by Michael Ford
‘Take care you do not throw it in the well, Helot.’
His concentration was broken. Something went wrong. He tripped. The point snagged in his clothing. A loud rip, and the javelin left his hand at an angle, clattering to the ground a few feet away. A raucous laugh burst from the Spartans behind him, and he scrambled to his feet to see them doubled over. He looked at his torn tunic, which hung off his body.
‘Get inside and get changed,’ ordered Diokles.
Lysander’s cheeks burned with shame and he hurried inside.
In the cool, still air of the dormitory, Lysander let his heartbeat steady. He had been humiliated again, and felt utterly worthless. How would he ever compete with these boys? How could he hope to match them without the Fire of Ares?
He darted over to the doorway and quickly glanced out. The javelin practice had resumed. He might have a little while longer before they came looking for him. He crept over towards Demaratos’s sleeping area. It must be in his chest.
He knelt on the floor and ran his fingers over the rim. A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead as he lifted the lid. He opened the chest, and delved inside. Nothing but a few carved figurines, a scrap of parchment, a golden belt clasp, and some clothes.
Lysander stood up, and kicked the box in anger. Pain shot up his toe, and he fell to the ground. He sat there furiously rubbing his foot, and cursing himself. I am so stupid. I’ll never find it.
Then he noticed that the chest had moved slightly. There was something unusual about the ground beneath it – a space. Suddenly the pain in his foot vanished, and he leant over to inspect the hiding place. Lysander pushed the heavy chest further aside. A hole about a foot wide and half a foot deep had been excavated from the soil, and in it was a smaller, simply carved wooden box. Lysander lifted it slowly out, and brushed the loose earth off the top.
This must be it! This must be the Fire of Ares. Lysander could almost feel the pendant calling to him.
He opened the lid.
His heart plummeted like a stone in a well. The box was empty but for a piece of fine linen embroidered with a word. Lysander’s reading was coming slowly, but he could make out the letters: DEMARATOS. Delicate red flowers were stitched around the name.
A love token! He didn’t think Demaratos was the sort. He had been so sure that his enemy had the amulet.
A noise outside made Lysander jump. He crossed the room quickly to his own bed, and pulled his torn tunic over his head as Hilarion came in.
‘Diokles wants you outside right away,’ he said.
Lysander threw on clean clothes and ran outside.
Diokles was waiting, javelin in hand.
‘Throwing the javelin is not just about distance, it is about aim too. There is no use throwing your spear at the enemy if you are more likely to hit one of your own men. So now we are going to do some target practice.’
He hoisted his javelin aloft and hurled it through the air. It landed between the barracks and the schoolroom. Lysander felt anxiety gnawing at his insides, but he hoped he would be able to acquit himself better this time.
Diokles shielded his eyes with a hand, and peered at where his javelin had fallen.
‘I cannot see where it landed,’ he said. ‘Lysander, go and stand by it.’
Lysander did not know what the tutor was up to, but he ran over to the javelin. It was about a hundred paces away. When he got there, he turned and looked back to where Diokles and the students were standing.
‘Stay right there,’ shouted Diokles, before turning to the others. ‘Boys, you have your target.’
CHAPTER 16
‘But –’ Lysander started to speak.
‘Stop your Helot tongue!’ yelled Diokles. ‘Or I shall come over there and tear it out of your head! If you want to be a Spartan, you have to show courage. On the battlefield, when the spears and arrows of the enemy are raining on you like hail, you cannot simply run away. You have to stand firm by the men at your side.’ He pointed to the boys in front of him. ‘Show him no mercy. If your javelin falls further than ten paces from him, I’ll hang you upside down by your legs until the blood leaks from your ears. Do you hear?’
The students looked at Diokles, and then at each other. No one spoke.
‘I said, do you hear me?’ spat Diokles.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the students hesitantly.
‘Good,’ said Diokles. ‘If any boy hits him, I shall personally donate a roasted suckling pig for your supper. Leonidas, you are first.’
Lysander didn’t know what to do. He felt his legs shaking, and locked his knees together. Should he run? If so, he doubted Diokles would hesitate to spear him.
