by Michael Ford
‘I see you’re admiring my mosaic!’
Lysander looked up to see Sarpedon striding towards him. Today he was not dressed in his cloak, but a simple white toga fastened with a metal clasp at the shoulder. Lysander dropped swiftly to one knee, bowing his head.
‘Rise, boy! And welcome to my house,’ said Sarpedon, and then, waving his hand towards the floor, ‘it is the work of a man from Rhodes. Wonderful, is it not?’ Lysander was confused and didn’t respond. ‘Rhodes is an island across the Aegean Sea. All the most talented craftsmen come from there.’
‘Yes, it must have taken a long time,’ was all Lysander could manage.
‘Come, sit down,’ said the Ephor, gesturing to a wooden bench beside a low table.
Lysander did as he was told. Is this really the man who seemed so terrifying last night? he asked himself. Certainly the scars across his face didn’t look so menacing in the light of day.
Sarpedon sat beside him, before calling out, ‘Kassandra, please bring refreshments. Our guest must be thirsty.’
The young girl appeared at another doorway and walked over, holding a tray with two wooden cups and a terracotta jug. She placed the tray on the table and proceeded to pour the water, glaring fiercely at the cup. She would not meet his eyes. Her role fulfilled, she was gone.
‘You will have to forgive my grand-daughter. She’s not accustomed to waiting on Helots.’ He smiled. ‘Nor should she be!’
Lysander felt annoyed but also knew he could not say anything to protest. What was the point? Sarpedon was right – Spartans did not have to wait on Helots. He waited for Sarpedon to pick up his cup, before raising his own to his lips. The water was flavoured with mint. He gulped down the whole glass. Sarpedon poured Lysander a second cupful.
‘I think you know why I have asked you here … Lysander,’ he said. ‘It took most of the morning to find you, but my messengers did a good job. Your face means that you stand out in the crowd.’ Lysander’s tongue felt out the tender cut on the inside of his lip. Sarpedon continued: ‘Show me that jewel again.’
‘I cannot,’ he replied. ‘It was been stolen.’
Sarpedon raised an eyebrow, and Lysander could tell that he was in no mood for games. Lysander had better go straight to the truth. It was a risk. But did he have any choice? Sarpedon could have him whipped to death if he sensed dishonesty.
‘I was visiting the market at Limnae this morning. Someone put a knife to my throat and took the pendant.’
‘And you didn’t put up a fight?’ asked Sarpedon.
‘I couldn’t follow the thief. He knocked me out.’ Lysander lifted his hair to show the bloody mark where his head had struck the wall. The Spartan looked troubled.
‘Even if it has been stolen, where did you get that jewel from?’
Lysander paused, and Sarpedon cut in, his voice raised and impatient.
‘Come on, boy. I will not be deceived. You stole it, did you not?’
Lysander felt trapped, but angry. He was not a thief. Just tell the truth, he told himself.
‘My mother gave it to me when I was born. She said it would give me strength and keep me safe. I swear to the Gods that I am telling the truth.’
‘Leave the Gods out of this,’ said Sarpedon sternly. ‘You say the amulet was a gift from your mother. What is her name?’
Lysander dropped his head.
‘She is called Athenasia,’ he said.
The cup dropped out of Sarpedon’s hand, rattling across the mosaics.
‘And how old is your mother, Lysander?’
Lysander was not sure. ‘I don’t know exactly,’ he said. ‘Perhaps thirty-five …’
‘And you say she’s ill?’ said the Spartan with a frown.
‘Yes, dreadfully,’ said Lysander. ‘I think she may die.’
Sarpedon pushed himself to his feet, and took Lysander by both shoulders. His grip was almost painful.
‘You must take me to your mother, Lysander, and you must do so immediately,’ said Sarpedon. His voice left no room to quarrel. Lysander had wanted to keep his mother out of all this, but now that was impossible. He wondered for the first time where she had got the Fire of Ares. Was his mother a thief? And what would Sarpedon do with her now?
