by Michael Ford
‘I have been informed that one of you has been outside the barracks in curfew hours.’
Lysander felt a chill creep up his spine.
Did someone see me? he panicked. They could not have. I was so careful.
‘You all know the rules,’ continued Diokles. ‘And you all know the punishment if you break them.’
Lysander swallowed, but his throat was dry. He was afraid, but he also felt disappointed in himself – he had let Sarpedon down.
‘That person was Drako,’ said the tutor.
Lysander breathed out slowly, willing his heartbeat to slow down.
‘He was caught stealing food once again, this time from a bakery. Drako, step out!’ ordered Diokles.
Silently, Drako presented himself in front of the tutor. They were almost the same height; the Spartan boy walked with a defeated stoop, looking warily at Diokles.
‘Take your position by the flogging post,’ said Diokles, pointing.
Without a word, Drako shuffled over to the wooden post where he had been hanging that first day Lysander had come to the barracks. He put his arms around it. He obviously knew what was expected of him. Diokles walked behind him and unravelled the short whip from his belt.
‘The normal punishment for breaking the curfew is twenty lashes, but Drako has shown repeated disregard for those rules. So today he will receive … one hundred strokes.’
The boys in the crowd gasped and there was a shuffling of feet. Drako broke his silence.
‘Sir, you cannot … not a hundred,’ he choked. ‘No one can take a hundred.’
‘You will take what I give you, boy,’ thundered Diokles. He gathered himself, rolling his shoulders and giving a few practice swings of the whip against a doorframe. Drako heard the crack and rested his head against the post. His face was pale. His voice was little more than a quaver when he next spoke.
‘Sir, please tell me one thing,’ he said. ‘Who told you I was outside?’
‘That is none of your business,’ replied Diokles. ‘Now turn around.’
The first blow fell between Drako’s shoulders, but he did not make a sound. Lysander pitied him. He could imagine the searing pain, making his legs weak at the knees. Diokles continued, landing stroke after stroke. Drako took the first thirty well, with nothing more than the occasional grunt. Then the blood started to appear through his tunic. First a spot or two, beading from the lacerations on his back, but after fifty, his clothing was sodden with blood. With each blow, he let out a moan, too weak to shout in pain. Still Diokles did not relent. The tutor was now making more noise himself, grunting with the effort, his face red and sweating. His blows were wilder, some hitting Drako’s neck, others the backs of his legs. By seventy, the clothing on Drako’s back had started to shred away, and Lysander could not watch any more. There was no hiding from the terrible sound of the whip, though. Lysander counted the last thirty blows, watching the bowed faces of the other boys. Some still watched, but he could see their faces twitching in horror with every blow. His own behaviour flashed across his mind, sneaking out of school each morning. How many lashes would that be worth? How many could I take? He felt sympathy tug at his stomach, but there was a stronger feeling: relief. At least that was not his shredded back.
When the hundredth lash was counted, only then did Lysander look up.
Drako was no longer standing. He was on his knees, breathing shallowly, but most of his body weight was supported on his shoulder, which leant against the bloody pillar. There was no skin on his back at all, just pink flesh and half-clotted blood. His clothes were nothing but tatters gathered loosely around his body, and the ground beneath him was stained dark.
Diokles threw down the whip and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. His whole body was shaking.
‘Clean him up,’ he said. Then he strolled out of the training yard.
CHAPTER 19
Lysander had checked every bed in the dormitory for the pendant, but with no success. He had almost given up hope. Nevertheless, time passed quickly. At the barracks, Demaratos and his cronies continued to torment Lysander, but he concentrated on training for the Festival Games. Even without the Fire of Ares, he was determined to succeed. There had been no sign of Drako since the day of the flogging. Some said that he was being cared for by his mother and sisters outside the barracks, a shameful way to live. Lysander could not believe a boy had nearly been killed just for letting his hunger get the better of him. A few boys grumbled that the food rations were not enough to keep them strong, but Lysander found the broth, loaded with shreds of meat and chunks of vegetables, much better than he was used to. He always spared some for Timeon, too.
