Birth of a Warrior

by Michael Ford

  ‘Row faster!’ shouted the commander on Lysander’s ship.

  As the first Greek ship closed in, Lysander could see Vaumisa abandon his platform.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Demaratos from Lysander’s side. ‘Run away if you can.’

  The reinforced prow of the Greek ship crashed into the stern of Vaumisa’s vessel, shattering the hull and sending splinters of wood flying through the air. The oars on the port side of the boat jammed in the water, and it came to a sudden halt, turning jarringly in the water. The second Greek ship came from the other side, and rammed home into the starboard. In the chaos, Lysander saw the Persian hull splinter. As the planks crumbled into the water, he stared into the belly of the ship. Water gushed in and screams of panic filled the air.

  ‘Take these,’ said Demaratos, handing Lysander a shield and spear. ‘Kassandra – go below. It’s not safe here.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ she said coldly. ‘I want to see Vaumisa brought to justice.’

  Their vessel was drawing alongside now, and adrenalin surged through every one of Lysander’s limbs. The Persian deck was in chaos, as oarsmen and soldiers armed themselves for combat. Lysander could no longer see Vaumisa.

  ‘Reel them in!’ ordered the commander. Soldiers standing on the edge of the boat swung ropes armed with hooks on to the Persian ship. The irons bit home, and immediately the Spartans began pulling the Persian ship towards their own. The water churned with foam beneath the ships and Lysander watched as Persians who’d fallen into the water were crushed as the two hulls ground together. The Spartans gave a blood-curdling cry and poured on to the Persian deck, spears held high. Lysander jumped as well, followed by Demaratos. Lysander thrust his spear at the nearest Persian. The tip ripped across his belly and spilled his guts over the deck. Lysander turned the spear around and smashed the lizard-sticker into the prone soldier’s cheek, killing him instantly.

  The Persians were outnumbered. Some were already giving up, but the Spartans showed them no mercy other than a quick death. But where was Vaumisa? Lysander scoured the deck, threading through the slaughter. He climbed on to the platform and saw Sarpedon’s body lying where they had left it. His peaceful face showed nothing of the trauma he had undergone. If it wasn’t for the sword’s hilt sticking out of his chest, and the pool of thick black blood, he might have died in his sleep. Lysander fought back his tears. The rear end of the ship listed as water flooded the hull, and Lysander stumbled to keep his balance. The vessel wouldn’t be afloat for much longer.

  Then Lysander saw Vaumisa.

  In the dark water, forty paces further out, the Persian general was making away in Sarpedon’s rowing boat, with Cleeto heaving desperately at the oars.

  Lysander shouldered his spear.

  ‘Persian!’ he shouted. Vaumisa sat in the small boat and stared back. Lysander couldn’t make out his expression. It didn’t matter to him now.

  Lysander pulled back his spear arm. He focused along the shaft, as his tutor had taught him. ‘Never throw your spear unless you really have to,’ Diokles had always said.

  I have to, whispered Lysander to himself.

  He launched the spear, following through with the throwing arm for maximum power.

  Vaumisa had nowhere to run.

  The tip caught him beneath the neck and burst through the other side, showering Cleeto with gore. The general’s hands went to his throat as the blood sprayed over his torso and into the water around. His eyes went wide with shock, and Lysander heard a guttural noise as Vaumisa began to choke on his own blood. The Persian toppled forward, his face smashing into the edge of the rowing boat with the full force of his body’s bulk. The boat rocked perilously. Vaumisa’s hands scrabbled at his throat as he writhed like a fish suffocating in the air. Cleeto cowered at the back of the boat. Vaumisa jerked suddenly and slammed sideways. A wave of water swamped the vessel and Cleeto tried desperately to keep the boat steady by throwing himself to the opposite side. It wasn’t enough. It tipped over, sending both men into the dark water.

  Cleeto’s head broke the surface, and his hands thrashed. All Lysander heard was a muffled cry. Then he was gone. Lysander watched the surface for any other signs of life. There were none. Vaumisa was dead.

  May the Furies torment you for eternity, Lysander prayed. Then he turned away.

  CHAPTER 25

  The damaged Persian ship lurched, and the bow lifted out of the water.

  ‘It’s sinking!’ shouted Demaratos. The other Spartans were already jumping back on to their own ship. Lysander looked at his grandfather’s body.

