The Fire of Ares

by Michael Ford

  SPARTAN QUEST

  THE FIRE OF ARES

  MICHAEL FORD

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Imprint

  For Rebecca

  With thanks to Emile Farley

  PROLOGUE

  Thorakis tugged back on the leather reins, and his stallion skidded to a halt on the dusty track.

  ‘Good work, Hermes,’ he said, patting the horse’s jet-black flank.

  Thorakis looked across at Demokrates. His younger brother sat alert in his saddle. The breeze from the Aegean Sea behind them ruffled the red plume of his bronze helmet. Above, slender wisps of cloud floated across the blue sky.

  As Thorakis gazed up a solitary hawk glided past, hanging in the air.

  ‘The priests would call that a good omen,’ said his brother.

  ‘We don’t need omens,’ replied Thorakis. ‘I already know my destiny lies here …’ He patted the sheathed sword at his side.

  The light wind stilled, and Hermes pricked his ears. Thorakis heard it too – the noise of distant battle creeping over the brow of the hill: the clash of iron on bronze, the war cries. And there was no mistaking the smell – the odours of blood, of sweat, and of men’s fear.

  The scent meant something else as well: glory. The glory both Spartans lived for. They had fought this enemy – the Tegeans – before. They were fierce opponents.

  With a nod to his brother, Thorakis pushed his shield high on to his shoulder, and gripped the reins tightly.

  ‘For the Dioscuri!’ he cried, calling on the twin gods most sacred to Spartans.

  ‘For Kastor and Polydeukes!’ shouted back Demokrates.

  Both men kicked their heels into the stallions’ sides, and galloped over the hilltop, scattering rocks and loose soil.

  They plunged into the fight. The massed ranks of Spartan soldiers – the phalanx – were still in order, but reduced, and the Tegeans threatened to break through at any moment. Across the ground lay a tangle of wounded, dying and dead bodies, and the torn, muddied scarlet cloaks of fallen Spartan infantry.

  The sky darkened. Thorakis heard his brother shout out – Archers! He raised his shield above his head. With a sound like deafening hail, arrows buried themselves in the bronze. Thorakis’s elbow buckled under the deadly shafts, and he bent his knees to take the strain. Beside him, Demokrates was already bearing down on one of the enemy, a Tegean soldier from the north. With an overarm thrust of his spear, the man fell with a cry and was trampled beneath the hooves of Demokrates’ horse.

  Then the Spartan phalanx broke. Enemy soldiers poured through the gap in the line.

  ‘Demokrates!’ yelled Thorakis. ‘Fill the breach!’

  If they could not drive back the enemy, the battle was lost. Instinctively, Thorakis reached inside his cloak, his fingers brushing the amulet that hung there – the Fire of Ares, God of War. It had been in his family for generations, since the age of heroes. The red stone that shone in the centre of the amulet was the only talisman he relied upon.

  Thorakis picked out the largest of the enemy soldiers, a giant of a man who swung two axes above his head. Releasing the pendant, Thorakis felt adrenalin flood his veins. He lowered his short sword and pointed it towards the Tegean. Their eyes met, and Thorakis prepared to charge.

  But suddenly a curious sensation, cool at first, then molten, spread through his belly. His strength leaked away. Looking down, his vision blurred through a veil of pain. Thorakis saw that the tip of a sword had pushed through his tunic at his stomach. ‘Stabbed from behind,’ he muttered, his voice cracking. He had seen enough of death to know that the wound was mortal – he would not make it from the battle plain alive. Never again would he see his homeland or his love, nor would he see his unborn son. But worse, he might be thought a coward.

  Thorakis slipped from the saddle like a loose sack of grain, and hit the ground with a heavy thud. Waves of pain coursed along the length of the blade in his belly.

  Helpless, he watched as the hulking enemy soldier approached and knelt down, pulling a dagger from his belt. Let this be quick, prayed Thorakis. The cold blade rested against his neck. But the killing thrust never came. With a twist of his wrist, the Tegean jerked Thorakis’s leather thong away from his neck. He climbed to his feet, clutching the Fire of Ares in a dirty, bloodstained fist. It must have become visible in the fall! As he watched the soldier lift the amulet to his face, Thorakis’s vision faded even more. Colour drained away. All colour but the one red stone.

