Legacy of Blood Read online

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Also by Michael Ford

  For Rebecca, as ever

  Prologue

  ‘The hour is late, mortal,’ said the Oracle, from her tripod stool. ‘Why do you wish to wake Apollo from his slumber?’

  The man before her wore a red cloak, dripping from the rain that lashed the mountainside beyond the cavern. In his hand was a laurel branch, to show that he came as a supplicant across the God’s threshold. He wasn’t sure why the Council had sent him, an Ephor, to consult the Oracle. All this was smoke and superstition, nothing more.

  ‘I hail from Sparta,’ he said, kneeling before the old woman – the priestess of Apollo, the Pythia. Her eyes were hidden behind matted strands of grey hair, but he felt her gaze burn into him. ‘I am sent by the Council. We have a problem … a boy.’

  The Oracle’s cackle echoed off the cavern walls.

  ‘A boy! What danger does a boy pose to mighty Sparta?’

  The man bit his lip and forced himself to stay patient. He was here now; he had to go through with this.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘You must tell me what the future holds. How can we meet this young threat to our city?’

  ‘I am obliged to tell you nothing, Tellios,’ replied the Oracle. ‘If the God wishes to speak, he will speak.’ She turned to her attendant priests. Both men were cloaked in white and stood beside the sacred egg-shaped navel stone – said to be the place Zeus had marked the centre of the world. ‘Has this man made the sacrifices as the God decrees?’

  ‘He has, Pythia, mistress of the bow,’ intoned one of the attendants. ‘A black ram’s blood stains the springs of Apollo.’

  ‘Then prepare the fires.’

  Lighting a taper from the torch hanging on the wall, one of the men placed it among the dry tinder beneath the Oracle’s cauldron. The Spartan watched the flames sizzle and flare, first green, then yellow, then orange. Soon the air was filled with strange-scented smoke, and he felt his head swim.

  The Oracle leant over her cauldron, staring into the water.

  ‘What can you see?’ coughed the Spartan.

  The Oracle sucked in a deep breath of the air.

  ‘Fire,’ she whispered. ‘A building ablaze. Flames climbing wooden walls.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I see a boy in rags, in a foreign land. He plunges his hand into the flames. What pain!’ She gripped the edges of the cauldron. ‘Not rags. A cloak made of red wool. A Spartan!’

  Tellios narrowed his eyes; this might be interesting. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘I see a jewel amidst the flames – it speaks to me.’

  ‘And what does it say?’ asked the man, his mouth turning dry.

  ‘The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous.’

  The Spartan rushed over to the cauldron. The water inside was as still and clear as a mountain lake. There was no vision here!

  ‘What trickery is this?’ he demanded.

  A deep moan rose in a crescendo from the Pythia’s lips. Tellios nervously looked round at her minions.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘The boy! The boy!’ wailed the Oracle, swaying dangerously on her chair. The two attendants rushed forward and took an arm each to steady her. She convulsed in their grasp. ‘The boy is in danger. What pain, what agony!’

  The Spartan backed away. ‘Will he die?’

  ‘Oh, oh, the God is thrown into confusion. The boy is a danger to himself and to Sparta. Sparta’s shields will tremble. Go, Tellios of Sparta, go and warn your people. Go!’

  The Oracle’s eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed in a faint. Tellios gathered his cloak around his body, and left the poisonous fumes of the cave.

  Outside, the rain had stopped. As Tellios picked his way down the mountainside, his head cleared. He had to admit that the details the Oracle had given him were satisfying; the boy was a danger, not just to Sparta, but to himself too. There’s hope then, he thought.

  The sun broke over the mountains to the east and a smile crept over Tellios’ face. Thank goodness old Sarpedon was gone. The other Ephors couldn’t ignore Tellios any longer – the boy, Lysander, could be dealt with now. He was a danger – the Oracle had said so. Any threat had to be removed.

