by Michael Ford
Lysander closed his eyes and prepared for death.
CHAPTER 20
But the blow never came. Lysander dared to open his eyes. The axe hung loosely from the Persian’s hand. A spear-tip pushed out through his mouth and his tongue squirmed around the wood. The body shivered, and the Persian sank sideways.
Diokles stood above him, breathing heavily. The lower part of his helmet had been torn away, leaving a jagged edge. His eye patch had come off as well. He offered a hand to Lysander, who took it and jumped to his feet.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You saved my life.’
‘I saved a Spartan,’ said Diokles.
Lysander retrieved his sword and looked around. The Persians’ superior numbers were beginning to tell. Spartans were falling everywhere, their torn red cloaks littering the ground. He couldn’t see Demaratos, Orpheus or Leonidas. Another block of Persians was coming over the plain towards them.
‘We’re losing the fight,’ said Diokles. ‘We’ll have to fall back.’
‘No!’ said Lysander. ‘We can’t. The Persians will have a clear road to Sparta. We have to hold them until the reinforcements arrive.’
Two arrows hit Diokles in the chest. He stumbled towards Lysander, holding out his hands. Lysander caught him, but could only slow the fall. Diokles grunted as he hit the ground. Almost immediately, blood welled in his mouth. He held on to the back of Lysander’s neck, his brow creased in pain.
‘Not a bad way to die,’ choked his tutor, straining to keep his head raised.
‘Let me get help,’ said Lysander.
‘There’s no help for me now,’ he gasped. His head sank back on to the ground, his lips moving slowly. Lysander leant closer to hear his words. They came in a whisper.
‘You’ve made a good soldier, mothax.’
The grip behind Lysander’s head relaxed. Diokles was dead.
Lysander pulled his tutor’s cloak over his body and stood up. All the times Diokles had bullied him weren’t important now. On the battlefield he had proved himself a comrade. Lysander saw the Spartan forces were being pushed back towards their own camp. Two Persians ran at Lysander, each wielding a curved scimitar. Anger burned through his limbs.
Drawing his sword, he darted left, so that one Persian blocked the other’s path. It was a trick he’d learnt in the one-against-many fights from the barracks. To deal with one opponent at a time. The Persian swung his sword, and Lysander sidestepped. The blade whistled past his ear and slid down his shield.
With his enemy exposed, he sliced upwards with the point of his own sword into the soldier’s unprotected armpit. The Persian tried to lift his own sword again, then looked in horror as he understood. His arm was hanging by a torn section of muscle and his blood sprayed down his side from the severed artery. Lysander lunged at his companion, but he was a skilled swordsman, parrying Lysander’s blow.
The Persian brought his sword down in an arc. Lysander buckled his legs, pushed his shield on to the blow, then twisted full circle in a crouch to gain maximum power. His sword cut a horizontal arc, slicing the Persian’s leg clean off. The Persian crumpled, and screamed in agony.
‘You can die slowly,’ shouted Lysander, already walking away.
Lysander scanned the area where Orpheus had been fighting, but he couldn’t see his friend anywhere. ‘Orpheus?’ he shouted. ‘Where are you?’
A moan came from the sea of bodies ahead, and an injured Persian lifted his arm. Lysander edged nearer and saw that the Persian was dead, with half his head missing and shards of skull buried in a deep wound. There was a Spartan beneath him.
‘Orpheus?’
Another groan. Lysander ran forward and pushed the dead Persian off his friend. Orpheus was lying on his side, his face pale. His leg was hanging off at an angle and soaking the ground red. Lysander knew his friend would die if the blood flow wasn’t staunched soon.
‘Hold on,’ he said. While the fight raged around him and shouts in Persian and Greek filled the air, Lysander used his sword to tear off a strip of Orpheus’s cloak. He carefully threaded it above the bleeding stump, then tied a knot. Orpheus hissed through his teeth as Lysander pulled the tourniquet as tight as he could. The bleeding slowed instantly.
The main fight had moved beyond them, as the Persians pushed the remainder of the army back. Lysander took in the corpses of Persians and Spartans that lay strewn around him, some still moving feebly or groaning in despair. Where were the flanking reinforcements? If they didn’t come soon, the battle would be lost completely.
