by Michael Ford
‘He … Prokles …’ he pointed. ‘I couldn’t … cheated …’
But as they watched, the starting referee walked over to Demaratos’s group, followed by two cloaked attendants. They spoke hurriedly, the referee motioning with his rod at Prokles. Then they all looked in Lysander’s direction. Demaratos tried to say something, looking furious, but the referee shook his head. Prokles looked afraid. Next thing, the two attendants took hold of an arm each and began to pull him away. Timeon ran over to investigate.
When Lysander’s friend skidded back to his side, he had some interesting news.
‘The referee said the race was not run fairly. Prokles has been taken away to be flogged for offending the Gods.’
‘But Demaratos has still won –’
‘No,’ interrupted Timeon. ‘The referee says it is a tie. There will be a decider!’
The adrenalin had long stopped flowing and Lysander lay back exhausted. Timeon sat on the ground beside him, holding out a flask of water. Lysander took long, slow swallows.
‘I’m not sure I can keep going,’ he said.
‘You will when I tell you what I have discovered,’ replied Timeon. He leant closer to Lysander’s ear. ‘I know who took the Fire of Ares!’
CHAPTER 23
‘Who?’ Lysander asked.
Timeon nodded his head in the direction of a Helot filling up a water jug. He had his back to them, but when he stood and turned, Lysander recognised him straight away. It was Demaratos’s slave.
‘Boas stole the Fire of Ares?’ said Lysander in disbelief. They watched as the Helot limped cautiously over to his master with the water. Demaratos snatched the flask, and pushed Boas angrily away.
‘He didn’t want to, but he was obeying Demaratos’s orders. At that time, neither of them knew that you were more than a common Helot.’
Lysander stood up.
‘I will kill that thief!’
But Timeon held him back.
‘Lysander, stop. Demaratos hasn’t got the pendant.’
‘I don’t care if he hasn’t got it now,’ retorted Lysander, struggling to pull away from Timeon’s grip. ‘It must be back at the barracks. I’ll show him …’
‘No, Lysander, you do not understand,’ said Timeon. ‘Demaratos didn’t want the Fire of Ares for himself. He wanted it for his girlfriend. As a gift.’
Lysander stopped fighting, and looked at his friend. ‘His girlfriend? Where would someone like Demaratos find a –’
‘Over there,’ interrupted Timeon, pointing into the crowd. Lysander followed his finger.
It couldn’t be! Timeon was pointing straight at the girl standing beside a cloaked Spartan. He realised the Spartan was Sarpedon. Beside him, wearing a fine dress of indigo fabric, stood Kassandra.
Two Helots dragged rakes across the sand, turning over the patches where blood had dripped from the wounds of previous contestants. Lysander was beyond worrying about cuts and bruises. He was angrier than ever. Kassandra and Demaratos! Now it all made sense. Demaratos was the Spartan he had seen outside the Ephor’s house the morning of his argument with Kassandra. The love token in the barracks was from her. Demaratos must have known all along that he was the grandson of Sarpedon. Timeon had started to reapply oil from the flask.
‘How did you find all this out?’ he asked his friend.
‘Boas told me himself. I found him after the wrestling. When you beat Drako he hurled a jar at Boas’s foot, and broke two of his toes. That is why he’s limping. Well, for Boas, that was enough. He can be talkative when he is upset. He told me all about the mistreatment Demaratos doles out to him – the beatings, the name-calling. He is tired of it – he wants revenge. So he told me about the morning at the market. After you fought with Demaratos in the alleyway, he was told to find where you lived back at the Helot settlement. He went to the physician, who told him. After that, it was just a matter of following you among the stalls the next day, and stealing the amulet.’
It all fits into place! thought Lysander.
‘I was being watched that morning by the millhouse,’ he said to Timeon, ‘but by a Helot – Boas!’
More than anything, Lysander wondered about Kassandra. So it was Boas she was meeting that morning outside Sarpedon’s villa. No doubt she was handing over a token of her love for Demaratos. The depth of her treachery made him sick.
‘I wonder if she’s wearing it now,’ he said bitterly. ‘She knows it was stolen from me! She must do.’
