Legacy of Blood Read online

  ‘Are you sure they’re expecting us?’ he asked Demaratos.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ said his friend. ‘We’re the toast of Sparta now.’

  Outside, shields were resting against the walls, and eight-foot spears bristled in a rack.

  Suddenly the door flew open and a Spartan soldier stumbled out. He pushed past Lysander and ran to the railings, before vomiting over the side. Demaratos pulled a disgusted face.

  Once the man had emptied his stomach, he turned and wiped his mouth with a thick forearm.

  ‘Greetings, young ones,’ he slurred. ‘Forgive me – Peleus mixes the wine too strong for my stomach.’

  Demaratos stepped forward. ‘We’ve been summoned for the feast,’ he said.

  The Spartan raised his eyebrows in a look of mock surprise.

  ‘Have you now? This is River’s Rush, you know. What makes you two boys think this is a place for you?’

  Lysander was annoyed at the tone in the Spartan’s voice.

  ‘I took Vaumisa’s life with my spear,’ he said.

  The smile dropped from the man’s face, and he seemed suddenly sober.

  ‘It was you? Yes, I recognise you now. You initiated Sarpedon’s funeral rites. Lysander, isn’t it?’

  Lysander nodded, and then gestured to Demaratos.

  ‘This is Demaratos; he rescued the granddaughter of the Ephor Sarpedon from the Persian ship.’

  ‘I am Phalerius,’ said the man. ‘Peleus is expecting you. Follow me.’ The words were spoken as an order, not an invitation.

  The Spartan led them to the double doors of the dining hall.

  ‘If Peleus is expecting us,’ Lysander hissed to Demaratos, ‘why all the questions?’

  ‘It’s the Spartan way,’ said Demaratos, hurrying after Phalerius. ‘They like to see what novices are made of.’

  The Spartan threw the doors open, and a blast of warm air, thick with the stench of sweat and food, reached Lysander’s nostrils.

  About a hundred men sat along three long tables, while others walked between. Many of the men had scabs on their faces and arms, or scraps of their cloaks tied around their heads and limbs. On the table were loaves of bread, great wooden platters of sliced meats and several jugs.

  One by one, they fell silent and turned to scrutinise Lysander and Demaratos.

  Phalerius took his seat beside a man part-way along the bench. He wore a prosthetic wooden nose strapped across his face, and his eyes were black as charcoal.

  Peleus, thought Lysander.

  Slowly rising from the bench, Peleus turned to face them. Silence swept through the room. ‘These are the two mighty warriors who took on the Persian general,’ he said.

  The men stared.

  ‘Make them welcome, then!’ yelled Peleus.

  Suddenly the hall was filled with shouts, and the men shuffled down one bench to make room.

  Lysander and Demaratos took a seat, and were offered food. Lysander chewed on the ribs of a sheep. The men were soon absorbed in their conversations again.

  Good, thought Lysander. The less fuss the better.

  ‘So, how many was it, Phalerius?’ said one of the soldiers.

  ‘Six, for sure,’ replied the Spartan. ‘But I took both arms off another, so he probably didn’t make it through the night.’

  ‘He won’t be much good in a shield wall, then.’

  ‘Not unless they use him as a shield.’

  Laughter rippled along the table.

  A Spartan with a jug under his arm walked along the table, and stopped by their side.

  ‘A drink for you boys?’

  Lysander held out a wide drinking cup. The man poured the red wine clumsily.

  ‘Make sure you mix plenty of water with that,’ said Phalerius. ‘Many a battle-hardened warrior has been floored by Peleus’ brew.’

  Lysander poured water into the cup, and lifted it by the two handles.

  ‘All of it!’ shouted a Spartan. ‘In one!’

  Lysander was thirsty, but the wine was fiery and he had to take a breath before tipping all the dregs down his throat. As he placed the cup on the table and wiped his mouth, the soldiers cheered. The wine seeped along his limbs, and his aches and pains dulled to a soft throb.

  ‘Your friend’s turn,’ said Peleus. Demaratos grinned as the cup was refilled.