  ‘I can’t go without Sarpedon,’ said Lysander. ‘Help me with him.’

  Demaratos nodded, and came to the base of the platform. Lysander pulled the sword from Sarpedon’s body, and placed the weapon in his own sheath. A small well of blood escaped the fatal wound. He placed two hands under Sarpedon’s mighty shoulders. The body was still warm, and it crushed Lysander’s heart to think of the life that had seeped away. He managed to move his grandfather’s corpse to the edge of the platform where Demaratos could reach the legs.

  ‘Ready?’ Lysander asked Demaratos. His friend gave a single nod as he prepared to take the weight. Lysander cradled his grandfather’s head gently while Demaratos held his legs. Between them, they lowered the corpse. The timbers of the Persian ship creaked.

  The Spartans were already uncoupling their hooks from the ship, preparing to depart.

  ‘Help us!’ shouted Lysander. ‘This man is an Ephor of Sparta.’

  A small group came over to assist Lysander and Demaratos. When Demaratos and the body were safely aboard the Spartan ship, Lysander clambered over as well.

  Lysander and his friend stood side by side, watching in silence as the Persian vessel was swallowed by the waves. Soon all that remained were corpses, floating in the sea water amongst the debris of weapons and timber.

  The waves slapped against the hull of the ship as it came to a halt at the jetty at Gytheion. The shoreline was crowded with soldiers, bloodied and filthy from battle. Most of the small buildings and fishing boats were no more than blackened, charred remains. The Ephor called Myron stood on the landing gangway below, with a dozen Spartan soldiers standing in his wake.

  ‘Where is Vaumisa?’ he called up.

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Demaratos. ‘Lysander killed him.’

  The Ephor looked hard at Lysander.

  ‘Sparta thanks you, son of Thorakis. You have proved yourself a brave warrior. And Sarpedon?’

  Demaratos was silent, and Lysander could not bring himself to speak.

  ‘Come, where is the Ephor?’ said Myron.

  Lysander fought to control his voice. ‘He’s … dead.’ Myron’s face took on a sheen of disbelief as he heard the news. ‘He sacrificed his own life,’ continued Lysander, ‘so that Kassandra and I could live.’

  Myron was silent, but the soldiers behind him exchanged glances and murmurs. One whispered, ‘It cannot be true.’

  ‘And his body?’ said Myron eventually.

  ‘We rescued it,’ said Lysander, gesturing behind him. Sarpedon’s body was lying on a makeshift stretcher of sailcloth and ship’s planks. Kassandra, her face deathly pale, sat at his side, holding the old man’s hand. Myron climbed the bow ladder, and pulled himself up to the handrail to look on to the deck. The truth confirmed, he sank back to the jetty.

  The Ephor nodded slowly, his jaw set firm and his eyes far away. ‘The Council must be told,’ he muttered. Then he turned back to Lysander. ‘Sarpedon is lucky to have you as a descendant.’ The tears itched behind Lysander’s eyes – he blinked them away. ‘He must be taken to Sparta immediately, and given a hero’s funeral.’ He turned to his men. ‘Arrange a cart. I want one of you to ride ahead. Take the fastest horse, and tell them to inform the Elders that Sarpedon is dead.’

  ‘I’ll escort the body,’ said Lysander. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his grandfather’s side.

  ‘Very well,’ said Myron. ‘
Bring horses for these Spartans,’ he ordered.

  Lysander turned and looked back to Kassandra. Demaratos crouched beside her and she was trembling with the cold. He realised that he was her only real family now.

  He hobbled back towards them. Every step sent pain through his injured calf, but the wound was already scabbed with blood, and there was no sign of infection.

  ‘We have to go,’ he said.

  Kassandra looked up at him, her eyes hollow with grief. Demaratos lifted her hand from Sarpedon’s and helped her to her feet.

  While they watched, Sarpedon’s body was transferred from the ship to a waiting cart. Two horses were harnessed into place, and a Spartan soldier came out from amongst the crowd. Lysander didn’t recognise him, with all the dirt and blood that crusted his face.

  ‘Greetings, friend.’ The voice told him who it was.

  ‘Greetings, Leonidas,’ replied Lysander.

