by Michael Ford
‘Get back there immediately, unless you want this incident to reach your trainer’s ears?’
Respect for one’s elders was a cornerstone of Spartan society, and Lysander knew enough of Spartan discipline to know that misbehaviour was severely punished.
‘Get out of my sight!’ roared the man. The boys turned and fled out of the alleyway. Their leader followed last of all, walking backwards and staring at Lysander.
‘This is not over,’ he whispered.
A voice came from one of his comrades at the end of the alley: ‘Come on, Demaratos! He’s nothing.’
A few seconds later, Lysander was alone with the Spartan warrior.
‘Are you badly hurt?’ he asked, leaning down to offer his hand. Lysander was too afraid to take it. Crouching on the floor, he scrambled about, picking up the leaves for his mother’s medicine. The food lay trampled into the ground, so he salvaged what he could. He glanced up at the man in the light of the torch. The man was tall, and despite being at least sixty, his back was unbent and his legs looked solid with muscle. A dark cloak draped from his shoulders and almost brushed the ground. He had long greying curls, hanging loose, and a great black beard, also flecked with white. A deep pale scar extended by the side of his left eye and many other smaller ones were scattered across his face.
‘I am Sarpedon,’ continued the Spartan. He spoke as though the name should mean something. Lysander climbed gingerly to his feet. None of his bones seemed to have been broken in the beating.
‘You are not so talkative, I see,’ grunted the old man. ‘A Spartan trait.’ He paused, looking up the alley to where the gang had fled. ‘The Spartan upbringing is hard on children, and it takes them time to learn when they should fight, and when they should be peaceful. Be assured, their lessons will be painful.’
Lysander smiled.
‘Tell me, Helot, what do you know of a Spartan soldier called Thorakis?’
‘Nothing,’ said Lysander, ‘nothing, at all. I am a Helot, a field worker …’ But the name did mean something to him – it sent a shiver through him that he did not understand. What does that name mean? he thought.
‘Well, then,’ Sarpedon continued, gesturing with a hand. Lysander noticed that two fingers were missing beyond the second knuckle – no doubt a memento of battle. ‘Tell me instead about that jewel I saw on the ground.’ Lysander fought to keep the fear out of his face. ‘Come now, don’t be difficult. I despise thieves as much as bullies.’
Lysander gripped the amulet even tighter. His mother’s words echoed in his head: Keep it close. Keep it secret. Could he escape one old man if he had to?
‘I’m not a thief,’ he heard himself shout out. ‘The amulet was a gift from my mother.’ He cursed himself. I’ve already given too much away.
‘And nor am I,’ Sarpedon assured him. ‘I wish only to see it a little closer. I give you my word as a Spartan.’
There was something in the old man’s voice that reassured Lysander. The weight of the day’s ordeals fell upon him. Weariness hung on his limbs, and he knew he could not face any more struggles. He dropped the pendant into the warrior’s scarred hand.
Sarpedon lifted the amulet to his face, and gazed at it for a long while with his head bowed. Would he take it, after all? thought Lysander. Lysander’s breath caught in his chest. What would his mother say? Would she believe him, or think he had lost it carelessly in the fields?
With deliberate care, Sarpedon handed the jewel back. Lysander breathed again.
‘And where did a Helot find an object of such beauty?’ he asked. There was no threat in his tone, but it was not a question Lysander could answer. He had already said too much. He started to edge along the wall in small shuffles, away from the Spartan warrior.
‘I … I have to go now,’ said Lysander.
‘Do not flee. I mean you no harm.’ Sarpedon took a step towards him, but that was enough. Lysander turned and ran.
CHAPTER 4
Lysander tripped on the path, sprawling in the dirt. He picked himself up, ignoring the stinging pain, and plunged on through the darkness. Only when he reached the edge of the Helot settlement did he stop. His legs couldn’t carry him any further. Fear had kept him going, but as the knocking in his chest softened, the agony returned, and cramp seized his legs. Until it passed there was nothing he could do but bite his lip and massage the knotted muscles.
