Legacy of Blood Read online

  ‘I know the shame of defeat is a heavier burden than death.’

  Tellios pulled out the dagger, and jabbed it towards Lysander.

  ‘How many oarsmen were there?’

  ‘I… I don’t know,’ said Lysander. ‘They were on the deck below.’

  ‘Pathetic. You’re of no use at all.’

  Tellios went over to the other men and began a whispered conversation.

  There must be something I can tell them, thought Lysander. Something else useful.

  ‘I do remember Vaumisa’s armour,’ he said, an image flashing into his mind.

  Tellios’ head snapped round. ‘What’s that, boy?’

  Lysander didn’t like the tone in his voice.

  ‘The Persian’s armour. It wasn’t like anything I’d seen before. It was made of polished metal discs, like a snake’s scales.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re not as stupid as you look,’ said Tellios. ‘And what happened to this armour – did it sink with the ship?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ said Lysander. ‘After my grandfather took his own life, Kassandra and I …’

  A fist crashed into his jaw and knocked him sideways from his chair. He hit the ground hard. Tellios gripped his face between powerful fingers and turned his head towards him.

  ‘You will never mention this again,’ he said quietly. ‘No Ephor of Sparta would take his own life. It is a coward’s way. He would fight to the death.’

  ‘But he did it for us,’ pleaded Lysander. ‘He did it to give us time to escape.’

  ‘Silence!’ shouted Tellios. ‘Who do you think you are, boy, spitting on the memory of a Spartan? Listen carefully to my words, and take heed. You were never on that Persian vessel. You never laid eyes on the general, Vaumisa. Sarpedon died fighting like a warrior, not by his own sword like some coward … like some Athenian.’ He spoke the last word as though it tasted rotten in his mouth. ‘Do you understand, Lysander? Keep your stories to yourself.’

  Lysander wanted to shout out, but he felt his strength sap away. He nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Sparta must never know how close she came to defeat. If our enemies get wind of it, they will think us weak.’

  Tellios released Lysander’s face and turned to the men. ‘Let’s leave the half-breed to think things over. He must learn to honour his grandfather with more respectful … memories.’

  Lysander was in no doubt what Tellios meant. He was asking him to rewrite history.

  With a swirl of their cloaks, the Krypteia were gone.

  Lysander was alone.

  Chapter 3

  Lysander waited for his heartbeat to slow, then squirmed on to his knees. He managed to push himself back into a sitting position, but the ropes were still tight on his wrists and ankles.

  Rocking back, he could feel that the chair was loose where the upright slats met the seat. He leant back hard, arching his spine, and the supports creaked. He strained against the cords and used all the weight of his torso to try and break the chair.

  Finally he heard the wood splinter, and the back of the chair fell away.

  He was dripping with sweat, but almost there.

  ‘Come on,’ he muttered. Kassandra would be wondering where he was! He tried to bring his bound hands over the top of his head, but couldn’t – not without dislocating his shoulder. Then he saw the candle burning on the table. Of course. With the base of the chair still attached to him, he dragged himself over to it.

  With his back to the table, and craning behind him, he lowered his hands slowly above the candle. Straight away the rope started to blacken and give off a noxious smell. It sizzled a little, then gave way. Yes! Lysander immediately bent over to grapple with the knotted rope that tied his ankles.

  He was free!

  Pushing open the door, he peered into the alley. No sign of Tellios, his henchmen, or the man disguised as a Helot. Lysander headed back quickly into the bright street and found it eerily quiet. The fragments of the jar in the middle of the track were the only sign of his capture. Lysander suddenly felt dizzy and placed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. It gave a little from side to side – definitely broken.

  He splashed some water from a nearby trough against his face, and washed away the blood that was already beginning to crust. Catching sight of his reflection in the rippling water, he saw a dark cut across his face, and managed a smile – just another war wound.

  Lysander soon reached Sarpedon’s villa. Outside, a cart was half-loaded with bolts of linen, and wooden crates. His footsteps slowed as he approached the doorway and a sense of unease washed over him. It was only three days since he’d last been here, and interrupted the gerousia – the Council of Elders – but already change was all around. No armed guard stood watch over the front gate, and Lysander walked through unhindered.

