by Michael Ford
Lysander found that even his mind was slowing down now. His eyelids drooped and he felt sleepy. It seemed to take longer between telling his body to move and the movement itself. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He tried to remember his mother’s face, but his brain refused to work.
What had his mother said? They used to survive by digging holes, chambers in the fallen snow. Anything to keep their bodies sheltered from the wind. They buried themselves alive? That couldn’t be right, surely. His eyes drooped shut. He told himself to wake up and slowly they opened again.
The cold didn’t seem to matter so much any more, though he was aware of his body shivering and his teeth chattering uncontrollably. If he could only sleep, everything would be fine. He shook his head. No! he told himself. You have to stay awake. He tried to call out for help again, but his voice came out even more weakly this time. His mother’s words echoed through his head.
Bury yourself alive. It meant something.
Bury yourself.
Lysander scooped snow towards him using his clawed hands. He packed the snow against his torso, working as quickly as his frozen limbs would allow. The wind whistled around him, like some demented flute.
‘Come on,’ he said out loud. ‘Don’t give up.’ He let his body rest against the bank of snow he’d built up around him. With his last reserves of strength he dragged more piles of snow around his head, leaving a small gap to breathe. The whistling wind melted away as the sides of his head were submerged. Nothing now. The snow was damp next to his skin, but his shivering was already subsiding. Through the small hole, he watched fat flakes of snow falling through the immense silence, adding to the heavy blanket of ice.
Lysander concentrated on slowing his breathing. Could the shallow grave be working? He didn’t dare move, for fear of disturbing the rest of the snowdrift and bringing it down over his head. He did manage to shift his arm though, so that his palm rested over his chest. The place where the Fire of Ares had always been. Even without the pendant itself, Lysander felt its power. He clutched the imaginary red jewel. You’ll make it, he told himself. You’ll get through the night.
Looking up, he saw that the clouds were thinning, revealing patches of night sky. Stars twinkled. Lysander was too weak to move, and his eyes blurred in and out of focus as his eyelids became heavy. He had no way of knowing whether it was sleep or death that was drawing him near.
But something strange was happening in the sky. A collection of stars directly above seemed to move in the firmament, vibrating in time with his heartbeat, becoming brighter than the rest. Was it a trick of his mind? He watched as the glowing stars appeared to drift towards one another. They coalesced into a ring, which melted to an oval. Lysander thought he must be dreaming, but the constellation became a face. He wasn’t afraid. He knew who this was.
‘Father,’ said Lysander through cracked lips. Though he had never seen his father Thorakis, Lysander felt a flash of recognition. ‘Father, help me,’ he whispered.
The face shimmered and smiled reassuringly.
Warmth suffused Lysander’s body, as though his blood had turned molten. The snow was no longer his enemy – it caressed him. The blood once again pulsed through his veins. His father was watching over him.
Lysander let his eyelids close. Then he fell into the embrace of Hypnos, God of Sleep.
Lysander was woken by warm light, orange behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes. Above him glowed an iridescent blue sky. Damp snow crushed against his lips. He’d survived! Elation turned to panic when Lysander realised he was trapped – he couldn’t move. Under the snow, his arms felt heavy, like they were made of iron. Lysander strained with his whole body under the drift, his heart pounding. The snow shifted, but only a little, and he had to sink back defeated. Patiently, he told his fingertips to move. They wriggled weakly in the snow. Lysander was breathing hard with the exertion, but he wouldn’t be beaten. With regular movement, the snow around his hand began to melt. A dull, but satisfying ache seeped into his limbs, and he managed to work his hand from under the snow. He was nearly there, and began to shovel the layer of snow away from around his body. Pulling his torso free, he scrambled to his feet, laughing for joy.
‘I’m alive!’ he shouted. ‘I’m alive!’ His voice echoed in the still morning air.
Lysander stood and shook the loose snow from his clothes, just as the sun winked over the horizon, and began to warm his stiff and aching limbs. The sky was bursting with light, and everything was peaceful, covered in a pristine layer. He looked around him to try to find his bearings. The path, if there was one, was invisible. But neither could he see the cliff edge he’d been so worried about. Below, trees were weighed down with snow. He couldn’t wait to climb down. What would Demaratos say when he saw him again? Would Agesilaus be angry? Lysander didn’t care. His laughter echoed off the mountainside.
He began to crunch down the slope, the crisp new snow creaking under each footstep. Gradually the blood flowed back into his feet. A screech from above made him turn to the sky. A solitary eagle hung in the air, spreading its wings. Lysander had never been so close to the Gods. The eagle tilted and wheeled away, disappearing from view around the mountain’s shoulder.
Lysander ran, half stumbling down the mountainside. As he entered the treeline, he grabbed low branches to slow his descent. Snow showered down on him but now Lysander no longer cared.
The eagle had reappeared, circling overhead as though guiding him down from the slopes.
‘Are you following me?’ Lysander shouted jubilantly.
As the snow became sparser on the ground, the familiar path came once again into view. Picking his way among the trees and rocks, his strength sapped away again. His legs were weak, and he struggled to keep moving. But the exhilaration of his survival gave his tired limbs the extra push they needed.
Agesilaus would not be expecting to see him again, of that he was sure. Whether the delirious vision of his father was real or not, Lysander knew that something had given him the will to make it through the night. Lysander paused and craned his neck back to look up at the clear blue sky, scored with the faintest wisps of cloud. The eagle circled the air. Then, with a cry of farewell, the huge bird caught an eddy of air that carried him back up the mountain. Lysander raised his hands to shield his eyes against the morning sun and watched the bird’s departure. His mountain friend had gone. But as Lysander turned back towards camp, he didn’t feel alone.
‘I faced death and I survived,’ Lysander said to himself. Then he threw his arms wide to embrace the new day. ‘I made it!’ he cried.
CHAPTER 8
As Lysander rounded the edge of the camp, Agesilaus was sharpening the end of a makeshift spear with a piece of flint. A twig snapped under Lysander’s foot and Agesilaus leapt to his feet, brandishing the weapon, his lips parted in surprise.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. Lysander paused and waited while Agesilaus registered that the attacker was the boy he’d left to his death in the mountains. He clenched his mouth closed and the hard look returned to his green eyes.
‘You’re back,’ he said, lowering the spear. His tone held the hint of interrogation.
‘I slept in a shallow grave,’ said Lysander.
Demaratos wandered out of the cave. He rushed forward and clapped Lysander on the back.
‘You made it!’ he said. ‘Agesilaus said you were sure to die!’
‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Lysander, fixing the older boy with a stare.
‘I trust you spent a snug night?’ Agesilaus sneered.
‘Yes,’ replied Lysander. ‘It was hard to build a shelter in the snow, but I did it.’
‘Maybe you’re not as useless as your tutor said. Anyway, you’re back in time to see Demaratos complete his trial,’ said Agesilaus. ‘There’s a herd of goats living further down the hill. I’ve seen their droppings. Demaratos is going to catch us some breakfast, using his bare hands.’
‘No problem,’ said Demaratos, straightening h
is shoulders. ‘How hard can it be?’
Lysander ducked into their open cave to retrieve his sack. He pulled his water flask out and took a deep swig of water. But on the first mouthful he gagged, spitting on the ground.
‘It’s salt water!’ cried Lysander, wiping the strings of saliva from his mouth. It was a bitter blow after his night of torture.
Demaratos unstoppered his own flask and tasted the water, then spat it out with disgust.
‘A little gift from Diokles,’ laughed Agesilaus. ‘He didn’t want to make the Ordeal too easy. Come on, the goats will still be dozy.’
Lysander and Demaratos shared a glance of misery. But what was the point in attacking Agesilaus? They couldn’t bring him down and besides – this is what they’d been sent into the mountains for. To be tested, beyond anything they had ever suffered before.
The three of them set off down the slope, Agesilaus carrying his spear, and Lysander more hungry and thirsty than ever. He could almost taste the roasted goat meat. They entered a thicket of trees in single file. Lysander saw the piles of round droppings. They were still fresh. Agesilaus suddenly pulled up.
‘I can’t see any …’ started Demaratos, but Agesilaus raised a finger to his lips.
Ahead, Lysander could hear a rustling. Something was making its way towards them along the forest floor. Lysander felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, and his heart knocked in his chest.
‘Follow me!’ hissed Agesilaus. Lysander dropped into a crouch and placed his feet carefully among the fallen branches and pine cones. The three of them moved forward. They came to a gloomy clearing, and hid behind a clump of holly bushes. At first, Lysander couldn’t see anything. But as he watched, a movement came from the far side of the open space. A branch had fallen there and something was behind it, rummaging for food.
Agesilaus pointed his spear at Demaratos, then into the clearing.
‘It’s yours!’ he whispered.
Demaratos gave a nod and broke cover, moving stealthily around the outside of the clearing, edging closer to the goat. Lysander looked on intently. Don’t let us down, he willed. If they didn’t get a good meal soon, they were as good as dead. The rustling stopped. Now! urged Lysander. Before it escapes.
There was a fierce grunt, and Demaratos let out a shout of alarm. A squat black-haired creature burst from the leaves – a wild boar! Short yellow horns protruded from either side of its lower jaw, and red eyes glowed fiercely. The boar shot across the ground towards Demaratos. It bowled into his legs and knocked him to the floor. It quickly skidded in a half circle and charged again. In seconds it was on top of Demaratos, squealing and grunting. Lysander saw the flash of teeth and pink gums. Demaratos’s desperate shouts made Lysander shudder.
‘Help me!’ yelled Demaratos. ‘Please, help.’
Lysander looked towards Agesilaus. The older Spartan was leaning on his spear and grinning.
‘Do something!’ shouted Lysander.
Demaratos managed to push the beast off of him, and started to scramble away, but the boar was relentless. Its teeth clamped around Demaratos’s leg, and he screamed in pain, before falling to the ground. Lysander knew how dangerous wild boars could be – he remembered the horribly scarred face of Solon. If he didn’t help Demaratos now, he might be killed. Lysander ran at Agesilaus, and grabbed the spear that he was holding loosely.
‘Hey, stop!’ shouted the Spartan.
Lysander ignored him. He charged towards the boar and took aim, ramming the spear into the creature’s side. It gave a yelp and immediately withdrew, the spear sticking out of his flesh. The shaft of the spear was torn from Lysander’s hands as the boar retreated. It turned twice on the spot, reaching with its mouth to where the shaft hung from its muscular flank, then careered off into the bushes.
Demaratos staggered to his feet. His hands were bloodied where he had fended off the boar’s teeth, and his tunic was badly torn. Thick blood coursed down his leg where the animal had sunk its jaws into his flesh. A loose flap of skin was hanging off. Demaratos’s face was pale with fear. He almost fell again, but Lysander steadied him.
‘I failed,’ he said, not meeting Lysander’s eyes.
‘At least you’re still alive,’ Lysander reassured him.
‘Thanks to you,’ said Demaratos. ‘You saved my life.’
‘Yes, and he lost my spear, and the boar!’ shouted Agesilaus. He stepped out of the clearing. ‘Don’t you ever dare take my weapon again.’
Further down the slope, they trudged out of the bottom end of the forest on to a plateau. The vista took Lysander’s breath away. He could see Sparta in the distance: the five villages and the surrounding settlements where the Helots scraped together a living. Up here in the mountains, without their red cloaks and weapons, it didn’t matter whether Lysander was Spartan or Helot. The elements had no respect for either. Lysander was caked with dirt, and covered with scratches. His tunic was torn, and he felt hunger like a knot of pain. Without food and water, everyone was equal. It didn’t matter if you were born a noble or a slave – it was how you behaved that counted. The Fire of Ares had taught him that.
Demaratos tripped on the path and fell to his knees. He began to retch. Lysander knelt beside him and placed a comforting hand on his back.
‘Leave him,’ said Agesilaus. ‘He’s slowing us down.’
Lysander stared at his companions. Both Agesilaus and Demaratos looked awful, with hollow cheeks and dark circles under their eyes. He knew that he looked the same. It was impossible to ignore the hunger that gnawed at his insides.
‘We can’t carry on like this,’ said Lysander. ‘If we don’t find food soon, we’ll all starve.’
‘And what do you propose to do about that, Lysander?’ asked Agesilaus.
Lysander gazed down to where the Helot settlement, the site of his old house, sprawled across the land beneath the hills. He thought about the meals of stewed lentils and stale bread that he used to share with his mother. His mouth watered at the memory. Agesilaus came to stand beside him and looked down at the settlement.
‘A true Spartan would take food from one of those houses,’ he said in Lysander’s ear. ‘I bet they have bread, cheese and maybe even some meat.’
‘I can’t steal from a Helot – they have next to nothing as it is.’ Lysander said. But he could feel the stain of doubt spreading through his heart. Could he? He and his companions were close to starvation.
‘Can’t, or won’t?’ said Agesilaus, and spat on the ground. ‘You’re a Spartan now, remember. The Helot slaves owe us everything in their possession. Do you think you’d make a good thief?’
Lysander’s stomach answered for him, letting out a loud grumble.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Agesilaus.
‘Please, Lysander,’ said Demaratos. He was still limping from where the boar had attacked him. He had torn off a strip of his tunic and tied it over the wound. ‘You don’t have to steal a lot. Just enough for the three of us.’
Lysander looked again at the settlement. Demaratos was right. The Helots were desperate people, but right now, who had the biggest need?
‘I’ll do it,’ Lysander said. He started to walk in the direction of the settlement. Agesilaus and Demaratos trailed after him. If this is what it took in order to eat, Lysander could steal. Just don’t ask me to be proud of myself, he thought. He remembered the vision that he’d had in the mountains. Would his father be proud of him now? Lysander doubted it.
By late morning they reached the edge of the settlement. From a low escarpment, Lysander surveyed the territory. There were few people about; they would mostly be in the fields. A group of women were watching over several young children, who played in a small meadow beside the outer houses. An elderly man cleaned vegetables in a bucket of dirty water. Lysander remembered the last time he was at the settlement – the night of the flogging. Timeon’s ragged back where the whip fell. His groans of agony. Diokles laughing at each stroke. He pushed the memories away.
‘You must not be seen,’ said Agesilaus. ‘A Spartan steals, but is never caught.’
‘Wait here,’ Lysander replied. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ He started to climb down, away from his companions.
‘Crawl, dog,’ Agesilaus hissed from behind him. Lysander lowered himself on to his belly and slithered along the ground, watchful all the time. He was filled with shame.
As he came nearer to the houses, the smells of morning cooking found their way to him. There was no way Lysander was going back empty-handed. He had reached a small hovel. Edging along the wall, Lysander looked down one of the pathways that threaded between the huts. Two old women were washing clothes out in the street, wringing the water into the open sewers, talking in low voices. He darted behind them into another alley. Lysander suddenly recognised where he was. The beam above the low doorway of the house ahead was painted with the symbol of horns overflowing with grain – a charm to bring prosperity from the fields. It was a door he had seen hundreds of times before. Timeon’s house. He remembered the last time he saw his friend – the raw welts across his back – and felt a stab of anguish. He steadied himself against the wall, then broke cover. Keeping hidden no longer seemed important. As he stumbled into the street, the noises of the settlement faded out of his consciousness. The door beckoned him and he found his steps drawn towards the hut. Perhaps Timeon is in there now, he thought.
Lysander approached the door and stepped under the low threshold. For the first time in days, his hunger lifted and he felt calm. He could almost have travelled back in time, to before the days he learnt about the Fire of Ares’ significance. He might have been calling on his friend before they headed out to the fields. But so much had changed, and couldn’t be changed back.