Eventually, he threaded his way among the maze of low dwellings that his people called home. The settlement had hardly changed as he grew up; it was little more than a collection of low mud huts near the river. The air was heavy with the smell of animals and unwashed people. All was silent after the hard day in the fields.
Now his panic had settled, Lysander was left with shifting clouds of worry: Was I followed? Could that scarred old Spartan find out where I live? Lysander remembered the jewel gripped firmly in his fist – the Fire of Ares. He uncurled his stiff fingers, gazing at the amulet in his palm. I very nearly lost it, he thought. The red stone looked almost black now, flecked white in the moon’s glare. He pushed it deep into the fold of his tunic. Placing his palm on the rough wood of the door, he gathered himself, and stepped inside.
It was warm in the single room of the shack, and his skin tingled. The embers of a weak fire smouldered in the grate.
‘Mother?’ he whispered, trying to control his heavy breathing. There was no answer. Lysander crept towards the fire, to where his mother’s bed nestled against the wall. He had built the frame himself from scraps of stolen wood. The doctor had said that such a sick woman should not be sleeping on the packed earth of the floor. The bed had been moved as near as possible to the fire in recent months, in the hope that the flames might purge the illness in her chest. As he stepped closer, Lysander’s pulse quickened – the bed did not look right. He patted the blankets, but the bed was empty. His eyes flashed around the room, straining against the gloom, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Lysander ran outside. The night was like a black lake, and his thumping heartbeat was the loudest sound he could hear.
‘Mother?’ he hissed. His only reply was the chattering of the cicadas that lived in the low scrub around the encampment. Then louder, ‘Mother!’ There was a grumble of protest from one of the nearby huts.
His chest grew cold with panic, as he shouted as loud as he could:
‘Mother, where are you?’
A weak moan came from near the hut. Mother! Lysander dashed to the side of the building. There, where the stars’ light could not reach, he found Athenasia. She half sat, half slumped against the mud wall, and beside her was an upturned draining dish and a scattering of lentils. There was a smear of dried blood across her temple.
He knelt beside her, and supported her head against his shoulder. She had grown so thin, it was like holding a child.
‘Mother, are … are you hurt?’ he stammered. ‘What happened? Who did this to you?’ The urge to cry tugged at his mouth.
‘No one has harmed me, Lysander,’ she began. ‘Your foolish old mother did this to herself.’ Lysander was confused, but his mother’s voice calmed him.
‘I must have tripped, I think …’ She raised her hand to her forehead and winced. ‘I knocked my head. I expect the dinner is spoiled,’ she said.
Relief washed over Lysander. He could live with a ruined dinner. Carefully, he lifted his mother to her feet.
Lysander finished washing the remains of the lentils outside and stepped back inside the shack. The fire was burning once again, throwing orange shadows across the hut. The low roof would need fixing before the winter came, where the mud was cracking, and parts of the thatch had come loose.
Athenasia was resting once again on her bed. Lysander had cleaned and bandaged her head. Now he knelt beside the fire, stirring the dried medicinal leaves into a saucepan of simmering water. The steam hurt his eyes, and he had to fight back tears. His mother’s condition had lasted for months now. Every day he looked for signs that she was recovering, but th
ere weren’t any. He didn’t mind looking after her, but sometimes he missed his younger days when he could run around with the other boys. Those days had gone for ever.
‘Why didn’t you wait for me to get home?’ he said. ‘I can cook our supper, and you need to rest.’ He paused, and looked at his mother. Her blue eyes were watery, and her skin pale, but he could still see the beautiful woman she had once been. Her high cheekbones were more prominent than they used to be, the cheeks sunken. Her once-brown hair was grey and thinning. But she still wore it long.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I will heed your words in future.’
Lysander smiled back. He used a cup to scoop up some of the medicine, and added a little mint oil to help with her breathing, as Timeon’s mother had suggested. Crouching by the side of Athenasia’s bed, he supported her head in his hand, and brought the cup slowly to her lips. She sipped a small amount, and grimaced.
Athenasia was suddenly racked with deep coughing which shook her whole body and made it impossible for her to speak. Lysander waited, sitting by her until the fit had passed. She gripped him tightly. Through the material of his tunic, her nails caught on his wounds, and he could not help the gasp of pain that escaped his lips.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked his mother.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nothing at all … a few grazes from the fields.’
‘Your eyes betray you,’ said his mother. ‘Show me.’
Reluctantly, Lysander pulled his tunic over his head, and turned around.
‘Lysander!’ she gasped. ‘Who did this to you?’
‘It was Agestes,’ he mumbled. ‘We had a … difference of opinion.’
‘Please tell me what happened, Lysander,’ she said. ‘I am worried about you.’
So he told her about the reduced grain ration, and the flogging that had followed.
‘Agestes is an animal,’ she said. With a sigh she started to climb from her bed. Lysander got up as well. ‘Stay where you are,’ she said. ‘I might be ill, but I can still look after you. Fetch over that stool, and sit down.’ Lysander did as he was told.
His mother took a cup of warm water from the hearth, and a cloth. She dabbed the swellings with a sponge, lifting his long hair away from his shoulders. She paused and Lysander heard a small intake of breath.
‘Where is the Fire of Ares?’ Her voice was panicked.
‘Do not worry, Mother, it is safe,’ he replied, bringing it out from his pocket. Now was not the time to tell her about the second beating of the day – it would only worry her further. ‘Look, the thong is broken, that’s all.’
Athenasia took the pendant and strap out of Lysander’s hand and quickly retied it around his neck.
‘Lysander, remember what I have always said,’ she said. ‘Never take off the Fire of Ares. Do you understand? Never. You must always keep it safe. Promise me.’
Lysander didn’t argue or try to explain.
‘Mother, I swear I’ll never lose it.’ Athenasia’s face relaxed. ‘Now finish your medicine.’
Athenasia managed only a few mouthfuls of bread and lentils, but Lysander ate all of his before finishing her leftovers. With his stomach full, he lay on his patch of ground to rest, pulling the threadbare blanket over him. Even with the fire burning, the cold still seeped in through cracks around the door. The day had been long and stressful, but his mind was not ready for sleep even though his body ached for it. In the darkness, he saw Cato’s limp body as the men lifted it from the field, the brute Agestes and the greedy physician, the sneers of Demaratos and his gang of Spartan bullies. And last of all, Sarpedon. Lysander thought back to the look on the old man’s face when he saw the Fire of Ares. What did that look mean? Was it envy? Greed? Or simply confusion that a Helot boy could possess something so beautiful?
He rolled over on to his side.
‘You can’t sleep?’ his mother asked drowsily.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he replied. ‘Sorry to wake you.’
‘What is it?’
He tried to gather his thoughts.
‘Well, if there are really gods watching over us, why do they allow us to be treated this way? Why do they make the Spartans our masters? Why make us slaves?’
Athenasia was silent for a few moments, but then spoke slowly, as though she were picking her words with great care.
‘Well, Lysander,’ she comforted, ‘just because we cannot understand the will of the Gods, that does not mean they have no plans for us.’
‘And are we to simply accept what happens to us?’ A dog let off a volley of barking.
‘Hush, Lysander!’ said his mother. ‘Don’t say such things.’
‘Doesn’t it anger you?’ he whispered. ‘Don’t you feel there must be something more for us?’
‘I know there must be, Lysander, and that is why I don’t grow angry. Put your faith in the Gods, and they will not disappoint you. Have faith, great things await you – it is your destiny.’
‘But how many Helots have placed their hope in the Fates? We Messenians have been slaves to the Spartans for nearly two hundred years. Think how many Helots have had the same thoughts as us: of freedom, of their own land! Yet the Gods have watched them live and die under the Spartan yoke. I don’t believe in the Gods at all!’ He turned and faced the wall.
‘My poor Lysander,’ said his mother. ‘If you abandon the Gods, they will abandon you. The Fates have spun a bright future for you, but you must make sure you follow it. For now, try to sleep.’
Lysander woke in the middle of the night, disturbed by a noise. It sounded like something scuffing the hard earth floor. Filthy mice, he thought.
The fire had died to almost nothing; only a kernel of orange remained among the grey ashes. He thought about putting more logs on, but their wood was strictly rationed. Looking over to where Athenasia lay, Lysander saw that her blanket had slipped loose off her shoulder. He rose to tuck her in properly. His mother’s body shivered under her coverings and a few strands of her fine hair lay plastered to her head with sweat.
Lysander gently pushed the lock of hair back from his mother’s face, being careful not to wake her. Then he took his own thin blanket from around his shoulders and placed it over her.
A noise made him freeze. It sounded as though it came from in front of the hut. A scuffle of feet – probably a scavenging animal. He lay down, and brought his arms up to his chest for warmth. There was another noise, perhaps a whisper. Lysander stood and pressed his ear to the door. Beyond snatches of voices it was hard to make out. Spartan laws forbade Helots to be out of their dwellings at this hour. There could be only one explanation – another gathering. He had heard rumours. Men met in the caves by the river. The Resistance. Were they planning something soon?
Lysander longed to go out and join them. But could he? Surely they would laugh him back to bed. A thirteen-year-old boy wanting to fight the Spartans!
He listened until the sounds softened and died. It was enough to know that others longed for change as well. Thoughts of revolution and freedom flashed across Lysander’s brain. He tried to imagine his own part in such a battle. As sleep drew its black cloak over his eyes, Lysander saw himself at the head of the charge against a line of Spartan soldiers, his Messenian brothers at his side.
CHAPTER 5
‘Get off … Get away!’ Lysander shouted, lashing out with his hands.
He woke with a start, panting for breath, his arms raised to protect his throat. His eyes flicked across the hut. It was empty but for the few pieces of furniture, the ashes of the fire, and his mother sleeping beneath her blankets. He sucked air into his lungs and lay back for a second. Just a dream, he thought, as his fingers closed around the pendant at his neck. The Fire of Ares was safe.
Lysander got up, his muscles stiff and hurting from the previous day’s struggles. But he could not let that stop him. Since his mother had fallen ill, this was the only time he had to do his own, secret training. A soft light nudged under the door of their hut, and told
Lysander that the sun would soon appear over the mountains to the east. He remembered the stories his mother used to tell him about the sunrise: that the great God Helios carried the sun in his horse-drawn chariot, climbing each morning into the sky, then quenching his horses’ thirst each evening in the western sea. But Lysander was too old for those stories now.
He was hungry, but seeing the sorry remains of their food, he decided to leave it for his mother. For a moment the anger flared again in his chest. Is it so much to ask, enough food to feed two people who toil their guts out all day? Kissing his mother softly on the forehead, he slipped out of the door.
The morning was still, and not a sound disturbed the cool air. Lysander looked about at the settlement. The flies were awake already, attracted by the filth of animal bones and other refuse that filled the dump nearby. The ramshackle buildings squatted in this Helot district at the edge of Prince Kiros’s estate, clinging to the shallow hillside as though they had grown there. This was where his community of Messenian Helots had lived for the last fifteen years, close to the fields where they worked, but far enough from the town of the Spartans that the free-born people didn’t have to smell the sewage that dried in their narrow streets.
There was a scuffle to his right, and from between two huts Timeon peered out. His straw-coloured hair was messy from sleep. His friend tiptoed over, and winced as his eyes fell on Lysander’s face.
‘What happened?’ he whispered.
‘I met some Spartans on my way home.’
‘Are you sure you are well enough to train?’ asked Timeon.
‘Herakles did not cease after eleven labours,’ answered Lysander. ‘Come on.’
Even though his muscles ached for more time to recover, Lysander jogged away from the settlement with Timeon. His legs were warmed up by the time the millhouse came into view.
‘Race you the rest of the way?’ said Timeon.
‘If you’re ready to lose,’ replied Lysander. ‘Ready … go!’
Lysander sprinted off. He imagined he was in the foot race at the great Games at Olympia, held every four years for competitors from all over Greece. Every time he thought about slowing down, a make-believe crowd of spectators would spur him on. The other Helots often spoke of a famous Messenian athlete in the age of freedom, a man called Polykares. He was the quickest the Olympic stadium had ever seen, they said, quicker than any Spartan. Lysander reached the millhouse half a stride ahead of Timeon, who gave him a clap on the back.