  Over the din of the raging battle, he heard a new sound. His ancestors, brave warriors before him, were calling him towards the Underworld. He felt one foot in this life, and one in the next. Not yet, he thought, I must rescue the Fire of Ares! But he could not pull himself up.

  A sudden flash of scarlet.

  Demokrates appeared and lunged forward, plunging his eight-foot spear into the Tegean’s neck. The warrior’s face registered shock, before his eyes rolled white and he collapsed to the floor. He was dead before his face hit the dusty plain.

  Demokrates pulled the Fire of Ares from the corpse’s fingers, and fell to his knees at Thorakis’s side. Tears welled in Demokrates’ eyes as he carefully eased off his brother’s helmet.

  ‘Do not weep for me,’ croaked Thorakis. ‘Tell others that I died facing the enemy. I will enter Sparta with honour, on my shield. When my soul embraces my father’s over the River Styx, I will be in good company.’ He coughed as the blood welled up in the back of his throat. ‘Keep safe the Fire of Ares, Demokrates, and give it to my son when he is born. Do this for me.’

  Through the growing shadow of unconsciousness, Thorakis felt Demokrates heave him on to his saddle and gallop from the battlefield.

  His death came softly like the waves of the Aegean at sunset.

  CHAPTER 1

  ‘That’s fifty. Stop now!’ Lysander heard from behind. He let his sickle drop on to the sheared stalks. Stretching to his full height, the muscles of his back lengthened, and he turned to face his friend Timeon, who was tying a bundle of barley. The sun still blazed high in the sky. The day was sweltering, and the Taygetos Mountains shimmered in the distance. No breeze swept the plain and he could hear the trickle of the River Eurotas nearby.

  Fifty already! A full day’s toil even for a grown man. Lysander tipped back his head to swallow a mouthful of water from his flask, before offering it to his friend. His long locks, heavy with sweat, begin to cool against his neck.

  ‘You must slow down,’ urged Timeon, walking up to take a drink.

  ‘You know I can’t,’ replied Lysander, ‘not today.’ He paused, looking across the fields all around them. They were dotted with other slaves harvesting the crops of the Spartan Prince Kiros. He made a rough calculation in his head. ‘Another fifty before sunset will be enough.’

  Timeon spluttered on his drink.

  ‘Listen, Lysander, how can you help your mother if you have sunstroke?’

  Lysander had known Timeon since before they coul
d walk. After twelve years of friendship, he was the closest thing to a brother Lysander had.

  ‘Fifty bushels will only buy us food,’ said Lysander, ‘and she needs more medicine if she is to recover.’ He could see that his friend wanted to argue, but was holding back. Two of Timeon’s cousins had already been taken by the wasting disease.

  ‘Fifty more,’ he said again to himself, tying the flask back to his side.

  Fifteen bushels later and Lysander’s body was begging for rest, but he resisted. Don’t stop, he ordered himself. The handle of the heavy sickle was smeared with blood from the open blisters that stung his palms. He ignored the pain. It wasn’t the Spartan way to whimper, to complain, or to give in. Spartans endured. Lysander imagined himself as a Spartan foot soldier in the heat of battle, pressing forward against the enemy, one step at a time; the sickle, his spear, cutting down his foe.

  But Lysander wasn’t a Spartan. He wouldn’t even be allowed to speak to a Spartan without being spoken to first. He was a Helot, a native with no rights, no future, lower than a Spartan’s dog. Each year the five Spartan Ephors – the Guardians – declared a ritual war on the Helots who lived in their midst, each year they pledged to prolong the slavery.