Leonidas stepped forward with his javelin. Even at this distance, Lysander could see there was no expression in his eyes. He pleaded mentally to the prince, with his lips moving silently: Please don’t do it!
But Leonidas did. As the javelin left his hand, Lysander fought the instinct to close his eyes. His insides tightened as he stood transfixed. The javelin seemed to move in slow motion until it reached the top of its arc, then descended with terrifying speed. It landed about six feet away, thumping in the earth. The shaft wobbled for a few moments and then was still. Lysander felt his muscles relax.
‘Who wants to go next?’ asked Diokles.
‘I will,’ said a voice, and Prokles grabbed a spear.
What a coward! thought Lysander. I’d like to see him roast over a fire like a pig.
Prokles lined up and launched the javelin, but he threw it too hard, and it landed well behind Lysander. The Spartan kicked a foot in the dust and Lysander allowed himself a sigh of relief. But he knew the trial was not over.
‘Don’t look at the javelin,’ said Diokles. ‘Look at where you are throwing it.’
‘My turn,’ cried Demaratos, striding over to the javelin stand.
Lysander watched him test the weight of one of the spears, then replace it. He seized a second. This one seemed to be more to Demaratos’s liking. He took his time adjusting his fingers in the straps and then lifted his head, staring straight at Lysander.
He took four long, slow paces back from the throwing line, lifting the javelin to shoulder height.
He paused.
He stepped forward and threw.
As soon as the javelin left his hand, Lysander could see he was in trouble. It glided perfectly straight, and then began its descent as a single dark point in the sky. Lysander’s whole body seemed to become light, and he hardly felt attached to the ground any longer. This time he did close his eyes, and imagined the sharp tip hammering into his chest, sinking through his soft flesh and bursting through his back.
He heard a low thrum, and then a thwack!
He opened his eyes. The shaft of the javelin was touching his arm, vibrating still. The point was buried in the ground less than a finger’s length from his foot. For the first time in his life, he was sure of the Gods.
‘It is important that every Spartan soldier is able to endure long marches into enemy territory,’ barked Diokles later that day. Lysander stood outside with the others by the front gateway of the barracks. ‘So this afternoon we will be strengthening your legs. We are going to run to the outskirts of the free-dweller settlements and back again, and we shall do so in formation. Assemble yourselves!’
The clouds had gathered and dulled throughout the morning. Now the sky was a leaden grey. Lysander followed as best he could at the rear of the ordered rows and columns of boys. Orpheus, he noticed, stood to one side, leaning on his stick. Clearly he was excused these forced marches. All the other students were barefoot, in order to toughen the soles of their feet.
‘If any boy falls behind, he will be made to carry additional weight on his back. There is no place for weaklings in –’ Diokles was distracted by a figure approaching slowly on a donkey. As the rider came closer, Lysander recognised him. Strabo! After Strabo dismounted, he and Diokles spoke briefly, both flashing glances in the direction of the gathered students. Diokl
es turned to them.
‘Lysander, step out!’ he bellowed. A murmur rippled through the crowd and Lysander walked to the front, ignoring the mutterings of those around him.
‘Lysander, you are excused to go with this slave,’ he said.
As Lysander walked along the line, Demaratos hissed:
‘But come back soon, Helot.’
The journey with Strabo took place in silence and Lysander was grateful to climb off the uncomfortable donkey. He rushed into the courtyard, just as the first drops of rain began to spatter on the mosaic floor.
Sarpedon was knelt at one side by a smoking tripod. His head was dipped and his lips moved in silent prayer. Lysander waited patiently under the sheltered portico, wondering which of the Gods of Olympus his grandfather was speaking to. The rain fell more heavily, hammering the roof. It lifted the scent of flowers to Lysander’s nose.
When Sarpedon had finished, he turned to Lysander and smiled.
‘Greetings, my grandson,’ he said, striding over and stepping between the columns. He offered his arm in formal greeting, and Lysander took it.
‘Greetings,’ replied Lysander. ‘Is my mother well?’
