by Michael Ford
‘I’ll tell you,’ he said, ‘but you must not fear.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ replied Lysander. The other boys had tired of their bullying. One or two had even started to snore. Orpheus whispered his story in Lysander’s ear.
‘Athandros was another mythokos, just like you. He was in the intake above us when we joined at the age of seven. His father was one of the High Council, the twenty-eight men and the two kings who govern with the Ephors, so he could afford to send to the agoge a child he had fathered with a Helot woman, a half-breed. That was Athandros. He was a great warrior, even though many of the boys hated him. Diokles, especially, used to be tough with him. But Athandros took it all – the rough treatment only seemed to make him stronger. Until earlier this year …’ Orpheus tailed off.
‘What happened to him?’
Orpheus gave a sigh. ‘When a Spartan boy reaches his sixth year of training, he must undergo a special challenge. He is sent out into the wild mountains for several days with nothing but the cloak upon his back. It is a chance to prove his worth. He has to fend for himself for those days: catching or stealing his own food, fighting the dangers of the forests and hills. After that, he is ready for the next stage of the training.’
‘And?’ said Lysander in the pause.
‘Athandros went out but never came back. Some say he was murdered by other members of his own barracks.’
‘And that is why they call me Athandros, because I am a half-Helot like him?
‘Well, that’s not all.’ He grimaced. ‘I said they didn’t find Athandros. But they did find his cloak. You are wearing it.’
Fear tightened Lysander’s chest, and he threw off the cloak.
‘I’m sorry I had to tell you,’ said Orpheus. ‘Ignore their whispering. It is superstitious nonsense. Trust in the Gods, train hard, and you will be fine.’ Orpheus lay back down to sleep.
The rushes from the river were itchy when not covered by the cloak, but Lysander could not bear the thought of the rough wool on his skin. Now he knew of its past, the mud stains had taken on the scent of blood. It felt like a death shroud. Perhaps he was wrong to think the Spartans had it better than the Helots! But at least they are free, a voice replied in his head. While Lysander’s tired body dragged him towards sleep, his imagination turned over terrible images in his head. He saw Athandros, out in the cold mountains, fear gnawing his insides. What terrible thing had happened to Athandros out there? And did a similar fate await him?
CHAPTER 13
A hot slap stung the side of Lysander’s face, and a sudden white flash blinded him. Instinctively, he tried to lift his head off the floor, but a rough palm pressed over his nose and mouth. He struggled to breathe as his skull was forced to the hard-packed floor. Someone was sitting across his chest, squeezing the air out of him. He tried to wriggle free but his arms were being held down firmly. He could not kick out either – his whole body was immobilised. He felt weak. Pathetic. A voice whispered in his ear, and hot, stale breath fell on his cheek:
‘So, you think you can be a Spartan warrior?’
It had to be Demaratos. ‘Stop struggling, and this will be over a lot quicker for all of us.’ In the darkness, a blade caught the meagre light. It looked like a pair of shears used for taking the wool off sheep. Lysander writhed in fear, trying to put as much distance between the sharp blades and himself as possible. He felt as though his veins would burst, but there was no escaping. Where was Orpheus? Demaratos’s voice was back at his ear.
‘Do not fear, Lysander, we are not going to kill you in your bed. That would hardly be very noble, would it? No, consider this an introduction to Spartan life. After all, only Spartan warriors and women are allowed to grow their hair long. And you, my friend, are neither of those things. We are just going to give you a little snip.’
As the blade approached Lysander’s face, he had no choice but to remain still. One wrong move and he might lose an eye, or an ear. He shut his eyes as his cheek was forced to the ground. With each slice of the blades, his hair was half cut, half tugged from his head. His stinging scalp made his eyes water.
‘He’s crying!’ laughed Demaratos. ‘He loves his hair like a woman!’
Lysander’s neck was twisted as they turned him on to the other cheek. As they cut that side, he tasted the dirt of the ground on his lips. Then his head was pulled up as they sheared the back. After a final series of chops, it was over.
