by Michael Ford
‘Take it!’ ordered Diokles.
Lysander looked at the instrument of punishment.
Timeon was shivering with fear now, his eyes shifting from Diokles to Lysander. Diokles snatched the whip and thrust it into Lysander’s hand.
The tightly-bound leather weighed heavy in his hand. Lysander knew all too well the damage it could do. He was no stranger to the bite of a whip against his own back. There were knots tied along the length of the leather, designed to tear open skin.
‘He’s my friend. I can’t do it.’
Diokles seized the back of Lysander’s neck and pushed his face towards the water trough. He spat into the water beside Lysander.
‘Your friend? He’s a Helot. You’re a Spartan. He’s not your friend. He’s your property.’ Timeon’s face was reflected in the still water. ‘I knew you were trouble from the start. Let’s see what your precious pendant can do for you now, shall we?’
Lysander was trapped. For a moment his eyes caught Timeon’s glance in the trough water. What could he do?
Timeon gazed at Lysander. Then he gave a small nod.
He’s giving me permission, thought Lysander. It felt as though his heart would break. He couldn’t believe that his friend had to go through this humiliation in order to save Lysander. Anger surged through him and he threw down the whip at Diokles’ feet.
‘I won’t do it!’ he shouted. ‘Punish me, instead.’
The tutor’s eye widened, but then he grinned. He stooped and picked up the whip. He nodded in the direction of the huts, where Lysander could still hear the regular crack of whips and the groans of pain. Diokles’ eye narrowed to a slit.
‘That won’t end until you do your duty as a Spartan.’
His duty. So this was it.
‘Whip Timeon and it will stop,’ said Diokles in his ear.
So I can end this, thought Lysander, but at what cost?
‘Do it!’ shouted Timeon. ‘Just do it.’
With a trembling hand, Lysander took the handle of the whip from Diokles. He pulled back his arm, letting the leather uncoil to the ground.
‘May the Gods forgive me,’ he whispered. With a flick of his wrist, he brought the lash down across Timeon’s back.
His friend let out a cry of agony, and Lysander saw his knuckles tighten on the post.
‘It gets easier after the first,’ shouted one of the Spartans, and the others laughed.
His friend gave another nod. Lysander swung the whip again. And again. Timeon writhed with every blow. On the fifth stroke, something wet splattered across Lysander’s face. It was his friend’s blood. Timeon moaned, but his eyes met Lysander’s once again. Pain had forced a glistening sheen of sweat to his skin. Lysander lost count of the strokes. His own muscles burned as he drew back his arm time after time. Finally he heard Diokles blow the horn once again. The sounds of the flogging were replaced by that of weeping. Lysander’s own face was wet with tears. One of the Krypteia drew his dagger and cut Timeon’s bonds. His friend slumped to the earth.
A small group of women emerged from between the huts of the settlement.
‘Timeon?’ said a female voice unsurely. One girl had broken away from the group. It was Sophia, Timeon’s younger sister. ‘Brother! Timeon!’ she cried as she fell to her knees, throwing her arms around him. Timeon groaned softly, his eyes only half open. Sophia looked down at her hands, now covered in blood. Her look of grief vanished when she caught sight of Lysander. Her face registered puzzlement, then horror. Lysander was speechless and light-headed. How could this be happening? How could he explain?
Diokles took the whip from Lysander’s hands.
‘Your father would have been proud of you today,’ he said with a tight smile.
As the horse thundered back towards the barracks, the Fire of Ares knocked against Lysander’s chest. The pendant felt more like a curse than a talisman. It was the symbol of his ties not only to his father, but to Sparta. A place that thrived on the blood and sweat of Helot slaves.
The other boys at the barracks were lined up outside. They must have been told what had happened. Lysander dismounted and made his way towards the entrance, head bowed.
‘Welcome back Lysander!’ shouted Diokles. ‘The Earth Goddess was thirsty for Helot blood, and he poured her a fine offering tonight.’
Lysander felt his fists clench, but he didn’t look back. A few of the boys slapped him on the back, murmuring words of encouragement.
Orpheus alone, leaning heavily on his stick, stepped out of the crowd. He hobbled forward and placed a hand on Lysander’s shoulder.
