The Fire of Ares

by Michael Ford

  ‘I’ll fight you for it,’ he said.

  Diokles stopped, and turned.

  ‘You will do what, boy?’

  There was no going back.

  ‘You heard me,’ he said. ‘The Fire of Ares belongs to me, and I will not let you take it.’

  Diokles stood impassive at the doorway, and Lysander wondered what he would do next. Would he walk straight out, with the Fire of Ares? Or would he stay and fight – give Lysander one more chance? Diokles pushed the door closed with his foot. He interlaced his fingers.

  ‘You know I cannot resist a challenge,’ he said, cracking his knuckles. ‘And I have not killed a Helot for a while.’ He bent his knees into a crouch and held his arms out. ‘When you are ready,’ he said.

  What in the Zeus’s name have you done? Lysander asked himself.

  What you had to do, a voice inside him answered.

  As Diokles came forward, Lysander did his best to keep out of reach of his arms. If the bigger man got hold of him, it would be over. Every time Diokles came near, Lysander skipped away while trying to land blows on the outside of his tutor’s arm. Every time Lysander dodged his tutor’s lunges, the more determined Diokles became, his arms swinging in wild arcs. Finally, Lysander found himself pushed back towards a corner of the room. There was nowhere to go.

  Diokles swung a fist but the blow only glanced off Lysander’s shoulder. Because of his bulk, the weight of the punch spun Diokles off-balance. This was Lysander’s chance. He leapt on to the tutor’s back, and wrapped his right arm tightly around his wide neck. Then he squeezed. Diokles’ arms scrabbled to tear Lysander’s strangling grip away, and then to claw at Lysander’s face. He buried his head in Diokles’ shoulder to keep his eyes out of the way, and with his other hand reached for the pendant. Once his hand wrapped around it, he felt immediately stronger.

  The pair crashed around the room. Surely someone can hear us, thought Lysander. They will come soon and put an end to this. Beneath the din, he could hear the Spartan’s wheezing breath, becoming shallower. Diokles was weakening in his grip, his hands becoming less frantic. Just hold on, Lysander told himself, do not let go.

  Diokles threw himself backwards against the wall with all his weight. The mud-brick stayed firm, but a cloud of dust fell from the ceiling. Lysander felt the soft crack of a rib breaking, and had no choice but to let go. He fell to the floor among the pile of shields. Diokles keeled forward, landing on his knees and gasping for breath.

  Lysander lay on his side, unable to stand, and looked on in terror as Diokles rose to his feet. The eye patch had slipped down – there was nothing but a thin layer of scar tissue where the tutor’s eye should be. Diokles readjusted the patch and rubbed his neck slowly with his hand. Lysander saw the tutor’s fingers feel the empty space where the Fire of Ares had been. The pendant now sat snugly in his own fist.

  ‘You nearly had me,’ Diokles said. ‘But it is over, Lysander. Give me the pendant.’

  ‘No,’ said Lysander. ‘It belongs to me.’

  ‘Then you can take it to the Underworld with you.’ Diokles raised his foot above Lysander’s head, ready to stamp.

  Lysander knew that he was going to die.

  He closed his eyes and waited.

  CHAPTER 25

  ‘Stop!’

  The voice shattered the moment and a draught of cool air flooded the room.

  ‘Stop! Please!’

  Lysander dared to open his eyes. The tutor was frozen above him, and slowly lowered his foot. Lysander stared at the door of the hut.

  ‘No, please, he has done nothing wrong,’ Kassandra pleaded. But something was not right: she had her back to them. She was looking outside, towards the stadium and the sanctuary.

  She was pushed roughly aside, and four Helots burst into the room. Two were carrying daggers, one held a javelin, a fourth had a wooden thresher from the field. It was old Nestor. Without hesitation, Nestor stepped forward and, swinging the farm tool, caught Diokles on the side of the jaw. The tutor’s head snapped round with the force of the blow, and three teeth flew out of his mouth, rattling against the wall. His knees gave way and he dropped to the floor. Was he dead? No. A low, steady groan escaped the Spartan’s lips. The javelin carrier came forward with a piece of twine, and manhandled Diokles’ arms behind his back, tying his hands tightly together.

