by Michael Ford
‘Help me!’ he shouted, not caring that raw fear filled his voice. He heaved himself upwards, until his chest was level with the edge of the ledge, but he didn’t have the strength in his arms to pull himself any higher. He sank back, defeated. ‘Please! Somebody! Agesilaus!’
Come on! he told himself. An image flashed before his eyes: Agesilaus telling Sarpedon that he had died in the mountains, that he wasn’t tough enough to prove himself. You’re not going to die here! He took a deep breath and felt strength pulse into his arms and hands. He let out a cry through gritted teeth and pulled with all his might. A fraction at a time, he dragged his body upwards, until he got an elbow on to the ledge. It was enough. His other elbow followed as he hauled his body over the edge. He lay on his back, breathing hard, his heart knocking in his chest. His ribs were sore to touch, and he hoped he hadn’t broken one of them. He put a hand to his cheek. The skin was grazed and already feeling bruised beneath. Other than that, only his fingertips, torn with trying to stop his descent, and his bloody knees and feet were evidence of how close death had been. Any further to the left, and the ledge would not have saved him. Above him, the eagle circled in the blue sky.
Lysander waited for his breathing to return to normal. Then he climbed stiffly to his feet and began to pick the peppermint leaves, one by one.
Lysander arrived back at the shelter to find Agesilaus sitting on a rock, chewing on a strip of dried meat.
‘Your feet look sore,’ he smirked, throwing Lysander’s sandals at him. ‘This is delicious, by the way.’
‘Where’s Demaratos?’ asked Lysander, bending to fasten the sandals on to his bloody and filthy feet. He couldn’t afford to use his water to wash them.
‘I sent him to get firewood,’ said Agesilaus. ‘Here he comes now.’
Demaratos emerged from the trees near their shelter, walking slowly with a handful of sticks clutched to his chest. They clattered to the ground when he saw Lysander.
‘You treacherous swine!’ he shouted. Demaratos came running at Lysander and tackled him in the middle with his shoulder, knocking him into the dirt. Then he pounded Lysander with tight fists, punches landing in Lysander’s face and on his chest. Lysander lowered his elbow to protect his ribs and tried to ward off the blows to his face with his other arm.
‘How dare you keep food from us!’ shouted Demaratos. ‘I’ll tear you apart.’
Lysander bucked and managed to throw Demaratos off. His enemy didn’t move. He feels as weak as me, thought Lysander.
‘I was going to share it!’ he shouted back. ‘I was saving it for when we were desperate.’
‘No, you weren’t,’ said Demaratos. ‘You would have eaten it all. You only care about yourself!’
Lysander was too angry to say anything. Instead, he stood up slowly and fetched his sack from where it lay on the ground. He took out the peppermint leaves and threw them at Demaratos’s feet.
‘If I only cared about myself,’ he shouted, ‘why have I just risked my life to bring you these?’ Demaratos looked at the leaves silently, and then at Lysander. ‘Kassandra tried to tell me you weren’t a vicious thug. But she was wrong.’
Demaratos’s eyes fell to the ground.
‘Chew them,’ said Lysander in disgust. ‘They’ll settle your stomach. I’ll go and get the rest of the firewood before the sun sets.’
‘No, you won’t,’ said Agesilaus, swallowing a last mouthful of meat. ‘It’s Demaratos’s task, and he’s failed. There’s not enough kindling there to warm an infant. We won’t have a fire tonight.’
Lysander was past caring. He watched Demaratos scrabbling in the dirt, trying to rescue the crushed peppermint. His fury began to ease. Is this what it meant to be a Spartan? Turning on each other like animals, ready to fight like scavengers over scraps of food?
Lysander turned away from the boy on his knees and the older Spartan who laughed at them. He leant his head back and rubbed his knuckles into his sore eyes. Then he walked away, desperate for a few moments away from his mountain compatriots. If I survive this, he told himself, I swear I’ll never suffer such indignities again. After everything he had endured as a Helot slave, this was worse. This was as bad as it got.
