The Fire of Ares

by Michael Ford

  ‘Right,’ said Sarpedon, ‘hold the spear high above your head, keeping it horizontal.’ Lysander lifted the shaft to above shoulder height, and found his hand naturally sat two thirds of the way along from the head. He wondered how far he’d be able to throw the weapon. ‘Now, stand on just your left leg, and put your right out behind you.’ As Lysander did what he was told, he found his right arm, holding the spear, rotated forward to retain his balance. Now the shaft was vertical and its weight, no longer balanced, pulled his arm downwards towards the ground.

  ‘Very good,’ said Sarpedon, nodding his head. He walked away to the door at the far end of the courtyard. When he reached it, he turned and said, ‘Hold that position until I come back. Do not let either your right foot or the spear touch the ground.’

  Then he was gone.

  The sun had come up and Lysander saw that the roof-tiles above were catching the first of the day’s rays. Though the sheltered courtyard was still in the shade, Lysander’s forehead streamed with sweat and he could see the condensation misting off his body.

  He was not sure how long Sarpedon had been gone, but it seemed like an age. His standing leg was trembling uncontrollably and he struggled to control his breathing. Panic was fighting its way in – what if he slipped and fell on the slick marble floor? He would have failed. He kept his eyes focused on the tip of the spear, which hovered just a few finger widths off the floor. His shoulder burned, and he longed for nothing more than to let his burden rest on the ground. He wondered if the old man was watching somewhere from the shadows. ‘I can do this,’ Lysander said through gritted teeth. He heard footsteps behind him. Thank the Gods, he thought.

  But it was not the Ephor. From his right emerged the young girl – Sarpedon’s grand-daughter – Kassandra. She was wearing a pale violet tunic, and her blue eyes rested intently on him. She walked around him in a slow circuit, her steps light on the stone floor. Lysander strained to look over his shoulder and saw her smile. There was no pity in her gaze, only amusement. Finally, she spoke.

  ‘You seem to be struggling, slave-boy. Perhaps you shouldn’t be playing with a Spartan’s weapons.’

  Lysander said nothing. He had no energy for arguments. He focused again on the spear tip. Kassandra leant in closer and pushed down gently with a fingertip on Lysander’s extended right arm. Pain screamed through his muscle at even this lightest of touches.

  ‘Does that hurt?’ she asked. Lysander screwed his eyes and managed to keep the arm steady.

  There was a clapping from the far end of the garden.

  ‘That is enough, Kassandra,’ said Sarpedon, walking back out. ‘You can rest now, Lysander.’ As the girl backed away, Lysander let the spear clatter to the ground and he fell to his knees. For a few moments, he sat on the floor, rubbing his sore shoulder. When he looked up, Kassandra was gone.

  ‘Well done, Lysander! You didn’t give up. That is the Spartan way.’ Sarpedon offered a hand, which Lysander gratefully took. He was hoisted to his feet. ‘As a reward,’ Sarpedon went on, ‘perhaps you would like to visit Athenasia?’

  The name shot through his brain, erasing the pain in his limbs in an instant. My mother!

  ‘Is she here?’ he asked. ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, come this way,’ said the Ephor. For the first time that day, Sarpedon seemed more like his grandfather than a Spartan noble.

  It was still dark in the bedchamber where Athenasia lay, and Sarpedon lit a candle before leaving the room. Lysander carried the cup of hot, honeyed milk to his mother’s bedside. At first she seemed confused to be woken, but familiarity soon smoothed the lines of her face.

  ‘My son!’ she exclaimed.

  Lysander could see that she was still thin and ill, but the darkness beneath her eyes was almost gone. She was getting proper rest in Sarpedon’s care.

  ‘Do I not get a hug?’ she asked, pulling herself upright. Lysander put down the cup and bent over his mother, taking her bony shoulders in his arms and burying his head in the space between her neck and collarbone. He could not help the tears that stung his eyes.

  ‘Don’t crush me,’ she laughed. ‘You aren’t wrestling now.’

  Lysander released her and sat on the edge of the bed, wiping his eyes.

  ‘You look … stronger,’ he said, smoothing the blankets.