‘Go back to the fight,’ said Orpheus. ‘Leave me here.’
Lysander ignored his friend’s protests, and put his arm around Orpheus’s shoulder, lifting him to his feet. The Persians and Spartans were fighting among the baggage carts now, and the cries of fear came from the Helots. Lysander could see them cowering beneath some of the carts. Others had seized whatever weapons came to hand and were joining the fight. They were hopelessly outmatched, and Lysander longed to go to their aid. But he couldn’t leave his friend. He watched with despair as a middle-aged Helot, holding a charred log as a club, ran at a Persian soldier. The warrior stepped aside and ran his sword across the Helot’s stomach, drawing a chilling howl from his lips.
A horn sounded. Lysander glanced around, scanning the battlefield. Then he saw. On the steep slopes either side of the plain, red-cloaked men were emerging. They edged from among the trees, their spears bristling. Hundreds of Spartan soldiers. He turned back to Orpheus.
‘The flanking battalions! They’re here!’
The horn sounded again, and the waves of soldiers poured down the slopes. The effect on the Persians was instant. Many peeled away from the fight with the Helots and the remaining Spartan boys, and began making for the sides of the plain. They roared a battle cry as they charged to face the new attackers.
Lysander continued back towards the baggage carts. Suddenly he heard the pounding of hooves from behind. He dived to the side, taking Orpheus with him, as a troop of gleaming white horses thundered past.
The band was led by a Persian rider covered in golden armour, brilliant in the sun. Ten others, dressed entirely in black, galloped at his side.
It had to be Vaumisa.
A group of three Spartans charged at the Persians. The black-clad bodyguards formed a tight wall with their horses. Two unshouldered their bows and, in a single fluid movement, unleashed arrows into the Spartans’ chests. The third Spartan looked on, unsure what to do, before charging at the horses with his spear. The nearest Persian reared on his horse, then brought its hooves down on him.
Vaumisa twisted in his saddle, barking orders, but the bulk of his troops seemed in chaos as the Spartans came at them from the slopes on either side of the plain. They had formed hastily into two ranks, one facing east and one west, to meet the latest assault. The remainder continued to fight the Spartan boys beside the supply area. Lysander lifted Orpheus and began guiding him back towards a safe area of the camp.
‘You have to stay and fight,’ said Orpheus.
The Spartans from the hills crashed into the Persians from both sides, splintering shields and raising screams of terror and pain from the enemy. Vaumisa turned his horse, and signalled to his bodyguards. They charged among the baggage carts and Lysander lost sight of them. Where were they going? A few dozen Spartans remained in the supply area, driving back the Persians who were still there. Lysander saw a Persian collapse into the ashes of one of the fires, writhing on the ground with a spear in his stomach. Over the fallen enemy stood Leonidas. When his eyes caught Lysander’s, he ran over. Close up, Lysander could see a gash extended across his forehead. Blood and sweat slicked his face, but he looked jubilant. He whooped and slapped Lysander on the back. When he saw Orpheus’s wound, he blanched.
‘Your leg …’
‘I’m lucky; it’s my bad one,’ said his friend with a thin smile.
Lysander turned to Leonidas.
‘Vaumisa and his bodyguards are here.’
‘He
re?’ said the prince. ‘In the camp?’
Lysander was nodding when a high-pitched scream rang out above the other sounds of the battlefield. A figure ran through the ashes of a dead fire fifty paces away, leaping over the corpse Leonidas has speared. Lysander recognised the grey cloak with its distinctive black hood.
‘Kassandra!’ he shouted.
Behind her appeared Vaumisa on horseback, his golden armour reflecting the sunlight. His bodyguards rode behind him in a V formation. Kassandra tripped over a rock. Vaumisa bore down closer. For a terrible moment, Lysander thought she’d be trampled beneath the hooves of his steed.
‘Look after Orpheus,’ he said to Leonidas, throwing down his shield. He couldn’t afford to be slowed down. The prince took Orpheus’s weight and Lysander sprinted towards Kassandra, drawing his sword.
As Vaumisa closed in, and Kassandra struggled to her feet, the Persian leant from his saddle with an outstretched arm. His hand held no weapon.