  ‘Come on, you,’ Nestor said to Lysander, pulling him from the floor. Lysander winced as pain stabbed where his rib had snapped.

  ‘What is happening?’ Lysander asked. The Helots did not reply, but it soon became clear when he stepped out of the hut.

  The sanctuary had completely changed. Instead of the sounds of music, the night air was filled with angry shouting, screams of terror, pleas for mercy, and the occasional whimpering of fear. The neatly arranged tables were overturned and Helots rampaged through the Spartans on the hillside. All the slaves were carrying arms, some improvised from tools – sickles, plough handles, mattocks – others stolen from their Spartan masters. It was everything that Lysander had dreamt of for so long – a Helot uprising. Amid the chaos, he saw Kassandra a few paces away. Her fine dress was torn at the shoulder and three Helots pushed her between them, from one to the other. She could do nothing to stop them and the whites of her eyes glowed in the night. Lysander began to run over, the pain in his side shooting waves of nausea through his chest. He tripped on a rock and lost sight of them for a moment, his vision blurred. Then he saw that it wasn’t a rock he had stumbled on, it was a body, tangled in a red cloak. A Spartan soldier, dead. As he struggled to regain his feet, he saw one of the Helots push Kassandra to the ground. All three laughed.

  ‘No!’ said Lysander, but his voice was weak. His head spun and his legs gave way again.

  Lysander ground his fists against the earth. Get up! he commanded himself. Ahead, the laughing Helot who had pushed Kassandra suddenly spun round, the smile turning to a look of surprise. Lysander saw blood gush from his abdomen, and a figure launched in front of Kassandra. Demaratos. He held his injured arm to his chest. But in his other hand, Demaratus held a short sword dripping with blood. He lunged at the Helots, forcing them back. Lysander admired his bravery. But where there were two Helots, a third joined. Then a fourth. This was a one-against-many that Demaratos couldn’t win. While he fended off one brawny Helot, another caught his legs with a piece of rope. Demaratos hit the ground, and a Helot kicked him hard in the side of the head. Demaratos lay still. The Helots seemed to have forgotten Kassandra now.

  ‘Put him with the others,’ said one, taking up Demaratos’s sword. Two helots took hold of the Spartan’s legs and dragged him away.

  Kassandra brushed the dirt from her face, rushed over to Lysander and helped him to his feet.

  ‘What can we do?’ she asked, tears streaking her face, and her hair tangled with dirt. Lysander could not answer. Helots rushed from within the desecrated temple, carrying off sacred tripods and other objects. Many others carried torches and were setting them to the wooden structures nearby. As Lysander’s eyes took in the pandemonium, there was a cry from the top of the slope where the spectators had been seated, and a wave of Helots flooded over the brow of the hill. This was no spontaneous rebellion – it was planned. Lysander watched helplessly as the Spartan men, women and children were rounded up into ragged groups and bound with rope. With most of the army still away, they were helpless. The atmosphere was deadly. Lysander caught sight of Timeon. He was grouped with some of the other Helots from the barracks, and they stood in a circle around a group of elderly Spartan men, armed with short flint daggers. His face shone with determination. Could he have known about the uprising all along?

  ‘We have found Lysander!’ shouted Nestor over the gathering. A cheer went up among the Helots. It was a sound Lysander had never heard before. His people were so used to being oppressed, they normally had little to cheer about. A pathway opened up among the crowd and Lysander was jostled along. Men clapped him on the back and blessed him. Lysander felt
proud and powerful.

  He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the spectacle before the Temple of Ortheia. Kassandra’s scream cut through the night.

  In front of the altar knelt his grandfather, and above him stood a man in Helot dress. He was wearing the terracotta mask of the priest. Lysander knew this was sacrilege – a crime against the Gods. In the Helot’s hand was the jewelled sacrificial knife used to kill the bull before the start of festivities. Sarpedon, with his arms bound tightly to his side, did not move or struggle – his cloak was ripped, his hair matted with sweat and blood, and his face emotionless like a granite carving. He had clearly put up a fight before they had overpowered him.