‘Are you all right, Lysander?’
He stopped and faced his friend.
‘Haven’t you heard? I’m one of you now. A true Spartan.’
Lysander turned and walked inside.
CHAPTER 3
‘You have to eat, Lysander,’ said Orpheus as they sat in the main hall of the barracks at the long table. Boys along the benches on either side were chattering through mouthfuls of food. A handful of Helot slaves waited patiently along the wall, ready to receive instructions. Lysander’s friend, Leonidas, looked up from his food – he hadn’t spoken to Lysander all day. He probably doesn’t know what to say, Lysander thought. Leonidas was the second son of one of Sparta’s two Kings. Only the first-born was spared the agoge, the barracks upbringing.
Lysander stared at the bowl of lentils in front of him. He had washed the dried blood from his face and hands several times since that morning. Even after the water ran clear, he still felt stained.
‘Those Helots deserved what they got,’ said Prokles from further down the table. ‘We couldn’t let them go unpunished.’ Others nodded in agreement.
‘I wish I had been there,’ said Ariston. ‘Diokles says the streets ran with blood.’ A fist of guilt closed tightly over Lysander’s heart. He felt sickened by what he’d done to his friend.
‘You had to do it,’ said Leonidas from across the table – quietly, so that his voice would pass unheeded beneath the din. ‘If the whip hadn’t been in your hand, one of the Krypteia would have lashed Timeon. And harder too.’
This didn’t make Lysander feel much better. It sounded like a coward’s argument. Lysander still had doubts about the prince’s bravery. After all, Leonidas hadn’t come to Lysander’s aid when the Krypteia dragged him from his bed.
‘Have you heard any news of him?’ Lysander asked softly.
Neither of his friends answered, so he reached across the table and laid a hand on the prince’s arm.
‘Leonidas, is Timeon recovering?’
Leonidas swallowed and eventually looked Lysander in the eye.
‘The word among the Helots is that he’s being cared for at the settlement by his family. They won’t say much more.’ Leonidas paused. ‘It doesn’t look good.’
A groan escaped Lysander’s lips, and he buried his head in his hands.
‘You should go and visit him, Lysander,’ Orpheus said. ‘We can make excuses for you with Diokles.’
Lysander swallowed back tears, and looked up at Orpheus. What’s stopping me? he asked himself. Timeon’s my oldest friend.
‘You’re right!’ he said. ‘I will go. I’ll tell him how sorry I am, explain that I had no choice …’
Even as he spoke, Lysander imagined Timeon’s wounds, leaking blood through whatever dirty dressings his mother had found. He pictured the look of betrayal in his friend’s eyes. Lysander’s confidence evaporated.
‘I can’t …’ he said. ‘Not yet.’
‘The sooner you go and see him, the better you’ll both feel,’ said Orpheus.
Lysander knew it was true, but the thought of seeing Timeon terrified him. His guilt rested on his shoulders like a yoke, and he didn’t have the strength to throw it off. There was more to courage than facing your enemies. Facing your friends could be worse.
He pushed his wooden dish away. Climbing over the bench he walked towards the door. Diokles stepped into the room and barred his
path.
‘Our punisher!’ he said loudly, a smile spreading across his face. ‘Your right arm did Sparta proud this morning.’
A few boys cheered, and Diokles continued. ‘Take your seats, everyone. I have news.’
Lysander reluctantly returned to the bench beside Orpheus. He heard the boy called Hilarion whisper, ‘What’s happening?’ No one ventured an answer.
Diokles stood at the top of the table, leaning his weight on his massive fists. The tutor’s dark beard was freshly trimmed, but his eye patch was the same piece of brown leather as always. He stared at them with his one good eye as they settled.
‘Sparta is the greatest State in Greece, and her men are the strongest. That is why we take you from your parents at seven years. Not like those chubby Athenians who grow up in their mothers’ bosoms, learning to sew clothes. You boys have been in Spartan training for six years now. Some – the weak – have died. Their deaths are testament to your will and determination. Now it is time for you to become young men. You must prove yourselves in the mountains.’
Lysander felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.
