by Michael Ford
The dark hut was bigger than the single room he used to share with his mother, because both Timeon’s parents were alive, and he had a younger sister, Sophia. By any standards, though, it was basic, with the hearth at one end, and a low bench in front of it. The two bedrooms were separated by a curtain and were reached by passing under a crude wooden arch. Lysander noticed a bag of oats by the far wall and a couple of onions. There were several pots also, probably containing honey or olives. Two loaves of bread were wrapped in cloth, and a string of garlic hung from a peg. Hunger knotted his insides. A fragrant scent of wild flowers filled the air.
‘Timeon?’ he whispered. There was no answer. Lysander crept inside the bedroom, and stopped. The smell was stronger here. Two candles flickered at the foot of a raised trestle table, and oil burned in a bowl. On the table was a shrouded object. From the way the cotton sheet dipped and folded around the contours, Lysander knew it was a body.
Lysander approached the table and took hold of a corner of the sheet.
‘Traitor,’ said a voice behind him. Lysander spun around, his heart racing. Under the arch stood Timeon’s mother.
‘Hecuba?’ he said.
‘How dare you come into my house, after what you did?’ she seethed, her whole body trembling. Goose pimples prickled and tightened Lysander’s skin. Who was under the shroud? Why would Timeon’s mother call him a traitor? The truth closed in around Lysander like a swarm of rats, forcing their way over the threshold of his consciousness. Turning his back on Timeon’s mother, he pulled back the shroud. The eyes that were once so full of life were closed, and the skin pale, almost waxy. No smile lit up that face. It was Timeon.
CHAPTER 9
Lysander’s stomach reeled and he dropped to his knees beside the table. Timeon, his best friend since he could crawl, was dead. He had only fourteen summers behind him.
Lysander remembered Timeon’s eyes, reflected in the water of the trough. The weight of the whip in Lysander’s hand.
Lysander turned towards Hecuba, who was standing with her arms over her chest. He scrabbled across the floor and gripped the hem of her dress.
‘Please,’ he uttered. ‘Please forgive me. I was forced to do it. Timeon … he was made to as well. I didn’t mean to hurt him so badly. How can he have died? It was the Spartans …’
‘You are a Spartan now,’ snapped Hecuba.
Lysander raised his head and looked into her eyes. Her bloodless lips were pressed tightly together.
‘No,’ said Lysander. ‘You don’t understand. Timeon was my friend. I’m still a Helot. I’m only …’
‘Would a Helot do this?’ interrupted Timeon’s mother, tearing Lysander’s hands from the hem of her clothes and marching towards the shroud. She pulled it roughly aside to reveal Timeon’s upper body, almost luminescent in the gloom.
Lysander saw it straight away. Around three ribs down, almost hidden by Timeon’s arm, there was a messy gash in his torso, a wide tear in the skin. He climbed to his feet and moved closer. Hecuba didn’t speak and moved aside. Lysander inspected the ragged edges of the wound. A sharp object had made it, a spear-tip perhaps, or a sword. Lysander knew from his sword lessons at the barracks where to stab in order to kill. This was a killing strike for sure. Whatever the weapon, it must have penetrated Timeon’s lung, maybe going even as far as his heart. Hecuba’s face was furrowed with anger.
‘You don’t think I did it?’ Lysander said quietly.
‘Why not, Lysander?’ she snapped back. ‘You do their bidding like the rest. Like a puppet. They say “Kill” and you obey. Who’s to say that you wouldn’t kill a friend? Who’s to say you didn’t kill my boy?’
Her face dissolved in grief. She repeated ‘my boy’ over and over until her voice was lost in weeping. She beat her chest with small, bony fists.
‘Stop!’ said Lysander. ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’
She didn’t seem to hear him. Lysander stepped towards her, putting his arms around her. She writhed, trying to push him away – then gave in to his embrace. She was smaller than he remembered and her tears soaked through the shoulder of his tunic. Her body shook with sobs. Lysander realised he too was crying. Hot tears of anger and grief. He’d never see his friend smile again. From outside, the noise of a Helot man singing tunelessly penetrated the walls. It was an old harvester’s song, about gathering the golden crops.
