by Michael Ford
‘Taken like a true Spartan,’ scoffed Agestes, but the overseer could not meet Lysander’s eye.
CHAPTER 2
The horizon burned red with the setting sun. The strength returned to his legs, Lysander lengthened his stride and marched towards the outskirts of Limnae, one of the five villages that made up the central district of Sparta. Timeon, whose head came only a little above Lysander’s shoulder, struggled to keep pace alongside. They passed the street vendors who lined the roads, trying to sell the last of the day’s wares. Ripe watermelons – perfect after a day in the fields! Roasted hazelnuts –only three bags left! Normally, Lysander would have stopped and shared a joke or two, but not today.
‘You should let my mother look at those wounds,’ Timeon said nervously. ‘They might become infected.’
‘I’m fine,’ replied Lysander, pressing on. His back stung like it was being held too close to a fire, hot and itchy. Every now and then, his tunic pulled away from where it was caked to the drying wounds. Each time, Lysander had to dig his nails into his palms and try not to whimper. There was not much time to get to the physician’s store before it closed, and he needed his mother’s medicines.
‘Agestes won’t forget this day,’ said Timeon. ‘I wish you had seen his face when you didn’t cry out – like the blacksmith God Hephaistos hammering at a stubborn piece of iron.’
Lysander was pleased that Timeon could not see his face in the failing light. He knew his cheeks were flushed with shame. Where is the honour in courage, he thought, if it comes with humiliation? He did not want to talk about it.
The medicine store was attached to the front of the physician’s house, some distance from the centre of the village. As they neared the door, Timeon tried a final time to break the silence.
‘And the other men, they respected you. Not many of them would have stood up to the overseer like that.’
Lysander rounded on his friend.
‘Don’t be so foolish, Timeon. The other men don’t respect me. They laughed and jeered through it all. Because I don’t deserve respect. I … and you … we are slaves, Timeon. We own nothing. Not even our own bodies. We are worthless. Don’t you understand?’
Timeon looked up at him, but then let his eyes drop. Lysander’s blood quickly cooled. They were outside the medicine shop.
‘I’m tired of being called a Helot, a slave. I’m a Messenian, Timeon. So are you. The land over the mountains once belonged to us, and our people lived in peace. They were brave when they had to be, but otherwise they grew their crops and reared their livestock, and they were happy. Now we’re forced to work the land of a Spartan prince. Do you never wonder what it would be like to be free, as our ancestors were, before the Spartans invaded our land?’
Timeon met his gaze once again, and gave a brief smile, before speaking slowly and deliberately.
‘Of course I do, but I don’t dwell on it. I was born a Helot, Lysander, just like you. Hope is a dangerous thing.’
Lysander leant forward and put his hand on Timeon’s shoulder. He spoke his next words more quietly.
‘I’m not the only one who dares to hope, my friend. You know of the Resistance as well as I. All the men are talking about it. They meet at night. I have heard them near our house. It’s said they are waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. We don’t have to accept this fate, Timeon. Every year the Ephors declare their war on us. But one day we will throw off our chains. I only hope I can play my part.’
‘Just don’t end up like Cato,’ Timeon said. Then he seemed to think for a moment, before continuing. ‘And what makes you think the Spartan lot is any better? Spartan boys are beaten often. And even if some die in this training, they think it makes the rest stronger by example. It’s madness to want to be like that!’ As usual, Timeon knew how to reason with him. Lysander brought his hand up to Timeon’s shoulder and gave a friendly squeeze.
‘I’m sorry, my friend, today has tested me more than usual. Come, let’s go in.’
The interior of the physician’s shop was gloomy, lit only by the fire that blazed at the far side of the room. Several cooking pots hung at different heights over the bank of flames, and the air was filled with woody smells. Sacks of powders and dried plants sat along the back wall, and the shopkeeper stood over the counter, pounding a concoction with a pestle and mortar. He eyed the two boys over his hooked nose.
‘And what can I do for two Helots?’ he asked, showing the sparkle of silver in his two top teeth. The owner was another free-dweller. Spartans were forbidden to take on any trades. Their lives were dedicated to war, and war alone. It was the free-dwellers and Helots who ran the markets and kept society functioning.
‘I need some more medicine for my mother,’ replied Lysander. ‘The last batch doesn’t seem to have helped – she’s still sick.’
‘She still lives, though,’ smirked the shopkeeper. ‘I would say the medicine has worked well indeed.’ He chuckled at his own joke, and Lysander clenched his jaw. The physician noticed the look on his face.
‘We’ll try something else, then.’ Reaching into an earthenware jug, he measured out a small pile of dark leaves. ‘This is black hellebore. You’ll need to crush a small handful of these with sap from poppy seeds, then bring the mixture to boil in some water. The hellebore should help her chest, and the poppy will ease her pain and help her sleep. It will not taste nice, but then what do the Spartans say? Do not trust a doctor who prescribes honey.’
‘I wouldn’t trust a free-dweller at all,’ whispered Timeon, under his breath. Lysander suppressed a smile.
