteia bound his hands to the post.
‘Prepare the others!’ shouted Diokles. As the order was passed down the streets, Lysander saw men being tied to doorposts or lintels. The Spartans standing over Hector pulled him by his arms, his thin knees dragging in the dirt. Timeon’s uncle was lashed to the rim of an upright barrel. The soldiers were readying canes and whips. Revenge was being taken at last. This was payback for the rebellion of two months before. The truth hit Lysander like one of Zeus’s thunderbolts: this was all his doing. He had been the one who persuaded the Helots to go back to their homes that night. He had told them they would not be harmed. No, wait, he thought, my grandfather guaranteed their safety as well. He wouldn’t let this happen.
‘You have to stop this,’ he said to Diokles. ‘Sarpedon promised the Helots that there would be no retribution for their uprising.’
‘The old Ephor said what he needed to so that his throat would not be cut,’ shot back Diokles. The tutor took a polished horn from his belt, and brought it to his lips. He looked at Lysander. ‘Helots don’t dictate the rules to Spartans. We command them, and now it’s time to show them that we are still their masters.’ He blew a signal. A Spartan brought his rod down across Hector’s back. He wailed as he fell to his knees. Another crack sounded further down the street. Moans of pain and cries of anguish swelled to fill the night air. Lysander didn’t need to see each blow to realise what was happening. The whole settlement was being punished.
One of the Krypteia held out a whip to Lysander.