The Fire of Ares Read online

  Lysander held his breath. Could the Argives be marching south, ready to free the Helot people?

  ‘I come to announce a brilliant victory for Sparta,’ continued the messenger. ‘The Argives are completely vanquished.’

  A cheer went up, but Lysander did not join in. The Helots’ dreams were dashed.

  ‘We must press on to the Council of Elders with the good news,’ said the Megaran, swinging himself back on to his mount. ‘Tell everyone you see that the glory of Sparta is intact.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Diokles. The two riders set off and soon crested the hill that led down to the Spartan valley beyond. Diokles turned to his students.

  ‘It is a great day for Sparta. The enemy broke like waves upon our shields. As a celebration, there will be no more training today.’

  The students raised another shout of joy. As they began the slow march back to camp, Lysander blocked the other boys’ excited chatter from his mind. The Helots would never be free.

  ‘Are you not happy, Helot?’ It was Demaratos, and he was looking at Lysander in disgust. ‘We have proven once again that Sparta is the most powerful city in all Greece.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Lysander said, trying to mask his anger. Demaratos was right. No one could conquer the Spartans.

  Orpheus, Lysander and Leonidas sat at the back of the classroom while Anu demonstrated something he called an abacus from his native land. It was a wooden board threaded with beads for counting. Lysander was impressed with the way it could calculate sums quickly.

  ‘Mathematics is boring,’ grumbled Prokles. ‘Counting is for free-dweller traders, not soldiers.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Anu. ‘And when you come to lead a campaign against your enemies, how will you calculate the amount of food your men need? I anticipate your glorious army would turn back before it even reached the battlefield, starving and humiliated.’

  The Games were just two days away now, and few boys were interested in mathematics. Everyone was waiting for the squad leaders to announce their teams.

  In the row in front of them, Demaratos was flexing his muscles, and talking about victory as though it were already his.

  ‘My father says he will have a statue dedicated in my honour at the Temple of Ortheia,’ he boasted. ‘There is no boy in the barracks who can beat me. I’ve come first every year since I entered the agoge.’

  Lysander bristled. He had been training hard and, despite still being without the Fire of Ares, he felt better than ever before. His new confidence gave him added strength. He came up alongside Demaratos.

  ‘You should be careful, you know,’ he said casually. ‘The Gods do not favour proud mortals.’

  Demaratos laughed.

  ‘And who are you to talk to a Spartan about his Gods? I suppose you think you would be a match for me.’ The rest of the class were watching, expecting a fight. Demaratos turned to his audience. ‘Who here thinks Lysander can take me on? Who thinks a Helot could beat a Spartan?’ The other boys looked away. Demaratos walked over and shoved Pausanias in the chest.

  ‘Do you think Lysander would win, Pausanias?’

  Pausanias shook his head. Demaratos pointed at Hilarion.

  ‘What about you? Are you on the Helot’s side?’

  Hilarion was silent.

  No one spoke up. Demaratos laughed cruelly at his easy victory, his eyes scanning the lowered heads around him. Only Lysander kept the bully’s gaze. Demaratos shook his head.

  ‘What a bunch of –’

  Someone cleared his throat. Lysander looked round. It was Orpheus.

  ‘I do!’ said his friend.

  Demaratos’s smile slipped for a second – but only a second. Orpheus was well respected, but he was still only one boy.

  ‘Anybody else?’ Demaratos called out.

  Come on, thought Lysander.

  Demaratos was enjoying himself. ‘I said, does anyone else think this snivelling Helot is a match for me?’

  Lysander looked around, but all the other boys just stared at the ground.

  ‘That is what I thought,’ said Demaratos triumphantly. ‘Just the Helot and the cripple. I have never seen two worse examples of Spartans.’

  ‘I think he can beat you,’ said a quiet voice. Lysander saw Leonidas step out from the back of the crowd. ‘I’m going to put him on my team. Then we will really see who is best – in a fair fight.’

  Lysander felt his throat tighten. After their argument, Lysander and Leonidas had been avoiding each other. He could imagine how difficult it must have been for Leonidas to take that small step forward. The prince had been born into a life of privilege, and Lysander had seen for himself that he struggled to always make the right choice. But for once, Leonidas had found strength of character. And for him – a Helot.