‘You will be sent into the Taygetos Mountains in pairs,’ boomed Diokles, his eyes scanning the boys. ‘There you must survive for five nights using only your wits, your strength and your will. They say the snows are coming early this year, and icy winds blow from the north. Food is scarce. You will drink from the rivers and eat only what you can catch with your bare hands.’ He looked towards the doorway. ‘Solon! Enter!’
Lysander turned with the others as a stocky young man entered. He wore a red cloak and limped forward. His black hair was short and tightly curled. A deep pink scar ran down from his forehead, over his closed left eye. Half of his nose was torn away, and his top lip forked in two. His front teeth were missing as well.
‘Solon is approaching the age of manhood,’ said Diokles. ‘The injuries you see were suffered on his Ordeal five summers ago. Tell them, Solon.’
The visitor stepped forward beside Diokles.
‘I was looking for food when it happened.’ His voice was slurred because of his disfigurement. ‘It was the fourth day, and I was in the forest when I heard what sounded like a puppy mewling. I followed the sound until I came to a tree. There was a hollow in the base of the trunk and, as I peered closer, I could see animals squirming in the darkness. You get so hungry in the mountains, you’ll eat anything: leaves, moss, even the bark from trees. I fell to my knees and thrust my hand into the hole. I grabbed one of the creatures by the hind legs and pulled it out: a fat little piglet. Hunger drove me wild – I couldn’t wait to skewer the tender meat over a fire. I would have eaten it still dripping with blood. Then I heard another noise behind me, and pain ripped through my leg. I turned to see a huge sow with sharp yellow tusks. Her teeth had gone through my ankle tendon as though it were soft cheese. Then she came for my face.’ Lysander heard a whimper from among the students. ‘That’s the last thing I remember.’
Lysander’s heart was beating fast, and he felt sick.
‘Leave us, Solon,’ said Diokles. ‘And bear your injuries with pride, like a true Spartan.’ Solon gave a small bow and left. The students were silent, their faces pale.
‘You will live like animals,’ said Diokles. ‘There are dangers besides wild beasts that can tear you apart: loose rocky cliffs, bitter cold, poisonous plants. This is the test of a Spartan.’ Diokles stared straight at Lysander. ‘Those who are weak and do not pass, shame their families by their failure and death.’
The door to the dining hall creaked open. It was Sarpedon! Lysander had not seen his grandfather since the awful night of the Festival Games, when the old man had been humiliated at the hands of the Helots. Lysander remembered Sarpedon on his knees, bleeding from a cut to his head, his grey hair dishevelled and his tunic torn. Only his eyes had retained their dignity, showing no fear of the blade that was held to his throat by his own treacherous slave, Strabo.
Now he stood with his shoulders pulled back, the tallest man in the room, with his red cloak immaculate and his silver hair carefully tied back. Lysander smiled, but his grandfather did not acknowledge the greeting. What could Lysander expect? Sarpedon was an Ephor, one of the most powerful men in Sparta. Far too important to acknowledge a grandson. His duty to the State came before any love for his family.
Diokles gave a shallow bow of the head as Sarpedon greeted him, then he stepped back to allow the Ephor to address the room.
‘Spartans,’ Sarpedon began in his deep, gravelled tones. ‘Your tutor has told you it is time to face the Ordeal. Before the next full moon, you will all be tested, but I am here to select the first pairing to enter the wilderness.’
A low murmuring passed along the table.
‘Who do you think it will be?’ Hilarion asked his neighbour. ‘I hope it’s not …’
‘Quiet!’ boomed Sarpedon.
Lysander was sure he would not be chosen. It was a great honour to be picked first, and surely Sarpedon couldn’t be seen to choose his own grandson for such a privilege.
‘The first two,’ said Sarpedon, ‘will be the winners at the Festival Games, Lysander and Demaratos.’
Everyone in the room gasped. All the other students looked at Lysander with a mixture of amazement and envy. All apart from one. Standing between Ariston and Prokles, and taller by a handspan, Demaratos stared at him with unconcealed hatred. His eyes were as black as his cropped hair.
