Birth of a Warrior (13 page)

‘Come on!' said Demaratos, offering his hand. ‘The wolves are coming.'

Lysander took his arm and climbed to his feet.
Agesilaus was on all fours, trying to shake his head clear.

‘I'll kill you both like Helot swine!' he shouted. The knife was back in his hand.

Lysander saw the first wolf enter the clearing behind Agesilaus. He yanked Demaratos towards him.

Agesilaus spun around, but it was too late. The wolf flew through the air and sank its teeth in his arm. The Spartan screamed and tried to punch the wolf, but it kept its grip. Lysander saw a second wolf break cover. They'd all be dead soon.

‘We need to climb!' shouted Lysander, scanning the clearing. If they could get into a tree, they might survive.

‘There!' said Demaratos, pointing to a large boulder at the base of a clump of trees. As Agesilaus fought with the first wolf, its mate tore at the back of his leg. He collapsed to one knee, and a howl escaped his lips. Lysander leapt on to the boulder behind Demaratos, who was already pulling himself into the branches above as a third wolf darted across towards the boulder.

Lysander had one hand on the branch as the wolf bounded up behind him. It tried to come for his legs, but he managed to swing them out of the way as the teeth snapped at his shins. Demaratos grabbed him from above and heaved him up into the tree.

‘Thanks,' gasped Lysander. The wolf snarled below, but it couldn't reach them.

Agesilaus writhed in the middle of the clearing, his free hand clawing at the wolf that was tearing at his leg, but it was useless. The third wolf jumped down from the boulder and sank its teeth into the side of Agesilaus' neck. Blood spattered across its fur and the older boy's cry of agony made Lysander's blood run cold.

‘I can't watch,' said Demaratos, turning his head away.

But Lysander forced his eyes to stay on the scene of slaughter. Agesilaus had killed his friend. Now he would suffer, too. Agesilaus twisted on the ground, letting out a weak moan. The wolf at his neck released him, and the others followed suit, letting his body fall from their jaws. Their interest was waning; the attack was over. They stood over his prone figure, their chests rising and falling as their breathing misted the air.

One at a time, they left the Spartan lying in the dust, and loped away into the trees. One of them ran over towards the dead wolf and nuzzled its fur. Then it turned and disappeared into the dark. Lysander watched the shapes of the three wolves merge with the forest shadows. Then they were gone.

Lysander and Demaratos waited in the tree as silence settled over the clearing.

‘Let's go down,' said Lysander. ‘They're not coming back.'

Demaratos nodded. They lowered themselves on to
the boulder and climbed down. Walking towards Agesilaus' body, Lysander could see there was a great deal of blood on the ground. One of Agesilaus' hands twitched.

‘May the Gods have pity on him,' whispered Demaratos. ‘The wolves must have attacked him for sport.'

Lysander approached Agesilaus. His face was a ghostly white and flecked with blood, his breathing shallow. The side of his throat was almost completely ripped away, revealing the glistening red muscle beneath. His lips moved, but no sound emerged apart from a gurgle of blood. His half-closed eyelids fluttered. The only sound was the breath rattling through Agesilaus' chest.

Lysander crouched down beside the body.

‘Can't we help him?' said Demaratos.

‘It's too late,' said Lysander.

Agesilaus' eyes flickered open.

‘Lysan …' he croaked.

‘He wants to say something to you,' said Demaratos.

Lysander lowered his ear to Agesilaus' mouth. Would he apologise with his last breath?
Can I forgive him?

Agesilaus' breathing was coming in short gasps now.

‘Helot scum,' he whispered. He didn't take another breath.

Lysander's face tightened as he got to his feet.

‘What did he say?' Demaratos asked.

As the light dimmed in Agesilaus' eyes, Lysander turned to Demaratos.

‘It's not important.' He looked back down at the boy who had been his tormentor. ‘A beast is dead.'

The birds began their song with first light.

Lysander led the way down from the mountain, hurrying along the path as dawn broke over the hills to the east. His feet were soaked by the dew, but he didn't care; it washed away the blood. He and Demaratos were returning home, leaving behind the mountains, and death. He had faced the test of a true Spartan. He had completed the Ordeal, killing fish, bird and beast. He'd entered the mountains a boy; he was leaving them a man.