He looked at her face, smiling back at him.
How could she? After looking after my mother?
One thing was for certain: they could never be friends again.
The time had come. The cymbals clashed. Timeon slapped him on the shoulder.
‘May the Gods bless you,’ he said.
Lysander faced Demaratos. His torso glistened in the light from the stars, and his eyes were nothing but black holes in his face. This would settle things once and for all. The crowd was silent as the referee stepped between them.
‘You both know the rules for the tie-break. The best of five points.’
It began.
Demaratos and Lysander were roughly the same height and weight. They circled each other. Lysander watched his opponent’s arms and legs. Demaratos moved like a cat, light on its feet, stalking its prey.
‘Are you scared, Helot?’ taunted the Spartan. ‘When I have finished with you, you will wish you were picking weeds in the fields. Like your friend … Cato.’
The name of the murdered Helot came as a surprise to Lysander, and Demaratos must have seen his concentration slip. Demaratos lunged forward, trying to wrap his arms around Lysander’s neck. Lysander blocked the attack on the inside with both forearms. The two boys stood, face to face, each grasping the other’s shoulders.
‘How do you know about Cato?’ Lysander demanded.
Demaratos spat back. ‘You would go the same way, if I had my choice.’
Lysander struggled to force Demaratos’s head down, but his opponent locked his legs.
‘You’re a common thief,’ said Lysander.
Demaratos laughed.
‘So, you know about that? Not so tough without your necklace, are you?’ grinned Demaratos. ‘I hear you didn’t show much courage that day either …’
Lysander felt his strength fading, and he was losing his grip on Demaratos’s shoulder. He let go slightly to gain a better hold, but it was a mistake. As soon as his arm was freed, Demaratos let his own arm fold and swung his elbow into Lysander’s nose. There was a crunch and he fell to the ground in a heap. His eyes streamed, and the tears mixed with something on his chin: blood.
‘One point to Demaratos,’ came the referee’s cry, and a cheer went up from the crowd. ‘Are you all right to go on?’ Lysander held a hand gingerly to his face. His nose was tender and swollen. He found that he could move the bridge between his forefinger and thumb: definitely broken.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, wiping the blood from his face, and standing up. He saw Timeon’s face etched with anxiety on the edge of the ring, but turned away.
This time Demaratos was confident: he looked powerful, larger than life. He came straight for Lysander with a ferocious kick, which he just managed to dodge. Demaratos did not stop coming forward. A left fist caught Lysander on the ear, sending him sprawling to the floor. Demaratos was on top of him, arm locked around his throat, and Lysander could not breathe. As the air left his lungs, doubts flooded his heart. If only I had the Fire of Ares …
But then he saw Sarpedon’s face in the crowd. He was looking straight at Lysander, and as he did, a voice entered his head: You don’t need the Fire of Ares. Your strength is in your blood: your Spartan blood and your Helot blood combined. Prove yourself today, son of Thorakis and Athenasia.
Power flooded his sinews. With a mighty heave, he shrugged Demaratos away, then turned and punched with both hands to his opponent’s chest. Demaratos stumbled backwards, his eyes wide with shock. Lysander did not give h
im a chance to regain his balance. He swept Demaratos off his feet, then knelt astride his chest, pinning his arms to the floor. Demaratos twisted and turned beneath him, but there was no way to escape. The referee took one look and held up his rod. One point each.
As Lysander was moving off Demaratos, he whispered in his ear.
‘You should not have involved Kassandra. The Fire of Ares is stolen property.’
Demaratos stiffened beneath him, and Lysander took his position on the side of the ring. The crowd was shouting now. There was a new look on Demaratos’s face: fear. He was slow to pick himself up. The tables had turned.
Lysander felt invincible as they squared off for the third round. As the referee lifted his rod, Lysander advanced. Demaratos’s hand shot up, and suddenly Lysander could not see. He was blinded. It took him a few moments to realise what was in his eyes. Sand!