‘How could they pair me with my hated enemy?’ Lysander muttered under his breath. Since the night of the Games, they had barely spoken. Demaratos’s dislocated shoulder had been slow to heal, and he massaged it now, all the time holding Lysander’s gaze. He had fallen awkwardly during their wrestling match at the Games, and had been forced to withdraw. Demaratos could not forgive Lysander for this injury. Lysander could not forgive Demaratos for stealing the Fire of Ares, when he and his cronies had attacked Lysander in a side street.
‘But …’ Demaratos stood up and started to object.
‘Silence!’ shouted Diokles. ‘How dare you interrupt an Ephor!’
Demaratos shrank back beside Prokles and Ariston. Sarpedon continued.
‘The winners of the Games will be rewarded with five days’ rest in the mountains,’ he smiled. ‘Don’t fear. You will not be alone. Each pair is accompanied by one of the ephebes, who will make sure life is not too … leisurely.’
Lysander had forgotten that there would be an older boy with them. An ephebos was the name given to a student on the cusp of manhood, one who had reached eighteen years.
‘Demaratos and Lysander will be guided by Agesilaus.’ The name meant nothing to Lysander. ‘Enter!’
A heavy-set young man walked into the room and took his place beside Sarpedon. His appearance was unusual for a Spartan. His hair was pale yellow, almost white, and his eyes were vivid green like a cat’s. One of his forearms was covered with scar tissue, pink, shiny and hairless. Lysander had spotted him once or twice before, training with the older boys from a nearby barracks. He didn’t speak, but his eyes gazed out at Lysander with cold ferocity. Lysander suppressed a shiver.
‘Fetch your cloaks,’ said Sarpedon, ‘and gather outside.’
His grandfather turned and strode out of the room with Agesilaus following close behind. The students scrambled from their seats and poured through the door. As he was leaving, Lysander heard Demaratos speaking with Diokles.
‘How can I go into the mountains?’ he said under his breath. ‘My shoulder – it isn’t properly healed.’ He pulled aside his tunic. A pale green bruise still covered the area where the joint had become dislocated.
‘It is called the Ordeal, because you must suffer,’ said Diokles coldly. ‘There will be no special treatment.’ As Lysander walked past, Demaratos gave him an icy stare. ‘If you’re lucky, you’ll escape with your lives. If not, you deserved to die anyway.’
In the dormitory, Orpheus held out a hemp sack to Lysander.
‘Make
sure you take a blanket – it’ll be freezing up there,’ he said.
‘They won’t let you take a blanket,’ sneered Demaratos from across the room. ‘You take your cloak, and that’s it. No weapons, no food.’
Nevertheless, Lysander opened the wooden chest beside his bed, and took out his sling. He dropped it into the sack, along with a thin blanket, the only one he had.
‘Take this as well,’ said Leonidas, reaching into his own box. He offered Lysander a leather pouch. Inside were two stones.
‘What are these?’ asked Lysander.
‘One’s a flint,’ said Leonidas. ‘The other is a stone containing iron. Striking the flint on the stone will create a spark. Hopefully, there’ll be some dry tinder in the mountain to light a fire.’
‘Thanks,’ said Lysander. ‘I still can’t believe Sarpedon picked me.’
‘The Gods are smiling on you,’ said his friend. ‘I was praying the Ephor would choose me.’
‘You’ll have your chance,’ said Lysander. He wanted to say more, but there was a commotion further down the room. A few of the boys had gathered at the end of the dormitory, where the joker of the barracks, Hilarion, was talking.
‘Have you heard the stories about Agesilaus?’ said Hilarion loudly. ‘I can tell you a true story about Agesilaus and his brother Nisos.’ Lysander gathered his cloak around his shoulders and joined the back of the group. Everyone was listening to Hilarion’s tale. ‘In a barracks tournament one year, the brothers were drawn against each other in a wrestling match. Their father was one of the Council, and told them both to make him proud. The match was long and violent. Neither wanted to admit defeat. Nisos broke Agesilaus’ ankle, but he fought on. Finally Agesilaus managed to get a stranglehold on his brother as they lay grappling on the ground.’
‘What sort of hold?’ asked Prokles.
‘I’ll show you,’ said Hilarion. He pulled Prokles towards him. ‘Sit down.’
Prokles was grinning and did as he was told. Hilarion sat behind him, and wrapped both legs around Prokles’ waist. He looped his arm around Prokles’ neck and leant backwards.