As they emerged from the trees, the villages and fields of Sparta appeared below. Everything looked so small from this height. All this was at stake if the Persian army descended upon them.

Lysander looked at his companion. His face burned with shame when he thought what Agesilaus had put them through. He put out a hand to stop Demaratos.

‘Demaratos,' he began, ‘what happened back there …'

‘You were a hero,' said his companion. ‘Don't feel ashamed of your Ordeal. And, don't worry, I have no intention of letting any of my friends know how much Agesilaus humiliated us. I'll have the glory instead, thanks very much! Anything else … well, can stay in the mountains.'

Lysander knew he and Demaratos had earned each other's respect – that much, at least, had happened over the past few days. But could Demaratos be trusted now that they were returning to the barracks? He'd find out soon enough.

‘Come on,' said Lysander. ‘We'd better hurry.'

They passed the vineyards and olive groves of the lower slopes. The Helot settlement lay further off. Timeon would be buried now, his family back at work, trying to put aside their loss. Lysander remembered the smoke rising from the villages by the sea, and imagined the Persians committing the same carnage here. The settlement, with its tightly packed houses, would burn quickly. Would Timeon's family soon be buried beside him? It was unthinkable. With Ares' blessing, the Spartan army would destroy any invaders, surely. But what if the Gods weren't listening? All Lysander knew was that they had to get back to Sparta – fast.

They made it to the main track into Sparta. Lysander had a stitch in his side, but was still trying to run. Demaratos jogged along beside him. Lysander could tell by the sheen of sweat that his companion was fighting the pain from the boar injury. A band of
Helots were making their way towards the village. Between them was a cart drawn by a donkey. It was laden with food – cheeses and olive jars – and stacks of firewood. Lysander's stomach growled.

The cart trundled to a halt as they approached and the men turned to look at them. Lysander realised that their unwashed bodies and grubby tunics made them look even poorer than Helots.

‘Do you have any food for two travellers?' said Lysander, coming to a stop.

‘This food is for the troops,' said a bearded man, sitting on the back of the cart. ‘But I'm sure they won't miss a lump of cheese.' He used a small blade to cut two chunks, which he passed to Demaratos and Lysander.

‘What troops do you speak of?' asked Demaratos.

The Helot looked at him as though he was mad.

‘Have the Gods taken your senses, young one? All of Sparta is gearing for the attack. Where have you been?'

Lysander breathed a sigh of relief. A messenger must have got through from the south after all. Or perhaps Sparta had seen the smoke in the distance. It wasn't too late.

‘We've been in the mountains for five days,' he said.

‘In that case, fortune smiles on you,' said the man. ‘You have been spared the preparations for war. Our masters have ordered all supplies to be brought to the centre of the villages. The army is gathering its strength to face the Persians.'

‘The Persians are fools,' said Demaratos. ‘No army has ever defeated Sparta.'

The Helots all laughed and Demaratos flushed. Lysander realised that they thought they were Helot boys.

‘Let us hope you are right, young one,' said the bearded man. ‘They say Vaumisa has ships filled with the strongest men of Persia, who carry swords so sharp that they can cut a man in half from scalp to bowels.'

‘Who is Vaumisa?' asked Lysander. The name sounded exotic, and deadly.

The Helot patted the donkey's neck, and it began walking again. Lysander and Demaratos trailed behind.

‘Vaumisa is the most powerful general of the Persian King, Cyrus. It was he who led the assaults on the Eastern Ionian provinces, defeating King Croesus and taking Miletos.'

Lysander had heard stories of the destruction waged upon distant lands, but they had always seemed so far away. By the time the reports reached Sparta they were as much myth as fact.

‘But those lands are many days away,' he said.

‘Vaumisa made slaves of the Greeks there. He set them to work stripping the forests and building a fleet of ships to carry his soldiers to Sparta.'

Demaratos laughed. ‘The Athenians are cowards. A puff of wind would send them running. We'll show Cyrus that it takes more than one general and a few thousand men to challenge the might of Sparta.'