  The courtyard was deserted, and Lysander remembered the many mornings he had come here to train as dawn broke, how Sarpedon had paced the mosaic floor, observing his stances and sword drills from every angle. The tiny tiles that were set painstakingly into the ground depicted two symmetrical horses’ heads, one black, one white, facing each other. When Lysander had first come here, he thought nothing could match its beauty, but now the image seemed to be one of wretchedness and faded glory.

  Half the colonnade that ringed the courtyard gleamed white in the afternoon sun. The other columns were buried in shadow. Lysander stood against the pillar where he and Kassandra had hidden to watch the Council debate. He remembered bursting with pride at Sarpedon’s authority before his peers.

  On one side of the courtyard, Lysander saw a spear resting against a column. The first time Lysander held an eight-footer had been right here, an exercise of strength and balance.

  But Sarpedon would never teach Lysander again.

  Lysander walked over and grasped the spear in his right hand, just back from its centre as his tutor had showed him, then assumed the position Sarpedon had taught him. Lifting his left leg to the horizontal behind him, he extended his right arm so the spear was vertical, its point a foot from the ground. He almost laughed – it was so easy now, but that first time he remembered it felt like his shoulder was being torn apart with hot irons.

  ‘I thought you’d have had enough of weapons?’ said a voice.

  Lysander relaxed his posture and turned to see Kassandra standing under the portico that led to her chamber. She looked tired, with dark smudges beneath her eyes. For once she wasn’t wearing an ornate dress, but instead a simple grey peplos – a draped tunic fastened at the shoulders and girdled at the waist. Her arms were bare and her hair was loose.

  Lysander rested the spear back against the column and walked over to his cousin.

  Her eyes widened as she looked into his face.

  ‘That looks like a fresh wound. We parted just before dawn. You can’t have managed any more battles between then and now.’

  ‘Not quite a battle,’ said Lysander. ‘But …’

  He paused. No good could come of involving Kassandra in his private struggles. Now he was closer he saw that her eyes were bloodshot as well. He took her hand. ‘Enough of that. You summoned me.’

  ‘Is that any way to greet your cousin?’ she asked. She opened her arms, and Lysander embraced her. She squeezed him tightly, and he winced where she pressed against his rib. When she pulled back again, he could see fresh tears gathering in her eyes.

  ‘The villa seems full of ghosts,’ she said, looking about. ‘Memories of Grandfather.’

  ‘What will you do now?’ Lysander gently asked. ‘Is that why you summoned me? To talk about the future?’

  ‘The future depends on you,’ said Kassandra, as servants brought out a linen sack and placed it by Kassandra’s feet. Lysander noticed two more carrying a chest between them under the colonnade, then out through the front gate. He recognised it from her bedchamber.

  ‘What’s going on? Wasn’t that your dress box?’ Alarm darted through him.

  Helots scurried back in and
Kassandra discreetly waited for them to disappear before continuing.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she said. ‘For my mother’s family near Thalamae. There’s nothing here for me now.’ She turned as one of the Helots came out carrying a double candlestick.

  ‘No, Hylas, leave that here.’

  She walked towards the servant, but Lysander gripped her arm. ‘What are you talking about? You can’t leave. What about the villa?’

  Kassandra shielded her eyes against the sun as she gazed at Lysander. It was impossible for him to see what expression lay there.

  ‘This place, it belongs to you now. You’re Grandfather’s heir, Lysander. A male descendant always takes precedence over a female one. The lineage passes to you as Thorakis’s first and only male child.’

  Lysander released Kassandra’s arm and snatched up the bag, shoving it into Hylas’ grasp.

  ‘Take this back where it belongs,’ he ordered, then turned back to his cousin. ‘Don’t be foolish. Until this summer, Thorakis never had a son.’

  ‘It’s the Spartan way,’ said Kassandra.

