by Michael Ford
‘Not you,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Come with me.’
Lysander watched Kassandra slip into the villa, casting a last glance back in his direction. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so harsh with her earlier. Sarpedon strode back towards the centre of the courtyard. The crowd parted to let them through.
‘We must make new plans,’ bellowed Sarpedon.
What looked like a thick parchment lay rolled up on the ground. Sarpedon took hold of one end and pulled it open. Lysander saw that it was a cured animal hide. From its size, he guessed it belonged to a cow or ox. There were markings painted on the surface with brown dye. He recognised one word – Sparta.
‘This map shows Sparta and the surrounding lands, Lysander,’ said Sarpedon. He ran his finger over the markings. ‘Here are the mountains – Taygetos to the west, Parnon to the east. The river Eurotas flows here.’ He traced a line through the five villages to the sea. ‘The Persian forces we know of have landed here, beyond the northern passes. We are holding them for now, but if they break through and reach the forests to the west, our advantage is lost. We must keep them in the open.’ He looked at Lysander, his face hard. ‘Show us, Lysander, where did you see the boats?’
Lysander studied the map, and laid his finger by the southern coast.
‘And how many ships were there?’ asked Myron.
Lysander thought back.
‘At least thirty,’ he said.
Sarpedon drew in a sharp breath. ‘With a hundred men on board each ship, that makes at least three thousand. They’ll be here at dawn.’
‘We don’t have enough men,’ said Myron. ‘They’ll burn Sparta to the ground!’
Sarpedon stood to his full height and massaged his forehead with his scarred hand. Could three thousand Persians really lay waste to Sparta?
Tellios spoke next. ‘We must evacuate the King to Taras, and send the city’s treasures with him.’
‘But what about the Helots?’ asked Lysander.
Myron laughed. ‘What of them, boy? They will burn in their houses or be taken for slaves. We cannot concern ourselves with their fate.’
‘No,’ said Sarpedon. ‘The boy is right. We cannot abandon the city. If the Persians gain a stronghold, they will never be dislodged. They’ll be like ants, swarming all over Greece.’
‘And how will we face three thousand Persians?’ asked Tellios, sneering. A few others murmured their assent.
‘We’ll gain nothing but more Spartan corpses for the birds to pick at,’ said another.
A muscle in Sarpedon’s jaw twitched as he listened to the other men.
‘Better to live and fight another day,’ said Tellios, turning to the others. One or two nodded in agreement.
Sarpedon grabbed a pot, and flung it against a pillar. Earth and fragments of pottery exploded across the courtyard and Lysander flinched.
‘You doubters bring shame on Sparta!’ roared Sarpedon. ‘You ask how we will face them? With courage! While we still have men, we still have hope. A thousand men await with their shields and spears, and every one of them is ready to give his blood! Which is more than can be said for you, Tellios!’
The crowd was silent. Tellios stared at Sarpedon. For a moment, Lysander thought a fight would erupt, but Tellios sat down slowly.
‘You are living in a past age, Sarpedon,’ he said quietly. ‘This is a time to be practical, rather than shedding lives needlessly.’
‘Tell us, Ephor,’ said Myron. ‘How will we repel the Persians?’
Sarpedon stared at the map, and then at Lysander.
‘With an old wrestling technique,’ he smiled. ‘We will use a feint.’
Several of the Elders shook their heads, and Lysander heard someone mutter, ‘He’s weak in the head.’ Lysander fought the urge to speak out. He knew his place.
Sarpedon knelt stiffly beside the map.
‘Bring me some of those pebbles, Lysander,’ he said, pointing to a pot. Lysander grabbed a handful and laid them on the map. Sarpedon positioned two lines along the mountain ranges either side of the river.
‘We will send our one thousand Spartans in a pincer movement, five hundred on either flank along the tree-covered mountain ridges. We’ll crush the Persians between them. Their armies will be in disarray.’
Lysander looked into Sarpedon’s eyes. It was a brave plan, but risky.
‘Vaumisa is no fool,’ said Myron. ‘Why would he fall for such a trick?’
‘Because,’ replied Sarpedon, lifting a finger, ‘we will give him bait.’
The Elders exchanged glances, and Lysander heard hissed whispers. What was his grandfather planning?
‘What will you use as bait?’ he asked. Sarpedon glanced at Lysander, then looked quickly back at the map.
‘We will need a battalion to meet the Persians on the plain,’ said Sarpedon. ‘To draw them forward. If Vaumisa scents an easy victory he won’t be able to resist. I have fought his tribe before, many years ago. Many of you were with me in their land and saw the opulence in which they dwell, bedecked with jewels and gold. Persians are greedy. If they think Sparta is within their grasp, they will not hesitate.’
Myron the Ephor nodded.
‘It might work,’ he said, ‘but where can we find another battalion? We’ll need the remaining men on the flanks. We have no other soldiers.’
Sarpedon smiled. Lysander felt a pulse of excitement flow through him. Is he planning what I think he’s planning? Lysander thought. Could it be?
‘There are others who can fight,’ Sarpedon said simply. Then he looked at Lysander a second time. Lysander understood immediately. His grandfather wanted him to fight for Sparta.
‘Boys?’ scoffed Tellios, coming to stand between the two of them. ‘You want us to send students into battle against the ruthless armies of Persia? Has Zeus sent down a thunderbolt on to your head?’
‘We can do it,’ protested Lysander from behind Tellios. The older man turned round to gaze at him in open mockery. The crowd erupted into laughter, and Lysander’s skin prickled with heat.
‘Have any of you got a different plan?’ he shouted. ‘Or will you all scatter like a flock of starlings?’
One by one the men stopped laughing and straightened their backs. Lysander had deliberately stopped short of calling them cowards, but he could see he had their attention now.
‘Sarpedon is right,’ he said, walking around the courtyard. ‘If we abandon it, the city will fall to Vaumisa, and all of Greece will hear that Spartans fled when they could have stayed to fight.’
‘You should stay out of politics, boy,’ said Tellios.
‘This isn’t about politics,’ countered Lysander, spinning round. ‘This is about being true to Sparta.’ He found that his fist had come up over his heart.
‘And what do you know of Sparta?’ said Tellios. ‘Before the summer, you were planting crops in the field.’
The crowd gasped at the insult.
‘A Spartan would defend his name,’ Sarpedon muttered from behind Lysander. Lysander knew what he meant – in the Council there could be no favours because of family. Lysander would have to prove his worth to these men. He turned back to Tellios.
‘I can shoulder a weapon as well as any man in the phalanx,’ he said.
‘Can you, indeed?’ said the Ephor. ‘Then prove yourself.’ He looked at one of the other Elders. ‘Fetch those guards from the gate.’
The man looked at Sarpedon, as if asking permission. Sarpedon nodded.
Moments later, Kyros and Alexandros came into the courtyard, looking confused.
‘You!’ said Tellios, pointing to Kyros. ‘Give the boy your sword.’ Kyros unsheathed his blade and handed the hilt to Lysander. He took the weapon carefully, wondering what the Ephor had planned. He had only ever fought with the blunted weapons of the agoge. This was sharpened to a deadly edge. He looked at his grandfather, but Sarpedon’s face gave nothing away.
‘Right,’ said Tellios, this time motioning to Alexandros. ‘Let’s see how w
ell this boy handles a weapon. Fight him.’
‘How will we decide who’s won?’ asked Lysander.
Tellios looked at Sarpedon, then at Alexandros, and finally at Lysander.
‘Simple,’ he said. ‘The winner will be the one who’s still alive.’
Alexandros drew his sword and came forward. Suddenly he didn’t look like the idle soldier who had mocked Lysander at the gates. He looked like a soldier, intent on killing. Lysander held up his sword and swung it in an arc. Alexandros leapt forward, aiming at Lysander’s chest. He parried downwards and spun away. Alexandros turned and came again, slicing at Lysander’s head. Lysander ducked under the blow and came up, head-butting the Spartan under his nose, which exploded in a spatter of blood. Alexandros fell down with a cry of pain and dropped his sword, bringing both hands to his smashed nose. Lysander stood above the Spartan, his sword ready.
‘Stop!’ shouted Sarpedon. ‘I’ll have no more death in my home.’
An image of Lysander’s mother flooded his brain. Breathing heavily, Lysander let his arms drop. He looked at Tellios.
‘Now will you accept my word?’ he asked.
Tellios’ face was set in anger, but he gave a nod of his head. He looked at Kyros.
‘Take your worthless friend away, and make sure all your barracks know that he lost to a boy.’
Kyros came forward and helped Alexandros to his feet. Trailing blood, they left the courtyard.
‘Maybe Lysander’s right,’ said Myron, stroking his chin. ‘If we do flee the city, the Persians might arm the Helots against us. That would make it impossible to regain control.’
‘And the Athenians would laugh at us,’ said another man.
‘Enough talk,’ said Sarpedon, addressing the gathering. ‘It is time for action. Have your men assemble into two groups. Myron will command the eastern flank, Tellios that on the west. We will march before dawn, and meet Vaumisa’s army on the plains south of Sparta. Death and honour.’
‘Death and honour!’ shouted the men, three times. On the third chorus, Lysander joined in. He had proved himself, but he knew the ultimate test was yet to come.
As the men left the villa, Sarpedon embraced each of them in turn, saying a few words. The atmosphere was grave and, when Lysander was alone with his grandfather, he saw that the older man was exhausted.
‘Come here, my boy,’ said the Ephor as he sat on a wooden bench. The map was still open in front of them, and Lysander walked around it until he stood before his grandfather.
‘You were foolish to come here,’ said Sarpedon. ‘You could have been killed on the spot.’
‘But I …’
‘You were also very brave,’ he interrupted. ‘Like your father, Thorakis.’
Lysander saw tears flood his grandfather’s eyes. ‘Brave and foolish,’ he repeated. ‘It is not right for a son to die before his father, and even less for a grandson to meet death before an old man like me.’ He stood up stiffly. ‘But come, this is no time for sadness. I will send word to your barracks and others to assemble before dawn. Strabo!’ he shouted. The slave scurried out. ‘Take Lysander to a room and prepare him food.’
‘Yes, master,’ said the slave. ‘Follow me, master Lysander.’
Lysander walked behind the slave, whose shoulders sagged. Strabo led him through a corridor and into a bedroom.
‘This is the room …’
‘… where Athenasia died,’ said Strabo. ‘It is the only one left. The Ephors are staying here tonight also. Better than sleeping outdoors, I’m sure.’
Lysander looked at the bed where his mother had spent her final days.
‘Quite the Spartan now, aren’t you?’ said Strabo, leaning against the door frame and eyeing Lysander’s cloak. All the obsequiousness he had shown Sarpedon only a few moments earlier had disappeared.
‘Half my blood is still Helot,’ replied Lysander.
‘Ha!’ sneered the slave. ‘You proved where your loyalties rested when you stood with the Spartans against us on the night of the Festival. How many Helots perished because of your actions?’
‘More would have died if your plot had succeeded,’ said Lysander, folding his arms.
‘But not your friend, Timeon …’ said Strabo, with a sly glint in his eye.
Lysander didn’t know what to say. Strabo was right. Lysander sank back to sit on the bed, momentarily defeated.
‘Anyway, when you meet him in the Underworld, you can offer your apologies.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, surely you can see that death is close. Your boys’ battalion will give time for the real soldiers to attack, but you will all be killed. Why do you think the old man looks so wretched?’
‘Don’t call him that,’ said Lysander, bunching his fists.
‘Careful, master, save your strength until tomorrow.’ Then Strabo slipped away, leaving Lysander alone.
CHAPTER 17
Lysander dreamt that he was walking alone behind the cart that carried his mother’s body. It was being pulled by Sarpedon’s horse, Pegasus.
A voice broke the quiet, his mother’s voice. It called to him: Lysander, help me. It came from among the folds of the shroud. I’m still alive, she whispered. There’s been a mistake, Lysander. Let me out of here.
Lysander shouted for Pegasus to stop, but the horse didn’t even flick his ears. His hooves stepped forward relentlessly. Ahead, the grave came into view – a gaping black hole, cut into the earth. He ran up, took hold of Pegasus’ reins and yanked hard. The dark head didn’t move. The black eyes were glassy. Lysander pulled again, but the horse’s neck was like stone. He went back to the cart, and scrambled on board beside the body. He pulled at the linen covering his mother’s face. It was tightly wrapped and he couldn’t understand how she was able to breathe. But still her voice called to him. Let me out, Lysander. I want to see you again. It’s all a mistake. As he pulled the layers away, he could make out features under the fragile linen: a nose, the hollows of her eyes. That’s right, Lysander. You’re nearly there now.
