Legacy of Blood Page 4

  ‘As I was saying,’ said Tellios. ‘Lysander was a bastard born of a Helot woman. No, in the absence of a male heir, the estate must pass to Kassandra …’

  Kassandra gave Lysander a look of confusion.

  ‘But,’ continued Tellios, ‘the management of such a large estate is clearly not the job of someone so young, so the Council has decreed that the estates must be placed in the hands of a guardian.’

  Tellios gave the first genuine smile Lysander had ever seen from him.

  ‘And that responsibility is mine.’

  Chapter 4

  Tellios watched them carefully. ‘I take it there are no further objections to the Council’s edicts?’ His voice was rich with threat. Then he nodded to Kassandra and Lysander in turn. ‘Good. I will leave you to mourn your grandfather.’

  He marched from the room, his cloak sweeping the floor. The guards followed.

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Lysander. He hadn’t been sure about being the master of Helot slaves, but faced with Tellios tearing away his inheritance, disregarding the fact that he was of Sarpedon’s blood … No! Lysander would not allow that to happen. He hadn’t fought like this to be labelled impure. Not by someone like Tellios – not by anyone!

  ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Kassandra replied, looking down at her hands. ‘If the Council has voted, the decision is final. And I’m too tired to fight.’

  How could she be so defeatist? Lysander sprinted out of the dining room, almost colliding with Hylas on the way, and caught up with Tellios as he strode across the courtyard. Lysander snatched at his arm, and swivelled the Ephor around. The older man stumbled slightly.

  ‘What in the name of Hades …’

  The two soldiers brought down their spears at once, and in a heartbeat their points were pressed into Lysander’s chest. One move, and their blades would slice through his flesh.

  Tellios raised a hand to the men.

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘He dares to lay his hand on an Ephor,’ said one of the soldiers, curling his lip at Lysander.

  ‘The boy isn’t a threat,’ said Tellios. ‘And he’s ignorant of Spartan ways. Leave us – I will see you outside.’

  The soldiers lowered their spears and backed away.

  Tellios waited until they had left, then turned to Lysander.

  ‘Do you dispute the Council’s authority on this matter?’

  ‘Kassandra could manage the estates herself. You must be busy enough already with your Ephorate duties …’

  Tellios raised his eyebrows. ‘My Ephorate duties? You will make a fine orator one day, Lysander. But, you’ve misunderstood me. I am only Ephor until next summer. Sarpedon’s land is vast and fertile. If I work the Helots to the bone, the estates will yield me great riches …’

  ‘That wealth belongs to Kassandra!’ hissed Lysander.

  Tellios waved his hand through the air. ‘She will have some, certainly. But with my overseers in place, and some imaginative counting, I can take enough to ensure a comfortable retirement. By the time Kassandra gains possession of the land, all it will be fit for is burying the slaves who’ve worked it.’

  Lysander fought the urge to drive his fist into Tellios’ face. He didn’t care for a single Helot life.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Lysander asked quietly. A breeze rustled through the branches of a pine tree as he waited for an answer.

  Tellios shrugged his shoulders, then looked around the courtyard with an appraising eye. ‘I never did like your grandfather,’ he admitted. ‘He was so …’ Tellios gazed up, searching for the right word, ‘self-righteous.’

  ‘Sarpedon was as honourable as a Spartan can be.’

  ‘He was trouble, and so are you. I’m glad to say that after some … persuasion … the Council agrees with me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your days in Sparta will come to an end, Lysander. With your grandfather gone, the winds of power are shifting. Mark my words.’

  Lysander watched him walk away; he knew if he moved he would throw himself at this man.

  ‘Farewell, Lysander,’ said Tellios. ‘And remember our discussion from earlier. If I hear even a rumour that you’ve been opening your mouth about Vaumisa, it won’t only be you who suffers.’

  The Ephor walked through the gate and up along the track back towards the road. The soldiers followed, three red cloaks in convoy.

  That man was Sarpedon’s trusted comrade, Lysander thought bitterly. How wrong could my grandfather have been?

  He turned back to the house, where he found Kassandra leaning on the couch. Her face was calm, her eyes dry.