  ‘You sound like one of them!’ said Lysander, breaking away and pacing across the courtyard. His heart was in turmoil.

  ‘I am one of them,’ said Kassandra. ‘And so are you. Accept it.’

  Lysander lifted his hand to the sky.

  ‘What will I do with a house like this – I have to train in the barracks.’

  ‘It’s not just the house,’ laughed Kassandra. ‘It’s everything! The land, the wealth … even the Helots who live on his estates.’

  ‘I don’t want any slaves,’ said Lysander, slamming his hand against a column. ‘I could never treat anybody the same way I was treated.’

  Kassandra approached and placed her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ she said. ‘This is a chance to show the other Spartans that they don’t have to be cruel to their slaves.’

  Half a year ago, Lysander had been a slave in the fields without a possession to his name. Now he was richer than he had ever dreamt. But he’d lost everything that was precious. And now Kassandra was leaving him as well. He’d be alone, just another ant in the Spartan colony, expected to lay down his life for a system he could never wholly accept. He felt caught up in the whims of the Gods.

  ‘But this is your home,’ he said desperately. ‘I’ll give it to you.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ she said. ‘Sarpedon would not have wished it.’

  ‘Sarpedon’s dead!’ Lysander whispered, shrugging off her hand. ‘He does not wish for anything.’ He strode away, but then guilt plunged through him. None of this was Kassandra’s fault.

  He turned to look at his cousin; the only other person who could know how he was feeling. Her face had turned pale, and for a moment he thought she would cry. But then she held out a hand.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘I need to show you something.’

  Lysander followed her under the colonnade and into the room where he’d watched his mother die that summer. Now the bed had been pushed up against the far wall, and beneath the open shutters of the window, a tripod was set up. In its centre burned a shallow bowl of scented oil, releasing the smell of jasmine. Around the outside of the tripod, candles and various objects had been arranged by a caring hand.

  ‘This was Grandfather’s favourite room,’ said Kassandra. ‘I’ve gathered some of his possessions together, things that meant a great deal to him.’

  Lysander went towards the shrine, and inspected the objects more closely. There was a soft woollen garment that might have been a cloak.

  ‘That’s the gown our fathers were swaddled in as babies,’ said Kassandra. ‘It’s made from Phoenician fleece. And that’s his favourite drinking cup, and some of his vellum scrolls.’

  Lysander ran his fingers over the smooth cured skin. Since his old tutor Anu had moved on to another barracks, Lysander hadn’t had the chance to learn more reading and writing. One day I’ll read these things too, he promised himself.

  Kassandra crouched beside him and picked up a roll of leather held by a square gold ring. She spoke softly.

  ‘Open it.’

  Lysander slid the ring over the leather.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Hold out your hand.’

  Lysander did as she asked, and Kassandra took the leather and unrolled it. A lock of brown hair, paler than his own, fell out into his palm.

  ‘It belonged to Thorakis,’ she said. ‘Your father. I think Sarpedon would have wanted you to have it. I have one from my father, Demokrates.’

  Lysander ran the hair through his fingers. He couldn’t believe it belonged to the father he’d never met. Even after all this time, the shafts of hair were thick and strong, and caught the light like gold thread. Lysander looked forward to the day when he reached adulthood, and would be permitted to wear his hair long once again. Carefully, he rolled it back up inside the leather and replaced the ring.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘I thought that you could leave the Fire of Ares here too,’ said Kassandra. ‘Just for the period of mourning. They say the dead in Hades can feel our kindnesses like sunshine on their faces.’

  Lysander’s hand went to his chest, then froze as memory pulsed through him. He’d given the family heirloom to Demaratos.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Kassandra.

  ‘I don’t have it,’ Lysander admitted. Kassandra’s eyes searched his face, confused. ‘I gave it to Demaratos.’

  ‘You did what?’ Kassandra gasped, scrambling to her feet and staring down at him.

  Lysander struggled to find the right words. How could he ever make her understand how he was feeling; his sense of dislocation and loss? Until he felt worthy again, how could he wear the jewel passed down his family, from one brave warrior to the next? Lysander didn’t know if he was a brave warrior – he still didn’t know who he was.