  Demaratos lifted the cup to his lips and took a long draught as two rivulets dribbled down each cheek and on to his cloak. He let out a loud belch.

  Typical Demaratos, Lysander thought, smiling. He was always happiest surrounded by others.

  ‘The boy is Dionysus in the flesh,’ said Phalerius.

  ‘The God of Wine never held a spear,’ said Peleus. ‘And from what I have been told, these boys acquitted themselves like Ares himself on the plains of the Eurotas.’ He looked hard at Lysander and Demaratos and the room fell quiet. ‘They say you braved Vaumisa on his own vessel. Is that the truth?’

  ‘We did,’ said Demaratos. ‘We took on ten men, and prevailed. We swam out through freezing seas, climbed the anchor rope, and rescued the Lady Kassandra. If you had seen Vaumisa’s face when we …’

  Peleus grinned widely. ‘What about you?’ he said, pointing at Lysander. ‘Anything to say?’

  Lysander lowered his eyes. He did not feel ready yet to find glory in the events that had unfolded on the Persian ship. ‘It happened just as Demaratos says.’

  ‘A quiet one, eh? Well, Spartan valour is not measured by words,’ said Peleus. ‘We already know what deeds you have performed. Raise your cups, men, and salute these young men. They are true Spartans!’

  A deafening raucous cheer filled the hall. A cup was thrust into Lysander’s hand, when a sudden hush descended.

  Idas stood at the door of the hall, his gaze darting from face to face as he stood before the gathered soldiers. Lysander couldn’t help but notice that one of his Helot’s knees was quivering.

  ‘I … I …’

  ‘Come on, boy,’ said Phalerius. ‘It’ll be night by the time you get your words out.’

  Lysander saw a flash of contempt pass over his servant’s face. What’s he playing at? Lysander thought. These men would flog him to death him in an instant.

  ‘He’s my servant,’ Lysander called, scrambling to his feet. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

  He marched Idas to the door, beyond the gaze of the Spartan soldiers.

  ‘I was told to come and find you.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lysander, shaking Idas by the arm.

  ‘A messenger from the mistress Kassandra’s villa. You are wanted there straight away.’

  ‘Does she know that I’m here?’ said Lysander, feeling a flash of annoyance.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Idas. ‘Her messenger came to the barracks to find you. He said it was urgent.’

  ‘Very well. Now go back to the barracks, before the soldiers in there decide to have sport with you.’

  Lysander watched Idas leave, then went back into the dining hall, where Demaratos was leaning back, some sort of brown sauce dripping down his chin.

  ‘I’ve been called away,’ he said, loudly enough that Peleus could hear.

  ‘Where are you going?’ demanded the Spartan.

  ‘To my cousin’s villa,’ he said. ‘If I may be excused.’

  Peleus stood up and spoke quietly. ‘May you be excused?’ He looked up and down the rows, then pointed to Lysander. ‘We invite you to our barracks, you accept our hospitality, then you ask to leave.’ His voice had risen to a roar. ‘Have we offended you, Spartan?’

  Demaratos’s face was white.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Lysander. ‘My cousin … she said it was urgent.’

  The table was silent, and Peleus glowered at Lysander, then drew a knife from his belt. Lysander swallowed.

  Peleus’ mouth broke into a smile, and with the knife he carved a leg off the goat carcass that lay on a platter in front of him. He threw it to Lysander.

  ‘At least enjoy some of the foo
d.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lysander, catching it clumsily. He turned and left to the howls of laughter from behind.

  Lysander set off in a jog back towards the village, limping from a wound to the back of his leg. He had been with Kassandra only the day before. Was something wrong?

  He retraced his path as far as the turning to Amikles. The temporary stalls that normally lined the road were all vacant, and he passed a few more Helots, mostly scavenging for food among the ruins of yesterday’s feasting – fighting for scraps with the dogs that roamed the streets.

  Lysander saw a Helot coming towards him with a large water jug. He was moving quickly, Lysander thought, as though the jug weighed almost nothing.