  Leonidas threw his arms around Lysander’s shoulders and held him in an embrace. Behind him, Lysander spotted Orpheus, resting against an upturned rowing boat. A surgeon had obviously seen to him. There was nothing below his knee, and a bandage heavy with blood covered the stump. He was pale, but he managed to raise a hand in Lysander’s direction.

  ‘Lysander,’ said Myron. He turned to the Ephor, who was holding the reins of a horse. Lysander recognised that it was Pegasus, Sarpedon’s finest stallion. ‘Ride to Sparta with Sarpedon.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lysander, stroking Pegasus’ flank. Demaratos helped Kassandra into the back of the cart and jumped in beside her. Myron came forward with a fleece and handed it to Demaratos. He draped it around Kassandra’s shoulders.

  Suddenly shouts stirred from further along the shore. Two Spartan soldiers were dragging a figure between them and he shouted curses in his own tongue.

  As they reached Myron and Lysander, they threw him to the ground.

  ‘Cleeto!’ Lysander exclaimed.

  ‘Sir,’ one of the Spartans addressed the Ephor. ‘We found this Persian trying to climb ashore at the rocks.’

  ‘Do you know this villain, Lysander?’

  Lysander nodded. ‘Yes, he tried to hang me on board Vaumisa’s vessel. He was one of the general’s personal guards.’

  Myron looked at Cleeto in disgust.

  ‘Then his life is yours, Lysander. What would you have us do with him?’

  Lysander looked at where Vaumisa’s henchman knelt, still dripping saltwater. He remembered how he had knotted the noose and placed it over his neck. How he had pulled on the rope that almost killed him.

  Lysander drew Sarpedon’s sword. Cleeto stiffened when he saw the blade. Lysander flexed his fingers around the handle and stepped slowly towards Cleeto. After a day on the battlefield, he knew how easy it was to take another man’s life. Cleeto bowed his head, exposing the back of his neck. Lysander placed the tip of the sword against the ridges of the Persian’s spine, where head met torso. One thrust would do it.

  Lysander adjusted his hands on the hilt, but instead of ramming the blade home, he twisted it under the leather thong that encircled the Persian’s neck. The Fire of Ares clattered on to the ground. Lysander stooped and retrieved it, stroking the familiar jewel with the pad of his thumb.

  He walked over to Myron, leaving Cleeto on his knees.

  ‘I have seen enough death today,’ he said, sheathing the sword. Lysander tied the Fire of Ares back where it belonged – around his own neck. He made his way towards Pegasus.

  ‘What shall we do with the prisoner?’ asked Myron.

  Lysander turned and looked at Cleeto, cowering beside the Ephor.

  ‘Send him back to Persia to tell of our victory,’ said Lysander.

  Placing his foot in the stirrup, he climbed into the saddle.

  ‘Thorakis would be proud of you,’ said the Ephor, before slapping the carthorses into motion. As the cart moved away from the shore, Lysander felt his father’s spirit closer than ever.

  * * *

  Demaratos comforted Kassandra as they passed the battlefields where the Spartans and Persians had fought. Lysander rode in silence through the devastation. The ground was littered with bodies – Spartans and Persians together. In places, the ground was soaked red with blood. So many had died. Hilarion, Ariston, Diokles. So many others whose names he’d never know. How many empty beds would there be in the dormitory now?

  It was almost dawn when they reached the outskirts of Sparta. Looking back, Lysander saw that Kassandra’s eyes were closed in sleep and she leant heavily against Demaratos’s chest.

  The first person they met was a young Helot woman, cradling a baby at her breast. She held out a pink flower as they passed, and Lysander leant from the saddle to take it.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. Her silent gesture lifted Lysander’s spirits. Without the Spartan sacrifice, who knew what the Persians would have done to the Helot population?

  As they made their way into the streets of Sparta, men and women, Helots and free-dwellers, came out of their houses. They shouted words of triumph and encouragement as Lysander led the cart past.

  ‘Bless you!’ said an old man, turning to an elderly woman by his side. ‘We’re saved, Nylix. We’re saved!’

  ‘Praise the Gods,’ she said. ‘Praise Sparta!’

  As Lysander came nearer to the agora – the marketplace at the foot of the acropolis – he caught sight of Spartan soldiers ahead. They lined the road on one side, standing straight-backed and staring ahead, their spears vertical. The sight swelled Lysander with pride.