Morning brought back the pain. As soon as he opened his eyes Lysander felt nausea squirm in his stomach. He was going to be sick. He managed to scrabble a few paces away from where the other boys slept before retching. Nothing came but a gagging cough and a thin trickle of bitter yellow bile. After a few more convulsions, Lysander climbed to his feet and inspected his body in the pale light. A huge bruise, angry purple, spread under his chest on the left side. Part of it was spongy to the touch, definitely broken.
‘Feeling hungry?’ said Agesilaus behind him.
Demaratos, too, had stirred, and was looking at Agesilaus with a mixture of pleading and anger, as the older Spartan took out another piece of meat and held it under his nostrils.
‘It smells very good,’ he said, inhaling deeply. ‘I want to give you your day’s ration, but first you have to earn it. Show me what you’ve learnt in the barracks.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Lysander.
‘Well, you can start with some wrestling,’ said Agesilaus. ‘They say that Diokles isn’t as tough as he once was. They say he’s going soft on you youngsters.’
Demaratos and Lysander shared a panicked glance. Lysander knew how weak he was feeling – surely Demaratos was the same.
‘You want us to wrestle each other?’ said Demaratos quietly.
‘That’s right,’ said the older boy. ‘The winner gets this.’ He held up the piece of meat. Lysander couldn’t take his eyes from it. He would do anything for some food now, and even wondered if he could snatch it from Agesilaus’ hands. He could run away, devour it and deal with the consequences later. But that was impossible. Agesilaus still looked strong and able – he was coping fine with the Ordeal.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Demaratos, and flashed a look at Lysander.
Lysander knew he had no choice. ‘Very well,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Agesilaus, smiling. ‘The first to submit is the loser.’
Demaratos climbed slowly to his feet, never taking his gaze from Lysander. He was stood on slightly higher ground and already had an advantage. The look in his eyes reminded Lysander of a wild animal – focused and dangerous. Lysander longed to have the Fire of Ares hanging around his neck. He thought of the inscription written on the reverse. The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous. He needed that strength now. There was no way he could beat Demaratos – his bones felt fragile and his limbs sapped of energy.
Demaratos darted forward, and Lysander managed to skip out of his grasp, but an arm caught his rib, making his head spin. He held his hand to his side. A spark of annoyance flared. They circled, and now Lysander stood further up the slope.
‘It’s like watching two girls fighting,’ said Agesilaus from his perch.
Demaratos came forward again, and this time he managed to get his hands around Lysander’s waist. With a heave, Lysander felt his body lifted off the ground. He let out a cry, but there was nothing he could do. Demaratos threw him to the ground on his back, jarring his spine and knocking his breath out of him. The pain in his rib threatened to make him black out. Demaratos was already sitting at his feet, and had Lysander’s leg threaded between his own. He gripped Lysander’s foot with his hand. Lysander realised he was trying to apply the lock that Diokles had taught them.
‘I think this might be the end for you, Lysander,’ came Agesilaus’ voice.
Lysander had to do something – fast. He kicked at Demaratos’s head, but he couldn’t free himself. Demaratos found his grip and tightened the lock. Pain shot through Lysander’s knee and ankle as Demaratos twisted his foot. There was only one chance left … With his free leg, Lysander aimed a kick at Demaratos’s shoulder – the one he’d dislocated on the night of the Festival Games. His heel crunched home.
‘Helot dog!’ Demaratos cried. Lysand
er felt his grip loosen. It was just enough. He pulled the foot free and aimed another kick, this time at Demaratos’s face. It connected with his chin. Demaratos’s jaw gave a crunching sound and he collapsed backwards. He was unconscious. Lysander stood over him. Blood trickled from Demaratos’s mouth.
What have I done? thought Lysander.
A slow clapping noise came from behind. Agesilaus was climbing down from his rock.
‘I’m impressed, Lysander,’ he said. ‘You exploited Demaratos’s weakness. That sort of determination and cunning will stand you in good stead on the battlefield. My tutor used to tell me: all is not lost until the blood runs cold in a Spartan’s veins.’ He tossed a piece of the dried meat at Lysander’s feet. Lysander didn’t care about the dust. He sank to his knees and grabbed the pork, stuffing it into his mouth. The salty tang tasted delicious – Lysander had never known something could taste so good. At first, he swallowed without chewing, but the meat would not last long and he knew he would soon be hungry again. He forced himself to savour the last precious bites.