  Lysander watched the tendons of his arms tighten and relax as he swung the sickle through the dry barley. Anger gathered in the well of his chest, and burned red like the stone that lay against his breastbone – the Fire of Ares. He had worn the pendant for as long as he could remember. He feared that if a Spartan ever saw the brilliant red jewel, he would be sure to lose it – by law, Helots had no property of their own. The Spartans could take anything they chose to. Lysander’s mother, Athenasia, had always been secretive about the amulet: Do not ask where it comes from. Just keep it close and keep it secret. Not even Timeon knew it hung there.

  Two black crows flapped up out of the barley ahead. Among the tall stalks something pale caught Lysander’s eye. He stopped swinging the sickle.

  ‘What is it?’ panted Timeon, some distance behind him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Lysander, walking over to investigate.

  As he drew closer, his steps slowed and his heart sped up. The pale object was a hand, and he recognised the body that went with it.

  ‘It’s Cato,’ he called to Timeon. Lying on his back facing the sky, Cato might have been asleep if it weren’t for the ragged red gash across his throat. The birds had obviously been at his eyes. Timeon came up alongside him and looked down. He lunged away and was violently sick. A few rows over, someone must have heard his retching. A lighthearted shout came across: ‘What have you found there, friends?’

  It wasn’t long before a crowd of harvesters had gathered around the corpse. Nestor, an older man who lived near Lysander and his mother, was first to speak.

  ‘It must be the Krypteia,’ he said grimly. Krypteia – the word made Lysander’s throat feel tight. The Spartan death squads were part of life as a Helot, though thank Zeus he had never met them. They roamed the territories at night, looking for easy prey and practice in killing. Although neither he nor Timeon had been close to Cato, Lysander knew that he had been lively and hard-working, even if he had one too many harsh words about their Spartan masters. He had obviously been overheard and paid the price.

  ‘What shall we do with him?’ asked Lysander.

  ‘Nothing, until the overseer returns,’ replied Nestor. ‘We’ll take him to the road for now.’

  At Nestor’s command, two young Helots picked up Cato’s body by the shoulders and knees, and carried him away. One by one, the crowd returned to their work. Nestor was the last to go but, as he left, he turned back to Lysander.

  ‘How does your mother fare?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s no worse,’ he replied.

  Nestor gave a small, slow nod.

  ‘Well, thanks to the Gods for that,’ he muttered, before walking away.

  Lysander focused on the harvesting, though he could not shake off the image of the dead man, with the awful second smile under his chin.

  He barely noticed the rest of the afternoon pass. He swung the sickle back and forth, fuelled by his frustration and rage, until a voice interrupted his thoughts. It was Timeon.

  ‘Lysander, slow down. You already have one hundred bushels.’

  Lysander breathed out heavily, put his hands on his hips and looked up at the sun. It was a rich orange smudge a few finger widths above the mountains to the west. Hundreds of years ago, before Prince Kiros was even born, all the land between those hills and the western sea had belonged to Lysander’s people. They had reaped the crops they sowed and lived in peace. Back then they were free.

  Lysander heaved the last of his bushels on to the overseer’s cart, then watched in silence as Nestor and another man, with their jaws set hard, lifted Cato’s lifeless body carefully on to the back. They straightened out his crooked legs, and tucked in an arm that swung loosely over the side. A solitary fly buzzed over one of the dried red eye sockets, and Nestor waved it away. With a smack of the overseer’s whip, the two oxen pressed into their halters and the cart jolted forward. Lysander walked behind with the other Helots, trying not to look at the grim cargo. He was glad that no one was talking.

  At the barn they joined the queue of Helots waiting for their wages – a tenth of what they had harvested that day. The rest went straight to the Spartans. But I’m one of the luckier ones, thought Lysander, surveying the other workers. Some of the men and women were old and bent, and still expected to labour in the fields. Their sagging faces wore a look of defeat.

  Lysander’s stomach was growling with hunger by the time he reached the front of the line and faced the overseer, Agestes. He was a brute of a man, with coarse dark hairs matting his chest and arms, and an untidy black beard covering most of his jaw and cheeks. His small, squinting eyes glinted black, and under his thick moustache Lysander saw rotting gums and barely a tooth left in his head. He had only recently taken on the job of overseer, but already had a reputation for cruelty. On his first day he’d made an example of one of Nestor’s sons, breaking his left wrist with a thresher after he asked for more water. Lysander held out his hand to receive his wages, but only one small sack of grain was thrown on to the table in front of him.