In some ways, his days as a Spartan were not so different from his life as a Helot. Instead of working in the fields for Agestes, he trained in the barracks for Diokles. Both were hard, bullying masters. Where before he had secretly crept to the millhouse before dark, now he slipped out to Sarpedon’s villa for extra tuition. But the similarities ended there. His grandfather exercised his mind as well as his muscles, teaching him about philosophy and history. Where Diokles used orders and fear, his grandfather used encouragement and questions.
Injuries were common as the competition became fiercer for the honour to represent each squad. A boy broke his ankle in a one-against-many, and Lysander badly twisted his wrist throwing the javelin.
The morning after his injury, he rose from his bed stiff and in pain. He walked to his grandfather’s, cradling his forearm. As he trained, Lysander noticed how gloomy Sarpedon seemed to be. They had finished a leg-strengthening lesson, and Lysander sat with his back cooling against a column as Sarpedon mixed a poultice for his wrist in a dish over a tripod. Without turning round Sarpedon began to speak.
‘This will be our final lesson for some time.’
The words took Lysander by surprise. He had come to rely on these morning tutorials.
‘Why?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. His grandfather stopped mixing the ingredients and laid out a bandage.
‘Because war is coming,’ he finally said. ‘War with Argos.’
Lysander was confused. He thought Sparta was at peace with the Argives. ‘But why does that mean we have to stop our training?’
Sarpedon spooned out brown sludge from the dish and on to the bandage. ‘Because,’ he replied, ‘when Sparta goes to war, one king stays in the homeland, and the other leads the country to battle. The laws state that he must be accompanied by two Ephors. That is what my meetings have been about. Ten days ago the Council of Elders sent a messenger to the Oracle at Delphi.’
Like all Greeks, Lysander knew about the Oracle. It was the most sacred place in the world, where the prophets of Apollo told the future in riddles.
‘The Oracle told us that we must kill the mother snake before she bears her children.’
‘But what does that mean?’ asked Lysander. ‘You have to fight?’
‘Do not fear, boy,’ said his grandfather, ‘I will not be in danger – I’m too old to hold a shield and spear in battle. I will leave that to better men than me. But Spartan law must be obeyed. I have been selected to follow King Cleomenes to the north. If we do not take action now, the Argives threaten to arm the Helots, and that cannot be allowed to happen.’
Arm the Helots, thought Lysander. He thought back to Cato, dead in the fields, and old Nestor with his midnight gatherings. Now he had seen first hand the ruthless barracks training of the Spartans, the brave Helot plans for revolution seemed naive and misguided. They had no idea what they were up against. ‘But surely the Helots are not a threat to Sparta. They are just farmers, labourers …’
Sarpedon gave a hollow laugh and picked up the bandage.
‘Hold out your arm.’
Lysander extended his painful wrist. His grandfather carefully placed the bandage underneath. He wrapped one side around Lysander’s thumb, then again over his wrist. The heat from the brown mixture was instantly comforting. It was fascinating to watch Sa
rpedon’s huge, scarred hands perform such a delicate operation. He wrapped the bandage around several times before tying it off. He then looked hard at Lysander, and sighed deeply.
‘Tell me, how many Spartan soldiers live in the five villages and all of the lands ruled by the two kings?’
‘Um, I … don’t know,’ replied Lysander.
‘Well, I shall tell you, honestly. The number stands at about thirty thousand. All trained in the art of war. Now, how many Helot men of fighting age do you think there are? In all the fields and villages under Spartan control?
‘The answer is three hundred thousand. All trained in the art of farming, building and other crafts. Not fighters, but that is ten Helot men for every one Spartan soldier.’ As his words sank in, Lysander felt a mixture of dread and excitement. ‘That is why every pure-born Spartan boy goes through the agoge. It is true that Helots fear us Spartans, but do not think that we are not afraid too. Our armies are useful for fighting conflicts in foreign lands, but their main purpose is to keep our own back gardens safe. Why do you think we declare the war each year? If the Helots wanted to, they could rise up at any time. They might not win, but there would be terrible bloodshed on both sides.’ Lysander could hear something like fear in his grandfather’s tone. ‘The Helots are like a dry tinder – it needs only a spark to set rebellion alight.’