Agesilaus bent over Demaratos and gave him a sharp slap to the side of the head. The sound echoed away across the hills. Demaratos groaned and opened his eyes groggily. When he saw Lysander with the food, the disappointment was written in his eyes. Lysander swallowed, and his throat burned. He felt his face flush with shame.
‘Here,’ he said, tearing off a piece of meat and holding it out to Demaratos. ‘Take this.’
Demaratos stared in disbelief at the gift, but then snatched at the meat as though worried that Lysander might take back the offer.
‘Thank you,’ he said hesitantly. The words clearly didn’t come easily to him. Agesilaus glared at the two of them.
‘I was wrong about you, Lysander. You’re no Spartan, after all. Your heart is soft.’ He turned away in disgust, but Demaratos shared a secret smile with Lysander and Lysander found himself smiling back. He reached out a hand and helped Demaratos to his feet. For the first time since entering the barracks, Lysander and Demaratos stood eye-to-eye and neither of them turned away.
‘I may have a soft heart,’ Lysander muttered as he gazed after the older boy, ‘but I have the sense to spy an enemy.’
‘Me too,’ said Demaratos, flicking a glance at Agesilaus. ‘We would do well to watch each other’s backs.’
Lysander hesitated, then nodded. Demaratos was right. The two of them would survive better as friends. They started to follow Agesilaus up the hill. Lysander’s mind was reeling. Can I trust this boy? he wondered. Lysander had no choice; he had to. But more than that – something had changed. Now, he wanted to.
As they caught up with Agesilaus he turned and stopped them in their tracks. His lip curled in a sneer as he gazed at Lysander.
‘So, boy, are you ready for your latest challenge?’
‘I’m ready,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
Agesilaus pointed further up the mountain, where the snow-crested slopes were brushed by thick clouds.
‘Up there,’ he said.
Lysander followed Agesilaus up the steep mountain path. They’d left Demaratos behind to find more firewood for the camp. There wasn’t much greenery up here – just grey rocks. Among the sparse fir trees, Lysander saw an eagle again, soaring majestically overhead.
As they climbed higher, Lysander found himself short of breath. He felt dizzy and realised that the thin mountain air combined with an empty stomach were almost enough to make him faint. He’d never felt so weak. He found a fallen branch, crooked, but sturdy enough, and used it as a walking stick. He felt like one of the old Helots who wandered around the settlements, begging for food.
Agesilaus looked round to make sure Lysander was keeping up.
‘Pathetic,’ he said, when he saw Lysander heaving himself up the mountainside, leaning heavily on his stick. Lysander didn’t have the breath to reply. Agesilaus turned and continued to stride ahead. Nothing seemed to get to the older boy; it was obvious his harsh training had made him fiercely capable.
They reached the snowline as the light began to fade. What started as a patch of snow here and there, soon gave way to larger swathes of ice. Wisps of cloud drifted across their path, enveloping them in ghostly mist. Agesilaus paused to take a drink from his flask. Watching him, Lysander realised he’d left his sack at camp. He looked at the snow. Just a mouthful would quench his thirst. He scooped some up.
‘Don’t be a fool!’ said Agesilaus. ‘Has Diokles taught you nothing? Eating snow will chill your body more. It’s a quick route to death.’
Lysander dropped the snow, and licked the moisture from his hand. He noticed how quickly the sweat from the climb cooled on his body. Looking back, he couldn’t even spot the path on which they had ascended, but a thin line of smoke told him where Demaratos was sheltering far below. The brow of the hill hid Sparta and the outlying settlements from view. The mist closed in again, and pricks of ice landed on Lysander’s face. The first flakes of snow were falling.
‘Do we have to go much further?’ he asked. They’d be walking back in the dark.
The older boy looked up the slope.
‘Not far now,’ he replied, and pressed on.
Lysander followed, dread filling his heart.