  ‘Next!’ shouted the overseer. Lysander stood for a moment. There must be a mistake, he thought.

  ‘That is not enough,’ he protested. ‘I am owed at least twice as much.’

  Agestes narrowed his eyes and leant forward, so close that Lysander could smell his sour breath. ‘Move along,’ ordered the overseer, the aggression etched in his face.

  ‘But we cut one hundred today,’ Lysander explained. ‘I worked through the midday sun to bring in my mother’s share as well.’

  The overseer smiled insincerely.

  ‘I need the extra grain to trade for her medicine – she is very ill.’

  The overseer made a show of looking at the empty space on Lysander’s right and left.

  ‘I can’t see your mother here, boy,’ he said, folding his arms.

  I’m being made a fool of! thought Lysander.

  ‘I told you,’ said Lysander, trying to control the anger in his voice. ‘She is too ill to work – she’s coughing blood – that is why I laboured like an ox in the fields today.’

  Lysander heard gasps come from the Helots stood behind him. Agestes’s smile clouded over.

  ‘Well, Helot worm, tell your mother that she can have her grain when she comes here and gets it herself.’

  A hand at his side caught Lysander’s attention. It was Timeon. His eyes were full of fear. ‘Come on, Lysander. We ought to go.’

  The overseer was a free-dweller; still not a Spartan citizen, but one rung above a Helot. He could do as he pleased with slaves.

  Behind Lysander, the other field workers were becoming impatient. He could hear grumbles of ‘Move along!’ and ‘We want to get home’. But he did not budge.

  ‘I am feeling generous today, young one,’ the ov
erseer said. He seemed to be thinking. ‘You can take the full quota of grain, but on one condition. You take six lashes. My arm is in need of some practice.’

  Lysander was no stranger to the harsh bite of a whip.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  ‘I’ll take the lashing.’

  Lysander was led by the overseer over to the wall of the barn, where a huge cartwheel stood upright, awaiting repair.

  ‘Strip, Helot!’ barked Agestes, uncoiling the whip from his side and flexing his arm. Lysander slowly pulled his tunic down over his shoulders, slipping the Fire of Ares safely out of sight in the folds. The overseer bound his wrists to two of the wheel’s spokes, wide apart. Lysander told himself that Spartan boys went through this many times as part of their brutal training. The crowd from the queue gathered to watch. Even though Lysander was one of their own, he could feel the other Helots’ eyes drilling into his back.

  Lysander bowed his head. He could hear the overseer shift his feet in the dirt, establishing his position. Anything a Spartan can take, so can I, thought Lysander, gritting his teeth.

  ‘I am ready. Do what you –’ His words were interrupted by the crack of the whip across his shoulder blades. At first, all Lysander sensed was the sudden cold of the leather across his back. But then came the pain, as the burning spread out in prickles like a thousand pins simultaneously driven into his flesh. His vision went white, and he tasted the iron tang of blood where he was biting down into his lip. He managed not to cry out. The crowd roared, ‘One!’

  As each blow fell, Lysander shrank deeper into himself, becoming more mind than body. His heartbeat slowed and the noises of the jeering mob grew distant. He concentrated on the pendant that blazed under his clothes. Its red glow seemed to give him strength and hope. One day he would escape slavery. He would take himself and his mother away from this place, where his once-proud people were made to toil by Spartans too proud to work the land themselves. He would taste freedom.

  By the time the last stroke fell, the crowd’s bloodlust had subsided. Only a few of them murmured, ‘Six.’ His hands were untied, but still gripped the wheel rim like stiff claws. Lysander’s legs threatened to give way beneath him. The evening breeze that gusted through the yard made the broken skin of his back throb, and the blood pooled in the folds of fabric around his waist. He pulled his tunic back up without a grimace, walked over to the overseer’s table and seized two bags of grain – his by right all along.