  ‘Curse Tellios,’ he said. ‘I could have taken one of those spears and driven it through his chest –’

  ‘Oh, stop!’ snapped Kassandra. She stood up and faced him, her eyes blazing. ‘All you men ever talk about is fighting! Grandfather is dead – have you forgotten that?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Lysander. ‘I’m just tired of this Council of Elders which decides when we wake, when we eat, who we must obey … that Helots must die and even fellow Spartans be ground under foot.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Kassandra. ‘You’re angry because you’ve been passed over. You’re angry because I’ve been given the estate.’

  Lysander couldn’t believe what his cousin was saying. He’d tried to defend her inheritance – for this? ‘Don’t be such a little fool,’ he spat back. Instantly, he wanted to take the words back, but it was too late now.

  Kassandra’s face coloured. ‘Get out of my house!’ she said. ‘Get out now! Hylas! Phrixus!’

  From the kitchen came the rattle of utensils and footsteps pattered down the hall.

  ‘Fine,’ said Lysander. ‘I’m going. You can fight your own battles, cousin.’ He swung his foot at one of the small plant vases that stood in the corner of the courtyard. It shattered into pieces, and clods of soil spattered Kassandra’s tunic. Hylas and a larger man, whom Lysander guessed was Phrixus, hurried into the room, both wearing expressions of alarm.

  ‘Just leave,’ she sobbed, brushing the dirt from her skirts.

  Before the servants could get near him, Lysander slipped out of the door that led into the courtyard.

  He didn’t look back.

  The sound of grunts and the clash of wooden blades rang out as Lysander returned to the barracks. Had training begun again, so soon? Good. He entered by the front gate and went straight into the central yard.

  The sun was dipping towards the horizon, but most of the yard was still bathed in light. The courtyard was filled with boys training, but there were fewer than before the battle. Some would be in the sanatorium in the village, but how many had died? Lysander’s eyes darted around the courtyard as he counted. Ariston, Meleager, Hilarion, Cretheus, Euryalon … none of them had reached more than fourteen years.

  He saw his friend Leonidas at one side of the arena, driving a spear into a bale of hay. The muscles on his arms bulged as he repeated the thrust again and again. But another face caught his eye – an unfamiliar one. A man stood at the rear of the training ground, out of the sun against the dining hall wall. He must be the new tutor, thought Lysander. In the shade, his red cloak was dark. He was a little taller than Lysander, with hair the colour of sand, and a beard, almost white, thick but well trimmed. He was watching a row of four boys advance in a shield wall, lifting their shields in unison to thrust with their swords. The nearest to him was Drako, the biggest boy in Lysander’s barracks, who Demaratos said was fathered by a Titan, one of the giants who ruled the Earth before the Gods of Mount Olympus.

  As Drako came close, the instructor swept his leg out, toppling him into the dust of the courtyard. He fell badly and Lysander noticed bright red blood where he had cut his lip.

  Drako looked up accusingly, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘It’s no use having a strong shield arm, if you’ve no balance,’ said the instructor. ‘A soldier gets his strength from the ground up.
Don’t forget it.’

  He caught sight of Lysander and shouted across the yard.

  ‘Get over here!’ Lysander approached, stepping past where Leonidas and Phemus had begun wrestling. He stopped ten paces from the stranger, who still hadn’t stepped out into the sunlight. ‘And who excused you from training?’

  ‘I hadn’t realised we’d been assigned a new instructor,’ said Lysander.

  ‘So you thought you’d leave the barracks without permission?’

  ‘I’ve been at River’s Rush,’ said Lysander.

  The Spartan burst out laughing, and stepped into the light, a hand shielding his eyes against the sun. Now Lysander could see that his hair wasn’t sandy; it was white as snow. The tutor’s skin was pale as well, as if covered in quarry dust.

  ‘Did they need someone to clean their tables?’ the tutor asked, looking Lysander over from head to foot.

  Lysander forced himself to stay calm. ‘I was invited to the feast,’ he explained. ‘My name is Lysander.’

  A slight crease appeared in the Spartan’s brow. ‘The son of Thorakis?’

  Lysander nodded.