As quickly as they had pinned him down, his attackers melted away into the shadows. Lysander put his hand up to his head and touched his crudely hacked locks. He felt the cold air around his ears, and the vulnerable bones of his skull. He curled into a ball, and instinctively his hands reached for his chest, for the pendant that was his source of courage and comfort. Not there. He asked himself: Would I have been able to fight Demaratos off if the Fire of Ares still hung from my neck? Would I have lifted the shield with ease? Perhaps. Ever since the amulet had gone missing, his strength seemed to have abandoned him.
After a long time, the cold forced him to wrap himself in the dead boy’s cloak.
‘Wake up!’ The tutor bashed together a ladle and a tin pot. ‘Enjoy this lifetime, it’s the only one the Gods have given you!’
As the boys sat up in bed, eyes swollen with sleep and hair ruffled, Timeon came into the room with the rest of the Helots. Some carried clean training clothes, others pieces of equipment or small items of food. The Spartans took their offerings without a word of thanks. Timeon handed a smock to Lysander.
‘Here, my mother washed some of your old farming clothes for you. They should be fine for training in.’ Lysander thanked him. ‘What happened to your hair?’ Timeon asked, with a puzzled expression.
‘Demaratos,’ replied Lysander. Timeon seemed about to say something, but then merely nodded.
Lysander climbed out of bed, and threw off his cloak, picking up the tunic that Timeon had brought along. From across the room, he saw Demaratos staring at him.
Demaratos tapped Ariston on the shoulder and pointed in Lysander’s direction. He spoke loudly, so that everyone could hear.
‘Well, well, perhaps there’s more to this half-breed than meets the eye. Not such a skinny runt as I expected. Still, big muscles will not get you far unless you know how to use them.’ Demaratos picked up a wooden sword from the end of his bed. The whole room had fallen silent, and they stopped their dressing as the Spartan approached Lysander, all the time swinging the sword in dizzying arcs. He found Diokles’ words hammering in his head: Stand firm. Stand firm. Stand firm. The sword was a foot’s length from his face, now a hand’s width. Still he stood with his feet planted to the floor. The wood was a blur and he could feel the air swishing past the tip of his nose. Then in walked Diokles. Demaratos lowered the sword.
Diokles snatched the sword from Demaratos’s hand. He motioned the sword at Lysander’s throat.
‘Are you making our newcomer welcome?’ he hissed, fixing his eyes on Lysander. ‘I’m sure you all know by now that Lysander here is not all he seems.’ A murmur rippled through the spectators. ‘I don’t know why he is here, either. All a Helot is good for is making a Spartan’s breakfast or cleaning the latrines, but this half-breed seems to have friends in high places. They seem to think he can make it in the agoge, but I have serious doubts about that.’ He pushed the tip of the sword into Lysander’s sternum, catching him off balance. Lysander fell backwards on to the floor. He felt like a fool, writhing in the dirt.
‘Just as I thought,’ chortled Diokles. ‘A pushover!’ He turned to the other boys. ‘Not fit to polish a Spartan shield.’
‘I’m as good as any Spartan,’ Lysander said to Diokles’ back. Diokles turned around. He grabbed Lysander’s smock and lifted him off the floor. Lysander felt Diokles’ knuckles digging into his chest. The tutor brought his face up close to Lysander’s.
‘What did you say, Helot?’ Lysander flinched as spittle peppered his face. Lysander was dragged outside, stumbling and half-running across
the ground. Diokles hurled Lysander to the dirt and the other boys gathered, excited, in a circle around both him and the tutor. The only sound was the clanking from a nearby mill-wheel. Lysander caught sight of Orpheus’s face in the crowd and looked at him pleadingly. But Orpheus gave a small shake of his head.
Diokles’ face was almost black with fury, and he shouted his words from the depths of his belly. ‘Better than any Spartan, are you? Better than any of these boys?’ he pointed around the circle. ‘These boys have spent five years training for their manhood. Five years of hardship, pain, endurance. Cold nights of hunger and fear. And what have you achieved? You have grown up in your mother’s bosom, enjoying life in the fields. You have no idea about what it takes to be a Spartan. But I am here to show you …’
The crowd jeered, as Diokles dragged Lysander to the edge of the circle. A gap opened up to let them through. Diokles pushed Lysander straight over to a millwheel, where two yoked oxen were slowly pushing the wooden arm in a circle, driving the central axle. A Helot stood idly by with a whip, ready to keep the beasts moving if they stopped for a break. Diokles strode over and took the whip away from the Helot. He then detached the harness from one of the oxen and with a crack of the whip sent the animal plodding to one side, its eyes rolling in its head.