He pulled the final swathe aside. But it wasn’t his mother. It was Timeon. Lysander fell backwards off the cart, crying out in terror.
‘No!’
Lysander sat up in bed, panting for breath, his arms locked in front of him. The darkness in the room enveloped him.
A faint light appeared on the far wall. There were steps outside and a lantern appeared, illuminating Sarpedon’s face. Strabo entered beside him, holding a bowl of steaming water.
‘It is time,’ said his grandfather.
Lysander threw off the bedclothes and washed quickly. With his sandals fastened, he gathered his cloak around him and left the chamber. Outside, a fine layer of condensation coated the columns around the villa’s courtyard. Ice seemed to hang in the air, stinging his throat with each breath. A horse waited at the entrance way, grey clouds of hot breath rising from its nostrils.
‘I prayed to the Gods for your safety in the mountains,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Now I will thank them for your return.’ He paused for a moment. ‘A messenger has brought word about Agesilaus’ death.’ Lysander couldn’t tell if his grandfather was angry.
‘There was nothing we could …’
‘You owe me no explanations,’ interrupted Sarpedon. ‘The mountains are the test of a man, and you have made me proud. Prouder even than when my two sons returned.’ Lysander pulled back his shoulders – he knew such words would not come lightly from his grandfather. ‘Take my horse to the barracks,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Your comrades are waiting for you.’
‘Where will you be?’ asked Lysander.
‘I wish I could join you,’ said Sarpedon, ‘but one Ephor must always remain in Sparta.’ The moonlight caught a glint in Sarpedon’s eye, and Lysander’s grandfather gathered him in a tight embrace. ‘You will need all the skills you have learnt, son of Thorakis. And remember, death is the greatest honour for a Spartan warrior.’ Lysander seized the reins of the horse, and swung himself into the sadd
le.
‘Death and honour!’
He kicked the horse’s flank and galloped away from the villa. As he pounded through the bleak morning light, Lysander thought about Sarpedon’s words. He’d said he was proud. Lysander was fired up with courage, though a part of him wondered if he’d ever see his grandfather again.
The sky was pale as Lysander tied up the horse outside the barracks. He ran inside. All the boys were fitting on their armour in the dormitory with the help of their slaves. Anxious faces turned to the door as he entered. Yesterday they had been boys talking about battles. Now Lysander could see they knew that they were going to war.
‘Lysander!’ said Leonidas, rushing forward.
Demaratos lifted off his helmet. A clean bandage was tied to his leg, and he smiled in welcome. ‘Sarpedon’s hunchbacked messenger said you interrupted a Council meeting?’
Lysander nodded. ‘News travels quickly.’
‘And that you addressed the Ephors?’ asked Leonidas.
Diokles marched into the room before Lysander could reply. He wore a dented breastplate over his chest, and a thick leather apron hung below. Both his forearms and shins were covered in armour. He carried a helmet under his arm.
‘Hurry up, all of you,’ he bellowed. ‘Death does not like to be kept waiting.’ His gaze fell on Lysander. ‘Ah, the mothax has returned! Get on your kit immediately. Assemble outside.’
Diokles turned to leave. Then he looked back at a corner of the barracks and hissed, ‘What in Hades are you doing?’ Lysander looked over. There, by his bed, Orpheus was strapping a greave to his deformed leg.
‘I’m coming too,’ he said, not even looking at the tutor. ‘Sparta needs every man able to fight.’
‘Don’t be foolish, boy,’ spat Diokles. ‘A cripple like you can’t even stand straight to hold up a shield. You’d be no use in a shield wall. Stick to your music and singing.’
Orpheus pulled out his dagger, and hurled it through the air. It thudded into the wall a hand’s breadth away from Diokles’ face.
‘The shield wall isn’t everything,’ said Orpheus. His voice was menacing – Lysander had never heard this from his friend before.