  ‘Demaratos saved my life,’ he said after a pause. ‘It seemed the right thing to do. He’ll look after it until –’

  ‘It’s an heirloom,’ interrupted Kassandra, gathering her skirts around her and stepping away from him. ‘It’s been in the family for generations – how could you?’

  She sat on the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed. Lysander put his hand on her arm, but she pushed it away.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she said. ‘I want to be by myself.’

  Lysander got to his feet.

  ‘Kassandra, I…’

  She leapt up, wiping her hands hastily on her gown. Her face was red and mottled, twisted with grief.

  ‘Get out!’ she hissed at him. ‘How could you? Do you still know so little about our family?’

  Lysander wanted to argue, but he could see how upset Kassandra already was. I’ll wait for her to calm down, he thought, reluctantly walking towards the doorway. Pain twisted like a knife in his heart; he had never wanted to hurt his cousin. All he had been thinking about after the battle with the Persians was that his spirit felt too sullied to deserve the Fire of Ares; he had wanted to be rid of it. He would take it back when the time was right, but how did he explain that to Kassandra now?

  As he made his way down a corridor back towards the courtyard, a slave approached. It was Hylas, one of the Helots who helped run Sarpedon’s household.

  ‘Master Lysander,’ he said. ‘There are visitors. I must announce them to the Lady of the house.’

  Lysander pointed back towards the chamber. ‘Kassandra is in there, but is not to be disturbed. I’ll meet the guests.’

  ‘Very well, master,’ said Hylas, and led Lysander out into the courtyard.

  Waiting for him was Tellios, flanked by two soldiers. He smiled, but Lysander could see the edge of cold in his eyes. The Ephor came forward. Speechless, Lysander took his hand.

  ‘Greetings, you are Sarpedon’s grandson, are you not?’

  Clearly Lysander was to behave as though nothing had happened, even though his jaw stil
l ached from the punch Tellios had given him earlier.

  ‘I am,’ said Lysander coolly. ‘Kassandra is …’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said. Lysander turned to see her behind him. Her hair was tied back now, and her face composed. ‘What can I do for you, Ephor?’

  Tellios’ smile reminded Lysander of a snake. ‘Kassandra,’ he said. ‘I hope we are not intruding.’

  ‘No, Ephor, but if you have come to pay respects to my grandfather, our family tomb is on the southern road.’

  A muscle in Tellios’ cheek twitched, but his smile did not falter.

  ‘I come with regards to Sarpedon,’ he said, ‘but on a matter of business rather than mourning.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Kassandra. She clapped her hands, and Hylas appeared at one of the doorways. ‘Hylas, some refreshments for our guests. Follow me, gentlemen.’

  Lysander followed Tellios and the two soldiers to the dining room, where three couches were laid out around a low rectangular table. Tellios took one, his soldiers standing guard either side of him. Lysander stood behind Kassandra, who seated herself opposite Tellios. Hylas entered with a tray of drinking cups and a jug of water with slices of lemon. He set it down upon the table and poured.

  ‘As you know, Sarpedon died without a male heir,’ Tellios began.

  ‘What about Lysander?’ Kassandra asked.

  Lysander caught the flash of impatience that darted across the Ephor’s face. ‘His lineage has never been proved,’ said Tellios. He didn’t even look in Lysander’s direction. ‘And now all those who can attest it are dead. In whatever case, his “mothax” status – his impure blood – prohibits it.’

  ‘He is stood before you,’ said Kassandra evenly. Two red spots appeared on her cheeks. ‘And unless you’ve forgotten, he just saved the whole of Sparta from the Persians.’

  Lysander moved forward, but the two soldiers stepped together at once, both with hands on their swords.

  ‘Do you defy the Council?’ asked Tellios.

  Lysander let his hands drop to his side.

  ‘I defy nothing and no one,’ Lysander said. ‘You should know that, Tellios.’ What was happening here? A sense of unease prickled beneath Lysander’s skin.