  Wait a moment – he recognised that face. Wasn’t it the same slave he’d seen earlier, watching him with Demaratos? Perhaps it was just a coincidence. As they drew level, the Helot tripped, and the jug smashed on the ground. Lysander bent down to help.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  A curved blade, single-edged, was pressed into Lysander’s tunic under his ribs. Another hand gripped the back of his neck.

  ‘One move and I’ll spill your guts over the road. Understand?’

  Chapter 2

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good, answered like a true Helot. Now we’re going to take the alley you see on your left. Go.’

  Together, they made their way off the main track and into a shady side street. Lysander’s mind was reeling. This was no ordinary Helot. The hand that gripped him was strong and assured.

  Lysander felt a blow to the back of his calf and fell to his knees. The blade was whipped across his stomach and for a moment he expected to feel his innards spill into the dirt. Instead the man brought the heavy hilt of the dagger hard into Lysander’s face.

  The bridge of his nose cracked, and light and pain exploded across his eyes as a cry escaped his lips. He felt blood pour over his mouth. The slave’s face was close to his, swimming in and out of focus. Lysander tried to stand but his legs gave way and he crashed against the wall.

  As his vision cleared he found himself staring at the slave’s feet, encased in their sandals. It didn’t make sense. The leather soles and straps were brand new – way beyond the means of a mere Helot.

  Understanding dawned.

  ‘You’re not a slave, are you?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘And you’re no Spartan,’ replied the man, seizing Lysander by his tunic. ‘On your feet!’

  Lysander still felt too weak to fight back, and without a weapon it was risky. He was marched a few steps further down the alley. A door opened into one of the buildings, and he was pushed inside. The man slammed the door behind him. The shutters were closed, and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  It was a tavern – the remains of a broken-up straw bale were scattered on the floor among roughly-made stools, benches and tables. A row of empty wine jars, cracked and discarded, lay at one end. Lysander’s eyes were drawn to the men who sat together at a table near the closed entrance. He noticed their faces were lean and sober, and they all wore identical rough grey cloaks. These were no ordinary free-dwellers, overindulging.

  Lysander’s blood ran cold.

  One by one, the men stood up. They fanned out across the empty tavern towards him. Their height, not a man under six feet tall, and cold stares, left him in no doubt: these were the Krypteia. They looked like wolves stalking prey.

  Lysander wouldn’t let his life end like this. He saw a stool to his left and toppled it, then brought his foot down twice, breaking off two of the legs. He snatched them up, holding their splintered ends out in warning.

  ‘I’d think twice before you try anything,’ he said. ‘I’m not afraid.’

  One of the Spartans laughed. ‘What are you going to do with those sticks, boy? Stitch me a new cloak?’ The others sniggered as well, and one drew a short sword.

  The pieces of wood felt pathetically small in Lysander’s hands, but they were all he had. Even if he could take one of their eyes out, it would be better than dying quietly. A drop of blood from Lysander’s broken nose splashed on the floor.

  ‘Come and get them, then,’ he said.

  Lysander backed away as the Spartan with the sword approached.

  He drew back his arm and hurled the leg at the Spartan. It thudded into his jaw. The man howled in pain and fell backwards, as Lysander scanned the room for another weapon.

  A sound rang out behind Lysander and he spun round. A grey-haired Spartan, with a familiar face, stood gazing at him. He held a sword straight out in front of him, and brought the blade to press against Lysander’s neck.

  ‘Enough!’ barked the man. ‘Telamon, get to your feet.’

  Lysander heard the fallen Spartan scramble up. He glanced round to see the man pick up his sword. He spat a mouthful of blood on to the ground.

  ‘I’ll teach you a lesson …’ he hissed at Lysander.

  ‘No, you will not, Telamon,’ said the Elder. ‘You can’t even fight off a boy armed with a chair leg. I’ll have you flogged by your compatriots before the day is out.’

  Telamon growled and backed off.

  Lysander looked at the old Spartan again.

  ‘You’re an Ephor,’ he said slowly, as recognition dawned. ‘I remember you from my grandfather’s house. Tellios of Limnae.’

  The old man smiled. ‘Yes, I haven’t forgotten your insolence, either.’

  Lysander felt a chill pass down his neck. Was it the cold blade, or the memory of Tellios before the battle with Vaumisa? Back then he had looked into Lysander’s eyes with the same hatred.

  ‘If you’d had your way, Sparta would lie in ruins,’ said Lysander.

  ‘Mind your tongue. I may be over sixty summers old, but I could still remove your head with a flick of my wrist.’

  ‘Then why haven’t you?’ said Lysander. ‘That’s what the Krypteia do, isn’t it? Kill people who cannot defend themselves? Like Timeon.’

  Tellios’ face tightened. ‘He was nothing.’

  ‘He was my friend.’

  Tellios’ glance darted over to the other Spartans, and he lowered the sword. ‘Tie him up.’

  A strong arm slipped around Lysander’s throat and a hand grabbed his wrist as he was dragged backwards. He was thrown on to a chair, gasping for breath and struggling as his ankles were tied to the chair legs and his arms were bound. Lysander’s heart hammered in his chest. Something was puzzling him.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  Tellios’ eyes narrowed. ‘I make it my business to know such things. Your slave should be more discreet.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ he said.

  The Spartan called Telamon slapped the back of his hand across Lysander’s cheek. Then he crouched on his haunches and brought his face close to Lysander’s.

  ‘We ask the questions from now on.’

  Lysander strained against the bonds, feeling them cut into his wrists.

  ‘Tell us about the Persian ship,’ said Tellios. His voice was quiet, pregnant with threat. ‘Tell us everything you remember.’

  Lysander continued to struggle. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Humour me.’

  ‘Is that what all this is for?’ said Lysander. ‘To ask questions? Why not bring me before the Council?’

  ‘I told you once before, half-breed, don’t meddle in politics. The Council like to debate until dawn, but there are those of us who prefer a more … direct approach.’

  Lysander couldn’t believe it. His own countrymen were torturing him for information? ‘I would have volunteered the information without being tied up,’ he said.

  ‘Well, talk quickly then. Or I’ll have Telamon start removing little pieces of you.’

  Lysander saw Telamon grin through his bloodied teeth. If the Krypteia were working without the Council’s knowledge, they would be like a rabid dog off its leash. Lysander needed to give up everything he knew – now.

&
nbsp; ‘The ship – Vaumisa’s – was moored off the headland west of Gytheion. We followed Vaumisa and his riders there after they kidnapped my cousin …’

  Lysander went on to tell Tellios how he and Demaratos had swum out to the Persian ship. He shuddered as he recounted their capture. Recalling Sarpedon’s brave sacrifice almost brought tears to his eyes, but he managed to hold himself together to describe the moment when he killed Vaumisa with his spear. The members of the Krypteia shared looks with one another, and one or two scoffed when he spoke of nearly being hung on the deck of the ship.

  ‘Is that all?’ said Tellios when he paused.

  ‘You know the rest,’ said Lysander. ‘The Spartan ships came to our rescue, the Persian vessel was sunk beneath the waves.’

  ‘That was regrettable,’ said Tellios, leaning back against a table, and drawing a dagger from a second sheath that was fastened opposite his sword. ‘No Spartan has ever stepped on board a Persian vessel before – it would have benefited us to know more. What weapons were on board?’

  Lysander eyed the dagger warily. Its blade glinted silver in the cracks of light that came through the closed shutters.

  ‘Only those the men carried, I think. Curved blades, wicker shields, and bows and arrows.’

  ‘You think?’ sneered Tellios. ‘Who was Vaumisa’s second in command?’

  Lysander’s throat tightened as he remembered the rope thrown around his neck by Vaumisa’s lieutenant. ‘His name was Cleeto.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Tellios used the point of his dagger to delicately clean beneath his fingernails.

  ‘We thought he’d drowned, but after the battle, he was captured.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The Ephor Myron asked me what should be done with him. I let him go.’

  ‘You let a prisoner of Sparta live?’ said Tellios, his voice suddenly rising. He rammed the dagger hard into the table. ‘You should have killed him on the spot!’

  ‘One man means nothing if an army is defeated,’ said Lysander.

  Tellios snorted in disgust. ‘You know nothing of our ways.’