‘Kassandra!’ Lysander shouted again. He could see he was too late. Vaumisa seized Kassandra by the top of her cloak and threw her across his saddle. His cousin squirmed and kicked against her captor as Lysander stood before Vaumisa’s stallion, brandishing his sword.
‘Leave her alone!’ shouted Lysander.
Vaumisa drew up in his saddle. His bodyguards fell in beside him. Lysander ran forward. He wouldn’t allow them to take Kassandra.
One of the archers levelled his bow and drew back the string. The jagged tip was pointing directly at his chest. Lysander slowed. He couldn’t dodge an arrow.
‘Halt, Spartan!’ boomed Vaumisa. He was a huge man, with a tanned face and large, deep-set eyes. The black shadow of a beard clouded his jaw and cheeks. His armour seemed to be made up of hundreds of golden scales, interlapping over his massive frame. Without his shield, Lysander knew he had no chance. He stood in front of the Persian general. The bowman’s hand was steady and he looked at Lysander without pity.
‘You are brave, Spartan,’ said Vaumisa in a strange accent, ‘but you’ll learn that there is more than bravery to being a soldier.’
‘Like kidnapping innocent girls?’ Lysander said.
Vaumisa laughed. ‘Don’t try my patience. Be grateful that I am giving you your life today. Move aside, and enjoy the years ahead.’
The Persian’s laughter was too much for Lysander.
‘I’m a Spartan, and I’m not afraid to die!’ he said. The smile fell from Vaumisa’s face.
‘Very well.’ He nodded to the archer. ‘Kill him.’
Lysander felt the arrow hit him, like a vicious punch to the chest. The force made him spin around and he fell to the ground, landing on his face. He couldn’t move. The sound of horses’ hooves receded into the distance. He struggled to breathe. Am I dying? he wondered. Is this what it feels like?
‘Lysander?’ came a familiar voice. ‘Lysander! No … no … no!’ It was Leonidas.
‘Is he dead?’ joined in Demaratos.
Lysander wanted to speak, to tell them that he wasn’t dead, but he still hadn’t caught his breath. The pain in his chest was overwhelming. A hand tugged at his shoulder, and pulled him on to his back. Lysander opened his eyes. Two silhouettes were moving above him. His two friends.
‘Wh—?’ Lysander’s hands moved over his chest, expecting to find blood. His fingers touched the arrow shaft. No pain.
‘Huh!’ Demaratos laughed. ‘Look! The arrow hit that clasp.’
Lysander looked down his body and saw that Demaratos was right. The pain in his chest was gone. The arrow tip was buried in the wood of Timeon’s carving. He sat up. Demaratos seized the carving in one hand and the arrow in his other and gave a tug. The shaft came away, but the arrowhead remained lodged.
‘The Gods must be smiling on you,’ said Demaratos.
Or Timeon, thought Lysander. But there was no time to offer thanks. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed Demaratos’s arm.
‘We have to go after Vaumisa. He’s taken Kassandra.’
CHAPTER 21
‘Kassandra is here?’ said Demaratos, his face uncomprehending.
‘She sneaked along with the baggage handlers,’ said Lysander. ‘She wanted to play her part in the war for Sparta.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ said Demaratos, grabbing Lysander’s arm. ‘You know what she means to me!’
‘I thought I’d persuaded her not to,’ said Lysander, shaking him off. ‘We haven’t got time to waste. They headed back towards the sea. On horseback. I’ll go after them, you have to go back to Sparta and tell Sarpedon.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Demaratos. ‘You can’t take on Vaumisa on your own.’
‘I’ll take a message to the Ephor,’ said Leonidas. ‘Take that horse.’ He pointed to the edge of the battlefield, near to where a well-drilled line of Spartans were seeing off a small group of Persians. A horse stood with its head bowed. A Persian archer with only half his scalp attached hung limply from the side, tangled in his stirrups.
Demaratos ran over to the horse and Lysander followed him. Together they pulled the dead rider off and climbed into the saddle, Lysander at the front.
‘May the Fates look on you kindly,’ said Leonidas. Lysander kicked the horse’s side and galloped up the edge of the battlefield, heading south.
The stallion was strong. Lysander steered him up the slope on the eastern side of the plain, down which the flanking army had advanced. Once on the ridge above, they had a view of the whole battlefield. The tide had well and truly turned and the fight was dying out. Though a few Persians were still resisting, small pockets had given themselves up, and were throwing down their weapons. The ones who were fleeing were being picked off with spears to the back. Not a brave way to die.