‘The time has come for you to learn the meaning of endurance, half-breed. You Helots are no better than animals. Worse, in fact, because at least they do not answer back. Today you are going to do the work of an animal, so start pushing.’
Lysander looked at the wooden arm, and then at Diokles. Was he serious? Diokles swung the whip and it lashed against Lysander’s back with a crack. The pain was sudden and unexpected, and Lysander was ashamed to hear himself cry out.
‘Get to it, boy, or I will whip you till you cannot wail any more!’
Lysander hurried forward and placed both arms on the wooden beam of the millwheel. He pushed with all his strength, but nothing happened; the axle did not budge.
‘Harder!’ bawled Diokles.
Again, Lysander strained with his muscles, until his palms ached and his pulse was thumping. Still, the mechanism did not move. He may as well have been trying to move a mountain. I need the Fire of Ares!
‘One more chance, boy, then you’re mine,’ said Diokles. Lysander could see that the tutor’s fingers were white from tightly gripping the whip. Lysander had been whipped many times in his life already. He could well imagine the bite of the whip’s leather across his back.
Lysander dug his heels into the dust and summoned all his energy. He offered a prayer to the goddess sacred to farming and the fields: Please, Demeter, give me strength! Then he gritted his teeth and pushed.
The ox on the other side of the axle let out a low moan, and Lysander sensed the arm give a little. He carried on heaving. The arm moved more. Keep pushing! The axle started to creak, and Lysander found he could take a step forward. Then another. Then one more. ‘Thank you!’ he whispered, both to the goddess and to the ox opposite, whose head bobbed up and down in time with its steps. His own feet shuffled at first, his calf muscles tight, his kneecaps threatening to burst, but gradually his steps grew wider. I can do this! he thought. To his amazement, a small cheer went up from some of the Spartan boys, and despite the burning in his arms and legs, Lysander experienced a hint of pride. Soon, the millwheel was turned slowly, but fluidly.
He completed the first circuit and met Diokles’ eyes as he came around. The tutor gave a snort, then handed the whip back to the Helot.
‘If he stops before the lunch bell, whip him as hard as you can.’ Then he turned to the students. ‘What are you gawping at? Back inside!’
The sun licked Lysander’s shoulders like flames as the wheel slowly turned. He had no idea what time it was, though he could tell that the sun had risen high in the sky. He followed his shadow on the ground beneath his feet, unable to glance up. His legs screamed in agony, and the muscles in his arms felt stretched and torn. Sarpedon, where are you? I need your help. I cannot do this …
A noise hovered on the edge of his thoughts. Clanging dully, repetitively.
I want to go back home, to see my mother, I want to work in the fields and laugh with Timeon.
The noise again. What was it?
Lysander sank to his knees in the dust and collapsed face first to the ground.
Something cool touched his lips. Water!
‘Lysander … Lysander!’ said Timeon’s voice. ‘The lunch bell.’
Lysander rolled on to his back and allowed the cool water to splash over his face. Above him, the sun shone down harshly. His lips were cracked and he could barely open his mouth to speak.
‘I did it,’ Lysander whispered, as Timeon gently raised his friend’s head on to his lap.
‘You did.’ Timeon smiled, wiping the sweat from Lysander’s brow. ‘You did it.’
CHAPTER 14
As Lysander entered the dining hall for breakfast, every muscle was a ball of pain. Yesterday, the other students had seen him being carried into his barracks by Timeon. A slave carrying a boy-in-training! But no one had jeered. Boys had even bowed their heads respectfully as Lysander passed them. But as soon as Timeon put him down on the bed of rushes, Lysander had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. He had woken only when the spasms from his muscles forced him to reach for the jar of water that Timeon had left in arm’s reach.
Now Lysander took his place beside Orpheus at one of the benches.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked the Spartan.
‘I’ve felt better,’ replied Lysander. He felt older – like a different boy to the one who had entered the barracks as a Helot slave.