  ‘Well, well – the hero from the plains. Is it true that you killed the Persian general?’

  Tellios’ words rang through Lysander’s head: You never laid eyes on the general, Vaumisa.

  ‘It’s exaggerated,’ he said. ‘We won the battle – that’s all that matters.’

  ‘A modest Spartan – your old tutor taught you well. My name is Aristodermus. The rest of you, take a break, drink some water.’

  The boys congregated around the water bowls.

  ‘Diokles never allowed us to drink during training,’ said Lysander.

  Aristodermus laughed. Diokles didn’t do much of that either, thought Lysander.

  ‘Forget Diokles,’ he said. ‘There’s more than one way to train. Won’t you take a drink?’ asked Aristodermus.

  ‘I have no need,’ said Lysander.

  ‘A child in the mould of Lykurgos …’ said the tutor with a nod. ‘They say as a baby he went without his mother’s milk for three full days.’

  ‘I’d rather train,’ Lysander explained. There was so much to think about – too much. He’d prefer to lose all thoughts in the trials of physical training.

  ‘Very well – why don’t you show me what you’re made of?’ Aristodermus pointed into the centre of the yard, at an abandoned cart axle. The students used it for weightlifting. ‘Start with that, let’s see how many squats you can do.’ He turned to the other boys. ‘What’s the record in the barracks?’

  ‘Seventy-three,’ called Tyro. ‘Drako set the record, but he twisted his back so badly he was in bed for two days.’

  ‘You couldn’t manage twenty,’ Drako sneered at the smaller boy.

  ‘Seventy-four is the aim then,’ said Aristodermus. ‘If you fail the rest of the barracks will go without their meal.’ A groan went round the courtyard. ‘Is that Spartan enough for you, hero of the plains?’

  Lysander walked to the axle. The wheels had been removed and large rocks tied on to each end with leather straps, where they swung loose. The exercise involved laying the bar over the shoulders and steadying it either side with a firm grip. If the squat was done properly, bending at the knees, the rocks should almost touch the ground on either side.

  Lysander crouched and laid both hands on the axle, then hoisted it over his head, resting the worn wood across the back of his neck.

  ‘Tyro,’ said Aristodermus, ‘you count.’

  Lysander bent his knees and performed the first squat.

  ‘One!’ said Tyro.

  Lysander repeated the action, allowing his breathing to guide the rhythm of the lifts. Breathe in on the squat, out on the lift.

  ‘Two.’

  In, out.

  ‘Three.’

  In, out.

  By thirty, Lysander was starting to ache badly. At the bottom of each squat, his thighs burned, and he felt a twinge in his lower back with each rise.

  ‘Halfway there,’ said Aristodermus, as Tyro counted thirty-seven.

  Lysander tried to shut out his voice and concentrate on the action. Come on, he told himself. Do this! He realised his hands were gripping the bar tightly, wasting energy, and he loosened them. He slackened his jaw as well, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.

  ‘Fifty!’ shouted Tyro. Lysander stopped at the top of a lift, and sucked in a deep breath then let it out again. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, like a potter’s foot on the wheel.

  ‘Had enough?’ said Aristodermus. Lysander arched his neck.

  ‘I’m just … warming up,’ he panted, managing a grin that turned into a grimace.

  He lowered again. It felt like someone was driving red-hot pokers into his legs, and prising his knee caps with a chisel.

  ‘Come on, Lysander!’ said a couple of boys.

  ‘You can do it!’ said Phemus. ‘Think of my dinner.’

  Up again.

  ‘Fifty-one!’ The boys cheered.

  Lysander took the lifts slowly, taking an extra breath each time he was upright. Nausea coiled in his belly, and he felt the sweat pouring down his face and back, tasted the salt on his lips. At sixty, his vision started to blur, and he clamped his eyes closed. His legs were trembling perilously at the bottom of every squat, and even upright he felt them shaking.

  ‘Come on, Lysander!’ shouted a voice he recognised. He opened his eyes. Leonidas! Thank you, Lysander mouthed to him.

  ‘Sixty-eight!’

  He could hear himself grunting in time with his squats. Deep, guttural, desperate sounds.

