The Fire of Ares Read online

  ‘Put this on,’ he ordered. Lysander held the heavy woollen material out in front of him, and realised what it was. My first Spartan cloak! He wrapped the cloak over his shoulders, and attached it with a wooden clasp that Diokles handed to him. The garment was coarse and covered in dust, with a smell of sweat and mould, but Lysander did not care. He felt strange. Protected. He saw Timeon looking at him oddly.

  ‘It will take me some time to get used to you in that,’ his friend said. And then, wrinkling his nose, ‘I think it needs a wash too!’

  Diokles snorted. ‘A Spartan boy is given a new cloak at the beginning of every year, and only one. You will train, sleep and forage in that cloak, so look after it.’ Lysander looked at the grubby frayed edges of the cloak. Diokles raised his eyebrow in Timeon’s direction.

  ‘Your slave’s job will be to make sure all your equipment is kept clean and tidy, and to cook your meals with the other Helots. Make sure you beat him if he fails to perform his duties to your satisfaction. Helots are naturally lazy without discipline.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ said Lysander, but gave Timeon a smile.

  Diokles pushed them both through the door, and now they were in the dormitory proper. The long room had a low ceiling, with exposed beams spanning its width, and sleeping areas spread along both walls. No one was in there now. As they walked along, Lysander noticed that each boy’s area was largely the same: a simple wooden chest for belongings, a pair of leather sandals and a folded cloak, and the odd blanket as well. At the head of each low bed rested a round shield and beside it a pile of equipment. Lysander recognised a polished breastplate and some sort of hollowed-out shoulder guard. There was little to tell the sleeping areas apart, other than the occasional charm or wooden carving. Probably to remind them of their families, thought Lysander.

  When they reached three-quarters of the way down the dormitory, there was a gap between the beds.

  ‘This is yours,’ ordered Diokles.

  Lysander looked at the empty space in confusion – it was bare earth. ‘Where is the bed?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not your mother – you have to make your own here,’ came Diokles’ reply. ‘What did you expect, a mattress made of swan feathers? We raise Spartan men here, not Athenian boys! Most of the others go down to the river and pick a few rushes to sleep on. Itchy, but at least you will keep yourself warm with scratching. Be back before the lunch bell.’ He stalked away.

  Lysander looked at Timeon. What had he come to?

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘I swear by the Gods that the ground shakes when Diokles walks,’ said Timeon.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to cross him,’ said Lysander. ‘He makes Agestes look like a puppy.’ Lysander and his friend stood up to their knees in the waters of the Eurotas, gathering the tops of the bulrushes. Without a knife it was difficult to break the stems, but working together they managed to steadily fill Lysander’s cloak. The water was icy cold and Lysander could not feel his feet any more. But he was glad to be out of the barracks. Being confined with so many Spartans frightened him. Half his mind wondered whether or not to simply run back to the fields and his old life. But the other half was on the Fire of Ares. He did not know how he would ever find the jewel – perhaps it was not in the barracks at all. One thing was for certain, he needed as much help as he could get. It was time to tell his friend.

  ‘Timeon,’ he said. ‘There is something I have been keeping from you.’

  Timeon looked up and grinned. But the smile melted away as he looked in Lysander’s eyes.

  ‘A secret?’ he said seriously.

  Lysander told Timeon about the Fire of Ares, about its past, and the theft. By the time he had finished, Timeon stood with his arms hanging limp by his side.

  ‘I thought we were friends,’ he said.

  Lysander waded over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘We are. I’m sorry I never told you before,’ said Lysander. ‘But I made a promise to my mother. I did not know how important the pendant was until last night.’

  ‘And you think it might be in the barracks?’ said Timeon.

  ‘It’s possible, but I think the thief might have been dressed as a Helot. The knife was made of flint. I need you to keep your eyes and ears open for me. You are the only one I can trust.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’Timeon said.

  In the distance they heard the clanging of the lunch bell.

  ‘Quick,’ said Lysander, scrambling to the bank, and gathering the four corners of his cloak into a knot. ‘If we don’t get back it could be us hanging from that pillar.’