  ‘I’m in good hands,’ she said. ‘Your grandfather is busy, but he visits me every day. And if the weather is clear, Sarpedon’s maid takes me into the courtyard. It’s so nice to be in the sunshine without Agestes’s barking orders.’ She paused. ‘Tell me about school.’

  Lysander looked at the flickering candle flame for a moment, then at his mother’s face. There was no way he could tell her the truth.

  ‘Well, it’s hard. Not like the fields, but I go to bed every night exhausted. There are endless drills with swords and shields, or wrestling.’ He tried to think of positives. ‘I am learning to read as well.’

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed his mother. ‘A Helot learning to read! Bless the Gods.’

  ‘The food is good,’ said Lysander. ‘We have meat or fish almost every day, and the bread is fresh.’

  ‘Are you looking after Timeon?’ asked his mother.

  ‘It is more like he is looking after me,’ said Lysander, forcing a smile. ‘But I always save a bit of food for him – most of the other boys treat their Helots badly, or act as though they are not present at all.’

  His mother nodded slowly.

  ‘And the Fire of Ares?’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Have you found it yet?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ replied Lysander. He decided to lie. ‘But I am close, I know it.’

  His mother took a long draught of the milk, and lay back. Her eyelids were drooping once again. Lysander left her to sleep. He left the room in high spirits. Sarpedon was nowhere to be seen. There was not time to say farewell, and he set off for the gateway.

  As he left the villa, something caught his eye further down the street. Lysander crept back behind the grapevines so that he could watch unobserved. Two figures, leaning close together. He could tell by the purple of her clothing that one of the figures was Kassandra. She stood at a distance, beneath a twisted olive tree. The person she was talking to had his back to Lysander. He wore a black tunic. They stood like conspirators, their heads close. Then the young man was gone, marching swiftly in the opposite direction. Kassandra stared after him for a moment, then began to stroll slowly back to the villa. She looked deep in thought.

  Lysander stepped out from the shade of the vines. He waited for Kassandra to spot him. Lysander could just hear the small intake of breath as their eyes met. A muscle twitched in her cheek. But then, quickly, she raised her chin and looked past him. Invisible. She behaved as though he simply wasn’t there. I will not let her get the better of me again, thought Lysander. He took a step closer, completely blocking her way.

  ‘Why are you so horrible?’ asked Lysander quietly. ‘I’ve done nothing to deserve it.’

  ‘I do not know what you are speaking of,’ she replied, but he could see a flush had risen in her cheeks. Lysander was so close he could see the flecks of green in her hazel eyes. She blinked her long dark lashes. He noticed how symmetrical her features were. Even the freckles on her face seemed evenly distributed. Her face was proud like Sarpedon’s. There was only one imperfection, a pale scar in the arch of her left eyebrow.

  ‘Of course you do,’ he said, raising his voice slightly. He was gratified to see her slightly taken aback. ‘You seem to enjoy taunting me for no good reason. Were you born like that, or do they tutor Spartan girls in the art of cruelty.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me about Spartan women? You need to learn your place, slave, or I shall tell my grandfather what you have said. I don’t know why you are here, but I shall find out and put a stop to it.’ She pushed firmly at his chest, and he stumbled backwards. She turned into the villa.

  Lysander was ravenous. After his dawn meeting with Sarpedon and a full day’s training, he was ready for h
is evening meal. The Helots had laid the table as usual, with loaves of bread, fresh fruit and bowls of broth. He sent Timeon back for seconds and then thirds. He gave his last bowl to Timeon, as always. The Helot attendants were not officially allowed anything but the leftovers from the Spartan table, or what was dropped on the floor: unripe olives, the gristle from meat, pieces of burnt or stale bread. Timeon was already looking a little meatier around the face, now that so much of his day was spent at the barracks rather than in the fields.

  His friend returned from washing the plates and bowls.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then,’ he said.

  ‘Wait,’ said Lysander, taking out a large lump of cheese from under his folded cloak. He handed it to his friend. ‘There, that is for your family,’ he said, ‘courtesy of Sparta.’

  Timeon smiled, but then frowned.