The snow grew deeper. Everything was white now, and a blizzard whipped around their bodies. All Lysander’s faint warmth was long gone. One side of his face was completely numb. The blood from his injured feet had frozen in the intense cold. Now the soles of his feet were stuck to the inside of his sandals; every step was like tearing open a fresh scab. Agesilaus stopped a few paces ahead, and the outline of his body blurred in and out as the snow thickened and flurried. Lysander eventually drew level with him.
‘Was that the challenge?’ he asked. He was leaning heavily on his stick now.
Agesilaus turned to Lysander, looking him up and down. His eyebrows and hair were dusted with snow.
‘Time to head back,’ he said.
Lysander’s heart lifted. Thank the Gods it was over. Agesilaus was already starting to make his way back down the mountain, and Lysander hobbled after him.
Agesilaus turned. ‘Where are you going?’
‘You said it was time to head back,’ said Lysander.
Agesilaus put a hand on Lysander’s chest, and then gave a fierce shove. There was no time for Lysander to react. He lost his balance, and fell back into the snow.
‘I said it was time for me to go back,’ he said. ‘Your trial has only just begun. If you descend back from this mountain before dawn, I swear by Zeus himself that I’ll kill you with my own hands.’
Lysander watched Agesilaus’ face for signs that he was joking.
‘Are you mad? No one could survive up here!’
But Agesilaus had already turned away and was beginning his descent. His laughter was whipped away by the howling wind.
Agesilaus had lost his mind! Lysander knew for sure he would freeze to death up here. The snow was already seeping through his tunic. He clambered to his feet. Darkness would soon be upon the slopes and any warmth from the sun would be lost.
Lysander looked frantically about – there must be a way to get through this. He couldn’t remember ever being this cold before. He looked at his hands, the fingers purple and stiff, willing them to move. He could feel panic rising up through him.
‘Stay calm,’ he said out loud. ‘Don’t give in.’
He peered up through the flurries of snow to the craggy mountain tops. Could there be some shelter up there, a spot out of the wind and snow? There was only one way to find out.
Lysander pulled his frozen right foot from the snow and took a slow, clumsy step. Then another, placing his left foot in front of his right.
Slowly, Lysander began to climb.
CHAPTER 7
Lysander stumbled blindly through the snow. He knew he was losing his battle against the cold. Ice was beginning to set in his hair. The hills that had always looked so beautiful from the settlement now felt treacherous. De
ep shivers racked his body. Every bone ached and his broken rib sang with pain. Tears came to his eyes. They were warm at first, but cooled quickly to ice.
‘You have to keep going!’ he yelled into the wind and snow.
The snow continued to swirl around him; everything was white. Lysander twisted around, looking for any vantage point, but there was nothing. He couldn’t feel his feet or his ankles any more. And he realised he could no longer see the mountain peaks. Lysander had lost his bearings. It was hopeless. He had to get off the mountain – now. Agesilaus need never know. If I stay up here, he thought, I’m as good as dead.
He started walking, dragging his freezing feet through the snow. It didn’t feel as though he were losing height, but he didn’t think he was gaining it either. He decided he must be skirting the edge of the hill. Lysander remembered the cliffs from earlier. What if he was walking straight towards the edge? He wouldn’t even see it coming. There would be a stomach-churning drop, before his body was smashed on the rocks below. A horrible way to die.
Lysander trudged a few more paces, sinking up to his knees in the deep drifts, but he knew he was wandering aimlessly. He could be anywhere. He could feel the ice closing around his heart. His hands may as well have been made of wood.
‘Help!’ he shouted. Lysander’s lips were numb and the words came out slurred. ‘Help me!’ he yelled again. There was no reply. The snow absorbed the sound, muffling his voice like a pillow over a face. He took another step forward. The snow collapsed, its white surface giving way with a soft sigh. Before Lysander could reach out to stop himself, he’d fallen up to his middle in the snowdrift. Trapped! Snow and ice pressed up against him on all sides. But as Lysander struggled to climb out, he realised that, if anything, the packed snow was warmer than the icy wind. A vague memory stirred: sitting by the fire with his mother as she told her stories. What was it she had told him about travellers lost in the mountains?