by Michael Ford
Diokles pulled the dagger from the wall, and walked slowly to Orpheus. Every boy watched in silence. Lysander’s lame friend lifted his chin and stared straight back at his tutor. Diokles is going to kill him, thought Lysander. He edged forward, pulling his own sword from its sheath. But Diokles turned the blade in his hand, offering the hilt to Orpheus. His friend took the dagger back and sheathed it.
‘Perhaps you can be useful,’ admitted Diokles, before adding, ‘But never do that again.’ He turned to the roomful of boys. ‘What are you all waiting for? Outside!’
Lysander darted to his chest, and pulled out the armour his grandfather had given him. He remembered the night of the Festival Games when Timeon had helped him fasten the pieces on. How long ago that seemed now. And how much had changed. The armour still sparkled from the last time Timeon had polished it. Around him, Helots helped the other boys climb into their armour, but Lysander struggled into his with no assistance. He placed a hand over the carving that rested against his chest.
‘I can’t bring you back,’ he muttered, ‘but I’ll make you proud, Timeon.’
With the final arm-guard fastened, Lysander ran to the arms room and picked out a shield. Made of wood, it was coated in a layer of bronze, and marked with the Greek letter L to symbolise Lakedaimon, Sparta’s ancient name. He slipped his hand between the two looped straps on the back and joined the lines of boys who waited in front of the barracks.
‘Get to the front, Lysander,’ shouted Diokles. ‘You have completed the Ordeal.’
Lysander took his place beside Demaratos.
‘Death and honour!’ said his new friend.
‘Death and honour!’ Lysander replied.
As they walked towards Amikles, it felt like the day they’d set off towards the mountains. But this was no Ordeal. Lysander shifted his shield higher on to his arm. This was the ultimate test.
They fell into formation with four more sets of barracks students as they descended into the village. Lysander reckoned they were about five hundred strong now. They gathered at the stadium, the scene of Lysander’s victory at the Festival Games. The parade ground was bustling with Helots, free-dwellers and red-cloaked Spartans. A few Spartans pushed through the crowd on horseback, barking orders. Mules were loaded with bags. Carts were piled with supplies. Sparks showered from a rotating grind-stone, where a barrel-chested man dripping with sweat held a soldier’s sword to the spinning surface. A carpenter’s mallet sounded out a regular beat.
‘Put your shields in the baggage carts,’ ordered Diokles. ‘You’ll need to save your strength.’
They trooped over and handed their shields to a Helot who stood on the cart, stacking them high and binding the stacks with rope. As he wandered back towards Diokles, Lysander noticed a small figure folding linen bandages on the edge of the parade ground. There was something about those small, pale hands … He approached slowly, watching the delicate fingers as they smoothed the linen. Lysander drew near and snatched back the cloak’s hood.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Be quiet,’ hissed Kassandra, pulling the hood back over her head. ‘You’ll draw attention to me.’
‘You haven’t answered my question. What do you think you’re doing? Women don’t fight for Sparta, and certainly not the granddaughter of an Ephor.’
‘I’m not going to join the army,’ said Kassandra. She pointed to a Helot talking with a soldier a few paces away. ‘I’ve bribed that Helot to take me with the baggage.’
Lysander shook his head. He would have to put a stop to it.
‘Does Sarpedon know?’ he asked.
‘Of course not,’ said Kassandra. ‘You must promise me that you won’t tell him.’
‘But you might be killed,’ Lysander protested.
‘That is so,’ said Kassandra, ‘but why should all the glory belong to men? I can be useful, too. Maybe I can’t hold a spear, or take a place in the phalanx, but there are other ways. Perhaps I can help the physicians deal with injured soldiers, or take new weapons to the front line … Besides –’ her tone was accusing, ‘at least I won’t be ignored this way, or treated like a maidservant.’
‘I’m sorry I pushed you aside at the villa,’ said Lysander. Kassandra looked unmoved and lifted her chin in defiance. ‘But your grandfather will never forgive you if you do this.’
‘By the time he finds out that I’ve not ridden to Thalamae with the other wealthy women, it’ll be too late to do anything about it,’ she said.