  Demaratos looked astounded.

  ‘If you want your team to lose, then go ahead,’ he spat.

  A few of the boys dared to lift their gazes from the ground and now they were watching Demaratos with open curiosity. They had probably never seen him challenged like this before, Lysander realised.

  Demaratos fixed his eyes on Lysander.

  ‘You think you are so tough, don’t you, Helot? But I have a secret weapon, something that can really help me win …’

  The Fire of Ares! It had to be.

  ‘Don’t let him trouble you,’ muttered Orpheus, touching Lysander’s arm. He shook it off.

  A few other boys started to pay attention. He’s got it! thought Lysander. He’s got the amulet. Is he wearing it now? He stepped closer to Demaratos.

  ‘And what might that be?’ said Lysander, holding Demaratos’s stare with his own. His enemy folded his arms and smiled knowingly at Lysander.

  ‘Why, the heart of a Spartan warrior, of course.’

  Demaratos marched out of the barracks

  ‘And the soul of a snake,’ muttered Orpheus.

  Lysander turned to Orpheus. Leonidas was standing with him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. He held a hand over Leonidas’s shoulder and brought it down in a firm, friendly slap. Words were not necessary.

  ‘We should get out there and train, if we are to beat that thug. I promised him a thrashing,’ Leonidas said, nervously joking.

  As they trooped across the yard, Lysander heard his name being called out. It was Diokles. He gestured from his quarters. Lysander ran over.

  ‘Lysander, it is your mother …’

  Lysander’s skin went cold. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘No. You are excused lessons for the afternoon to go and see her. Be back before sunset.’

  Lysander ran all the way to the far side of Amikles, his panic masking any tiredness in his legs. The only noise Lysander heard was the blood rushing in his ears.

  With Sarpedon still away in the north, the villa seemed empty. Making his way across the mosaic tiles, Lysander was surprised to see Strabo. Normally an attendant would accompany his Spartan master to war. But then he remembered that Strabo was a free-dweller. He was carrying a stack of linen.

  ‘Greetings, Master Lysander,’ he said.

  ‘I was called to see my mother.’

  ‘She’s in her room. Kassandra has been looking after her.’

  Lysander hurried to the chamber. He did not know what to expect. When he reached the curtain covering the door of the room, a noise made him hesitate. Someone was in there with Athenasia. He hooked a finger around the screen and peered inside.

  Leaning over her patient with a damp cloth was Kassandra. She was wearing a simple cream tunic, tied in the middle with a black belt. Her black hair fell around her cheeks. Lysander’s heart sank: his mother lay very still in the bed, her skin pale with blotches of red. The girl dabbed at her forehead. Lysander could see that her lips were moving, but he could not hear the comforting words she was offering. Was this really the same girl who had cursed him as a Helot not a few days before? He stepped into the room.

  Kassandra looked up. Wordlessly, she passed him the cloth and
walked out. The room smelled of citrus, no doubt from the medicines Athenasia had been given. There was another scent that Lysander did not recognise, coming from some blocks of yellow resin smoking on a low table. Tears of gratitude pricked at Lysander’s eyes. The thought of his mother enduring her illness in their former hut was unbearable now.

  He stepped to her side and took hold of her hand. The skin was dry and thin, stretched over the knuckle joints. Looking at her lying on the bed, Lysander thought that she seemed only half in this world. Her body was gradually giving up its spirit. He kissed the back of her hand. At the touch of his lips, her eyelids opened just a crack and she smiled. Lysander caught a glimpse of the old Athenasia, before the illness came upon her. A tear trickled down his cheek, and landed in the folds of his mother’s blanket.

  ‘What are you crying for, my boy?’ she croaked.

  ‘I cannot bear to see you like this,’ he replied.

  ‘Wrapped up in Spartan luxury?’ she asked, smiling.

  Lysander laughed shallowly through his tears.

  ‘Are you in pain?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Lysander,’ she said. ‘I can feel very little. Kassandra – she has been good to me. A special girl.’