  Sarpedon turned to Lysander, but he could not read his grandfather’s expression. Disappointment? Hope? Fear? Lysander faced the Helot with the knife.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘It is time to show the Spartans that we Helots are not their slaves any more,’ came the deep, muffled voice from behind the mask. It sounded amplified in the stillness. ‘We outnumber them ten to one, yet they treat us no better than beasts of burden. From this day, they will learn the folly of their ways.’

  The crowd lifted a mighty cheer towards the stars and banged their weapons together. Once the clamour had died down, Lysander pointed to Sarpedon.

  ‘And what are you planning with him?’

  ‘This man is an Ephor of Amikles – the most powerful man in the town, and one of those who each year declares a war upon the Helots to keep us oppressed. Today his war will come back to haunt him. We will sacrifice him to the Gods as a blessing of our new freedom.’

  The mob roared in delight, but Lysander heard a whimper behind him. Kassandra was being loosely held by Nestor, and her face was twisted with agony.

  ‘Help him, please. Don’t let them kill my grandfather.’

  Lysander saw the faces of the Helots in the background. In the flickering torchlight, their expressions looked sinister. He understood then that he wanted no part in a massacre. He looked again at the would-be assassin.

  ‘Killing these people is not the answer,’ he said.

  A laugh barked from behind the mask.

  ‘And what do you know, half-breed?’ The word shocked Lysander even more from the mouth of a Helot. ‘You are one of them now. Of course you do not want us to succeed.’ The crowd shouted their approval of his words.

  ‘The rebellion will start like a fire. First here in Amikles, then the spark will catch across the five villages. We will burn Sparta to the ground! It’s war!’

  Another cheer. Lysander saw Sarpedon’s head drop as torches were seized and new ones lit all around. He had to do something, and quickly. Then it hit him. Of course!

  ‘Wait, all of you!’ he shouted. He lifted his hand aloft, and let the pendant hang where all could see it. ‘Behold, if you want fires and war, I have the Fire of Ares!’

  It was as though a sudden wind had gusted from the stars. Some Helots staggered slightly. All were silent for several seconds. Then the muttering began. Is it really the pendant? Is the prophecy true? How did the boy come to possess it?

  The masked figure must have been able to see the doubts setting in the hearts of the other Helots.

  ‘It means nothing,’ he yelled. ‘The Fire of Ares is just a stone. Battles are not fought with jewels. We must fight with real weapons. This is our chance: here and now!’

  Though the majority again shouted their agreement, the clamour was not as deafening as before.

  ‘The Delphic Oracle itself has tied our destiny to the Fire of Ares,’ countered Lysander. He looked from the bowed head of Sarpedon to the weeping Kassandra, her tangled hair hanging over her face. ‘Cutting the throat of an old man, and murdering the defenceless is wrong!’

  ‘Do not listen to him! What we are doing is the right thing! Tonight is our opportunity, before the bulk of the army returns. We must seize control now!’

  Lysander made a show of studying the amulet closely, then showed it again to the Helots. ‘It says here The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous. Ask yourselves, is this righteous? Look into your hearts. Look into the eyes of your prisoners. To kill in cold blood makes us no better than the worst Spartans.’The shadowy image of Diokles and the other faceless members of the Krypteia came to his mind. Their time will come, he thought, but not yet.

  Before him, Lysander saw the faces of the Helots crease in concern. They looked at each other in confusion. A few lowered their weapons. Lysander felt the advantage tipping in his favour.

  ‘Let these prisoners go free. No Helot – no Messenian – victory has ever been won by spilling the blood of innocents. You have vanquished the Spartans today without shedding blood. This day will live on in their minds as the day the Helots spared them.’

  Nestor spoke up.

  ‘Maybe Lysander’s right. We have all known enough of death in our lifetimes.’

  Nestor was one of the most respected of his people, and this time several voices spoke out in tones of compromise. Lysander listened as the rippled murmurs gathered to a wave. One Helot walked forward and threw down his sickle. Another followed his example, dropping the short sword he must have taken from a Spartan, and soon Helots were dropping down their weapons all around. The two with daggers who had rescued Lysander from the hut stepped purposely forward and pushed the masked figure out of the way. But he was not ready to give up.

  ‘You turned your back on your people,’ he spat at Lysander. ‘You are nothing but a traitor!’ The words stung Lysander.