When the time came to say farewell, Lysander walked with Sarpedon to the road. His grandfather’s words had shocked him. Every morning in the millhouse he had dreamt of a time when he could fight for Helot liberty. Was that day coming?
He offered his arm as usual, and was surprised when his grandfather took it and pulled him close in an embrace.
‘Take care of yourself, my grandson, and I shall hope to see you soon.’ They pulled apart and Sarpedon held Lysander by his shoulders.
‘When will you be back?’ Lysander asked.
‘I cannot say, but it isn’t likely to be before the full moon.’
‘But that’s the night of the Festival …’ began Lysander. Sarpedon sighed.
‘I would like to be there. But Sparta comes first. You have trained hard, and whether or not I am there in person, the spirit of Thorakis and your ancestors will be watching.’
Lysander nodded. He chose his words carefully.
‘I hope you come back safely,’ he said from his heart.
Sarpedon released him, and Lysander thought he saw the glistening of tears in his eyes.
‘Goodbye, my grandson,’ he said, turning away.
Lysander watched the Ephor leave. His brain was a confusion of loyalty and guilt. He had meant it when he wished his grandfather safety, but what he had not said was just as important. Of course he wished Sarpedon no harm, but he could not find it in his heart to hope for Spartan success. What if this is a chance for the Helots to be free?
As he made his way back to the barracks, he was blind to his surroundings. Images flashed through his mind. Argive soldiers marching through Spartan fields, cheered on by Helots. As he approached the barracks entrance, Lysander imagined the building, the symbol of Spartan might, ablaze, with red-cloaked soldiers fleeing a powerful Helot army.
‘And where have you been sneaking out to, half-breed?’ came a voice from the shadows of the doorway. Someone stepped out into the light. Demaratos.
‘That’s not your concern,’ said Lysander, trying to squeeze past. Demaratos thrust his arm across the doorframe, and stepped close to Lysander, pushing him back against the wall.
‘I know this is not the first time you have gone out. I have heard you, tiptoeing out every morning. So I shall ask you again, what mischief is this?’
A noise behind Demaratos made Lysander peer over his enemy’s shoulder. What if it is Diokles?
‘I thought creeping around at night was something you Spartans were trained in,’ he said to Demaratos.
‘Oh, it is, Helot, but we are a lot better at it than you.’
Through a crack in the inner door to the equipment room, Lysander saw who was watching them – it was Prince Leonidas. His gently drooping eyes were fixed on them both. Why did he not come to help? Lysander didn’t know what to do. He could not afford to get caught – it would mean a lashing from the barracks commander. He needed to be at his peak for the Festival. Still Leonidas’s eyes were locked on his. Would Lysander’s friend try to help him? Distract Demaratos or step out to break up the scene? Lysander waited.
‘Shall I ring the alarm bell, Helot?’ Demaratos was smiling now. ‘Shall I wake up Diokles and see what he wants to do with you?’
Lysander was becoming angrier with Leonidas than with the boy in front of him. It was clear the prince was not going to help a Helot slave. Lysander pushed Demaratos’s arm out of his way, and stormed into the equipment room.
‘We will finish this later!’ his tormentor called after him.
Inside the room, he saw Leonidas walking quickly away past a pile of damaged shields. Lysander ran over to him and caught him by the shoulder, swinging him round. Leonidas looked shocked – and guilty.
‘Lysander! What are you doing here?’ Leonidas’s false cheeriness fooled no one. Lysander and he both knew that the prince had been watching – and doing nothing.
‘You’re supposed to be my friend!’ hissed Lysander. ‘Why did you stand by and watch when Demaratos threatened me?’
A cloud passed over Leonidas’s face. ‘I … What are you talking about?’ he said defensively.