  Lysander nodded his head and swallowed back more tears. He touched his mother’s head with the cloth.

  ‘Listen well, my son. I have lived a hard life, but not an unhappy one. Your father – Thorakis – he was a wonderful, brave, gentle man. I can see now that you will be just like him – a Spartan warrior.’ The tendons tightened under the skin of her neck as a silent coughing fit shook her body. She did not have the strength to fight it. Lysander held her thin shoulders. She gave a long sigh.

  ‘Find the Fire of Ares, Lysander. Make me proud …’

  ‘Please, Mother, not yet … do not leave me yet …’

  ‘I will never leave you,’ she said.

  Athenasia’s eyes closed.

  Lysander’s mother was dead.

  By the time Lysander left the room, he was dry of tears. He had said his final farewell to his mother, and stroked her face until the warmth left it. He had never seen anyone die in front of him before. It was just like a candle going out.

  Now the bright daylight stung the rims of his eyes, and the colours of the flowers in Sarpedon’s garden came as a surprise to him. They seemed gaudy and irreverent. Soft steps behind him caught his attention. Not Strabo again! But it was Kassandra. She had lifted her hair away from her face, and tied it back with a long, ivory pin on top of her head.

  ‘Is she …?’

  Lysander nodded, fighting back fresh tears.

  ‘Athenasia was a brave woman, and she loved you dearly,’ said Kassandra.

  His mother’s name was like an open wound still, and Lysander could not help but lash out.

  ‘Why would you care? She was just a Helot, like me …’

  Kassandra flushed and let her eyes drop. Lysander immediately regretted his words.

  ‘I’m sorry, I…’ He stopped short as she put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I misjudged you before,’ she said quietly. ‘We Spartans are taught that we are better than Helots, and it takes a lot to believe otherwise. I am not making excuses, but … well, your mother has made me realise I was wrong. I know you cannot forgive all of Sparta for enslaving your people, but maybe you can forgive me?’

  Lysander was moved by her words.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Friends?’

  ‘Yes, friends,’ she smiled. ‘Sarpedon is expected back this evening, and he will arrange for your mother’s death-rites. You should get back to the barracks. I have heard Diokles is very strict.’

  The name caught Lysander by surprise.

  ‘But who has told you that?’ he said. Kassandra’s eyes dropped.

  ‘Oh, no one …’ Then, ‘It must have been Sarpedon … or Strabo …’ but her words were too quick.

  Lies, thought Lysander.

  ‘Who was the person I saw you talking to that day in the street?’

  ‘Um … Oh, you mean the other morning? He was a tradesman. I was arranging supplies for my horse.’ She sounded sure of herself, and Lysander felt guilty for supposing she was up to something. He started to leave, but she called him back.

  ‘Lysander, tell me one thing. When your mother first came here, she mumbled something in her fever about a Fire of Ares. She said you had to find it. What did she mean?’

  Lysander paused in his tracks. Could he trust her? He was not sure. They were cousins, part of the same family, but until today she had shown him nothing but contempt. On the other hand, his mother had said she was a good person. He decided to tell her the bare minimum.

  ‘It is an amulet,’ he said. ‘A red stone that belonged to my father. It’s very special to me.’

  ‘It sounds beautiful,’ she said. ‘I truly hope you find it.’

  Lysander was touched by her concern. His emotions were in tatters.

  ‘Well, goodbye,’ he said, ‘and thank you for the care you gave to my mother.’

  ‘Goodbye, Lysander,’ she replied.

  As Lysander started back towards the barracks, thoughts of the Fire of Ares soon fell from his mind. He would never sit and eat a meal with his mother again, never hear her laugh or see her smile. His heart was heavy with grief. But there was also hope. And determination. His parents were both dead now, but he would make them proud.

  CHAPTER 21

  The night of the Festival Games had arrived.

  Lysander was buckling on his battered breastplate. Though Timeon had done his best with the polishing, there was no hiding that his equipment was secondhand, left by a boy in the year above him. It was small, too, and pinched his chest in the tight straps. Demaratos’s armour gleamed like the sun. Every boy wore a new red cloak to symbolise passing to the next level. All but Lysander. He still made do with the tattered reminder of Athandros.