  He untethered his stallion at the bottom of the slope and swung himself into the saddle. A day’s hard riding should get him back to Sparta.

  He pressed his heels into the horse’s flanks and the stallion leapt forward. With the clouds above clearing, Tellios never stopped to think how the Oracle had known his name.

  He’d never said who he was.

  Chapter 1

  One of the boys in the barracks coughed in his sleep. Lysander’s head was heavy with dreams of battle – images of slaughter chasing each other through his brain. Ares, God of War, snatching men’s lives by sword and spear.

  A floorboard creaked.

  Lysander shot out an arm, his eyes snapping open, and grabbed a thin wrist. He drew his dagger from beneath his rolled blanket.

  ‘Who are you?’ he hissed, holding the blade to a stranger’s throat. Blue eyes looked back at him, a pale face threatening to crumple into tears. The boy looked so young.

  ‘My name’s Idas, Master Lysander,’ he whispered.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ said Lysander, keeping his voice low as the boys around him lay deep in slumber.

  The boy frowned. ‘Everyone knows your name, master. You saved Sparta from the Persians.’

  Lysander snorted. ‘You’ve heard wrongly. Hundreds died to save Sparta. I was just one of the few who remained standing. What have you got there?’

  ‘They’re your clothes, master; I’m your new servant.’

  ‘My new servant.’

  ‘They said your old one … that he died.’

  Lysander released his grip on the boy’s arm.

  ‘He wasn’t a servant, he was my friend.’

  ‘Yes, master,’ said Idas.

  ‘And stop calling me “master”. I don’t need a slave.’ Lysander lay back on his thin mattress. ‘Go away.’

  Idas stood awkwardly on the spot, then placed the folded clothes on the table beside Lysander.

  ‘Very well, master,’ said the boy.

  Lysander listened to his footsteps fade away. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hard on the boy. After all, his own first day at the barracks had been terrifying. What was it – six moons ago? He remembered standing waiting with his grandfather’s slave, Strabo, on a warm summer morning. His best friend, Timeon, had stood at his side.

  And now?

  Now they were all dead. Timeon, murdered in the night by the Krypteia, Strabo, killed in the battle against the Persians. All gone. Even his grandfather had descended to the land of the shades, slain by his own hand so that Lysander might live.

  What a price to pay to be a Spartan.

  He didn’t need another servant. No one could replace Timeon. He didn’t want to be responsible for anyone ever again.

  Lysander slipped back into a doze, trying to keep the
images of blood and battle from flooding his mind. He remembered his life as a Helot, working for the Spartans in their fields. Was it really as bad as it had seemed at the time? He and his mother were slaves, with little to eat and only a leaking roof over their heads, but at least they had had each other. Now she too was rotting to dust in the earth.

  Somewhere a bell sounded, and around him the other boys began to stir. As Lysander climbed off his rush mattress, every muscle in his body throbbed with a deep ache. The battle had lasted for almost half a day for the regular troops, but Lysander’s fight had gone on for another day on board the Persian ship, ending with a plunge into the freezing sea.

  Lysander hobbled stiffly towards the side door. Beside each of the beds were piles of armour, discarded in the exhausted return from the plains: breastplates dented from Persian swords, and arm-guards crusted with dried blood. Each scattered piece told a tale of death.

  The sky outside was bright with winter sunlight, but the air was cold. Lysander drew a deep breath and squinted up at the sun. From its position in the sky, Lysander saw it was well into morning.

  ‘Greetings, Lysander,’ called a boy, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Other boys wandered out into the courtyard. They had been permitted to sleep longer than usual, and why not? The whole of Sparta would be recovering from the battle, or from the celebrations that had followed the victory.

  Lysander wandered over to the communal well, about a hundred paces – half a stadion – from his barracks building. He let the bucket splash into the water below, and drew it up to the ledge. Then he stripped down. A huge bruise spread out from underneath his right armpit where he’d fallen during his mountain survival exercise. The centre was green, spreading to yellow around the edges. His arms and legs were covered in angry welts and purple-black marks, reminders of the battle he and his fellow trainees had undertaken.