  Timeon went to arrange Lysander’s bed. The dining mess was in the back section of the barracks, and long trestle tables occupied the length of the room. Spartan boys sat along the wooden benches tucking into their food. Huge loaves of bread and shallow dishes of olives were spread out along the table, while bowls held half-melted animal fat. Not so different from a Helot’s diet. The other boys tore off chunks of bread, and ate without plates. They scooped cups of water from buckets along the table. The sound of their shouting and raucous laughter filled the room. It seemed like a free-for-all.

  Lysander saw a place to sit, but as he drew nearer two boys shuffled along to close the gap. No one looked at him, but he heard someone mutter, ‘No room here for you, Athandros.’ He walked further up the table, towards another gap. He was about to sit, when a boy placed his hand firmly in the space. ‘Sorry, Athandros, this place is taken.’ A few chuckles spread along the table and Lysander’s face burned. Someone shouted out: ‘Nowhere to sit, Athandros?’ The message was clear, but why were they calling him by that name? He could not let them get to him. If there was nowhere to sit, he would eat standing up. Lysander reached on to the table to claim a piece of bread. But before he could take it, the person in front grabbed it. When the boy turned, Lysander saw that it was Demaratos.

  ‘Sorry, Helot, you have to train to earn your food. Not splash around all morning in the river.’

  Lysander made a lunge for the piece of bread, but Demaratos was too quick for him. He threw it down the table, where another boy caught it. A familiar voice rang out from further down the hall.

  ‘Lysander! There’s a space for you here.’ Looking down the length of the table, Lysander saw the boy from the market the day before.

  ‘Orpheus!’ he said. The rest of the table suddenly went quiet, and Demaratos’s brow creased in confusion.

  ‘Better run away,’ he said.

  Lysander made his way towards Orpheus. It was a relief to see a friendly face. All eyes on the table followed his steps. Lysander slipped into the space beside Orpheus. A collective gasp escaped the other diners.

  ‘I should have realised you’d be here,’ he said. The lame boy gave a wary smile back.

  ‘Well, I could say the same thing. I saw you this morning in the training yard.’ Orpheus leant closer and whispered. ‘People say you’re a mothakes – is that true?’

  Lysander nodded, and Orpheus cast a glance along the table.

  ‘Well, you should be careful. Demaratos and some of the others have got it in for you; they say you should not even share the same table as a true Spartan.’ He must have seen the look of concern on Lysander’s face, because he added, ‘Just watch your back. Here, I saved some hot food for you.’ He pushed a small bowl of stew towards Lysander. ‘You will need some energy for this afternoon’s training.’

  Lysander thanked him, then thought back to what the other boys had said to him.

  ‘Orpheus, why did they call me Athandros?’

  His friend stopped chewing, and looked down at the table. After a couple of heartbeats, his eyes returned to Lysander.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Don’t dwell on it.’ But Lysander could see that the Spartan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. What’s he hiding from me? Before he could ask, Orpheus changed the subject.

  ‘Diokles put you in Prince Leonidas’s squad?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ repli
ed Lysander.

  ‘That is my team, too. And if you look to your left …’ he gestured with a piece of bread at a boy a few places along the table on the opposite side, ‘… that is Leonidas. He is the second best athlete here after Demaratos, whom you met in the yard. Leonidas’s father is one of the two kings of Sparta.’ Lysander gazed at the tall, pale-skinned boy. Orpheus continued, ‘Of course, being a prince counts for nothing here. Anyway, he is the second son, so he cannot be king unless his brother dies.’

  The groups at the table were breaking up now. Boys finished their lunch and made their way out of the hall. Lysander was hastily eating a few extra mouthfuls of lentils, when a voice boomed from above him, and a finger jabbed at his shoulder.

  ‘How are you settling in, Athandros?’ Lysander turned to see Demaratos and two companions. He recognised them from the fight in the alley: stocky, sniggering Ariston and gangly Prokles.

  Orpheus used his stick to lift himself up. He was hardly an intimidating sight, but Demaratos and his gang took a step back when they saw him. A shadow of uncertainty crept across their faces.

  ‘You are very sure of yourself, Demaratos,’ said Orpheus. ‘But remember that the Gods curse the proud. Apollo flayed Marsyas alive for daring to challenge him. He hung his skin from a tree.’

