by Michael Ford
‘He wouldn’t let go,’ said Hilarion, as Prokles’ hands began to flail and claw at him. ‘When Nisos’ face started to turn purple, the referee tried to stop the contest, but Agesilaus held firm.’ Prokles’ face was turning red. His smile had turned to a grimace as he fought for breath. ‘Eventually, the referee had to strike Agesilaus several times on the back with his rod before he finally released his brother.’ Hilarion let go of Prokles, who immediately threw himself at the storyteller. Everyone was laughing at the spectacle, and even Lysander smiled. Demaratos and Ariston managed to pull Prokles off the smaller boy.
‘You could have killed me!’ Prokles shouted.
‘You asked,’ grinned Hilarion.
‘Enough,’ said Demaratos. ‘Tell us what happened to Nisos.’
‘He was lying face down on the ground,’ said Hilarion quietly. ‘When they turned him over, there was a lot of blood. The vessels in his nose and eyes had burst. He died there in the dirt. Agesilaus turned away from his brother and went to accept his prize.’
The boys fell silent. Orpheus was first to speak up.
‘And what about Agesilaus? Was he punished?’
‘After Nisos had been carried away,’ said Hilarion, ‘Agesilaus’ father approached his son, his face unreadable. Many thought he would slay his son on the spot. He looked down at Nisos’ blood in the dust, and then placed his hands either side of Agesilaus’ face to look him in the eye.’
‘And?’ said Prokles.
‘He said, “I see I have raised at least one good son” and walked away.’
‘Is that all?’ exclaimed Prokles.
‘That’s all he said,’ replied Hilarion.
Lysander turned away from the group. He tucked the Fire of Ares into his tunic and walked out of the dormitory carrying his sack. He didn’t look back. Lysander was about to go into the mountains with his enemy, Demaratos, and another boy who was a monster. He was to fight for his life, flanked on either side by two people he couldn’t trust. And back in the Helot settlement, his oldest friend lay with flesh ripped apart by Lysander’s own hand. As he stepped outside, he looked up at the mountains that loomed to the west.
‘If the Gods help me,’ he muttered, ‘it’s more than I deserve.’
CHAPTER 4
‘Hurry up!’ ordered Diokles.
Lysander left through the barracks gates, carrying only the canvas sack that hung from his shoulder by a cord. Leonidas and Orpheus came behind him, and the other students followed in a trickle. On the road beyond, which would take them west to the Taygetos Mountains, Sarpedon was waiting. He held the reins of Pegasus, his horse. The stallion swished his tail against his black flanks to ward off flies.
Lysander was surprised to see Kassandra standing beside her grandfather. She was wrapped in a thick woollen sheath dress, embroidered with silver flowers. The breeze ruffled her hair, which hung loosely tied with a gilt clasp. Lysander had thought of his cousin often since the night of the Games, and each time the memory sparked his anger. He had trusted her, but all along she had been meeting Demaratos secretly. He wouldn’t be so naive again. At his approach, her gaze fell to the ground.
Sarpedon beckoned Lysander aside. They walked a few paces away from the crowd.
‘I hope that you appreciate the honour I have shown you, Lysander.’
His grandfather’s face was unreadable.
‘Yes,’ said Lysander, ‘but why must I go with Demaratos? We hate one another.’
‘Listen, my grandson, no man in a red cloak is your enemy. You must learn that. And besides, it will be good for you to leave Sparta for a while,’ he said. He looked over the top of Lysander’s head, straight at Diokles. ‘Away from … influences.’
‘What influences?’
Sarpedon’s face became grave, and he placed a hand on Lysander’s arm.
‘You must understand: the Elders are still nervous after the Festival Games,’ he said. ‘They are embarrassed that a mothax like you was all that stood between the Helots and rebellion. Some even suggest that you were responsible.’
‘But I saved them,’ protested Lysander. He was suddenly angry. ‘And you lied to me. They came after the Helots. They made me lash Timeon.’
For a moment Sarpedon’s grip on his arm tightened, and Lysander was afraid.
‘Of course they did,’ said his grandfather. ‘I am one man, Lysander. And Sparta is made up of many men. That is what makes us great. Don’t forget the honour I have given you by placing you in the agoge.