  Finally he took off the pendant, a family heirloom, that hung around his neck: the Fire of Ares. What did it mean to him now? Surely it was the cause of all the misery he had suffered. Without the jewel and the chance discovery of his parentage, Timeon would still be alive. And Sarpedon would never have made his dreadful sacrifice.

  I used to be proud of this trinket, Lysander thought bitterly. Now it feels like a curse.

  Lysander cast the amulet on his cloak that covered the ground and drew up a bucket of water. He poured it over his head, washing the grime from his hair and doing his best to clean the dried blood and dirt from his body. He noticed two of his toenails had turned black, from where a shield had been rammed down on his foot by a Persian.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ said a voice behind him.

  Lysander turned to see Demaratos, his fellow student. When he’d first entered the agoge, Demaratos had bullied him relentlessly. Now, his once mortal enemy was a trusted friend in the barracks. They’d survived together in the mountains, and after fighting shield by shield against the Persians, they were bonded by trust and bloodshed.

  ‘You’ve not fared much better,’ said Lysander. Demaratos had a gash across the side of his head and ear, a black eye and his thigh was bandaged with a piece of dirty gauze where a Persian arrow had gouged the flesh.

  Demaratos raised another bucket of water, and knelt on the ground scrubbing his chest and arms. ‘They let us lie in,’ he laughed. ‘We’ll be soft around the middle like Athenians with such bad habits.’

  Lysander took a sponge offered by Demaratos. ‘Do you remember,’ said Lysander. ‘You once tried to push me down this well?’

  Demaratos had unfastened his bandage and was gingerly cleaning his wound. It had been roughly stitched the previous evening, but some of the thread must have come loose in the night. Lysander could see bright red flesh breaking through the black scabs.

  ‘You were lucky,’ Demaratos grinned. ‘Diokles caught you in time.’

  At the mention of their former tutor, Lysander lowered his eyes. He had watched the Spartan die on the plains south of the city, with two arrows buried in his chest. Just after he’d saved Lysander’s life. In peacetime, Diokles had made Lysander’s life unbearable, but in battle he had been steadfast.

  A few slaves were milling around the barracks doors now, carrying water, and fresh clothes for the tired students.

  ‘My Helot tells me they’ve planned a feast in our honour,’ said Demaratos, shaking droplets of water from his hair. ‘It’s at River’s Rush.’

  ‘The elite mess?’ said Lysander, tying his belt around his tunic.

  Demaratos nodded and grinned. River’s Rush was an area to the east of the villages where the River Eurotas narrowed in its channel and swept over a series of low rocks, churning white water. Beside the banks was a set of barracks that housed the cream of Spartan infantry. They had been away fighting the bulk of the Persians in the north, while Lysander and Demaratos had met the secondary invasion at Gytheion on the south coast.

  ‘Are you coming?’ Demaratos called back over his shoulder as he walked towards the barracks. Lysander was looking at the Fire of Ares, lying on his cloak in the dust. The burden was too much for him. For now at least.

  ‘Of course,’ Lysander replied. ‘But wait a moment.’

  Demaratos turned around. ‘What is it?’

  The rest of the boys were emerging from the barracks, coming towards the well. Many were limping, or wearing bandages over their wounds – scars they’d carry proudly for years to come.

  Lysander held out the pendant on its leather thong and lowered his voice as he approached Demaratos. ‘I can’t wear this any more.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Demaratos, his eyes darting uncomfortably from the jewel to Lysander’s face. ‘It was your father’s. When I took it before, I didn’t know what it meant to you.’

  It was true that Demaratos had taken it when Lysander first entered the barracks, but their previous squabbles seemed alien to him now.

  ‘That’s in the past,’ he said. There was laughter as the boys threw buckets of water over each other. Since Diokles’ death a new tutor had yet to be allocated, and the trainees were enjoying their brief spell of freedom.