As he struggled to blink away the grit, Demaratos launched a savage attack. Blows fell on his head and ribs. Lysander kept his elbows into his body and shielded his face with his hands. You fool, he cursed, you forgot what Sarpedon told you: a man is most dangerous when he’s nearest to defeat. He grabbed one of Demaratos’s wrists, then the other. As his opponent struggled to free himself, Lysander let himself fall backwards. Demaratos had no choice but to follow. Lysander raised his foot against Demaratos’s chest, not in a kick, but as a pivot. As his own back hit the ground he heard Demaratos shout. Lysander threw Demaratos’s body over his head with his outstretched foot. He could not see, but he could imagine Demaratos somersaulting headlong through the air.
Lysander climbed to his feet and rubbed frantically at his eyes. He was expecting Demaratos to leap back at him, fired for revenge. It did not happen. He realised Timeon was talking to him.
‘Move your hands, Lysander – I have water.’
Lysander did as he was told, and cold water splashed in his face. His vision cleared. Timeon stood in front of him, bucket in hand. The crowd was quiet, and Demaratos was at the edge of the ring, cradling his upper arm, his chest heaving. Lysander started to walk over, to finish Demaratos off, but the referee stepped between them.
‘It’s over,’ he commanded.
‘No!’ shouted Demaratos. ‘I can still fight.’
But Lysander saw the swelling around Demaratos’s shoulder. There was a lump where the head of his humerus bone had been dislocated.
‘The fight is over!’ said the referee.
‘Let me go on,’ pleaded Demaratos.
The referee pushed lightly with his rod on the misshapen injury. Demaratos yelled as his face contorted in agony. There was clearly no way he could continue. He looked utterly deflated.
Demaratos had cheated, and he had lost.
The spectators began clapping, and murmuring their approval, growing louder until their cheers reached a crescendo. Lysander held his arm aloft to acknowledge them.
But why do I feel so empty? he asked himself. These people were clapping for him, were they not? Was this not the acceptance he’d always craved: to be recognised as a warrior, a winner? He looked again at the flushed faces of the crowd, their mouths twisted with the violence and the brutality. Yes, I am a Spartan, thought Lysander, but at what cost?
Lysander knelt before the altar of Ortheia, where the ground was still stained by the blood of the sacrifice. As the priest spoke a few words in honour of the Gods, one of the priestesses brought forth an olive wreath and handed it to the holy man. Lysander knew the prize was symbolic only. His name would be noted in the sanctuary, so everyone would know that Lysander, son of Thorakis, had triumphed at the Festival Games. After the priest had placed the wreath on his head, Lysander stood up, and the crowd cheered once again. In that moment, surrounded by strangers, he wished that his mother could have been there to witness his triumph. He was sure no one could see the tears that misted his eyes.
A trainer had appeared by the ring, and was inspecting Demaratos’s swollen shoulder. At his instructions Demaratos lay on his side, as a physician took hold of his upper arm. Even in the torchlight, Demaratos looked pale and worried. With a heave, the trainer pulled the arm back into its socket. Demaratos let out a whimper, but nothing more. Tentatively he lifted his elbow – the joint was reset. Lysander spotted Kassandra – she was standing behind the trainer and now moved forward, placing a hand on Demaratos’s arm. The sight made Lysander’s anger flare up once again, and he couldn’t help himself. He stormed over towards Kassandra. Demaratos tried to step between them, but Lysander pushed him aside.
‘May the Gods curse you, Kassandra,’ he snapped.
A look of puzzlement passed over her face.
‘No, Lysander,’ said Demaratos. Lysander ignored him.
‘You haven’t a drop of kindness in you, have you, cousin?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Kassandra, backing away.
Lysander took hold of her wrist. ‘Are you wearing it now?’ he said. He wanted to hear her admit to being a traitor.
‘Wearing what?’ she said, her eyes widening as Lysander tightened his grip.
‘You dare to deny that you had the Fire of Ares all this time?’ he said.
‘The Fire of …? I don’t have it. I don’t know what you’re speaking of –’
‘It’s true,’ interrupted Demaratos. ‘She hasn’t got the pendant. I never gave it to her.’
Now Lysander felt confusion wash through him. He let go of Kassandra’s arm and faced Demaratos. His enemy dropped his head in shame, then cast a furtive glance at Kassandra.