Timeon is not important.’
‘He’s my best friend!’ said Lysander.
Sarpedon’s expression didn’t change.
‘Timeon was as guilty as the others on that terrible night. His punishment was deserved.’
‘Timeon has lived as a slave his entire life,’ Lysander argued. ‘You could never understand.’
When Sarpedon spoke again, his voice was softer.
‘Perhaps not. But there are protocols that must be followed. Do you think I spared the whip on Strabo?’
‘You found him?’ asked Lysander in amazement. The last time he had seen Sarpedon’s treacherous slave, he was running from the Temple of Ortheia in fear, having threatened his master’s life. Sarpedon jerked his head towards his stallion. Lysander spotted a figure clutching the reins. Strabo. His back was hunched and he looked afraid. A scar extended up his cheek and above his eyebrow, making one eyelid droop in the corner.
‘He came back to me in the end,’ said Sarpedon. ‘He begged forgiveness for his treachery and insolence. I made sure he knew the price of that mercy.’
‘Assemble yourselves in marching order,’ shouted Diokles. ‘Three columns.’
As the boys jostled into position, Lysander stared at the cowed, twisted figure by the horse. Whatever fire had been in Strabo’s heart was clearly extinguished. Sarpedon had once granted Strabo his freedom and employed him as head of his household, but now he was nothing but a slave again, with a life of hard toil ahead.
‘Anyway,’ said Sarpedon, ‘there were other reasons for the mass punishment. We cannot risk another uprising, not now …’ His words trailed off. ‘Take your place in the line.’ Lysander’s grandfather seemed to hesitate, before continuing. ‘The Ordeal is hard. It is harder still if you don’t have courage. Remember all you have learnt, obey Agesilaus, and work together. No boy can face the Ordeal on his own. You will need your compatriots. May the Gods watch over you all.’
Lysander nodded, but Sarpedon had already turned back to Pegasus.
‘Hurry up!’ shouted Diokles. ‘The mountains will wait for ever, but I will not.’
Lysander took his place at the rear of the line – he didn’t want to march with Demaratos. He needed time to think.
As he swung his bag over his shoulder, Kassandra appeared at his side.
‘What do you want?’ said Lysander, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
‘I wanted … I came to say thank you,’ she said. ‘You saved my grandfather’s life on the night of the Festival Games.’ She reached out a hand and her fingers brushed Lysander’s arm. ‘You saved my life too.’ Lysander pulled away.
‘March!’ ordered Diokles from the front. The columns moved off in unison. Lysander was glad to leave Kassandra behind. But then she was by his side again, jogging to keep up with the pace of the students.
‘Why don’t you go and trot along next to Demaratos,’ said Lysander. ‘You and he are together, aren’t you?’
Kassandra was breathing heavily and spoke in a rush.
‘Demaratos’s family and my own have been close for many generations. My mother was a cousin of his father. That’s how Spartan hierarchies work. I must be civil with Demaratos. It is the Spartan tradition.’
‘I’m tired of Spartan tradition,’ said Lysander. ‘It seems to be an excuse to treat others badly.’
‘The choice isn’t mine to make,’ said Kassandra. ‘I’ve lived my whole life knowing that I’ll one day be married to Demaratos.’
Lysander snorted. ‘But do you care for him, too?’
Kassandra sighed, and shot a glance back towards where Sarpedon was waiting.
‘He’s better than you think,’ she said. ‘He fears you, that’s all.’
Fears me? thought Lysander. She couldn’t know how awful Demaratos really was in the barracks. She couldn’t see his arrogance.
‘Look –’ she was panting now. ‘Take this.’ Lysander felt a bag pushed into his hand. ‘It’s dried meat,’ said his cousin. The gift took Lysander by surprise. It was a simple leather pouch tied with a piece of twine.
‘We aren’t allowed anything but bread,’ he said.
‘Please, take it. It might just save your life.’
Reluctantly, Lysander loosened the mouth of his sack and slipped the pouch inside. He started to thank his cousin, but she was no longer by his side. Lysander looked round and saw she had slowed to a walk. Her eyes pleaded with him.
She wants to know that I’ve forgiven her, he thought to himself. Very well. Lysander nodded once, then turned back to his march. The dust swirled around his shoulders. When he looked round a second time, she had gone.