  ‘That’s stealing. You should be careful –’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lysander cut in. ‘Spartans say there is nothing wrong with stealing. It is the getting caught you have to avoid. Diokles told us a story about a Spartan boy who once caught a fox. He planned to kill it and eat it. But when he noticed some soldiers coming, he hid the animal under his cloak. Even though it chewed and clawed his stomach open, he did not grimace or make a sound until the soldiers had passed.’

  Timeon wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Diokles said he died, but died a true Spartan.’

  Timeon did not look convinced.

  ‘Well, a cheese shouldn’t do you much harm compared with that!’ he smiled.

  They walked to the entrance of the barracks.

  ‘Until tomorrow, then,’ said Timeon. Lysander did not want his friend to go – he felt suddenly homesick.

  ‘Wait,’ said Lysander. ‘Do they talk about me back at the settlement?’

  Timeon’s gaze fell to the ground for a moment.

  ‘Of course they do,’ he said eventually. ‘Of course. Messenia has not had a champion for decades. My sister says you will be the next Polykares. First, the Festival Games, next the Olympics …’

  ‘Anyone other than your sister?’ said Lysander.

  Timeon’s face looked strained.

  ‘Lysander, do not fear, we are all behind you. Even if –’

  ‘Even if … what?’ interrupted Lysander.

  Timeon smiled.

  ‘Even if nothing,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’

  Lysander leant against the door as the darkness swallowed his departing friend. What had Timeon been afraid to say? Had his countrymen forgotten that he was one of them? In his heart he still felt like a Helot, but perhaps the cloak on his shoulders was more than just a source of warmth. Maybe it made them afraid.

  CHAPTER 18

  Sarpedon greeted Lysander with a formal handshake in the courtyard.

  ‘Are you ready for today’s lesson?’ he asked gravely. He was holding what looked like a torn strip of clothing in one hand. A full-size Spartan shield hung from the other arm.

  ‘Yes … I’m ready,’ Lysander replied.

  ‘Then take hold of this.’ He handed Lysander the shield.

  Lysander did as he was told, threading his arm through the grips. The weight dragged at his arm, but he steadied his feet and tried not to grimace. Sarpedon had a further surprise for him. Without saying a word, he placed the material over Lysander’s eyes and tied it behind his head. Lysander stumbled in panic as his world went black.

  ‘In battle,’ Sarpedon intoned deeply, ‘a Spartan is not one man, but many. Just as he depends on the shield of the man to the right of him to offer protection in the phalanx, he must in turn provide cover for the man on his left. Without this trust, the phalanx collapses and the battle is lost. Do you understand?’

  Lysander nodded.

  ‘Good,’ continued Sarpedon. Lysander realised that his grandfather had changed position, and turned his head to locate him. As Sarpedon continued talking, his disembodied voice circled Lysander. ‘In the heat of the fight, with blood and sweat coursing down your face, you will effectively be fighting blind. You will have to trust in the skills you have learnt and trust in those fighting with you. Today you will learn to fight blind. Literally. Are you prepared?’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Lysander asked. He was furious with himself for feeling so frightened. How could a simple blindfold knock his confidence like this? But he was determined to see this thing through.

  ‘You will find out all in good time,’ said the old man. There was a swish of air, and something like a cane smacked against Lysander’s shin. Not very hard, but enough to sting.

  ‘Ouch!’ he yelped.

  Sarpedon did not apologise. ‘You just lost your leg below the knee.’

  ‘But how am I supposed to defend myself if I cannot see?’ asked Lysander.

  ‘A bat cannot see as it plucks insects from the night sky,’ replied Sarpedon, ‘but it does not go hungry. You must feel your surroundings. We will continue.’

  This time Lysander heard Sarpedon move slightly in front of him and he adjusted himself accordingly. Again, there was a swish, and he lifted his shield. The cane caught on the rim and deflected softly on to his shoulder.

  ‘Good!’ said Sarpedon. ‘A flesh wound only.’

  He heard his grandfather move quickly to his right and a brush of air. Lysander bent his left knee and lifted his shield above his head. The cane crashed into the middle of his shield.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Sarpedon. ‘You fight well for a bleeding, one-legged warrior!’