  Lysander stumbled backwards on the lift, but he steadied himself and straightened. Aristodermus grinned.

  I’ll show him.

  ‘Sixty-nine!’

  Lysander imagined he was back in the phalanx on the plains – imagined that each time he pushed, he was driving his spear into the shields of the Persian line.

  ‘Seventy-one! … Seventy-two!’

  ‘He’s going to do it,’ someone shouted. ‘He’s going to beat the record!’

  ‘Seventy-three.’

  Lysander dropped for the final squat. He couldn’t feel his legs – it was just a leaden pain, like all his bones were being crushed. He tightened his grip on the bar, and imagined he was back on the prow of Vaumisa’s ship, watching his grandfather plunge his sword into his own chest. He remembered Tellios calling his grandfather a coward and anger blazed through his limbs.

  ‘Seventy-four!’

  Lysander tipped sideways, and the axle slid helplessly from his sweat-soaked hands, crashing to the ground. Lysander fell to his knees, then forward on to his front. With his cheek in the earth, his broken nose throbbed as blood thundered through him.

  The dinner bell rang.

  ‘Clean yourself up,’ said Aristodermus. Lysander watched the boys hurrying to the meal hall, each one clapping him on the shoulder as he went.

  ‘Well done, Lysander.’

  ‘Thanks, comrade.’

  Leonidas slipped a hand under Lysander’s armpit and helped him halfway up. Lysander waited for his head to stop spinning.

  ‘Leave him be,’ said Aristodermus. ‘He asked for this treatment; let him deal with it alone.’

  Perhaps this new tutor wasn’t so different from Diokles.

  Leonidas released Lysander’s arm and, with a sympathetic look, followed the others inside.

  Lysander staggered over to the well. With arms trembling, he pulled up a bucket and poured the ice-cold water over himself, relishing the sensation of the soothing water on his aching muscles. But his heart was still in turmoil. He allowed the bucket to clatter to the ground and turned round to survey the courtyard, leaning back against the well. I’ve lost everything, he told himself, thinking back to his argument with Kassandra. Everything! The barracks will be my only home now until I’m thirty years old. The years stretched ahead of him, seasons of relentless hardship and cruelty. What s
ort of man would he be when he finally left the barracks?

  He felt a wave of sudden dizziness, and his skin turned cold. Fear gripped his throat like an invisible hand, choking him. He turned and rested his elbows against the rim of the well, staring into the blackness to prevent his head spinning. What was happening to him? He felt out of control, like a stone dropped into the abyss. He shut his eyes.

  ‘I never asked for any of this,’ he muttered to himself.

  A sound rang out behind him.

  Lysander turned. He saw a stocky boy, stumbling slowly towards him wearing a short tunic and immaculate red cloak. He leant heavily on a gnarled crutch, but when he looked up, Lysander recognised the face at once.

  ‘Orpheus!’

  He ran forward to support his friend. Orpheus was sweating from the effort of staying upright. In his other hand he was holding one of the wooden practice swords. Lysander’s eyes fell to the wooden leg that emerged beneath his tunic. Orpheus’ leg had been taken off below the knee by a Persian axe.

  ‘Patched me up well, didn’t they?’ said Orpheus, knocking his sword against the false limb.

  Lysander embraced his friend. ‘I can’t believe you’re out of the infirmary already.’

  ‘There are so many casualties,’ said Orpheus, his face white and drawn. ‘Only the most serious are kept in.’

  ‘How did they …?’ Lysander looked down at the place where Orpheus’s limb had once been.

  Orpheus gave a shudder and looked away. ‘You don’t want to know,’ he said eventually. ‘I passed out with the pain. But they tell me I’m lucky to be alive. I’m back, now, for training.’

  Lysander smiled and tried to ignore the prickles of doubt that crept through his body. Would the new tutor allow Orpheus to continue training with them? ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said, clapping his friend on the back.

  Orpheus peered into the well.

  ‘You look troubled, Lysander. What were you looking for down there – an oracle?’

  Lysander laughed. ‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘Answers, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, the philosopher Thales thought that everything comes from water. But when Spartans want answers, they go to Delphi.’