Lysander had never ridden a horse before. Sarpedon’s mount, Pegasus, was a huge, hazel-coloured creature that twitched and stamped with energy. Its withers stood taller than Lysander’s head. Sarpedon helped Lysander mount the horse bareback. They set off slowly, but with every jolting step, he felt himself slipping off. When they reached the path towards the settlement, Sarpedon kicked his feet into Pegasus’s sides, and the horse lurched into a gallop. While his seating had been precarious before, now Lysander felt in danger of his life. He struggled desperately to grip the animal’s flanks with his legs, while hanging on to Sarpedon with his hands. The dry soil burst in clouds from the horse’s feet. Lysander’s teeth rattled in his head as he prayed for the ordeal to be over.
He was glad when they dismounted a short walk from the Helot settlement. The Ephor, who had changed from his toga into a coarse cloak, tied the reins to a fence post.
‘Show me the way,’ he commanded.
When they reached the door of Lysander’s home, he felt embarrassed. Sarpedon was used to luxury, and here he was on the threshold of Lysander’s one-room shack. He knocked on the door.
‘Who’s there?’ came his mother’s voice.
‘It’s me – Lysander,’ he replied, trying to disguise the worry he was feeling.
He heard the wooden bar being lifted from its cradle, and the door swung open.
‘I was worried about you, Lysander,’ Athenasia said, throwing her arms around Lysander’s shoulders. ‘They told me Agestes came here and took you. Are you all right? Are you …’ She stopped when she spotted Sarpedon. She stumbled backwards into the room and pushed herself against the rear wall. Both hands reached for her mouth.
‘How … no … why are you … no,’ she muttered, shaking her head. Lysander followed her in, and tried to calm her.
‘Mother, it’s fine. I am here,’ he said, attempting to draw her hands down from her face. ‘What’s wrong?’ But Athenasia could not take her eyes from the tall figure on her doorstep. Lysander watched as Sarpedon took three steps inside the shack, bowing his head to fit beneath the lintel. Then he spoke.
‘Greetings, Athenasia. It has been a long time.’
CHAPTER 9
The Spartan Ephor stepped further into the room, filling the space around him.
‘Athenasia, I mean you no harm, and I am not here to cause any trouble. I wanted only to see if it was true.’
The words had little effect on Lysander’s mother. She sat, stiff with fear, her eyes wide with alarm.
‘What do you want with my mother?’ asked Lysander.
He had spoken louder than he intended. Sarpedon’s nostrils flared and anger darted from his eyes, but just as quickly vanished.
‘Shall I tell him, or would you like to, Athenasia?’ Lysander’s mother said nothing, so Sarpedon continued. ‘Your mother and I knew each other a long time ago,’ he said softly. ‘Athenasia was a slave in our household for many years.’ Lysander looked at his mother, who gave a tiny nod: it was true. She held out a hand to Lysander. He took it, and sat beside his mother.
‘Let me tell you a story,’ Sarpedon began, his deep voice comforting. ‘I had two sons. Their names were Thorakis – he was the elder – and Demokrates – his younger brother. They were the most splendid young men in all of Sparta, Lysander – tall, strong, and brave. Some said they resembled Kastor and Polydeukes themselves. The Gods saw fit to take both of them in battle, the sort of death every Spartan warrior dreams of.’ Sarpedon’s voice became thick with emotion, but he swallowed once, and continued. ‘Twelve years ago, they brought Thorakis’s body back to Sparta. He had fallen to a Tegean sword, fighting on the coast. But only after he had cut down the fiercest of the enemy, a warrior called Manites. May the Gods bless him in the
Underworld.’
The story set Lysander’s heart thumping. Sarpedon continued.
‘The younger, Demokrates, was a brave man also. He was taken from the world in his prime. Kassandra is his daughter, Lysander. He died only three years ago, facing the spears of the Elis by the western sea. My sons have both brought me honour. I wish only that I might have died before them, but I have been … fortunate.’ He said the last word as though it were distasteful to him. ‘They brought Demokrates back to Sparta alive, but his wounds had become infected. Before he passed to the land of the Shades, he told me something, a secret that he had long kept.’ Sarpedon’s eyes had become glassy. ‘As he lay clinging on to life, he told me that his brother Thorakis, who was not married, had fathered a child with a … with a Helot woman. That woman was your mother.’ Sarpedon paused and looked at Athenasia. She could not meet his eye. ‘Boy,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Thorakis was your father.’
Lysander jumped to his feet.