  ‘He is not the traitor,’ Sarpedon growled, twisting in his bonds. ‘You are, hiding behind that mask. I know who you are. How could you betray me, after all this time?’

  Lysander watched as the man dropped his sacrificial knife. A hand reached up and removed the mask. Strabo!

  CHAPTER 26

  Sarpedon’s slave stared back, hatred lighting his eyes. He threw down the knife and ran in the direction of the fields. No one stood in his way. Lysander picked up the knife and cut through Sarpedon’s bonds. Kassandra rushed out of Nestor’s grasp and wrapped her arms around her grandfather’s waist. Her body shook as she wept.

  ‘But … I don’t understand,’ said Lysander.

  ‘It is clear now,’ growled Sarpedon, stroking Kassandra’s hair. ‘Who better to feed information to a rebellion than the slave of an Ephor? I cannot believe I was so foolish. I have known Strabo my whole life: he was my companion in the agoge, just like Timeon is yours. I trusted him completely – that is why I made him a free man. I thought he was staying with me out of loyalty, but I was wrong. He wanted information for the Resistance.’

  Lysander sensed the crowd behind him grow restless again. They were not safe yet. He turned to address them.

  ‘Listen!’ he said. ‘You showed yourself true heroes this evening. I have learnt a good deal in the Spartan school, but the lessons I carry closest to my heart are those I learnt as a Helot in the fields: bravery, perseverance, patience, and a sense of right and wrong. You have proved you have all of these qualities tonight.’

  A lone voice spoke from the crowd: ‘Yes, and we will be killed in our beds by the Krypteia for our sense of right and wrong,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘That will not happen,’ shouted Lysander, so everyone could hear. ‘You have my word. One day our people will be truly free, but now is not the time. Go back to your homes and to your families, and bless the Gods that they are not without fathers, sons and brothers this evening.’

  One by one, and then in groups, the Helots began to leave the sanctuary, peeling off into the darkness. As Lysander watched them leave, a hand was placed on his shoulder. It was Sarpedon.

  ‘I am proud of you, Lysander,’ he said. ‘What you did tonight showed the courage of three hundred Spartans.’

  While the spectators returned home and the boys headed back to their barracks or helped to tend to the injured, Lysander walked to the changing hut. He found Diokles where they’d left him in the c
orner of the room. The tutor was still unconscious. Standing over him with his sword, Lysander gazed at his throat. He lowered the point of his sword. No one would ever know it was him. Diokles would kill me if he had the chance, Lysander told himself. He steadied his aim. All it would take was a single thrust.

  But no. He could not kill like this, like a member of the Krypteia. He leant down and sliced through the bonds that held Diokles’ arms. The tutor grunted, but did not wake. Lysander slipped back out. Sarpedon was talking with a group of Spartan men by the Temple. Lysander headed to where Timeon stood with Orpheus and a tired-looking Leonidas. He caught sight of Kassandra. She had her back to him, and she was walking close by Demaratos away from the sanctuary. There would be time later to settle that score.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  ‘We should get back,’ said Orpheus. ‘A storm is coming.’

  Lysander glanced at the sky. A bank of blue-black clouds passed over the moon above. But it was the turmoil in Lysander’s heart that preoccupied him. He looked at his companions in turn. Do these people really know me? he asked himself. Do I know myself? Tonight he had sided with the Spartans against his people. He had passed from being a boy to a man. But what type of man? Helot or Spartan?

  ‘It has been a long night,’ said Timeon from his side.

  ‘It has, Timeon,’ replied Lysander, as fat drops of rain began to splash on the ground. ‘My mother always used to speak of destiny, of great events, but I never really believed her. But here we are – she was right.’ He paused and the rain fell harder. ‘If I could wake up tomorrow and find today’s trials washed away … but that will not happen, will it? This is just the beginning …’ Lysander shook himself out of his reveries. ‘Come on,’ he said to his friend. ‘Let’s get back.’Who knew what tomorrow would bring? Whatever happened, the Gods would guide him. He would face whatever came with the courage of a warrior. As they walked back towards the barracks in silence, Lysander let his fingers rest around the cool stone that lay against his skin, back where it belonged. The words on the amulet burned like lightning behind his eyes: The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous.