The Fire of Ares Page 15

  Five young women, dressed in gleaming white tunics, emerged from between the two central columns of the temple entrance. To Lysander, they seemed to glide down the steps. Three held a single wreath of olive leaves, and one held a deep drinking bowl in both hands. The fifth held a kithara – a sacred lyre. Once they had taken position either side of the altar, she began to pluck its strings. The notes rang clear in the still air, and the music seemed to cast a spell over the spectators. The other four girls began to sing. The words were holy, a prayer to the Goddess Artemis Ortheia:

  Hear us, Guardian of this sanctuary and of Sparta herself.

  Hear us, Artemis Ortheia.

  We honour the Gods always, and this night we honour you above all.

  Bless these young men.

  They offer themselves to the Goddess in the name of Sparta.

  Bless their spears, bless their shields and bless their blood

  We pray they will one day give all three to you in battle.

  As their song drew to a close, a tall robed man stepped out from the temple with two bare-chested attendants – young Spartan soldiers in their prime. The priest’s face was enclosed in a terracotta mask – a symbol that he was sacred to Ortheia. As he approached, the priestesses drifted soundlessly out of the way, until he alone stood in front of the altar. Holding up his arms, he intoned:

  ‘In the name of the Ortheia, Great Huntress and Protector of the Young, bring out the sacrifice.’

  From behind the temple came a soft lowing, as the great bulk of a white ox was led out by a rope. It surveyed the crowds with heavy, doleful eyes. Its horns had been painted gold and red markings were drawn over its flanks. It must not know it’s about to be killed, thought Lysander. The bull stood calmly as the priest took out a long knife, sparkling with precious stones, and placed it against the animal’s throat.

  ‘Mighty Ortheia, we offer to you this creature from our fields, that you will bless this night of celebration.’

  The holy man stroked the beast’s head as the two Spartans positioned themselves on either side. The priest slid the knife quickly into the animal’s throat. The creature spasmed, but was steadied by the Spartan helpers. Lysander saw the priest twist his wrist and withdraw the blade. As the point cleared the dewlap, a fountain of blood spurted on to the ground, splashing the priest’s feet. The bull’s front knees buckled, and it sank to the ground, lolling on to its flank. As its eyes rolled back, the flow of blood pumping from the gash became less. The female attendant came forward with the bowl and filled it with the thick liquid. Lysander could not help but think of Cato, slaughtered in cold blood like an animal.

  Remember where you come from, he told himself. Make the Helots proud.

  When he looked up again, the bull was lying on its side, its chest heaving slowly as it lay in the dust. The priestess knelt beside it, gathering blood in a shallow bowl. Later, the meat would be eaten in celebration, the bones and entrails burned as an offering to the Gods.

  Now came the dance. The boys lined up in front of the crowd of spectators, each holding a shield and spear. Lysander could not see Sarpedon among the sea of faces, though he knew he must be there somewhere.

  A clash of cymbals heralded the start of the sequence, and drums kept them in time. Lysander and the others stepped, lunged and parried imaginary attacks, all in unison. Lysander knew his part off by heart. He didn’t need to look to his side, and anyway, the narrow slits in his helmet prevented him from seeing much more than the boy in front. By the end, he was sweating, but proud. The audience cheered the display.

  After the dancing ended, the two teams separated from the other boys to begin the wrestling contest.

  A pit of about twenty feet square had been filled with sand, which was now being raked over. Lysander stood on one side, his back to the ring, preparing himself by rubbing oil on his torso and legs. It would help him escape the clinches of his opponent. Lysander had been drawn against Sinon, a fast and devious member of Demaratos’s team. But he was confident. He had seen Sinon fighting in the barracks, and he thought he could beat him even without the Fire of Ares. But Timeon had bad news.

  ‘Sinon had to drop out of Demaratos’s team unexpectedly,’ his friend told him, as he rubbed oil into Lysander’s back. ‘So, it’s a replacement.’

  Lysander didn’t like the tone of Timeon’s voice. He turned round.

  ‘What is it, Timeon? What are you not telling me?’

  ‘Well … erm … the replacement is quite, well … big.’Timeon looked unsure and he wiped his hands on a cloth.

  ‘How big is big?’ asked Lysander, feeling worried.

  ‘That big,’ said Timeon, pointing over his shoulder. Lysander swivelled round and saw a figure standing a head above the rest of Demaratos’s team.

  Drako!

  He must have recovered from the flogging! He had not been in the parade. Lysander felt as though all his blood had turned to water and was trickling away.

  ‘Do not panic,’ said Timeon. ‘You know what they say: The bigger the tree, the louder the crash when it falls in the forest.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lysander, squaring his shoulders, and trying to sound hopeful. ‘I only hope I am not underneath the tree when it does.’

  Timeon smiled unsurely and gave him a hard pat on the back.

  ‘Good luck, Lysander.’

  He stepped into the ring. Drako eyed him from across the sand. The crowd cheered raucously.

  ‘Hello, Lysander,’ he said. ‘It is time to suffer for what you did to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lysander asked. But the referee stepped between them. He was a young man dressed in a short white toga trimmed with Spartan red. He carried a thin, flexible rod made of elm wood, which he now held out between the two boys.

  ‘You both know the rules, I am sure. The winner is the best of three points. A point is scored when your opponent’s back is held to the floor, when they step outside the ring, or when they declare submission.’

  Lysander looked around for a final time, trying to spot Sarpedon in the crowd, but if he was watching he was not making himself known.

  The referee continued: ‘There is to be no kicking to the groin, no gouging of the eyes, and no biting. Other than that, anything goes. Honour the Gods and be brave.’

  He lifted the rod and the crowd came alive, shouting encouragement for both sides. The fight was on. He heard Timeon’s voice: ‘You can do it, Lysander!’ But he also heard Demaratos’s voice: ‘Crush him, Drako. Make him wish he had stayed in the fields.’

  Lysander swallowed, and looked at the giant in front of him. Lysander could see the criss-crossed scarring over his shoulders and bulging arms. Drako grinned back, showing his line of missing teeth.

  The two boys circled one another. Lysander looked at his opponent’s massive upper body. I have to get close, he thought. No use staying at range, where he has the advantage. He threw himself forward, landing an elbow under Drako’s ribs. The giant did not budge, and turned Lysander, gripping him around the lower part of his chest. Lysander was trapped with his back to his opponent.

  ‘Is that all your strength, Helot?’ he whispered, tightening his grip. ‘Demaratos told me what you did,’ he said into Lysander’s ear. ‘It was you who informed on me to Diokles.’ Lysander tried to answer, but he could not. The air was being squeezed out of him as he was lifted off the floor. His arms were pinioned, his legs dangling uselessly.

  He bent his neck forward and then threw his head backwards into the other boy’s face. Drako let out a howl as Lysander’s skull crunched into his nose. The pain forced him to loosen his grip. As soon as Lysander felt the ground beneath his feet, he seized hold of Drako’s ankle, and pulled it sharply upwards between his own legs. Like a toppling pine, Drako had no choice but to fall to the ground. Lysander flattened himself against the giant, pinning him to the sand.

  ‘One point to Lysander,’ shouted the referee. A cheer erupted from Lysander’s supporters. Red-faced, Drako threw him off as t
hough he weighed nothing more than a heavy blanket.

  ‘You were lucky,’ he muttered through a grimace.

  ‘Listen, Drako, I had nothing to do with Diokles. Demaratos is lying!’

  ‘Round two!’ said the referee, lifting his rod.

  This time Lysander went straight for the legs, hooking his arms around both of Drako’s knees. But he could not knock the bigger boy over – he was like a boulder. Drako unhooked himself, and twisted Lysander’s arm behind his back, kneeling over him. Then he began to apply pressure upwards, and pain shot through Lysander’s wrist, elbow and shoulder. He started to feel his tendons stretch, and did the only thing he could.

  ‘Submission!’ he yelled, tapping Drako’s leg with his free hand. He hated giving up, but it was better than a broken arm. With a final twist, Drako released him.

  ‘One apiece,’ said the referee, as both boys regained their feet. ‘Final round!’

  As Lysander climbed to his feet, he heard a familiar voice.

  ‘You can do it, Lysander!’

  He looked up to see Leonidas standing beside Timeon. Lysander nodded his head in thanks.

  ‘Come on!’ shouted Timeon, pumping a fist.

  A few other voices in the crowd cheered their support, but Demaratos shouted over them.

  ‘Tear off his arms, Drako.’

  ‘Remember the whip,’ Ariston added. ‘Remember what he did to you.’

  Lysander faced Drako once more. They circled each other tentatively.

  The rumblings from the spectators increased in volume. Lysander could no longer hear Demaratos and his gang over their shouts. Gradually, more and more people joined in until he realised they were all behind him. Come on, Lysander! You can do it! They clapped their hands and stamped their feet in encouragement.

  But this time he had to be more careful. He could not take Drako on in a straight fight. He had to be clever, and hit him on the counter-attack, or use the bigger boy’s strength against him. So, when the first few lunges came in, Lysander ducked out of the way, or slipped Drako’s grasp. Every time he did so, the spectators gasped. His opponent began to lumber slightly in the sand. He is becoming tired! thought Lysander. Now he was ready to spring his own attack. Checking the edge of the ring was close, he bent his knees and feinted an attack. Drako saw his chance and came forward a few steps, swinging an arm wildly. Got him! Lysander grabbed his opponent’s outstretched arm, and pulled him forward. At the same time he twisted his body away and levered Drako off the ground. With a final tug, Lysander hurled the massive boy over his hip. He landed in a spray of sand, and was about to get up, when the referee’s rod was shown to his face. Drako’s rage turned to confusion, as the referee pointed to where his foot was lying: just outside the ring. It was over.

  ‘Lysander wins!’ cried the referee.

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘How are you feeling,’ asked Timeon, as he helped scrape the sand away.

  ‘Better than expected,’ replied Lysander. His left arm was sore where it had been twisted up behind his back. Thankfully, he would not need it for the second event, the javelin, or the final foot race, if he got that far.

  ‘Leonidas won his wrestling bout, too,’ Timeon told him. ‘So did three others from your team. Five of Demaratos’s team went through.’

  Demaratos threw first, crossing his legs in three long steps and then releasing his javelin. The crowd drew a collective breath and the javelin left his hand at a perfect angle. The shaft did not even wobble as it cut through the air, and then dropped into the ground: Phut!

  Lysander was tense as he made his way forward to throw the javelin. Would he make it through this round? His skills had improved a good deal since that first lesson, and though his arm was strong through all his extra training with Sarpedon, his technique still needed work. But Leonidas and Demaratos were the strongest throwers, for sure.

  Lysander pushed his fingers into the leather thong, and stretched his arm. He recited Diokles’ advice in his mind: Don’t look at the spear, look at where you are throwing it. He looked into the night sky, and saw the pattern of stars known as the Twins – Kastor and Polydeukes.

  He took his steps and released the javelin. Though the shaft gave a little shudder, it settled in smooth flight. It landed in fifth spot so far, behind Demaratos and three other members of his team: Ariston, Prokles and Meleager. But Leonidas was still to throw. This meant Lysander would not go through to the foot race. He was disappointed, but he had tried his best.

  The prince was nowhere to be seen. He looked over to where the others were all warming up. Demaratos and Prokles looked relaxed, chatting to each other with smiles on their faces. One of them cast a glance to a boy at the side of the stadium, clutching his middle. He looked up. It was Leonidas! Lysander hurried over to his friend.

  ‘What is wrong?’ he asked.

  The prince’s face was pale and covered with a sheen of sweat. He looked like a corpse.

  ‘I feel awful,’ said Leonidas. ‘My stomach keeps cramping. I got through the wrestling, but I don’t think I can throw the javelin.’

  ‘But you have to,’ said Lysander. ‘It must be nerves. Here, let me help you.’ He took Leonidas’s arm over his shoulder and lifted his friend to his feet. The prince walked gingerly forward and was handed a javelin by a Helot. He looked about to collapse at any moment. On unsteady legs, he launched the javelin. The crowd let out a groan. It was a terrible throw, landing well short of the others.

  Leonidas was out of the competition.

  And that meant Lysander was still in.

  The prince did not walk far again before pitching forward. He vomited on to the ground. Lysander rushed towards him and rubbed Leonidas’s back while he waited for him to finish retching.

  Lysander heard laughter and turned to see Ariston talking with Demaratos and Prokles.

  ‘Maybe that second helping of stew did not sit well,’ suggested Ariston innocently.

  Of course! Lysander remembered now. Ariston’s Helot, Chrysippus, had served them a second helping. Lysander had given his to Timeon, who had said he didn’t like the taste. He should have known; Timeon never passed up a meal.

  ‘He’s poisoned you!’ he said to Leonidas. I’ll show him … He began to walk off, but Leonidas made a grab for his leg.

  ‘Don’t!’ he scolded. ‘It won’t help to get into a fight now.’

  ‘But what are we going to do?’ asked Lysander. ‘I’m not as fast as you. I can’t win the foot race!

  Leonidas smiled.

  ‘Have faith. You’ve not won the foot race before. That doesn’t mean you can’t win it. Don’t tire yourself out on the first leg and then give it everything on the home straight.’

  There was something about the tone of Leonidas’s voice that gave Lysander a shred of hope. He was now the only representative from the prince’s team. Leonidas had shown faith in him, and he would do his best to repay that.

  Two parallel ropes were stretched across the start line, one at knee level and one at the waist. When these were released on a spring mechanism, the race would begin. The starting line was marked by a sunken stone block, into which was cut a long groove to push off from. Lysander pressed the ball of his foot against this gutter, and looked to his left and right. Now that Leonidas had been forced to drop out, only five boys were lined up. Immediately to his left was Prokles, and to his right was Ariston, Meleager and finally Demaratos.

  The air was still. Two lengths of the stadium, that was all. Lysander focused on the turning post facing him at the far end and remembered Leonidas’s advice. Don’t tire yourself out on the first leg. The referee holding the starting post called them to make themselves ready. Lysander poised himself to spring forward.

  The ropes jumped to the floor and the crowd let out a cheer. The race was on.

  Demaratos left the block like a charging wild boar. Lysander was slower to get going, but soon found a rhythm. Most of the boys were a few paces ahead of him after his poor start. The Spartans in th
e crowd were cheering Demaratos, and Lysander kept glimpsing his rival through the bodies. He could feel Prokles right on his shoulder, but focused all his attention on the turning post ahead. By the time he reached it, he was not tired, and he was almost level with Ariston and Meleager. He rounded the post, digging the hardened soles of his feet into the ground for extra grip. Just as he was ready to set off on the return leg, he felt someone snatch at his arm. Prokles! His leg slipped and he fell to his hands and knees. By the time he had righted himself and pulled away, the rest of the field were streaking ahead.

  At the far end of the stadium, Timeon stood waving his arms, his mouth moving in wild shouts. Lysander could not hear what he was saying, because of the screams of the Spartans in the crowd. By halfway along the stadium, he was beginning to close in on Meleager and Ariston. But his legs burned and his lungs did not seem big enough.

  The shouts for Demaratos had vanished now and another name was being chanted. It took him a second to realise what it was: ‘LY-SAN-DER, LY-SAN-DER, LY-SAN-DER!’ Helots and Spartans alike were cheering his name.

  He eased past Meleager.

  Now he could focus on Demaratos for the first time, pounding to his right, his breath misting in the night air.

  Come on! Lysander told himself.

  Ariston tripped near the edge of the stadium, and sprawled into the ground face first.

  The crowd gasped.

  Just Demaratos to catch.

  Lysander’s leg muscles were like rods of fire. He imagined that the air he sucked in was water putting out the flames.

  Nearly there!

  Timeon’s mouth was wide with shouts that Lysander could not hear. He did not even have the energy to look and see where Demaratos was.

  With a final push Lysander dived for Timeon on the line.

  He untangled himself from his friend. Lysander looked across to see Demaratos whooping for joy – he had his arms in the air and his friends were gathered around celebrating. Lysander’s heart sank. I lost. I let Demaratos beat me! He tried to tell Timeon about Prokles, but the words came out confused.