‘It isn’t true,’ he said. ‘My father was a Messenian. A slave.’ He looked desperately to his mother. ‘Tell him, Mother,’ he shouted, ‘tell him it is false!’
But Athenasia kept her head bowed. Silence enveloped the room, and Lysander had all the answer he needed.
‘You lied to me all this time!’ he shouted. ‘How could you?’
His mother did not say anything, but a sob escaped her lips. He had never raised his voice to her before. He threw his arms around her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered.
Lysander gripped his mother close, but his mind was reeling. My father wasn’t a Helot, he was a Spartan warrior. I’m half Spartan! Does that mean …? He released his mother and turned to Sarpedon.
‘Are you my –’ he began.
‘Yes,’ interrupted the Ephor, ‘I am your grandfather, Lysander.’
Lysander’s mind raced. What did this mean? Am I a Spartan, or am I a Helot? What will Timeon say when he finds out?
Athenasia rose. ‘Forgive me, I’ve been rude,’ she said. ‘I shall prepare some food. We haven’t much …’
‘That’s not necessary,’ said the Ephor.
‘Of course it is,’ she replied. ‘We have some broth in the pot – I will warm it through.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sarpedon. He turned back to Lysander. ‘After we met in the alleyway I had a strange feeling. Lying in bed, I realised what was bothering me. You see, I did not recognise the similarity straight away, but your profile was so familiar. It was like seeing my son Thorakis all over again. And now I know the truth, it is obvious.’ He took hold of Lysander’s shoulders and inspected his face. ‘You look so alike: the same lively eyes, the strong jaw.’
Athenasia turned from the fire.
‘When Demokrates returned after the Tegean conflict alone, I knew what had happened,’ she said. ‘Thorakis had always made it clear that a Spartan’s life could be a short one. He tried to explain that death was not something he feared or avoided. He embraced the danger.’ Lysander could see she was trying to fight back tears. ‘But when it finally happened,’ Athenasia continued, ‘I was torn apart. I could not go on working in the household where your father had lived, and ran away to this settlement. I was three months’ pregnant with you, Lysander.’
Sarpedon placed a hand on Athenasia’s shoulder.
‘I was angry that Thorakis and Demokrates went off to fight,’ he said. ‘Thorakis had no child to carry on the line, and Demokrates had only a daughter. But they were both brave young men, eager for their first taste of battle. Of course, I didn’t know at the time …’ and he looked at them both, ‘… that Thorakis had a son on the way.’
Lysander’s mother smiled.
It was dusk outside when Sarpedon finished his broth, wiping up the remnants with a piece of bread. If it was less than the Ephor was used to, he did not comment. Placing his bowl aside, he stoked the fire with a charred stick. His face was half-lit by the flames. The afternoon had been spent telling stories of Thorakis’s exploits. My father, thought Lysander, though the word still sounded strange. Sarpedon turned back to the fire.
‘When he was twelve, Thorakis killed a wild boar with his bare hands. His mother – my wife, Jocasta – was angry that he had taken such a risk. He just had a few scrapes, but it could have been worse. He liked to pretend he was the hero Herakles, killing the vicious boar on Mount Erymanthos!’
Lysander looked at his mother. Normally she would have been asleep by this time, but she was smiling in a way he had never seen before.
‘After he … after Thorakis was killed, his mother put all her hopes in Demokrates. But when he too died three summers ago, she could not go on. She herself passed away soon afterwards. It is too much for a woman to lose both her sons …’ Sarpedon tailed off.
Lysander felt his grandfather’s grief swell to fill the room. It was an uncomfortable silence, and he was grateful when his mother spoke up.
‘After Thorakis was killed, I was afraid for you. It has been known for Spartans to expose such half-bloods along with the weak or deformed. To my surprise, Demokrates came to me with a gift – a beautiful red stone set in a golden surround.’ Lysander’s heart sank as he remembered the missing pendant. He saw that Sarpedon had looked up too. They met each other’s eyes for a moment. Don’t tell her, Lysander’s glance said; he doubted that his mother was up to hearing that the Fire of Ares had been stolen. Athenasia carried on: ‘Demokrates told me that Thorakis had wanted his son to have it. How he knew you would be a boy, I don’t know, but six months later there you were, Thorakis’s little son.’ She shivered and yawned.