  Demaratos and his friends backed away. Ariston tripped over a bench. When Demaratos was at a safe distance, he seemed to regain some of his cockiness.

  ‘See you on the training ground, mythokos,’ he said. Then the three of them walked away.

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ muttered Lysander.

  The yard was baking in the afternoon sun, but it was the malevolent stares of the other boys that Lysander felt burning into him. Timeon had gone to help clean up the dining hall with the other Helots. At least they were ignored and anonymous here.

  The boys stood lined up against the wall as Diokles paced in front of them. In his hand he held a bronze Spartan shield. It was marked with a shape like an open triangle, which Orpheus said was the Greek letter L, to symbolise Sparta’s ancient name, Lakedaimon.

  ‘This is a Spartan’s best friend – his shield. Even if you lose your spear and sword in battle, then as long as you have your shield, you will live. When a phalanx meets its enemy, you must stand firm with this shield. It protects not just you, but the man on your left side. The only excuse for leaving your fellow warriors is death. As every Spartan mother will say to her son going to battle: “Return with your shield, or on it.” Remember that, boys. I lost my eye to a cowardly mercenary archer, but I still kept in line. There is no greater shame than cowardice, and no greater honour than death.’

  ‘Honour and death!’ shouted the boys in unison, three times. On the third Lysander joined in. He enjoyed the flame of pride that flickered in his chest.

  ‘You!’ ordered Diokles, stabbing a finger towards Lysander. ‘Do you think you could stand firm in a real battle?’ Lysander lifted his chin.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ he shouted.

  ‘Well, come forward,’ said Diokles. ‘Let us see how well you shoulder a Spartan shield.’

  He stepped out of the line. I’ll show them what a Messenian can do!

  ‘Extend your left arm,’ ordered Diokles. Lysander thrust his hand out. Close up he could see that the shield was a wide wooden dish coated in a thin layer of bronze. There were two looped wooden handles on the back: one through which to thread his left arm, the other to grip with his hand. It looked heavy, but it would not be a problem. Diokles positioned the shield and then let the full weight rest on Lysander’s shoulder. With a thud the shield pulled his arm downwards and hit the floor. A roar of laughter erupted from the other Spartans, and Lysander felt like a fool.

  ‘Silence!’ bellowed Diokles, though Lysander could see he was enjoying the spectacle as much as the others. I’ll prove them wrong! Lysander promised himself. I am the son of Thorakis. He focused his mind on the shield. Tensing his shoulder muscles, he heaved it from the ground. He could not help the grunt that escaped his mouth, but he managed to hold the shield aloft. His arm started shaking almost immediately, but he stared straight into Diokles’ eye. It wasn’t a victory, but nor was it defeat.

  ‘Perhaps there is some hope for you,’ said the tutor quietly. ‘Enough.’

  Lysander was grateful to put the shield down again. His arm was feather light without the burden.

  ‘Groups of three – sword practice!’ commanded Diokles. With barely a word, the boys began to order themselves, but each way Lysander looked, eyes were averted. Clearly no one wanted a new boy in their group.

  ‘Over here,’ came Orpheus’s voice. Lysander saw that he was with Leonidas, and he jogged over to make up a three. At an equipment stand on the edge of the yard, Orpheus picked up a wooden shield, slightly smaller than the one Diokles had used for the demonstration and without the inlaid layer of bronze. Leonidas took a wooden sword and handed another to Lysander. He looked at the weapon, confused.

  ‘What am I to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Why, attack me, of course,’ said Orpheus.

  Lysander watched as the groups around them began to fight. Swords crashed on shields, as two boys attacked each single shield bearer. It did not look like a game.

  ‘Come on!’ said Leonidas, and lunged at Orpheus, who parried the blow.

  Lysander stepped forward and swung his sword slowly at Orpheus’s shield.

  ‘No, you’re doing it wrong,’ said Orpheus. ‘You’re aiming at my shield, not me! I won’t have that luxury in battle.’

  And so Lysander attacked again, aiming at Orpheus’s chest.