‘You have a great deal of affection for the Spartans, boy,' said the Helot on the back of the cart. ‘Maybe you should have your mother knit you a red cloak and you can pretend to be one.'

‘Be careful how you mock the Spartans!' said Demaratos, placing a hand on the edge of the cart. ‘You could be flogged to death for such impertinence.'

Lysander began to worry. He knew that Demaratos had Agesilaus' dagger in his sack. The Helot looked at his companions uneasily.

‘I see no Spartans here. Do you?'

Lysander watched Demaratos's face for signs of anger, but there was only a sly smile.

‘No,' said his friend eventually. ‘I see no Spartans here.' Demaratos came to a stop and allowed the cart to pull ahead of him.

The two boys watched the Helots disappear round a turn in the road. Lysander breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe Demaratos really had changed.

As the barracks came into view Demaratos broke into an uneven run. The building that Lysander had once despised – with its cold dark walls and hard lessons – now looked like home.
I'll never complain about my bed of rushes again
, he promised himself.
And I'll never take another meal for granted
.

Lysander dashed through a side door into the dormitory, expecting to find his fellow students. The room was empty.

‘Where is everyone?' asked Demaratos, throwing down his sack. The sound of voices came from outside.

They wandered into the training yard. All of the barracks students were standing in four neat rows, with Diokles pacing up and down. When Lysander saw the boys' red cloaks, he felt a rush of affection. These boys were his brothers in arms. It had taken him an Ordeal to realise this.

A few of the students looked over when Lysander and Demaratos came into the yard. Lysander heard someone whisper, ‘They're back!'

Diokles turned to face them. His brow creased as he looked past them expectantly.
He's looking for Agesilaus
, Lysander realised. Diokles raised his eyebrows slightly, then turned back to the other boys.

‘You are missing someone,' he said, without looking at them.

Lysander looked at Demaratos, who gave him a small nod. Lysander spoke loudly, so that everyone could hear.

‘Agesilaus didn't make it through the Ordeal. He was torn apart by a pack of wolves.'

A gasp came from the assembled students. Diokles whipped round. He brought his face up close to Lysander's and seized him by the scruff of his tunic.

‘You did nothing to help him?'

‘There was nothing we could do,' said Lysander, meeting the tutor's gaze. ‘By the time we approached it was all over.'

Lysander braced himself for a blow. But the tutor's face cracked into an ugly smile.

‘I was Agesilaus' guide when he went through his own Ordeal. It seems I should have been tougher with him. You have passed the test, but let his death be a reminder that sterner challenges will come.' He turned to face the others. ‘For now, let us congratulate the triumph of Demaratos and Lysander.'

The students let out a huge cheer and rushed forward. Lysander let them swarm around him. He peered through the crowd and spotted Orpheus, bringing up the rear as he hobbled over with his stick.

‘Orpheus!' Lysander called over. ‘How goes it?' A smile lit up his friend's face. Lysander had never been so pleased to see anyone. He pushed through the other boys to embrace his friend. They clung to each other, and Lysander realised that this was the first show of affection he had been given in days. Finally, Orpheus pulled away, wrinkling his nose.

‘You need a bath,' he said.

‘I need a meal and three days' sleep too,' said Lysander.

Leonidas waited behind Orpheus, shifting on his feet.

‘What is it?' asked Lysander.

Leonidas came forward and held out his palm. The Fire of Ares lay coiled in the centre.

‘Lysander, I don't know how to tell …'

‘It's all right,' Lysander interrupted. ‘I know about Timeon.'

Lysander took the Fire of Ares and read the inscription again. The letters were in an ancient language, but he knew what they said:
The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous.
‘Is that what I am?' muttered Lysander, remembering how he'd watched Agesilaus bleed to death.

Behind them, Demaratos had been hoisted on to his friends' shoulders and was being borne aloft around the exercise yard. ‘What happened to your leg?' asked Prokles.

‘I fought off a wild boar,' he was saying, ‘but that was nothing compared to the wolf.'

‘You fought a wolf?' said Ariston.