The Fire of Ares Page 5

  ‘I need forty sacks, please,’ said Lysander, showing the stallholder his iron bar.

  The stallholder nodded his head, and began to slowly count the hemp bags.

  ‘Can you go any quicker?’ asked Lysander. ‘If I am not back soon I’ll receive a flogging.’

  ‘All in good time,’ said the free-dweller, tying the sacks into two separate bundles.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Orpheus, pointing at a cart being tied to an ass. ‘You can flag a lift.’

  ‘No free-dweller would give a ride to a Helot like me,’ said Lysander.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Orpheus, ‘but they will do it for a Spartan.’ He shouted over to the driver.

  ‘Hey, you, where are you heading?’

  The cart owner glanced over in puzzlement, but when he saw Orpheus’s cloak, he mended his expression.

  ‘Down the Hyacinthine Way,’ he said. He jabbed a finger at the jars that filled the bottom of his cart. ‘This oil is bound for the port at Gytheio.’

  ‘That is our way also,’ said Orpheus. He didn’t wait for permission. ‘Come on, Lysander,’ he said. ‘Place your bags in the back.’

  Lysander did as the Spartan told him, ignoring the look of annoyance on the owner’s face. He helped Orpheus up beside him. As they settled in the back, the driver flicked his whip at the ass. The cart jolted forward, and the jars rattled against one another.

  As Lysander leant against the wooden side of the cart, he gazed over at the other boy. What a strange day this was becoming. Lysander had barely spoken to a Spartan before. Now he’d made friends with one.

  CHAPTER 7

  As the rickety cart trundled along in the direction of Prince Kiros’s estate, the thunder of hooves came from up ahead. A Spartan soldier rounded the corner ahead of them. One arm held his horse’s reins, the other clutched a bundle close to his chest. The driver of the cart swerved aside just in time, and the cart juddered to a halt as one set of wheels lodged into the roadside ditch. The rider galloped past regardless, and above the sound of the horse’s feet, Lysander heard the wail of a baby, and saw the wriggling of pink limbs.

  He looked at Orpheus. It was obvious what was happening. The baby must be unhealthy or suffering from a disability. The Spartan was taking it to the mountains, as was the custom. Lysander remembered the look of shame on Orpheus’s face when he had exposed his leg. After the horseman disappeared round a corner, the Spartan spoke.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Lysander. How can my people bear the sight of a boy like me?’

  Lysander shook his head.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking anything –’

  ‘As a baby, I was inspected as the custom commands,’ Orpheus interrupted. ‘My twisted left leg sealed my fate – death. I cannot remember, of course, but my mother told me later.’

  ‘What happened to you?’ asked Lysander.

  ‘A soldier came to the house. My parents knew there was no sense trying to prevent the inevitable. Spartans don’t know the meaning of mercy. I was taken from her arms and carried up the path into the western mountains. There the soldier left me by a rosinweed bush just as the winter snows started to fall. They reasoned that if the cold did not kill me, there were many wild animals in that region that would soon sniff me out.’

  ‘But how could you have survived? You were just a baby!’

  ‘Well,’ continued Orpheus, ‘a week later, the soldier returned the same way on a hunting trip with some men from his dining mess. They were chasing down a pack of wolves. They had already killed the lead male, and injured the female, but she had escaped into the bushes. The soldier, a man called Thyestes, dismounted from his horse and entered the thicket, his short spear ready. An injured wolf is more deadly than a healthy one.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Lysander, leaning forward.

  ‘Thyestes followed a trail of blood deeper into the trees. It was one of those winter days when the sun never seems to appear. It was just a weak haze behind the white sky. The wood was dark, and up ahead he heard a low growl between the trees. It sounded as though the she-wolf was licking her wounds. He edged forward …’

  ‘And?’ said Lysander.

  ‘Thyestes came to a clearing, and there he saw her. The wolf crouched in front of a small cave, her side matted with dark blood. The hairs on her neck were raised and her bared teeth were white as the snow. But Thyestes could see she was weak. One of her front legs kept buckling. Why didn’t she flee, he wondered? Then he heard a sound from the cave behind, a mewling squeak. She had cubs.’