‘She is a little better,’ said Sarpedon. ‘I have sent a maid to tend to her until she feels strong enough to make the journey. If all goes well, she should be here by nightfall.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lysander. He dared to hope that she would all right.
‘Tell me, boy, it is your third day in the barracks. How is your training progressing?’
Lysander was embarrassed. Can I tell him how much I hate it? He could not even meet the Ephor’s gaze.
‘What is wrong, Lysander? I know Spartans do not like to waste their words, but I asked you a simple question. How goes life in the agoge?’
‘Badly,’ replied Lysander, tracing the mosaic floor with his eyes. ‘The tutor is a bully. He seems to enjoy beating me at every opportunity, and putting me in humiliating situations. He hates the fact I’m a Helot, and treats me like I should not be there. The other boys follow his lead. I cannot sleep at night because of the whispering.’ Lysander wanted to tell his grandfather everything. Perhaps he could help? ‘And it is all because I haven’t got the Fire of Ares. I do not have the strength to continue. Every day is harder than the one before …’ He looked up, expecting to see sympathy in the old man’s face. Instead, anger furrowed the older man’s brow.
‘Well, what did you expect?’ said Sarpedon coldly. ‘This is not a soft school of Athens. This is Sparta.’ Sarpedon stood to his full height and turned away, walking into the courtyard. Rain quickly darkened his cloak, and plastered his hair across his forehead, but Sarpedon didn’t seem to notice. Lysander was reminded of the stranger he had met that first time in the dark alleyway by the slaughterhouse. The Ephor breathed slowly and faced Lysander again. Rivulets coursed down his face. The anger had drained from his features and he looked pained.
‘Have you understood nothing? Boys have been through the same thing as you for generations. I endured it myself. Once I was beaten so hard by my tutor that I could not walk for a week. What you single out as unfair punishment, we call education. Any Helot would bless the Gods for what you have: a chance to escape slavery. A chance to be somebody the future will remember.’
Lysander felt shame flood him, prickling up under his skin. He dropped to one knee. ‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘I will not disappoint you again.’
‘This is not about displeasing me,’ said Sarpedon, his voice inflamed with passion. He came back towards Lysander, and pulled him up roughly. Lysander was locked in his grandfather’s stare. ‘This is about you, and your father. You have a chance to make Thorakis proud, and to continue his family name. The Fire of Ares comes second to that; it is the heart that beats beneath it that will get you through. Spartan blood flows through it – a warrior’s blood. The amulet is a symbol, a stone, little more.’
The Ephor’s deep voice resounded in Lysander’s ears, and each word seemed to build on the previous one to make him feel strong. Perhaps I can get through the agoge. After all, I am still alive now. I just have to take one day at a time.
‘I have another proposition,’ Sarpedon said. ‘I’d like you to come here for some additional training before the Festival. Each morning, be here as the sun rises. Can you do that for me?’
‘Will Diokles allow it?’ asked Lysander.
‘It is doubtful,’ Sarpedon replied. ‘I could force him, but it would be unwise to draw further attention to your case. No, you must come in secret. Stealth is also part of a Spartan’s training. Slip out and make sure that no one sees you. Understood?’
‘I will do my best,’ said Lysander. ‘Thank you.’ His grandfather’s grip softened and he pulled Lysander towards him in a hug.
‘You have great strength in your heart,’ said Sarpedon, ‘and the blood of Thorakis flows in your veins.’
The words fired Lysander with new hope. He wanted to be the best, to make Sarpedon proud. He was ready to find the Fire of Ares, and to prove himself a warrior. Their dawn lessons would be the first step towards that. They would tread the path together.
CHAPTER 17
Lysander awoke from unsettled sleep early, his stomach fluttering with nerves. He sat up and let his eyes get used to the darkness. The other boys all lay still, and their steady breathing was the only sound. It was now or never. He stood up slowly, tying on his sandals in silence. Taking care to watch where his feet fell, Lysander tiptoed towards the exit. He was just three feet away when Prokles, his grubby feet protruding from the end of his cloak, grunted and turned over. Lysander froze. But Prokles’ eyes didn’t open, and his mouth was slack in sleep. Lysander slipped through the door.