‘I took it for you, Kassandra. I wanted you to have it. It was a jewel worthy of a princess, too good for a Helot.’
‘Then give it back now,’ said Lysander coldly. He was ready to tear Demaratos to pieces.
‘I no longer have it,’ said Demaratos.
‘Then who has?’ Lysander demanded.
A shadow passed behind him. He realised someone was right there.
‘It seems Demaratos cannot keep a secret,’ said a growling voice.
Lysander whipped around to find Diokles standing far too close for comfort. The tutor pulled aside his tunic. Around his neck, scarlet in the moonlight, hung the Fire of Ares.
CHAPTER 24
‘Come with me …’ said Diokles, clamping Lysander’s arm with his hand. ‘I need your help in the equipment room.’ The feasting had begun, and tables were being erected around the parade ground. Musicians were playing, and acrobats had begun their dancing.
Lysander found himself dragged behind the temple to the long building where they had taken off their armour after the demonstration. A few boys still lingered there, but Diokles threw them out.
When they were alone, Diokles closed the door behind him. The room was lit by candles along each wall, and the flickering lights played across Diokles’ face, making his expression shift ghoulishly.
‘You fought well tonight, Lysander,’ he said, without smiling. ‘Who would have thought a Helot like you would come out top at the Festival?’
‘That pendant belongs to me,’ Lysander said.
Diokles’ hand caressed the stone, and he laughed as he brushed it with his fingers.
‘You know very well, Lysander, that a Helot owns no property of his own.’
‘And you know very well,’ said Lysander, ‘that I am not a Helot …’
‘Ha!’ scoffed Diokles. ‘You think, because you have spent a summer training in the agoge, that you are one of us? It will take more than a lucky victory to call yourself a Spartan. Demaratos is still twice the warrior you will ever be.’
Lysander flinched, but wouldn’t back down.
‘When I have mastered the Spartan arts of lying, cheating and stealing, maybe then I will be his equal.’
Diokles laughed again.
‘Yes, but even Demaratos needs to learn when to keep his mouth shut. I caught him bragging to those friends of his about a stolen jewel.’ As he spoke, he lifted the strap from around his neck and took a step closer to Lysander. After so long, Lysander
could not take his eyes off the stone, which glowed brighter than ever in the tutor’s grimy hand. Lysander felt its presence like it was a part of him.
‘At first,’ said Diokles, ‘I thought it was nothing, but when I laid my eyes upon it, I knew immediately it was no ordinary stone – the Fire of Ares!’
‘How do you know so much about it?’ Lysander asked.
Diokles ignored him and turned the pendant over, staring at the markings on the back.
‘You will not know what this says?’ he said.
Lysander remembered his mother’s words: he knew exactly what the pendant said.
‘Well, I’ll tell you. It says The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous.’
‘I know that,’ said Lysander. ‘It belonged to Menelaos, at the time of the war with Troy.’
‘Very good,’ said Diokles, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘That’s one part of its story. But, like men, stories change. We have been looking for the Fire of Ares for many years.’
‘We?’ said Lysander.
‘Yes,’ said Diokles, his eyes shifting like a lizard’s on to Lysander’s face. ‘The Krypteia.’
The temperature seemed to fall in the room. That’s how Demaratos knew about Cato! Lysander realised. His eyes caught the hilt of the dagger sheathed on Diokles’ belt. Was that the weapon used to kill the young Helot man?
‘Legend has it that after the war against the Messenians,’ Diokles continued, ‘a delegation once visited the great Oracle at Delphi, where the priests talk directly with the Gods. They asked the holy man how they could keep the Messenians under control. The Oracle told them a riddle: Fear only the Fire of Ares. At that time, no one knew this Fire of Ares was anything more than a legend. Like many of the Oracle’s messages, it was difficult to understand. The Gods work in ways we cannot grasp.’ He paused and hung the pendant back around his neck. ‘But we are not taking any risks.’
Diokles reached the door and began to open it. Lysander noticed there was still some commotion outside, but he felt lost. I can’t let it end like this. Feeling the swell of recklessness within him, he did the only thing possible.