When the owner had wrapped the precious leaves in a small cloth bag, he placed it on his side of the counter.
‘And now, for payment?’ he enquired.
‘I have grain,’ offered Lysander, holding up one of his sacks.
The owner reached over and took it from Lysander’s hand, peering inside.
‘Very good,’ he said, pausing to look into Lysander’s other hand, ‘and that one as well.’
Lysander was not sure if he had heard correctly.
‘But … but last time it was only one, and that was expensive! The price can’t have doubled in a week.’
The physician slammed his fist down on to the counter, upsetting the pestle and mortar and sending seeds scattering across the floor. Timeon let out a gasp.
‘Listen, boy, these ingredients are more expensive and I’ve got grain enough to fill Mount Olympus,’ he spat. ‘When you start paying in proper currency – iron – like everyone else, then you can dictate prices to me. Now pay what you owe or take your filthy Helot grain out of my shop and watch your mother die!’
For a moment, Lysander thought of grabbing the medicine and running, but the look on Timeon’s face convinced him otherwise. Whereas Spartan children were encouraged to steal as part of their survival training, life as a Helot was very different. If Lysander was caught, death was almost certain. Lysander placed his other sack of grain on the table and took hold of the wrapped medicine.
‘Let’s go home,’ he said to Timeon.
It was dark as the two friends parted company outside a baker’s. The smell of fresh bread made Lysander’s mouth water. He knew that there were only stale crusts waiting for him at home, probably spotted with blue and green mould. He said farewell to Timeon, gripping his forearm, as was the Helot custom. His friend leant forward and spoke in his ear.
‘Remember what I said, Lysander. We have to do the best with what we’ve got – each other and our families.’ As he drew away, he pressed a small bag of his own grain into Lysander’s hand. Timeon started to walk away, but called back over his shoulder, ‘Don’t worry, my family are all working. You need it more than us.’
Tears of gratitude gathered in the corners of Lysander’s eyes. But there was also sadness: Timeon’s close family were all alive and in good health. Lysander and his mother had only each other. His father was dead even before he was born. He shook himself and set off to buy provisions.
With a last glance at the night sky, Lysander set off towards a short cut he knew beside the slaughterhouse. He could not remember the last time he and his mother had been able to afford fresh meat. But maybe Timeon was right. Perhaps life was not as bad as he thought. With the medicine, his mother would get better and be able to work again; they would bring in more money …
Suddenly, a voice came out of the shadows.
CHAPTER 3
‘Surround him,’ said the voice, laughing. ‘This one is dangerous, boys!’
Lysander poked his head around the corner of the slaughterhouse and peered into the gloomy alley. He saw a group of three young men gathered around a smaller boy, who held out a piece of wood with his shaking hand.
‘Stay back,’ he said, thrusting the stick through the air.
Draped in their distinctive red cloaks, it was clear the gang was made up of Spartans. One was bigger than the others. He seemed to be giving the orders:
‘We’ll have to take his legs. A soldier can’t fight when he is on the ground.’ He gestured to a stocky friend. ‘Ariston, you’re next.’
A Spartan stepped forward. The small boy was probably a free-dweller caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. He shifted his feet to meet his new attacker. He clearly lacked any training. His arms and legs were thin, and he swung the stick wildly, but all the time the Spartan called Ariston easily managed to keep out of range.
‘I haven’t done anything to –’ said the small free-dweller.
Without warning, Ariston dived at the boy’s legs and sent him flying on to the ground. Dust flew up as the rest of the pack waded in.
Lysander could not stand and watch any more. He stepped into the alley.
‘Stop that!’ he called out.
The Spartans paused in their attack. Lysander watched the young men turn in his direction.
The world seemed to shrink, and Lysander felt very alone.
The large Spartan, the leader, stared at Lysander as though he was something he’d scraped off his shoe.
‘A Helot pig out after dark! That could be dangerous.’
All attention was on Lysander now, and the younger boy took advantage of the distraction to scuttle down the far end of the alley. One of the Spartan gang gave chase, but their leader shouted to let him go.
‘We have another hare to hunt now,’ snarled the Spartan with a flash of white teeth.
Lysander turned to go back the way he had come, but saw to his dismay that two more Spartans, both lean and wiry, blocked that end of the alley.
‘Have I missed any sport, Demaratos?’ one of them asked.
‘Not at all, Prokles,’ said the leader. ‘You’ve missed the first course. Now we have this Helot pig as the main dish.’
Ariston spoke next.
‘Yes, and we all know what happens to pigs out after dark.’
Panic rose in Lysander’s chest as the alleyway filled with young men, three at one end, two at the other. As the two groups closed in on him, one word pounded inside Lysander’s head: Krypteia. Was he going to die here, in this dingy alley? You fool, he cursed himself, you should have kept out of this.
But as the five approached, the silver glance of the moonlight revealed that they could not be an experienced murder squad. They were Spartan boys of about his own age. Lysander was relieved, but knew he was still far from safe. As a Helot, his life was worth nothing to them. The leader, Demaratos, was tall and broad, with fierce eyes and a mouth that naturally curled to a sneer. His black hair was cut short and neat, and his cloak hung off muscular shoulders.