‘Please, go back,’ Lysander began, but Diokles appeared at his side.
‘There isn’t time for gossip now. Leave these Helots to do their jobs.’
‘Promise me you’ll reconsider,’ said Lysander.
‘Enough!’ bellowed Diokles.
Kassandra looked at Lysander from under her hood, and he could see the fear in her face. She’s terrified, he thought. And too proud to admit it. With a last imploring look, he mouthed, ‘Go home.’ Then he was pulled away.
The boys stepped out in unison, marching four abreast. Free-dwellers had gathered along the side of the track, and scattered petals at their feet. Some shouted words of encouragement.
‘May the Gods bless you!’
‘Drive the Persians into the sea!’
Others offered sacrifices at smoking altars at the roadside, burning barley, or pouring wine into the earth. The boys marched past the graveyard where Lysander’s mother and father were buried, and he offered a silent prayer to Hades, God of the Underworld: Let them smile upon my deeds.
Low murmurs of excitement passed down the line.
‘How many do you think there’ll be?’ said Hilarion in the row behind Lysander.
‘The commanders estimate almost three thousand,’ said Leonidas.
‘Do you think they’ll give this battle a name one day?’ asked Prokles.
‘The Battle of the Southern Plains, perhaps,’ said Ariston.
‘Or the Battle for Sparta,’ said Demaratos.
‘We’ll be able to tell our grandchildren that we fought,’ said Prokles.
‘If we live that long,’ said Hilarion, laughing nervously.
Diokles rode in silence beside them, his face betraying no emotion. The crowds stretched all the way to where the road crossed the river on its journey south, but began to thin out after that.
As they marched away from Sparta with the river beside them, Lysander looked around at his fellow students. Even with their armour, with real weapons that could kill, they were still only boys. What awaited them at the end of this march? And how many of them would return to Sparta alive?
CHAPTER 18
They had been marching for most of the day, following the churned, muddy tracks of the main battalions who had gone before them. The green of the mountain forests on either side had leached to grey and the moon rose above them, a pale spectre on the horizon. Demaratos seemed to be walking well once again. Lysander’s own toes stung where the blisters had formed and burst and formed again, and his face was crusted with sweat that had dried on his skin.
They rounded a bend in the river, and the sight made him think of the depths of the Underworld. The camp was huge. On both sides of the river, scattered fires blazed under the dusk sky, and flaming ashes rose above, caught on the breeze. The shadows of men huddled around the edges, or lay on their shields. An orange glow illuminated grim profiles.
‘Break ranks and make camp here,’ ordered Diokles, the weariness telling in his voice.
A group of Helots unyoked the baggage carts that had accompanied them, and led the beasts of burden towards the water to drink. Lysander and his comrades unloaded the firewood and provisions. While they built their fire, two pigs were lifted from the back of the cart, their stumpy legs squirming in the Helots’ arms. Both panicked when they saw the slaughter knife, but their squeals were cut short by a blade into the jugular, their blood collected in bowls as an offering to the Gods.
Lysander and others saw to the lighting of th
e fire while the animals were gutted and the carcasses cleaned at the water’s edge. Lysander’s nostrils soon caught the sweet scent of roasting meat.
A Spartan soldier strode over to their area. His long hair was pale brown and tied back, showing a mass of scar tissue where his left ear should have been. His skin looked tough, like leather, and his face was heavily lined, with a cleft in his chin. Only his eyes looked lively and alert.
‘I am Septon. Who is the leader here?’ he asked.
Diokles stood up some distance away and faced him.
‘I am. What news?’
The soldier came forward and sat on his haunches by the fire, gesturing for Diokles to join him.
‘Do you have any wine for a weary messenger? I’m thirsty.’
‘Lysander,’ said Diokles. ‘Bring some wine for our guest.’
Lysander dashed to a cart and seized one of the wine flasks and a bowl. As he returned, the two men were already talking, seated opposite each other as the firelight played over their faces. The boys nearest their fire, including Leonidas, were all listening. Lysander handed the flask and drinking bowl to Diokles, and sat down in earshot.