She must be exhausted, thought Lysander. Sarpedon shook himself.
‘You should not be in this cold hut,’ said the Ephor, rising to his feet. ‘Not when you are clearly so ill. I’ll arrange for proper treatment first thing in the morning – before first light. But for now I must go. It is just as dangerous for a Spartan to be caught in Helot territory as the other way around.’
Lysander had never thought of it like that before. It made him look at Sarpedon in a new light. He was no longer the stern, gnarled warrior, but an old man out after dark in a dangerous place. Planting a kiss on Athenasia’s hand, the Ephor stooped to walk under the doorframe and was gone.
Lysander remembered the secret Helot gathering of the night before, and feared for Sarpedon’s safety. He strained his ears for the sound of voices. Nothing. As he set out the evening meal of bread and olives, he made a new, silent prayer to the Gods: Keep my grandfather safe.
CHAPTER 10
There was a light knock on the door before dawn. Lysander had hardly slept. Athenasia murmured and stirred under her blanket. Lysander opened the door hurriedly. An anxious-looking, middle-aged man stood on the threshold. He had short grey hair lying flat above a tall forehead. His tanned skin looked soft and his striking blue eyes flashed like opals in bright sunlight.
‘The Ephor Sarpedon sends his greetings, Master Lysander. My name is Strabo.’
‘Where is Sarpedon?’ asked Lysander. ‘Why didn’t he come himself?’
Strabo gave a snort.
‘You are still a Helot, and Sarpedon is one of the most powerful men in all of Sparta. It would not do for him to be seen around here too often. You will be lucky to share another word with Sarpedon.’ Lysander felt a stab of hurt, but Strabo didn’t elaborate.
‘We can talk further shortly, but first I have brought you some breakfast.’ The man stepped inside, before Lysander could reply. Strabo unhooked a small sack from his shoulder and placed it on the floor. His eyes glanced around the shack. Athenasia awoke properly and sat bolt upright, staring at the stranger.
‘Fear not, Mother,’ said Lysander. ‘This person has come from Sarpedon.’
She peered closer. ‘Strabo, is that you?’ she asked.
‘Who else, Athenasia?’ replied the man. Lysander realised they must have met before he was born.
‘Do you two know each other?’
Athenasia replied: ‘We did
once, yes. Strabo was the head slave in Sarpedon’s household when I worked there.’ Lysander thought he detected a note of unease in his mother’s voice.
‘I was a slave,’ said Strabo with slight impatience. ‘But Sarpedon freed me after years of good service. I now work of my own free will. Come, let us eat. There is much to discuss.’
Opening the sack, Strabo laid out the food on a piece of coarse cloth. It was a feast: there was fresh, warm bread, bright oranges and honey-coated oatcakes. There was even some dried meat – crispy, sun-dried strips of pork. There were other items that Lysander didn’t know the name of.
Lysander sank his teeth into the soft fruit – the skin was lightly furred, the flesh soft. Juice trickled down his chin. He had never tasted anything so sweet.
‘What’s this called?’ he said through a mouthful.
Strabo smiled.
‘It is a peach,’ he replied. ‘They are grown in the east.’
Soon Athenasia and Lysander were surrounded by the remnants of their breakfast. His mother had not eaten a great deal, but already Lysander saw some colour in her cheeks. Strabo had given his mother a thick, spiced medicine, and a stoppered jar containing a week’s supply. Meanwhile, Lysander had gorged himself. By the time he sat back against the wall, his stomach was hurting. A loud belch escaped his lips.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m not used to such rich food.’
‘Indeed,’ said Strabo, wiping his own lips with a square of linen.
‘I had better go to the fields,’ said Lysander, getting to his feet.
‘How would you like never to toil in the fields again, Master Lysander?’ Strabo said.
Lysander laughed, but Strabo was not smiling.
‘You’re not serious?’ he asked.
‘I am,’ replied Strabo. ‘From this day forward, you need never sow or reap another harvest.’
‘And the River Eurotas might flow backwards up the mountains!’ said Lysander. With a smile, he made towards the door.
‘Wait, Master,’ said Strabo. ‘Sarpedon has a proposition for you.’ Lysander stopped. Strabo looked at him with his piercing pale eyes.