  Lysander took Demaratos’s hand, and dropped the Fire of Ares in his palm.

  ‘I don’t even know what this means to me now,’ he said. ‘I’d rather it was in the possession of someone I trust. Keep it safe for me, will you?’

  Demaratos nodded slowly. ‘If you wish.’ He bowed his head and looped the amulet around his neck. The sight of it resting against his friend’s chest brought a sense of relief to Lysander.

  ‘Stop being so glum,’ said Demaratos. ‘This feast will be one to remember.’

  Lysander fastened his cloak and ran inside to find Idas standing dutifully beside his bed.

  ‘I hear someone’s been summoned to River’s Rush,’ Leonidas called over, as he dressed. ‘Congratulations.’

  Lysander had been unsure about Leonidas, second son of the Spartan King Cleomenes, when he first came to the barracks. He’d mistaken the prince’s lack of aggression for cowardice, but after the battle against the Persian general, Vaumisa, those doubts had been pushed aside. Leonidas had fought like the lion after which he was named, taking his place at the front of the phalanx.

  ‘Don’t be too quick to cheer him,’ said Prokles.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Lysander.

  ‘Well,’ said Prokles. ‘I hear that their leader, the Phylarch Peleus, doesn’t suffer fools, or youngsters, gladly.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Leonidas. ‘You have earned the right to sit with the bravest of Sparta.’

  Lysander dried himself by his bedside, and ran an ivory comb through his hair. When Idas held out his tunic to him, Lysander noticed the boy’s hands were shaking.

  ‘There’s nothing to be scared of,’ he said, pulling the tunic over his head. ‘Just because some of the others beat their servants, it doesn’t mean we’re all the same.’

  Idas managed a small smile, but didn’t say anything. He offered Lysander a new red cloak
– the old one had been torn apart and lost in the battle with Vaumisa’s army.

  Something about the cloak, which previously had filled Lysander with pride, now made him unsure of himself. The coarse red wool was heavy, and uncomfortable.

  ‘Which settlement are you from?’ he asked the Helot.

  ‘I’m from Messenia,’ said Idas. ‘My people were shepherds west of the mountains. We came here after my father died, and worked on a settlement.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Near Amikles,’ said Idas. ‘It belonged to an old Ephor, but he’s dead now.’

  Lysander took a sharp breath. The boy was talking about Lysander’s own grandfather.

  ‘My family came from Messenia too,’ he said, forcing himself to ignore the stab of loss that returned with the mention of Sarpedon. The Helot boy didn’t reply; he was staring at Lysander’s red cloak, his jaw tensing.

  ‘I’ll be back later,’ Lysander told his new slave. ‘Keep yourself to yourself, and no one will bother you.’

  Idas gave a small bow. Then Lysander strode out of the barracks again.

  Demaratos was waiting for him by the track that led into the villages. With no tutor to give them orders, they were free to make their own way to River’s Rush. Lysander’s stomach growled. He’d managed only a few scraps of food after watching his grandfather’s body consumed by the funeral pyre the previous night.

  ‘Let’s hurry,’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’

  They strode through the outskirts of the city, past the remains of the previous day’s feasting: spitted carcasses of roasted sheep and pigs, stripped to the bone, wine jars toppled in the dust. Lysander saw a few Helots sweeping, or chopping wood, but for the most part it was quiet – none of the free-dwellers would be working today.

  Lysander spotted a servant carrying a water skin. Unusually for a Helot, the muscles rippled across the man’s broad back and he didn’t look as starved as many who worked the fields. He noticed Lysander watching him and gave him a suspicious look. Even a day after the city had been spared, the old distrust between Spartans and Helots was growing back, like a mould infecting the city.

  Roars of laughter and shouting carried across the river. Lysander crossed the bridge with Demaratos and inspected the massive barracks building. It looked like it had once been a two-storey stable block.