‘The Persians have moved in from the shoreline,’ said Septon, ‘and have forded the river. They occupy the breadth of the plain, and have somewhere near four thousand men.’
‘Four?’ said Diokles, pouring wine into a shallow bowl. ‘We were told three.’
‘They have been reinforced,’ said the soldier, adding a little water to the wine. ‘We have sent a raiding party of three hundred men, in the hope of causing some havoc amongst their lines. It’s a risk, to send away that many of our number. But perhaps the Persians will be put off a fight.’
‘Very good,’ said Diokles, offering the two-handled bowl to the other Spartan. ‘But let’s hope there are some Persians left for us.’
‘Indeed,’ said the soldier. He took a deep draught, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘The main battalion will split into two before dawn and take to the hills on either side. You will draw up your troops at first light and send them into battle down the centre of the plain. The Persians will think they are facing only a small contingent and come at them hard. With the Gods on our side, this will buy us enough time to swoop in from the flanks and crush them.’
‘It sounds like a suicide mission,’ said Diokles, smiling broadly.
The soldier slapped the tutor hard on the back, and straightened up.
‘What more could a Spartan ask for?’
Lysander shared a look with Leonidas, who was warming his feet by the fire’s edge. He gave a wan smile. Lysander hoped the fear wasn’t so obvious in his own eyes.
Thankfully, it was a dry night. After they had all eaten their fill, some of the boys had drifted asleep on the cold earth, huddled together for warmth. Lysander decided to take a tour of the camp. He threaded between the campfires, taking care not to tread on any dozing soldiers. The men were indistinguishable beneath their red cloaks, and in the gloom Lysander couldn’t tell if he was looking at boys or men. He found himself moving through the Helot area, where men slept beside their animals. He couldn’t see Kassandra anywhere. Hopefully she’d seen sense and gone back to her grandfather’s villa.
He couldn’t help thinking how different his life would have been, if his father had really been a Messenian. He too might be sleeping here amongst the servants, depending on the Spartan army for his survival. But Lysander’s father was Thorakis, a brave warrior. How many times had he been on campaign, lying beneath the stars and waiting for the day of battle to dawn? He touched the pendant at his chest, feeling his father’s spirit flow through him. He would need the Fire of Ares when the fighting came. He prayed to the God of War: Keep my shield firm and my spear straight.
Suddenly there were shouts in the distance. Lysander heard the word ‘Help!’ echo across the camp, and other words he couldn’t make out. They became louder and more urgent. Lysander heard ‘water’ and ‘physician’. Something about the man’s cries made Lysander break into a run. Panic filled his heart as he recognised the cry of terror. Across the camp, figures were waking and climbing to their feet.
Lysander reached the man first.
He stumbled out of the darkness, his red cloak half torn away. Under the starlight, his face was pale. ‘Help,’ he muttered again, almost in a whisper, and toppled forward. Lysander caught him, and struggled under the Spartan’s weight. The soldier’s arms sagged over his shoulders, his nails digging into Lysander’s back.
‘Let me help you,’ said Lysander, lowering the soldier to the ground. His hand touched something slimy and wet under the man’s cloak. It felt like raw meat.
‘Please … some water,’ whispered the man, his voice rasping as blood bubbled out of his mouth. His hands released their grasp on Lysander, and he fell limply to the ground. Torchlight flickered across the soldier’s glazed eyes. Gingerly, Lysander pulled aside the remains of the dead soldier’s cloak. The Spartan’s side was a bloody mess, lacerated from what looked like an axe wound. Lysander could see the man’s glistening intestines bulging out through splintered, pale ribs. Other Spartans gathered around him. He pulled the cloak back to cover the sight.
‘It’s the raiding party,’ said one. ‘They’ve returned!’
Lysander saw other figures approaching through the darkness. They weren’t in any sort of formation. Some walked alone, others supported each other, unable to stand on their own. A horse lumbered into the camp, dragging something from a stirrup. It was a leg. Two arrows protruded from the horse’s hindquarters.
Many were gathering now from the camp, bringing torches, blankets and water. An injured soldier stepped into view. The side of his face was black with dried blood, and the eye was missing where the socket had been smashed.