The tracks left by Vaumisa and his retreating band of horses could be clearly made out in the mud.
‘Hang on,’ said Lysander as he drove the stallion in pursuit, leaping over small bushes and fallen trees. His arms ached from gripping the reins so tightly, and he could feel Demaratos’s arms around his chest like hoops of iron.
‘Slow down!’ he yelled. ‘You’ll get us killed!’
‘I can’t,’ Lysander yelled back. ‘We have to catch Vaumisa. It looks as though they’re heading to the coast – perhaps a ship is moored there.’
They entered a thicket of trees, and the thin branches whipped at his face. He steered through the trees.
‘Duck!’ he shouted as a low branch scythed towards them. He felt it brush his hair as they passed.
Emerging on the other side, the sea sparkled in the sun. Lysander saw a group of white horses, their heads bowed and munching grass. Something was wrong. Where were the riders? Then he understood: ahead, the ground dropped away, plummeting down to the sea in a sheer cliff face.
Lysander yanked hard on the reins, and the horse snorted, rearing on its hind legs. Its hooves skidded across the ground in a cloud of dust and it toppled backwards, throwing Lysander to the ground. He landed on top of Demaratos, who let out a cry. Thankfully the horse crashed beside rather than on top of them. The stallion struggled to its feet and galloped off into the forest.
Demaratos stood up and pointed down to the sea.
‘Look!’ he said.
A small cove the shape of a horseshoe nestled between two rocky headlands. The shoreline was mostly made up of large boulders, with a few spots of sand. On one of these, Vaumisa and his bodyguards were climbing into a small boat that knocked against the rocks. Kassandra stood between two Persians, each gripping an arm. She struggled between them, but was powerless. They dragged her across the sand and into the shallow water, then threw her roughly into the boat. Four rowers manning two oars were seated in the middle of the craft. Once they were all aboard, with Kassandra flanked by two bodyguards, one of the crew pushed the boat out of the shallows with his oar and rejoined the others. In time, they heaved away from the shore. The faint splash of oars reached Lysander’s ears.
‘They can’t be going all
the way across the sea in that,’ he said. ‘There must be a larger boat beyond the peninsula. Come on, we have to get down there.’
Demaratos nodded, and began to take off his armour. Lysander did the same – there was no way they could complete the treacherous descent laden down. A steep path, shielded by rough gorse, weaved down the cliff face. The earth between the rocks was soft and sandy, and pebbles clattered at every step.
They picked their way down as quickly as possible. By the time they reached the base of the cliff, Lysander’s legs were shaking with the effort and the rowing boat was a speck rounding the headland. From here they could see a larger ship, bristling with oars, anchored a short way from the cliffs.
‘How can we get there?’ said Demaratos. ‘They can row quicker than we can swim.’
‘The boat is anchored close to the headland. If we can get to the tip, maybe we can climb down.’
Demaratos looked unsure.
‘Do you have a better plan?’ said Lysander.
Demaratos shrugged and shook his head. ‘Let’s go!’
Lysander led the way over the slippery rocks, limping from one to the next, taking care not to let his feet fall through the cracks. Demaratos was close behind, breathing heavily. White foam churned beneath the boulders, sending up occasional sprays of salty water that stung his many grazes and cuts from the battlefield. They reached the headland at the end of the rocky patch and Lysander was grateful to have his feet on dry land again. The headland was little more than a narrow tongue of land covered in low scrub. It rose as it entered the water, ending in a steep, snub-nosed cliff where a Persian ship stood at anchor.
They ran up the slope until they reached the end of the headland. The sight of the Persian vessel close up made Lysander draw a gasp.
The ship was a bireme, with two tiers of oars, locked at ease above the water. It stood bow on to them in the water, the stern pointing out to sea. A single mast stood in the centre, with a wooden structure – the forecastle – built forward of the mast and overlooking the deck. Crewmen swarmed over the vessel, too busy to notice Lysander and Demaratos watching them, and the sail was being hoisted. Lysander guessed the ship would be under way as soon as the anchor was pulled up and secured. He could see the other Persian ships at anchor further out, waiting for their warrior crews to return.