‘You have to pay the tax to walk our streets, Helot,’ he demanded. His eyes travelled up and down Lysander, measuring him up. ‘What do the bags hold?’
Lysander knew his only option was to try and talk his way out of trouble; anything else would be suicide. He wished Timeon were here. People joked that he could talk his way out of the Underworld given half a chance.
‘Look,’ he said, trying to calm the tremor in his voice, ‘I’ve got nothing, just some food, some scraps of food and medicine for my mother. She’s very ill, and I need to give it to her as soon as possible.’
‘Show me,’ ordered the boy, motioning towards the bag of medicine that he had tucked in his belt. Lysander had no choice. He untied the small sack and held it out. The Spartan boy snatched the precious bag of leaves. He tore the twine off and glanced inside. He was clearly disappointed with his plunder, and the other boys were looking bored now, too. Lysander began to feel the tide turn in his favour.
‘OK, comrades, leave him be,’ said the leader, handing back the medicine. But just as Lysander reached out to take the sack, the Spartan youth let go of it. The contents fell to the ground, mingling with the dust.
The gang broke out into raucous laughter, slapping each other’s backs. Lysander could have walked away then if he had wanted. But something made him stay where he was. He felt lightheaded, but strong and reckless.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he said quietly.
The group stopped laughing, one by one. The leader looked straight at Lysander. He took a step closer and bowed his head a little, cupping his ear with a hand.
‘What did you say, Helot pig?’
The hairs prickled along the back of his neck.
‘I said, you shouldn’t have done that,’ he repeated, louder this time.
All the good humour had disappeared from the Spartan’s eyes. They became as cold and dark as the night air.
‘This Helot pig must think himself as mighty as Herakles. I think it is time we spiked him, don’t you, comrades? After all, we are beside the slaughterhouse.’
No one laughed at the coincidence; the mood was deadly serious. Lysander caught a movement to his right as a blade flashed in the hand of the short boy. He had to think quickly. These were Spartan apprentices, trained in killing. If he hung back they would make short work of him; he had to attack first.
He feinted towards the leader on his left, before launching himself the other way, straight at the Spartan wielding the knife. His fist connected against the boy’s slack, open jaw, sending him reeling to the ground. The knife flew from the Spartan’s hand and landed out of sight. The second of the pair barely had time to react, before he too was doubled over by a kick from Lysander. He fell to the floor with an ‘Umph!’, the wind knocked out of him. Lysander was taking no chances with the other three. He saw the gap he had created and set off towards the end of the alleyway, fast.
But then his good fortune ran out. He felt a tightening around his neck – the Fire of Ares! Someone must have grabbed the leather strap. Before he could do anything to prevent it, the tension gave way. Lysander skidded to a halt and twisted around.
‘Looking for this?’ teased the Spartan leader, swinging the amulet back and forth on the frayed leather thong. The two others picked themselves up, the shorter boy wiping blood from his mouth.
He heard his mother’s voice in his head: Never take off the amulet – keep it safe. Always. He had no choice. He couldn’t lose the Fire of Ares.
He threw himself headlong at the leader, bowling him to the floor and trapping him between his knees. He lashed out with his fists and elbows, not caring if he missed a few times. He felt one of the others slip an arm around his neck, and while he tried to free himself, the leader drove a punch into one of his kidneys. Lysander crumpled and was thrown off. Blows soon came from every angle, as the oth
er gang members punched and kicked his stomach, face, sides and back. Soon there was no pain, and no noise, just calm acceptance.
He was finished.
‘Stop at once!’ came a voice. It had such authority that Lysander wondered if a god had spoken. ‘I said – Stop!’
The hammer of blows slowed and then ceased altogether. Lysander stayed curled in a defensive ball as the pain returned, flowing through every limb.
‘What in the names of Kastor and Polydeukes is going on here?’
Lysander opened his eyes slowly – at least one of the lids was already swelling up. He made out a shape approaching. As he let his body relax, the shape became a man, standing over him and holding a flaming torch. Nearby, in the dust, Lysander spotted the Fire of Ares, and scrambled over to grab it. Once it was back in his hand, he felt safe. Did the older man see the pendant? He didn’t know. His attention was focused on the gang of youths, who all looked terrified.
‘Is this what your training has taught you?’ the man demanded, his voice full of disgust. ‘To take on one defenceless boy in the dead of night when no one can hear him cry out?’
The boys looked at Demaratos for an answer. After considering for a moment, he took a step forward.
‘But he’s just a –’ he began.
‘Just a what?’ cut in the stranger. ‘Just a Helot?’ He waited a moment for his words to sink in. ‘He hasn’t wronged you. He poses you no threat. Yet you set on him like a pack of jackals. Your mothers should have left you on the slopes of Mount Taygetos. What are you doing out of the barracks?’
The boys looked at each other. They clearly didn’t have an answer.