  ‘And did he kill her, even when she had young?’ asked Lysander.

  ‘Of course he did,’ said Orpheus. ‘He edged as close as he dared, levelling the hunting spear. The she-wolf gave a final snarl, but it was cut short when the tip of the spear pierced between the neck and the shoulder. She died quickly.’

  ‘But what has that to do with you?’ asked Lysander.

  ‘Thyestes drew his dagger, and crouched to go into the cave. The cubs would not be a threat. He saw there were three at the back of the cave, squirming blindly over each other. He could see their mother had brought them a recent kill. There was something pink and fleshy, perhaps a rabbit, lying right in their midst. But as he moved closer, he could not believe his eyes. It was not food – it was a baby boy. And he was alive!’

  ‘You?’ asked Lysander, amazed.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Orpheus. ‘The wolf must have suckled me like one of her own cubs. Thyestes carried me back to his hunting companions. They didn’t know what to do. One said they should simply leave me there in the snow. That, after all, was what Spartan law commanded. But others said I was a miracle, and that it was the work of the Gods. In the end, they brought me back to Sparta and presented me to the council.’

  ‘And they let you live?’

  ‘Yes, they voted to return me to my mother. They said I must be blessed by Lykurgos, the founder of Spartan society. His name means Wolf-Worker. My mother was overjoyed and called me Orpheus, after the famous musician who visited the land of the dead in the Underworld and came back out again alive.’

  Lysander was astounded. Perhaps the Gods did pay attention to mortal affairs. They had reached the turning for the barracks, and Orpheus climbed down from the back of the cart.

  ‘Do you think you are protected by the Gods?’ Lysander asked.

  ‘Either that,’ replied Orpheus, ‘or I was born with the strength of a thousand Spartans! Take care, Lysander, and I wish you luck finding the pendant.’

  As the cart moved off, Lysander watched Orpheus hobble away. He hoped they would meet again.

  Lysander leapt off the back of the cart at the edge of Prince Kiros’s estate. Shouldering the two bundles, he jogged back to the fields. There, crouching in the dirt and plucking weeds from the edges of the newly sprouted crop, was his mother. He dropped the sacks and ran to her side.

  ‘Mother! Why aren’t you resting?’ He could see she was too weak to reply and tears welled in his eyes. A voice boomed from behind him:

  ‘Because someone in your family has to earn a living!’ Lysander turned to see Agestes’s great bulk towering over him. He helped his mother to her feet, before rounding angrily on the overseer.

  ‘You can see she is ill!’ he shouted. ‘Are you trying to kill her?’

  ‘Do not worry about me, Lysander,’ urged Athenasia.

  Agestes narrowed his eyes and pulled his head back. Then he spat on the ground, close to Lysander’s foot.

  ‘I should listen to your mother, Helot,’ he smirked. ‘Prince Kiros needs every pair of able hands in the fields to reap the harvest. That includes lazy slaves who’d rather be tucked up in bed. Unless, of course, you want me to bring the prince himself down to the fields …’

  Lysander was about to launch a fist straight into the overseer’s sternum, but he felt his mother’s hand in the middle of his back. She spoke before he could, and there was fear in her voice.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said to the overseer. ‘We
understand perfectly. We would just like to get on with our work now.’

  With a snort of disgust, Agestes turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the air behind him thick with his stench.

  Lysander’s face burned as he worked beside Athenasia, turning over weeds with a hoe. He could see that she was barely able to remain upright. A sickly sweat shone on her pale forehead. Shame came upon him in bursts, like arrows shot into his mind. I can’t even protect my mother! I should have killed that fat stinking hog of an overseer with my bare hands. His mother must have seen the tortured look on his face.

  ‘It wouldn’t have helped, you know,’ she began. ‘Fighting only creates more fighting. The Spartans would do well to remember that.’

  Letting out a weak groan, she sank to one knee. Lysander dropped the hoe and rushed to hold her shoulders as the coughing racked her body. When she stopped shaking, Lysander saw that his mother’s eyes were dulled and unresponsive. He had never seen her so bad before.