  ‘You bring shame to the barracks,’ Demaratos scoffed. A few boys turned, but most were focused on preparing themselves for the parade.

  ‘Your clothes are of no importance,’ replied Lysander. ‘It is how you behave that counts.’

  ‘Well, you had better be on your best behaviour,’ said Prokles.

  A creak came from the doorway at the far end of the barracks. Timeon ran in, carrying a bundle wrapped in sackcloth. He placed it on the bed carefully.

  ‘What have you got there?’ asked Lysander.

  It took his friend some time to regain his breath.

  ‘Why don’t you have a look?’ he said.

  Lysander leant down and folded back the material. He gasped. There was a stiffened leather breastplate, covered in a layer of bronze, with a lion’s head drawn in fine silver lines. That was not all: there were two matching leg guards and arm fastenings, each showing the design of a lion’s claw. A helmet with a red crest completed the set. The workmanship was breathtaking. There was also a sheathed sword and silver-studded belt. I can’t believe it, he thought. Looking up, he saw that Timeon was beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘They are from Sarpedon,’ he said. ‘Strabo brought them here for you. They belonged to both his sons when they each passed through the agoge.’

  ‘My grandfather is back?’ said Lysander, testing the weight of the sword. He could see his reflection in the polished surface.

  ‘Yes,’ said Timeon. ‘Strabo said the two Ephors and the king arrived back yesterday on horseback. The soldiers are marching a day behind.’

  With Timeon’s help, Lysander clipped on the armour. It fitted perfectly. He knew what this meant – it was more than a gift. Sarpedon was telling everyone that Lysander was his grandson. There would be no more secrets. Ariston and Prokles stared.

  ‘That is the mark of Thorakis, from the house of Sarpedon,’ Prokles said, gazing round at his friends in astonishment. ‘Lysander must be …’

  He did not have a chance to finish what he was saying. Demaratos pushed through the crowd, shoving the boy aside.

  ‘It
will take more than fancy craftsmanship to give you victory tonight, half-breed.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lysander, ‘may the best Spartan win.’ He offered his hand to Demaratos, who slapped it away and left the dormitory. An uncertain ripple of laughter escaped the other Spartan students.

  ‘I would ignore him,’ said Orpheus at his side. Lysander wondered what this night would be like for the lame Spartan: he wouldn’t be taking part in the ceremony or the Games because of his bad leg. But Orpheus surprised him.

  ‘Here,’ he said to Lysander, holding out his own new cloak, ‘take this.’ It took Lysander a moment to understand. A Spartan’s cloak was his symbol of power, his second skin. For Orpheus to make a gift of his touched Lysander to the core.

  ‘I cannot –’

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ Orpheus cut in. ‘You can’t wear that ragged thing with your new armour. Please, take it, I would be honoured. Just make sure you win.’

  The ranks of boys made their approach to the Temple of Ortheia for the start of the Festival. It was a cloudless night, and the light from the moon and stars twinkled on the polished shields. As they drew near the temple, the way was lit on either side by flaming torches and the smell of incense drifted on a light breeze.

  Tonight, Lysander was proud to be a Spartan, and prouder still to be representing the squad of Prince Leonidas.

  Spectators lined the shallow grassy banks on three sides of the parade ground. Most were Spartans, mothers and fathers of the students, but there were also a few wealthy free-dwellers. Helot slaves rushed around, purchasing snacks and drinks for their masters. At the fourth side stood the temple. Lysander had only ever seen the structure before from a distance, when its red columns gleamed in the sun: six across the front, and thirteen along the side. Now, as it rose beside them it was by far the most spectacular building Lysander had ever seen. Above the columns scenes of hunting were carved into the stone: an archer stood ready to fire on a stag, while dogs reared around his feet. Lysander longed to know what was inside the temple. But he knew he would never be allowed to enter. Only priests and other initiates were permitted to witness the mysteries of the Goddess Artemis Ortheia.

  There was a clash of cymbals and Diokles called them to stop. The crowd fell silent and turned their heads towards the temple.