Orpheus nodded. ‘You know, don’t you, why I could not help you yesterday? Why I had to stand and watch with the others?’
Lysander looked up from his bread and goats’ milk. Orpheus looked serious.
‘You probably thought Diokles was singling you out yesterday, bullying you. But we have all been through the same. The agoge does not leave any room for kindness, or compassion. We are here to become Spartan warriors. Diokles was testing you. One day, you will be on the battlefield, maybe with Diokles at your side – he wants to make sure you are ready.’
Lysander listened carefully to Orpheus, but he wasn’t so sure. His friend hadn’t seen the look of hatred in Diokles’ eye.
‘Anyway,’ said Orpheus, ‘we have academic lessons this morning. Your arms will get a rest.’
That was just the news Lysander wanted to hear. He stood up and called over to Timeon, who was standing with the other Helots at the end of the hall. Timeon hurried over and bent his ear to Lysander’s mouth.
‘Quick,’ said Lysander. ‘We don’t have long.’
Lysander made sure there was no one in the dormitory.
‘Stay by the door,’ he whispered to Timeon. ‘If anyone comes, let me know.’
‘Of course,’ replied his friend. ‘Where do you think it will be?’
Lysander cast his eyes around the room. Could his pendant be here somewhere? The dormitory only had so many hiding places. There were perhaps eighty beds, all surrounded by personal items. He went to Demaratos’s first, running his hands over the rushes that made his sleeping mat, and under his feather-stuffed pillow. Nothing. His eyes fell on the embossed chest that stood by Demaratos’s bed. He did not feel brave enough to look in there, not yet.
Next he went to Prokles’ bed, then Ariston’s. But the Fire of Ares wasn’t in either. The chest beckoned to him. Could he risk it?
Timeon coughed by the door, and Lysander rushed over to his own bed. Ariston entered the room, suspicion playing around his eyes.
Lysander addressed Timeon.
‘Slave, what have you done with my sandals? Find them by this evening, or I will give you a beating you will not forget.’
‘Yes, master,’ said Timeon, hiding his smile from Ariston, before rushing out.
‘Time for lessons, half-breed,’ said Ariston to Lysander with a sneer. ‘Do no
t be late.’
The schoolroom was shared by several barracks, and was located a short walk away past the central well. As they passed, a group of Helots were heaving up buckets of water, and carrying them in a line to the dormitory. Leading them was Demaratos’s slave, Boas. He was a big, dark-skinned boy, perhaps a couple of years older than Lysander and the others. As they passed, Prokles stuck out a foot and tripped him. Boas crashed to the floor on his face, and the water sloshed out of his buckets, running across the dry earth.
‘Better watch your step, slave,’ said Prokles, standing over the fallen Helot. Boas looked up, but did not say anything. His forehead and cheek were streaked with dirt, and his face glowed red. Lysander read the frustration in the slave’s eyes, and his knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists. Lysander strode towards Prokles, imagining hurling the cheap coward to the ground. A hand on his arm steadied him.
‘It’s not your fight, any more,’ said Orpheus in his ear. ‘You are going to have to learn to be a Spartan now.’ Lysander hesitated, then let his friend gently pull him away. They walked to the school hut.
The schoolroom was a shack half open to the elements. The lower part of the walls was made of wood, and the roof of overlapping palm leaves was supported on a timber frame.
‘I don’t know why we are here at all,’ grumbled Demaratos, as he sat on the floor. ‘We are Spartans, not scholars. What use are poems facing an Athenian in battle?’
‘Demaratos …’ A tall, thin man stepped into the doorway, wearing a coarse brown toga. ‘Sometimes the muscle you have in here …’ he tapped his shiny, bald head, ‘… is more important than the muscles in your spear-arm.’ A smile spread across his face, revealing dazzling white teeth. He did not look like a Greek to Lysander. His skin was dark, and his eyebrows rose in thin arches. His face was kind, and his eyes twinkled like quartz in the sunlight.
‘That’s Anu,’ whispered Orpheus. ‘He is our teacher. He comes from across the Great Sea, from a land ruled by the Sun God, whom they call the Pharaoh.’