Outside, the air was chill and moist, and Lysander was glad of his ragged cloak. He was now fully awake. Rain had fallen during the night, and he splashed though puddles. Through the thick cloud, the full moon was nothing but a smudge of pallid light. As Lysander descended into the centre of Amikles, haunting wisps of mist drifted at ground level. He tore through them, imagining he held a sword that slashed his enemies aside. Despite the cold and wet, Lysander felt more alive than ever as he made his way along the deserted streets. It felt like the dawn of a new era. In the solitude, there was no one to threaten him as a Helot, or cast doubt on him as a Spartan warrior. He felt free to be anything he wanted. He reached Sarpedon’s doorway without meeting a soul – Spartan, free-dweller or Helot.
In the courtyard, a fine layer of condensation made the marble glisten and the floor was slippery. Sarpedon emerged to meet him, wrapped in a thick, woollen cloak.
‘Good morning, Lysander. I trust your journey was without incident?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ he replied.
‘Part of the Festival Games will involve throwing a javelin. Have you much experience with a spear?’
‘Only one lesson,’ he admitted, remembering the previous day’s embarrassment. Sarpedon looked disappointed.
‘Well,’ said the Ephor, ‘spears are for thrusting into the enemy line. Throwing should be a last resort, as you are then giving your weapon to the other side. So before you can learn to throw, you need a strong arm and good balance.’
Sarpedon walked over between two columns and took hold of a spear that was leaning against the wall. It was much longer than the javelins they had thrown at the barracks. The shaft was at least two heads taller than Sarpedon himself, but not much thicker than the javelin. It was perfectly straight and looked slender but deadly. The old man handled it with ease. Lysander had never seen such a weapon close up. At one end was a narrow, tapered bronze head, and the other end was a wider, heavy spike.
‘The shaft is made of ash wood, which is rare in this part of the world. Though it feels light, it will bend a good deal before snapping, and flies through the air smoothly.’ Sarpedon hoisted the spear aloft in a smooth movement, his fingers shifting their grip to balance the weight. He stabbed it forward in an underarm thrust, and closed one eye, ga
zing along the perfectly straight shaft. The tip did not wobble in the old man’s grip. ‘The spearhead is used for thrusting into your enemy. You see the ridges from the point?’ Lysander nodded. ‘They are to let the blood escape. The heavier end – we call it a “lizard sticker” – is for finishing him off as he lies on the ground. When you get to the battlefield for the first time, you will learn that a man does not often die quickly, and sometimes you have to help him on his way. The lizard sticker also helps balance the spear for throwing.
‘When fighting in the phalanx alongside fellow Spartans, you can either thrust the spear over-arm, aiming for your enemy’s head, neck or chest, or underarm, going for the groin and stomach.’ Sarpedon demonstrated both actions with a firm lunge. Lysander winced to think of facing the Ephor, even now, in battle. ‘It depends on how the other soldiers are holding their shields. I took this spear from a Tegean in the years just after Thorakis was born. He managed to stab me right through the thigh, shattering the bone.’ Sarpedon pulled back a fold of his tunic. There, on the outside of his leg, and indented into the flesh above his knee, was a pale, puckered scar.
‘How did you survive?’ Lysander asked.
‘I pulled it out and put it through his chest,’ replied the Ephor.
Lysander looked at his grandfather’s face. It was easy to imagine him thirty years before in his prime, raging on the battlefield. What must it be like to face such a man in the fury of the fight? Lysander looked at the spear in a new light. This weapon has actually taken someone’s life; perhaps it has even been used to kill a Spartan! He pictured Sarpedon tugging it out of his own torn flesh, and then using all his weight to drive it through a gap between shield and body. The point breaking through the resistance of armour and skin, perhaps the crack of ribs, blood coursing down the shaft.
‘You try,’ said Sarpedon, and tossed it to Lysander, who lurched forward and caught it. The spear was not heavy and fitted comfortably into his hand. Lysander felt powerful. The spear was lethal, but it was beautiful too.