As their weeping subsided, he led Hecuba over to a seat in the main room.
‘I should never have let Timeon go to the barracks with you. The idea of him surrounded by Spartans terrified me. But he liked it, you see. He liked being with you.’
‘I know,’ said Lysander. ‘Without Timeon to look after me, I wouldn’t have survived the first months.’ He remembered the times his friend had tended to his wounds, or convinced him that he still had strength to continue. Among all the other students, even Orpheus and Leonidas, Timeon had been Lysander’s dearest and most loyal friend. ‘You must know I could never kill him.’ He paused. ‘That night, the whippings, it was madness. But Timeon knew neither of us had any choice. They would have killed him if I hadn’t obeyed them. They would have killed us both.’
‘But they killed him anyway,’ said Timeon’s mother angrily. ‘After we brought him inside and dressed his wounds, we all slept again. But by dawn, Timeon was dead. Some Spartan must have crept in at night and slaughtered him.’ The bitter edge had returned to her voice. ‘They take everything from us. Our land, our dignity … even our children. My child! My poor child! I should have been punished, not my boy.’
She suddenly stood and walked towards the fire glowing in the grate, thrusting her hand towards the orange embers.
‘No!’ said Lysander, darting after her. He was too late, she was already there. But she didn’t put her hand in the flames. Instead, Hecuba reached up the narrow chimney and quickly pulled out an object from between soot-stained bricks. Timeon’s mother came forward with the object in her hand, and placed it carefully in Lysander’s palm. It was something wrapped in tattered leather.
‘What is it?’ asked Lysander, staring into Hecuba’s sunken eyes.
‘See for yourself,’ she replied.
Lysander pulled the covering aside to reveal a beautifully carved piece of ash wood a little smaller than his hand. He rubbed his thumb tenderly across the grooves in the wood. He remembered when Timeon used to take out this slab of wood, and carefully carve with a sharp piece of flint. The shapes meant nothing; they meant everything as well. Timeon shone from every detail of the polished carving. It was the sort of trinket that the Spartans would confiscate if they ever discovered it.
‘He would have wanted you to have this,’ said Hecuba.
‘It’s all you have to remember him by,’ protested Lysander.
‘That’s not true,’ said Timeon’s mother, closing his fingers over the carving. ‘I have many things to remember my son by. Most of them are in here.’ She tapped her chest above her heart. Her eyes wandered down Lysander, taking in his ravaged appearance. ‘Is there anything I can give you? You aren’t looking well.’
Lysander couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the meagre supplies of food.
‘I’m very hungry,’ he said. ‘We are living in the mountains as a test of strength. Food is scarce …’
Hecuba pointed to the supplies near the door.
‘Take what you need, Lysander. Take all of it. I don’t want to see a second boy die. The other Helots have been generous after Timeon’s death. We will not go short.’
Lysander hurried over and grabbed one of the onions, sinking his teeth through the dirty skin and into the bitter flesh. It tasted wonderful. He chewed, skin and all, letting the juices fill his mouth. Then he remembered his dignity.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I haven’t eaten for days.’
‘I can see that,’ said Hecuba. ‘Fill your flask with water outside as well.’
Lysander put two of the pots, along with the garlic and a loaf of bread in his sack.
‘Before you leave,’ said Hecuba, coming towards him, ‘say a final farewell to my son. He would appreciate it.’ Lysander looked into her eyes, the rims swollen and red. For an instant, he saw his own mother. He nodded and shouldered the sack, before stepping back into the room where Timeon lay.
Lysander pulled the shroud back up to his friend’s neck, and touched the skin on Timeon’s forehead. It was cold and smooth, like marble. His friend had deserved so much more. It seemed impossible that his life could be extinguished.
‘If you can hear me, Timeon,’ whispered Lysander. ‘I promise that I’ll never forget you. You’ll always be my friend.’
He laid the shroud over Timeon’s blank face, and walked back into the main room. Hecuba was weeping quietly once again, and Lysander placed a hand against her arm. But there was nothing he could do for Timeon’s mother now. Nothing could bring Timeon back.
Lysander suddenly realised how long he had been gone. He didn’t want Agesilaus or Demaratos descending into the settlement. Who knew what havoc they would cause in their desperation for food?
‘I must go,’ he said quietly. ‘Please, give my love to Sophia.’
He made his way towards the door. After a glance into the alley, he quickly stepped out.
The light was crisp and bright as Lysander weaved between the houses. The food at his side would save his life, but the death of his friend would never leave him.
Having filled the water flask at the trough, he finished the onion and climbed to where Agesilaus and Demaratos were waiting. He opened the sack and showed them the food. Their eyes widened.
‘How did you get all that?’ asked Agesilaus, with suspicion in his eyes.
‘I stole it, of course,’ said Lysander.
‘Let’s get back to the shelter before we eat,’ said Agesilaus. ‘We’ll need a fire. I’ll dish out rations.’
Together, the three of them moved quickly back up the hillside. The thought of food in his belly gave Lysander strength.
‘We’ll eat well tonight,’ said Demaratos, smiling at Lysander.
‘We will,’ said Agesilaus, barely looking over his shoulder at them. ‘We’ll have a feast.’
Lysander watched Agesilaus’ back as the older boy strode up the hill. He didn’t spare a glance for the Helot settlement they left behind. Lysander’s trip had served its purpose – the boys had food. Why should any of them care about the slaves in the village? But Lysander did care. In the mountains, Lysander had been at death’s door. Now he knew that his friend, Timeon, had already walked through it.
CHAPTER 10
Lysander knocked the flint against the stone. Nothing.
‘You couldn’t light a fire if Prometheus himself gave you a flaming torch,’ said Agesilaus.
Lysander brought the flint on to the stone again.
‘Come on!’ said Demaratos. ‘I’m starving!’
Lysander repeated the action. This time a spark flew off the stone into the moss he’d shredded. A tiny orange glow caught in the centre. Cupping his hands around the tinder, Lysander blew into the hollow. He watched a thin trickle of smoke rise through the gaps between his fingers, then placed the smouldering moss gently beneath the firewood, and bent to blow more air into the base of the structure. A small crackle became louder as the kindling caught, and soon Lysander could see tongues of flames flickering between the frame of twigs.
‘I did it!’ he exclaimed.
Agesilaus grunted as Demaratos mixed oats and water in a badly chipped pot he’d found on the slope above the Helot settlement. Agesilaus hung it from a wooden A-frame over the licking flames. While they waited for the porridge to come to the boil, they ate some of the olives and roasted the garlic by the fireside.
Lysander rescued the garlic bulb as it began to char. He squeezed a large clove between finger and thumb, popping it from its skin. As his teeth sank into it, the flavour burst across his tongue. He closed his eyes and chewed. Lysander didn’t think he’d ever tasted anything so good.
Once the porridge was cooked, they scooped in the honey and ate the mixture with their hands. Demaratos greedily plunged his fingers into the pot and licked his fingers. But after a few mouthfuls the sticky sweetness of the porridge was too much for Lysander.
‘Not hungry?’ said Agesilaus through a mouthful of oats.
Lysander shook his head. He thought back to his friend’s body lying cold and still in his home. The other two finished their meals, wiping the pot clean using leaves plucked from the trees. Demaratos used a little of the water to clean his leg wound, and rubbed ash from the fire over it as an antiseptic.
‘We’ll move on tomorrow,’ said Agesilaus. ‘We need to find some more water, and there are streams to the south. Plus, I have another test for you both.’
Lysander didn’t like the sound of it, but knew there was nothing he could do but wait until tomorrow.
‘For now,’ said their guide, ‘let’s get some sleep. The firewood has almost run out.’
As Lysander lay down on the ground, Demaratos approached him, limping slightly.
‘I wanted to say thank you,’ he said, not managing to meet Lysander’s eyes. ‘For getting that food. I wouldn’t have lasted much longer.’
‘I needed it too,’ replied Lysander. ‘We must help each other up here,’ he whispered.
Demaratos nodded and a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.
Lysander listened while his two companions dropped quickly into an exhausted sleep, their breathing slowing. Demaratos wasn’t so bad when there weren’t others to show off to.
Through the leaves that covered the shelter, Lysander gazed up at the twinkling stars. His mother always used to say that the stars were the eyes of the dead, vigilant even in the darkness. After seeing the image of his father the night before, Lysander wondered if she was right. Was his mother also looking down from the heavens? Was she proud of Lysander, or ashamed? And how would his father Thorakis feel, following his behaviour in the Ordeal?
A chilling thought penetrated his mind: perhaps Timeon was watching too. He had understood Lysander’s heart better than anyone. He had stood by him through the agoge, giving him the strength to carry on. But would he recognise Lysander’s heart now?
The thought sent him into an uneasy sleep.
* * *
Lysander slept through until dawn. When he woke, Agesilaus was already standing by the entrance of the shelter and looking south.
‘I wondered when you two would bother to wake,’ he said. ‘We have a long day ahead. First of all, some marching practice.’
They finished the bread and honey from the night before. Then they set off, following the contours of the hill, as the sun rose to the east. For the first time, the mountains held no terror for him. With food in his belly, Lysander felt hopeful. They had survived four full days living on nothing but their instincts and guile. He was already imagining getting back to the barracks, seeing Orpheus and Leonidas once again. He wondered what they were doing now.
The only animals they saw were the occasional rabbit, a fluffy tail disappearing down a hole, and the red squirrels that hopped between the branches of the trees. Birds, startled at their approach, took to the skies leaving branches quivering in their wake. There was nothing they could catch, and Agesilaus seemed keen to cover as much distance as possible. He bounded on ahead, sometimes breaking into a slow run. A little after midday, Demaratos fell into step alongside Lysander. He was still hobbling a little, and the bandage over his cut was black with dust and blood.
‘Where do you think he’s taking us?’ he asked. ‘Sparta must be more than a day’s march away now.’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Lysander. ‘But this is the final day. I’m sure it will be something difficult.’
Soon Lysander could hear the babble of running water in the distance, and it reminded him of his thirst. He’d been rationing the water from the settlement, and was longing to wash the filth from his body.
‘I’m almost
missing Diokles,’ joked Demaratos, and Lysander couldn’t help but laugh. Agesilaus stopped ahead.
‘Is something funny?’ he said with menace. ‘It’s time for the final test – you must prove yourselves hunters. Fish, bird, and beast. Before we can return to Sparta, you must kill one of each. We’ll reach the river soon.’
‘I can catch a fish easily,’ boasted Demaratos. ‘My father taught me when I was small.’
‘How?’ asked Lysander. ‘We haven’t even got a line, or a hook …’
‘Wait and see,’ said Demaratos. They reached some rocks at the edge of a small valley. Far below, a river cut through the landscape. It was flowing fast. In places, the water churned noisily in crests of white foam, or else it slid over flat polished rocks. There were deep pools too, and Lysander could see right through the clear water to the bottom.
‘Look!’ shouted Demaratos. ‘Fish. Lots of them!’
He was right. Even from this height, Lysander could see several fish, their bodies black and sleek as they hung in the strong current.
Demaratos headed down the slope, upsetting small rocks and dust with his heels. Lysander set off in pursuit. Even with a net it would be difficult to catch any fish. And the water was flowing too fast to climb in. It would sweep a person off their feet.
They soon reached the water’s edge. The water here was quite still and, crouching beside the river, Lysander scooped great handfuls of the cool clear liquid into his mouth and threw it over his head and neck, washing away the grime that had collected there. When his belly could hold no more water, he started filling his flask.
‘There’s no time to waste,’ shouted Agesilaus. ‘You have a task to fulfil. Get to it!’
Lysander and Demaratos stood on the bank. At the top of the pool, where the water gushed between two flat rocks, several fish had gathered, their noses turned into the current.
‘See that fat one on the left,’ said Demaratos, pointing. ‘He’s mine!’
‘Show us then,’ said Agesilaus, folding his arms with a sneer.