  He reached the first in the line, and the Spartan pushed out his spear arm, holding the shaft steady. His neighbour did the same. And the next man, and the next. They’re saluting me! Lysander drew Sarpedon’s sword from its sheath, and held it out to each, tapping the tips of their spears with the end of his blade.

  At one end of the agora stood the round Council House. The marketplace was almost empty of people. Torches rested in tall iron tripods at regular intervals around the outside. Spartan soldiers stood between them in rows, four men deep. In the centre three carts had gathered. Each carried long planks of wood. Between them, a structure was being built by a team of carpenters. Lysander immediately recognised what it was. A funeral pyre. He dismounted from his horse, and the cart with Sarpedon’s body stopped behind him.

  One of the Spartan soldiers at the edge of the marketplace lifted a horn to his lips and gave a long blast. Moments later, the heavy bronze door of the Council House creaked open, and from inside stepped a Spartan whom Lysander hadn’t seen before. He was of medium height, with a narrow, gnarled face and blue eyes. Behind him came the Ephor Tellios and then the rest of the Elders. They proceeded slowly across the agora until they reached Lysander.

  ‘Greetings, son of Thorakis,’ said the leader. ‘I am Cleomenes, one of the two Kings of Sparta.’

  Lysander climbed out of the saddle and dropped to his knees, his head reeling. A King!

  ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’

  King Cleomenes placed a hand on Lysander’s head, signalling him to rise.

  ‘There is no need to kneel, my boy. A King in Sparta is the same as any other man: a soldier.’

  Lysander stood up and looked the King in the eye.

  ‘Sarpedon … he’s …’

  ‘The Council has been told,’ said Cleomenes. ‘Have no fear. He will be given a funeral like a hero of old. But first, let our wives, good women of Sparta all, prepare the body. You must cleanse yourself in the river, also.’ He turned to the soldier who had blown the horn. ‘Chrysippus, find Lysander clean garments.’

  Lysander followed the King’s orders, washing the blood and dirt from his body in the river Eurotas, and dressing himself in a clean tunic, sandals and cloak. When he returned to the agora he felt as though he had been born anew. The soldiers from outside the marketplace had moved in around the funeral pyre. Behind them stood crowds of free-dwellers and Helots, the crowds stretching back into the surrounding streets. As Lysander ap
proached, the people parted to let him pass, calling out thanks, or simply bowing their heads.

  At the edge of the agora, a Spartan came forward, and handed a torch to Lysander. ‘You must light the pyre, son of Thorakis, to speed the great Sarpedon to the fields of Elysion, where the shades of heroes walk in the Underworld.’

  Lysander took the flaming bundle of sticks, and walked solemnly back to the centre of the agora. His breath misted the air, but he didn’t feel the cold. He felt a new flame burning within him.

  He climbed the wooden steps up to the edge of the pyre, and stood still, taking in Sarpedon’s corpse for the last time. Dressed in a clean white tunic, his arms were folded over his chest, his hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword, which lay flat along his front. He was wearing his red cloak. The women had trimmed his beard and combed back his hair, and although he wasn’t diminished in death, there was no doubt in Lysander’s mind that his grandfather’s spirit had left him. Are you walking the fields of Elysion? he whispered. Are you walking with Thorakis, your son?

  Lysander looked down into the marketplace. King Cleomenes and the Elders were all watching him, and as he looked at each of them in turn, they gave a bow of respect. Then they parted and Kassandra came forward. She was standing straight, dressed in a clean white dress, with her hair tied up and her head high. Her eyes were dry of tears. Demaratos came behind her, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Behold Spartans!’ Lysander shouted, holding the torch aloft. ‘Behold free-dwellers and Helots! Here lies the Ephor Sarpedon! He died as he lived, with courage, with honour.’ Lysander paused to let his words sink in. ‘Today we have earned victory over the Persians, but be in no doubt, the price has been heavy. Sparta has lost the best of men!’ He thought of Ariston, of Hilarion, of Diokles. He thought of Thyestes and his courage as he awaited death.

  Lysander lowered the torch to the dry kindling near Sarpedon’s bare feet. The twigs caught with a crackle. He moved the torch along the length of the pyre, making sure the funeral bier would burn evenly. As the smoke rose to his eyes and Sarpedon’s cloak began to blacken at the edges, he climbed down.