They marched through the middle of the day. A few of the boys had grumbled, but Diokles insisted it was good training for warfare. ‘The heat of the autumn sun doesn’t dictate to Spartans!’ he’d said.
They took the road between the Spartan villages of Kynosaura and Mesoa, passing the huge single-storey barracks and dining messes where Spartan men lived and trained. The mountains, tinged blue in the distance, were tipped with white snow.
As they marched past a series of carpentry workshops a low thundering came from up ahead.
‘Off the road!’ commanded Diokles from the front of the columns.
Around the corner appeared a squadron of red-cloaked soldiers, carrying shields and spears held vertically. The men held their shoulders back and Lysander could see the muscles that bulged in their arms from a lifetime’s training. Lysander broke ranks with the other boys and scattered out of the way as the soldiers charged past. They left the air heavy with dust clouds and the smell of stale sweat. It was a sight Lysander and the others saw every day outside the barracks – a reminder of the mighty Spartan army. A reminder also of Lysander’s future: he would live in barracks as a soldier until the age of thirty.
Leaving the villages behind, they were soon surrounded by Spartan farmland. The boys threaded their way between the low, filthy Helot settlements, where the smells of human waste mingled with that of the animals that lived around them. Lysander had left his life of poverty, but he knew that for the rest of the Helots there was no hope of escape.
It was late into the afternoon by the time the boys reached the foothills of the mountains, where shepherds’ paths cut through the low undergrowth up into the hills. They hadn’t eaten all day, and Lysander felt a hollow ache in his stomach.
‘Halt!’ ordered Diokles.
The boys fell out of line. The tutor glanced towards the mountains. The sky was clear. He stood before Demaratos and Lysander with Agesilaus by his side, his green eyes twinkling with malevolence.
‘Let me check your sacks,’ said Diokles. ‘No food is permitted besides a ration of bread.’
Demaratos handed his sack to Diokles, Agesilaus took Lysander’s. As the bags were searched, Lysander willed the older boy not to see the pouch of meat. But how could he miss it? Eventually, Agesilaus sneered and pulled out Lysander’s leather sling.
‘What’s this?’ he said.
Diokles peered over.
‘A reminder from his days as a Helot, I think!’
‘The wolves will be afraid,’ joked Agesilaus. He dropped the sling back in Lysander’s bag. The meat was safe.
Diokles took down three water flasks that hung from his shoulder. One was smaller than the others, and he gave this one to Agesilaus.
‘Don’t waste this,’ said the tutor. ‘Keep it until you are desperate. Agesilaus is used to the Ordeal, so he won’t need as much.’
The older boy smiled.
‘It is time to say your farewells, Spartans,’ said Diokles. ‘Agesilaus is your leader up there. Obey him, or face my wrath.’
Lysander turned to see the other students watching them. All faces were serious.
Lysander looked away. He didn’t want the Gods to be on his side. The need to punish himself for what he had done to Timeon was overwhelming. The image of his friend’s bloodied back flashed into Lysander’s mind. He hurried over to Leonidas.
‘I wish you good luck,’ said Leonidas.
‘Friend, I’d like you to do something for me,’ Lysander said.
‘Anything,’ replied Leonidas.
Lysander lifted the leather thong from around his neck. The red stone of the Fire of Ares glimmered. He held it out to Leonidas.
‘Give this to Timeon. He knows what it means to me. Tell him I’m truly sorry.’
Leonidas gripped the pendant and gave a quick nod.
‘Enough!’ shouted Diokles. ‘It’s time to face the Ordeal.’
Lysander stepped forward with Demaratos.
‘Are you ready?’ asked the tutor.
Agesilaus held out his fist between them and stared at Demaratos. He clenched his hand and brought it down to rest on top of the older boy’s. Now they both switched their gazes to Lysander. Reluctantly, he curled his own hand into a fist and placed it on top of Demaratos’s. The crowd of boys gave a massive cheer.
‘One more thing,’ said Diokles. ‘Your cloaks – hand them over.’
‘What?’ said Demaratos. ‘It’s freezing in the mountains.’
‘Take them off!’ shouted Diokles.