But Lysander was not ready to let this go. He seized Leonidas by his collar and pulled him close. He wanted to throw the prince to floor, and call him a coward, the ultimate offence against a Spartan. But the inner door was pushed open, and four boys rushed into the room, laughing. They stopped when they saw Leonidas and Lysander squaring up to each other.
‘What are you looking at?’ said Lysander, his blood still hot. But his brain told him now was not the time to fight. He shoved Leonidas in the chest. The prince stumbled backwards.
Lysander watched the prince leave. He had learnt a new lesson today. Strength was no guarantee of bravery, and cowards were not always to be found among the enemy. They could be your friends, too.
CHAPTER 20
It did not take long for the news of the war against Argos to reach Sparta. Rumours spread through the dormitory like a river flooding its plain.
‘They say forty Spartans faced a thousand men,’ said Hilarion as they sat eating one evening. His father was away fighting, and his son got all the latest news. ‘The Argives thought they would crush us, but the phalanx held firm. The enemy ended up trampling their own men to death, and many died with spears in their backs, running away.’
Prokles chipped in:
‘Yes, and did you hear that the warrior Kleon challenged their best to single combat? He sliced his opponent’s shield arm, but then spared him. A Spartan would never want to live without his left arm. He would rather die than be unable to join his comrades in the phalanx.’
But it was not all glory. There was news of death, also. As Lysander left the training yard one day to visit the latrine, he came across Hilarion sitting by the barracks wall in the shade. In his hands he clutched an adult helmet, and he was sobbing. Stepping closer, Lysander could see that the bronze crown of the helmet was marred by an ugly open gash – it looked as though a sword blow had torn through it. Lysander did not need to ask what had happened – Hilarion’s father was dead.
As the conflict entered its second month, the stories died down. It began to look like the war was less than clear-cut. Some said the Athenians would help their neighbours and drive the Spartans away. Lysander lay awake at night thinking of the possible outcomes. Perhaps the soldiers of Argos were fighting back. Perhaps they would march into Spartan territory, driving the Spartans away to the sea. It would be a chance for Lysander’s people to be free.
It was almost time for the late summer harvest. The fields were ripe again with barley, and the boys were out on a long march in full armour. They wore brea
stplates, leg guards and helmets and carried their spears and shields. Lysander had hand-me-downs and unwanted kit from previous years. His breastplate and the apron that covered his groin were worn leather, frayed at the edges, and the bronze lining was flaking off. The greaves on his shins were rusted from not being properly cleaned, and his helmet was too tall and narrow for his head, blistering the tops of his ears and shaking loose every so often. On the night of the Games they would have to present themselves to the spectators before the real competition began. Lysander dreaded to think what a sight he would make.
The midday sun pounded down, and all Lysander could see through the narrow slit of his helmet was the boy in front. The soles of his feet had become hard, and were ingrained with dust. Sweat glued his tunic to his body. He felt faint, and his tongue was thick and dry in his mouth. He longed for just a sip of cool water. They were rounding the turning point on their run, the shrine of Zeus, and heading back to camp, when the pounding of hooves pricked Lysander’s ears. The others looked round as well.
‘Halt!’ Diokles held up an arm for the boys to stop, raising his spear.
Two horsemen burst from a copse of trees and galloped towards them. They were not Spartans. They carried light bows, with a quiver of arrows tied to the sides of their mounts. Small round shields were slung over their shoulders. Lysander felt dread fix him to the ground, but Diokles lowered his weapon and greeted the men with a salute.
‘Megarans,’ one of the boys whispered. ‘You can tell from their shields. They are our allies against Argos.’
The two soldiers slowed to a canter as they approached the ranks of students, and Diokles stepped forward to take the reigns of the lead rider. The horse was small and lean, snorting and stamping its front foot. The horseman patted its neck until it was calm and dismounted. He was covered in dust.
‘News from the plains of Argos,’ said the Megaran, still panting. ‘They sent us because we are the quickest …’