  ‘Enough!’ said Lysander. ‘I am taking you home.’

  He looked round for Agestes, but he was nowhere in sight. He hoisted Athenasia’s frail body into his arms. She didn’t protest as he carried her out of the fields. The other Helots looked on in sympathy, but none stepped out to help. What could they do? Old Nestor, his lips pressed together, gave a small nod of the head.

  On the path between the fields, Lysander saw Agestes at a distance, yelling at a group of three female Helots – Lysander recognised them as the three daughters of Hecuba, a friend of his mother’s. As he watched, Agestes suddenly marched forward and swung the back of his hand across the face of the youngest, Nylix, who fell to the ground with a shriek. Her sisters cowered beside her.

  There was no turning back. Lysander gritted his teeth and readied himself to face the overseer. As he drew nearer, Agestes turned and stared in disbelief. He slowly stepped into the middle of the path and folded his arms.

  ‘You, boy, are going nowhere. And neither is your mother. Get back to work at once!’

  ‘Not this time,’ said Lysander. He lowered Athenasia, who managed to find her feet. He could feel her quaking, but instead of backing off, he took a step forward. ‘I will not watch my mother die in the fields.’

  Agestes raised his bear-like hand and bellowed:

  ‘Back to work! Now!’

  Lysander didn’t move, and he was ready when Agestes brought down his arm. He ducked to the side but kept his foot extended. Agestes’s hand hit nothing but air, and his weight carried him over Lysander’s outstretched leg. He crashed to the ground. For a moment he lay fighting for breath, winded by the fall. Picking up his mother, Lysander walked as quickly as possible in the direction of their village. Agestes didn’t follow, but called out in anger:

  ‘You’ll die for this, Helot! You’ll suffer, I promise!’

  Lysander did not look round.

  Lysander placed his mother on her bed, and looked around their shack – the few pieces of rough furniture, the cooking pans and the half-melted candles. Was this all their life amounted to? Was this all a Helot could expect?

  ‘How can they do this to us?’ No one answered. Lysander buried his face in his hands and wept. He could not hold back the tears any longer.

  A fist thundered on the door. The voice of the overseer bellowed from outside.

  ‘Open up, boy!’ The hand pounded the wood again. His mother stirred, but didn’t wake. So this is it, thought Lysander. Six lashes will not be enough this time. He stood, and dried his eyes with his hands, before walking to the door. He opened the wooden latch, blinking into the sunlight. The overseer stared at him, his jaw twitching and a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

  ‘I’m coming now,’ said Lysander, straightening his back. ‘Just let my mother sleep.’ To his surprise, Agestes didn’t protest. Instead, he spoke through gritted teeth.

  ‘You will not be returning to the fields today. You have been summoned elsewhere.’

  Dread gripped Lysander’s insides.

  ‘Summoned where?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘You are to go to the house of the Ephor Sarpedon.’

  It took Lysander a moment to register the name. Then all the moisture seemed to evaporate from his throat. The old man who had saved him from the Spartan gang was an Ephor! He cannot be! After the two kings, the five Ephors who formed the Ephorate were the most powerful men in Sparta. Some said they were even more powerful than the two Kings themselves, because without them the Kings could not declare war. They were the ultimate guardians of Spartan law.

  ‘An E–Ephor?’ he managed to say. ‘What would he want with me?’ Of course, Lysander already knew. He wants the Fire of Ares, his mind screamed.

  A smirk crept across Agestes’s face.

  ‘You had best find out,’ he said. He pulled a piece of parchment out of a pocket inside his tunic, and held it out to Lysander. ‘You are to take this with you. It will ensure safe passage – or so they say.’

  Lysander hesitated before taking the parchment. It felt fragile in his rough hands. It was forbidden for Helots to enter the Spartan district without permission. Looking closely he saw the sheet was covered in writing. Agestes laughed.

  ‘What? Do not pretend a dunce like you can actually read!’ he said. ‘You couldn’t even write your own name?’

  Lysander felt the blood rise to the surface of his cheeks. It was true, he could not read or write, but what Helot could? Certainly not Agestes.