‘Where is Septon?’ he asked. ‘Where is the commander?’
‘I am here, Thyestes,’ replied the general. In the darkness, the deep lines of his face seemed carved in stone. ‘How do you fare?’
‘I am still alive,’ said the Spartan called Thyestes. ‘Though I’m a Cyclops now.’
Septon smiled grimly. ‘Come, take a seat by the fire, comrade. Tell me what happened?’
Lysander hovered by the edge of the flames as Thyestes spoke.
‘We reached their camp in the darkness, and all was quiet. We thought to have caught them unawares. I burst into the first tent, but there was no one inside. My fellow soldiers found the same. All the tents were empty. It was a trap.’ He stopped and wheezed for breath, clutching his side. ‘As we readied to leave, they surrounded us, demanded our surrender. I told them that Spartans do not surrender. Their arrows came thick as hail. We are all that’s left of three hundred men.’
Septon nodded grimly. ‘Rest, for now,’ he said, and nodded to Lysander. ‘This boy will find you some food. We fight again at dawn.’
While the other wounded soldiers were tended to, Lysander brought Thyestes water to bathe his face, and some meat and bread. They spoke quietly while the others slept.
‘What is your name, boy?’ he asked, cutting a chunk of pork away with his dagger.
‘Lysander.’
‘And who is your father, Lysander?’ asked Thyestes, chewing slowly.
‘His name was Thorakis,’ he replied. ‘I never met him.’
Thyestes stopped eating and took a drink from his flask. ‘I only know one Thorakis – son of the current Ephor Sarpedon. But he had no children.’
‘My mother was a Helot,’ said Lysander. He couldn’t help the note of challenge in his voice. ‘Sarpedon is my grandfather.’
Thyestes drew a deep breath. ‘So you’re a mothax, a half-breed?’
‘What of it?’ said Lysander, feeling his anger flare.
‘It’s no matter,’ said Thyestes. ‘If a man can hold a shield and a spear, and face death without flinching, he is a man whatever his birth. Thorakis was brave – you should be proud.’
‘I am,’ said Lysander. ‘Did you know my father?’
‘We were in the same barracks for many years,’ said Thyestes. ‘Thorakis had a strong spear arm and the heart of ten men – I will be with him soon, I think.’ The Spartan winced as a coughing fit racked his body, then spat out a mouthful of bloody sputum on to the ground.
‘You must see a physician,’ said Lysander. ‘You’re in pain.’
Thyestes laughed softly.
‘There are different sorts of pain, Lysander. I’d rather have these injuries than have failed to do my duty. Go to sleep now. Tomorrow will be hard.’
Thyestes settled as best he could for sleep. Lysander walked the short distance back to his own fire, and lay down beside Demaratos.
‘Are you all right?’ asked his friend.
‘I’m fine,’ said Lysander. ‘Go back to sleep.’
But as he pulled his cloak around his shoulders, the Spartan’s words echoed in his mind. There were different sorts of pain. Perhaps that of the body was the easiest to deal with. He remembered Hecuba tearing at her hair and beating her chest in sorrow. He remembered Timeon’s blood on his face.
Injuries got better. Grief, and guilt, took longer to heal.
‘Wake up, Lysander,’ said a voice in his ear. It was Demaratos. ‘The flanking battalions are leaving. We must gather in front of the camp.’
Lysander stood up and stretched. Demaratos had already moved on to wake the next boy. The fire had died completely, and Lysander had to stamp his feet several times to warm himself. A small way away, Lysander could see Thyestes was still asleep on his side, so Lysander walked over and knelt beside him.
‘Wake up,’ he said, shaking the man’s shoulder. Thyestes’ body rolled slowly towards him. His lips were blue and a fly buzzed lazily over the gore of his face wound. Thyestes’ hand still clutched his dagger. Lysander felt for a pulse in the soldier’s wrist, but he knew already that the Spartan was dead. The skin was icy and the arm stiff with rigor mortis.
‘Give my greeting to my father,’ he whispered, and closed Thyestes’ remaining eye.