  ‘Faster,’ said the lame Spartan. ‘Like you’re trying to hurt me …’

  And so it went on. Lysander soon discovered that he could not have hit Orpheus even if he had wanted to. Even when he was sure one of his shots would hit its target Orpheus seemed to manoeuvre his shield into position, or flex his body out of harm’s way. Soon Lysander was feigning and thrusting as fast as possible, trying to batter through Orpheus’s defences. Still, not a single shot was successful, as Orpheus ducked and dodged to protect himself. He moved fluidly, despite his bad leg. Orpheus had had a lifetime of living with his lameness. It was clear that any disadvantage it might once have been had disappeared. Lysander’s friend was as good a fighter as anyone.

  ‘Change over!’ boomed Diokles. This time it was Lysander’s turn with the shield. It was much lighter than the adult one, but still difficult to manoeuvre. Diokles watched them closely.

  ‘If you two go easy on him, you will be punished.’

  ‘Ready?’ asked Leonidas.

  ‘I think so,’ replied Lysander.

  Leonidas thrust at his chest, and Orpheus towards his legs. He dropped his shield to stop one blow, but the other hit his shoulder. He could tell they were not being as powerful as they should, but the wood still bruised.

  ‘Faster!’ ordered Diokles. ‘He has to learn.’

  This time the blows came harder. One hit his shin, the other his stomach. They made him angry, with both Orpheus and Leonidas, but also with himself.

  ‘Just relax,’ said Leonidas. ‘Your body is so tight, you cannot move smoothly. Imagine you are like water, flowing around an object.’

  Lysander tried to do what the prince suggested, and it worked a little. Orpheus’s sword rang out against his shield, and Leonidas’s missed altogether as he ducked to the left.

  ‘Better,’ said Orpheus.

  As they fought, Lysander began to recognise when a blow was coming and in what direction by looking for little movements in his opponents’ arms. Still, he was jerky and stiff, and several shots landed. Every time he blocked successfully, they congratulated him. It was slow, but he was learning. By the end of his turn, though he was dripping with sweat, he wanted to carry on.

  ‘Good for a first attempt,’ said Leonidas, shouldering his shield for his stint defending, ‘but you’ll hurt later.’

  Lysander didn’t believe him. Feeling the sword balanced in hi
s hand, he felt he could carry on all day.

  The prince was right. With dinner over and the dusk muting the colours of day, Lysander lay on his back, unable to sleep. His cloak was wrapped tightly around him, keeping the cold out at least, but the rushes hardly softened the ground at all, and every time he shifted, a new ache appeared. The angry purple bruises across his arms and thighs throbbed in the darkness, despite the lavender ointment that Timeon had found for him. A light draught fingered its way through the windows and made the room pleasantly cool. But it was not only his sore and heavy limbs that were bothering him. This was the first night he had spent away from home, and away from his mother. He wondered how she was feeling. He was grateful that Orpheus had been able to swap berths with his neighbour. It made him feel a bit safer to have an ally nearby.

  Diokles called for lights out, and Lysander leant across to extinguish his candle. Now the whispering started, at first no more than a rustle in the darkness, but soon coiling like snakes around his bed. He could here snatches of conversation all around him. The voices seemed to jump around the room: ‘He shouldn’t be here’, ‘What good is a Helot going to be in battle?’, ‘Who is his father?’ Lysander tried to block out the sounds. But then the voices started to address him.

  ‘Are you missing your mother, Helot?’

  He peered into the darkness nearby where he knew Orpheus was lying. Could he not hear the taunts? Lysander felt suffocated and afraid.

  ‘Do not close your eyes tonight, Athandros.’

  That name again. The voices sounded like they were all around him now, closing in, like evil spirits shifting and swirling in the blackness.

  ‘Athandros, Athandros, Athandros.’

  Lysander shot out a hand to protect himself.

  ‘Ouch!’ said Orpheus. ‘What did you do that for?’

  The spell was broken. The voices stopped suddenly and Lysander’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. He saw his friend roll off his front and half sit up.

  ‘Orpheus,’ he hissed. ‘Who is Athandros?’

  The Spartan made a show of rubbing his bad leg a little as he leant close to Lysander.