  ‘Take the western road from Amikles, then the right fork at the shrine of Apollo,’ said the overseer. He stalked away. After he had gone a few paces, he turned and spoke one last time.

  ‘See you tomorrow in the fields … if you are lucky!’

  CHAPTER 8

  The village of Amikles was about an hour’s walk from the house Lysander and his mother shared. The midday sun blazed overhead. He followed the river for most of the way, which wound its way from the Taygetos Mountains to the southern sea. At this time of year, the water was low and the current hardly noticeable. By the banks, thrushes swooped, gorging themselves on insects that swarmed in the heat. Muddy islands rose in the middle of the river, too, and Lysander watched as a solitary stork paraded on its skinny legs, eyeing the shallow water for fish. Lysander had never set foot in this district before. He heard it housed only the wealthiest Spartans. There were no Helot settlements blotting the landscape here.

  On the outskirts, Lysander passed the men’s dining messes. These great barracks halls were where Spartan men ate, slept and trained together until they were thirty years old. Such barracks were scattered through the Spartan territories as a constant reminder of Spartan power. As he watched, the gates of one creaked open. Two columns of red-cloaked men marched out, carrying matching glinting shields. The voice of a commander carried across the empty air.

  ‘Phalanx positions!’

  Soundlessly, the two columns each ordered themselves into four rows, several men long. The two sets of men stood facing one another, perhaps fifty paces apart. From his vantage point, Lysander could not make out their faces. The commander shouted again:

  ‘Attack drill!’

  Each group proceeded forward, first at a walking pace, then a jog, then faster still. As they drew together, both sets of men were running at full speed. They met with a crash. Lysander could see that several of the front row had fallen, but the remainder pushed on, leaning their combined weight against the opposing side, digging their heels into the ground. The thick afternoon air carried their shouts, until the side of the left began to gain the advantage. Their opponents were being shifted backwards. One by one they were turned or fell. The conquering phalanx did not stop, but simply walked over their fallen comrades. Finally, the right team collapsed entirely, and the winning squad ran straight past them. Lysander shuddered. It was hard to imagine that no bones had been broken in the brutal exercise. But Lysander was exhilarated too. As he continued on his way, the victorious chanting of the winners made his skin tingle. />
  The barracks faded into the distance as he reached the town itself. Passing the western side of Amikles, Lysander was surprised to see that some of the homes were not much grander than his own, but as he climbed the hill, wooden and mud walls gave way to stone. He walked by a residence with wide, columned gateways, through which he glimpsed a Helot slave, rushing with a platter of food. The streets were quiet.

  Sarpedon’s house was in the wealthiest area of the village. At a junction Lysander followed the right fork and soon saw the house set back from the road. His feet slowed as he gazed upwards. The building looked more like a palace than a house to him. It was two storeys tall, and gleamed white in the bright sunshine. The roof was covered in neat red tiles. A row of grapevines, laden with fruit, separated the house from the path, and his stomach rumbled.

  I am about to enter the house of an Ephor – the men most hated by the Helots!

  Resisting the urge to stuff his mouth with grapes, he walked towards the wide entrance. There was no door, and what he saw through the opening took his breath away: a huge, sun-filled courtyard, open to the sky, filled the central section of the house. Trees and other plants that he didn’t recognise grew in pots and there was even a pond in the centre. Exotic purple flowers floated on the surface of the water. The luxury was beyond anything Lysander had ever seen. Around the edges of the yard was a shady colonnade, supported by wide, blue-and-white painted columns. Lysander spotted a girl of about his own age. She was dangling a strip of brightly coloured linen. At her feet a pet tortoise ambled, stretching its scaly neck to bite the end.

  ‘Hello,’ said Lysander, taking a few steps into the courtyard. The girl turned quickly and looked him up and down. Her dark hair was gathered loosely in a band. Her face was a long oval, a little like his own. Picking up the tortoise, she walked away without saying a word.

  Lysander was left alone, and ill at ease. He noticed that the floor beneath his feet was decorated with hundreds of tiny coloured tiles, intricately arranged. As he stood back, he could see they formed the image of two horses facing each other.