Lysander obeyed, unhooking his cloak and handing it to the tutor. He felt vulnerable without the wool next to his skin. Demaratos did the same. Lysander could see wisps of cloud streaking the peaks above. Though the sun was shining now, it would be bitterly cold once it fell below the horizon.
‘Follow me,’ ordered Agesilaus, turning to face the steep climb into the hills. Lysander took a last look at the other students, and then fell into step behind their guide.
Will I ever see my barracks again? he wondered. The boys behind them called out good luck and Lysander raised a hand in farewell without looking back.
His future lay in the mountains.
Agesilaus led the way up the path. Lysander did his best to keep up, despite the burning in his calves. He could hear Demaratos breathing heavily with the effort of climbing. The other boy’s body leant slightly to one side as he heaved himself up the mountainside and Lysander realised that his recent shoulder injury must already be making things difficult for him.
The slope became steeper. Finally, they reached a small ridge, where Agesilaus took a sip from his flask. I’ll save mine, thought Lysander. He had no idea how thirsty he might get over the coming days and it was too early to start using up his precious supplies. Looking back down the mountain, he could see Diokles and the neat rows of Spartans, no more than red specks now, marching back to the barracks. Dusk was approaching, and the wind had picked up, gusting down the mountainside. The sweat on Lysander’s back made him shiver.
‘We should find some shelter,’ said Lysander. ‘Before it gets too dark.’
‘Shut your mouth, Helot,’ said Agesilaus. ‘I’m leading this group.’
Demaratos turned and smirked.
They climbed higher as night fell. Lysander could feel blisters forming across his toes, making his foot throb with every step. The wind was constant, numbing the side of his face. He placed his hands under his armpits to try and warm them.
Agesilaus stopped ahead. ‘That’s far enough for today.’ He pointed to a shallow dip between several hills. Stunted olive trees formed a small copse. ‘Let’s rest down there, under those trees. It will be out of the wind.’
‘When do we eat?’ asked Lysander as they descended from the ridge.
‘Can’t you last half a day without food?’ sneered Demaratos. ‘You’re p
athetic!’
‘You’re the one stuffing your face in the dining hall every day,’ replied Lysander.
‘Quiet, you two!’ yelled Agesilaus. ‘It’s too late to hunt. We’ll find some food at sunrise.’
To Lysander’s relief, the small olive grove was sheltered from the wind, though the piercing cold of night was already working its way into his bones.
‘Shall we light a fire?’ he asked. He had a flint in his sack, and there was plenty of tinder about.
‘We’ll manage without,’ said Agesilaus. ‘The flames will attract wild animals.’
‘You know nothing,’ Demaratos told Lysander. ‘You’ll get us all killed before the Ordeal has even started.’
‘Neither of you know anything,’ corrected Agesilaus. Demaratos’s smile slipped away. ‘You think life in the barracks is hard? You wait: the Ordeal is ten times as bad. You’ll be so hungry soon that you’d chew the leather of your sandals.’
Lysander thought of the meat in his sack – he’d save that for when he was truly desperate.
‘Your bones will feel cold enough to shatter like ice,’ said Agesilaus. ‘I’ve been here before, I know.’
‘We should try to build a shelter,’ said Lysander.
Agesilaus snorted.
‘You really are hopeless. What are you going to build this shelter with?’
Lysander looked around. Agesilaus was right. Besides a few fragments of dead wood, there was nothing.
The older boy scrambled up a gnarled olive tree, settling into a natural seat where the branches sprouted from the trunk.
‘At least I’ll still be alive in the morning,’ he sneered. ‘Nothing can get me up here.’
Lysander saw another tree with a hollow and darted over to it, but Demaratos got there first and pulled himself up into the branches.
‘This one’s mine, half-breed. Find another.’
Lysander walked some distance away, but no other trees were suitable. In the end he sat at the base of a trunk and hugged his knees to his chest. He’d never felt so alone.
Night fell swiftly, and the colour of the landscape leached away as the sky faded from dark blue to black. Noises started gradually. First it was only a rustle, making Lysander sit up, alert. Then sounds came from all around. It was impossible to tell where any of the noises were coming from or how far away they were. Was that whispering? Don’t be foolish! he scolded himself. It’s only the wind in the trees.