  Lysander felt pride swell within him, and the shield felt lighter on his arm.

  They carried on. Lysander stopped concentrating on the blackness that enveloped his eyes, and instead listened for the movements of Sarpedon and anticipated where he would strike next. Soon, only one in five blows were landing on his body, and in time, none at all.

  As Lysander pulled the blindfold away, his arm ached as though it was about to fall off, but he was happy. He felt more responsive to his surroundings and had discovered new ways to manoeuvre his body. Strength was important, but it was not everything a warrior needed. He would need his wits as well.

  Sarpedon returned with a pomegranate and a jug of water. He took out a knife and cut into the skin of the fruit, exposing the ruby red flesh beneath. It reminded Lysander of the missing jewel.

  ‘I’m beginning to think that the Fire of Ares isn’t at the barracks,’ he said.

  Sarpedon gave a small grunt of interest and handed over a piece of the fruit.

  ‘You must keep looking,’ he said, biting into his own fruit.

  ‘I have searched everywhere I can think of,’ continued Lysander.

  His grandfather’s eyes were on him, but the gaze was unfocused. Then Sarpedon looked away, his brow furrowed. Lysander could not understand why his grandfather was so uninterested. The Fire of Ares was the thing that had brought them together. Had he forgotten that?

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’ asked Lysander.

  Sarpedon passed a hand over his face, smoothing the frown away.

  ‘What? … No, of course not, my boy. The Council of Elders is meeting today with the kings and the Ephors. There are important matters to be discussed.’

  ‘What matters?’ asked Lysander. He felt as though he was being held at arm’s length.

  Sarpedon stood up and shook his head.

  ‘It is not the time to talk about such things.’ He picked up the shield and started to make his way back towards the house. ‘You should go,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Tomorrow, yes?’

  Lysander watched his grandfather walk inside. ‘Goodbye,’ he said to no one but himself. Where was the man who had taken him by the shoulders and proclaimed he saw the face of Thorakis?

  A voice interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘I know what you are thinking, Master Lysander.’ It was Strabo – he must have sneaked in from outside. ‘But remember: once a Spartan always a Spartan. Family always com
es second to the State. You will always be below Sparta in his heart.’

  Lysander didn’t want to talk to Strabo, and he was annoyed that the servant seemed to be able to read his mind.

  ‘I must leave –’ he said.

  ‘Just one thing,’ Strabo interrupted. ‘I wanted to ask if you had been successful in your search for the pendant. What is it called now? The Fire of …’

  ‘Ares,’ Lysander told him. ‘The Fire of Ares. No, I have not.’

  Strabo looked away, then gave a crooked smile. Lysander felt a sudden, strong urge to get away from this man.

  ‘Maybe I will go and see my mother,’ he said.

  ‘Oh no, you must not,’ said Strabo, guiding Lysander by the elbow towards the gateway. ‘She needs her rest. Leave her for now.’ He gave a glance in the direction of the bedchamber, then turned back to Lysander. ‘Well, good day to you. I am sure you will find the Fire of Ares soon.’

  After eating as much as possible for breakfast, Lysander stood from the bench, stuffed some bread under his cloak to give to Timeon later, and dashed out to join the other boys in the training yard. He slammed right into someone, and cold water splashed on to his feet. He felt a twinge of anger, but then saw who he had crashed into: Boas. The big slave stood trembling, holding a bucket in each hand. He must have come from the well.

  ‘I am sorry, Master Lysander,’ he mumbled, falling to his knee. ‘I did not see you there. Please do not tell Demaratos, I beg you.’ Lysander realised he had never heard Boas speak before. Just another anonymous Helot slave.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, waving a hand at his feet. ‘It’s only water.’

  Boas looked confused, and stood up again.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, nodding quickly before making off towards the dormitory. Lysander remembered briefly what Orpheus had said about accidents of birth. In my old life, he thought we might have been friends.

  In the yard, Diokles stood in front of all the other boys. They huddled close together, looking at the ground. Diokles’ face was purple with anger.