Birth of a Warrior (16 page)

Tellios looked at Sarpedon, then at Alexandros, and finally at Lysander.

‘Simple,' he said. ‘The winner will be the one who's still alive.'

Alexandros drew his sword and came forward. Suddenly he didn't look like the idle soldier who had mocked Lysander at the gates. He looked like a soldier, intent on killing. Lysander held up his sword and swung it in an arc. Alexandros leapt forward, aiming at Lysander's chest. He parried downwards and spun away. Alexandros turned and came again, slicing at Lysander's head. Lysander ducked under the blow and came up, head-butting the Spartan under his nose, which exploded in a spatter of blood. Alexandros fell down with a cry of pain and dropped his sword, bringing both hands to his smashed nose. Lysander stood above the Spartan, his sword ready.

‘Stop!' shouted Sarpedon. ‘I'll have no more death in my home.'

An image of Lysander's mother flooded his brain. Breathing heavily, Lysander let his arms drop. He looked at Tellios.

‘Now will you accept my word?' he asked.

Tellios' face was set in anger, but he gave a nod of his head. He looked at Kyros.

‘Take your worthless friend away, and make sure all your barracks know that he lost to a boy.'

Kyros came forward and helped Alexandros to his feet. Trailing blood, they left the courtyard.

‘Maybe Lysander's right,' said Myron, stroking his chin. ‘If we do flee the city, the Persians might arm the Helots against us. That would make it impossible to regain control.'

‘And the Athenians would laugh at us,' said another man.

‘Enough talk,' said Sarpedon, addressing the gathering. ‘It is time for action. Have your men assemble into two groups. Myron will command the eastern flank, Tellios that on the west. We will march before dawn, and meet Vaumisa's army on the plains south of Sparta. Death and honour.'

‘Death and honour!' shouted the men, three times. On the third chorus, Lysander joined in. He had proved himself, but he knew the ultimate test was yet to come.

As the men left the villa, Sarpedon embraced each of them in turn, saying a few words. The atmosphere was grave and, when Lysander was alone with his grandfather, he saw that the older man was exhausted.

‘Come here, my boy,' said the Ephor as he sat on a wooden bench. The map was still open in front of them, and Lysander walked around it until he stood before his grandfather.

‘You were foolish to come here,' said Sarpedon. ‘You could have been killed on the spot.'

‘But I …'

‘You were also very brave,' he interrupted. ‘Like your father, Thorakis.'

Lysander saw tears flood his grandfather's eyes. ‘Brave and foolish,' he repeated. ‘It is not right for a son to die before his father, and even less for a grandson to meet death before an old man like me.' He stood up stiffly. ‘But come, this is no time for sadness. I will send word to your barracks and others to assemble before dawn. Strabo!' he shouted. The slave scurried out. ‘Take Lysander to a room and prepare him food.'

‘Yes, master,' said the slave. ‘Follow me, master Lysander.'

Lysander walked behind the slave, whose shoulders sagged. Strabo led him through a corridor and into a bedroom.

‘This is the room …'

‘… where Athenasia died,' said Strabo. ‘It is the only one left. The Ephors are staying here tonight also. Better than sleeping outdoors, I'm sure.'

Lysander looked at the bed where his mother had spent her final days.

‘Quite the Spartan now, aren't you?' said Strabo, leaning against the door frame and eyeing Lysander's cloak. All the obsequiousness he had shown Sarpedon only a few moments earlier had disappeared.

‘Half my blood is still Helot,' replied Lysander.

‘Ha!' sneered the slave. ‘You proved where your loyalties rested when you stood with the Spartans against us on the night of the Festival. How many Helots perished because of your actions?'

‘More would have died if your plot had succeeded,'
said Lysander, folding his arms.

‘But not your friend, Timeon …' said Strabo, with a sly glint in his eye.

Lysander didn't know what to say. Strabo was right. Lysander sank back to sit on the bed, momentarily defeated.

‘Anyway, when you meet him in the Underworld, you can offer your apologies.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, surely you can see that death is close. Your boys' battalion will give time for the real soldiers to attack, but you will all be killed. Why do you think the old man looks so wretched?'

‘Don't call him that,' said Lysander, bunching his fists.

‘Careful, master, save your strength until tomorrow.' Then Strabo slipped away, leaving Lysander alone.

Lysander dreamt that he was walking alone behind the cart that carried his mother's body. It was being pulled by Sarpedon's horse, Pegasus.

A voice broke the quiet, his mother's voice. It called to him:
Lysander, help me.
It came from among the folds of the shroud.
I'm still alive
, she whispered.
There's been a mistake, Lysander. Let me out of here.

Lysander shouted for Pegasus to stop, but the horse didn't even flick his ears. His hooves stepped forward relentlessly. Ahead, the grave came into view – a gaping black hole, cut into the earth. He ran up, took hold of Pegasus' reins and yanked hard. The dark head didn't move. The black eyes were glassy. Lysander pulled again, but the horse's neck was like stone. He went back to the cart, and scrambled on board beside the body. He pulled at the linen covering his mother's face. It was tightly wrapped and he couldn't understand how she was able to breathe. But still her voice called to him.
Let me out, Lysander. I want to see you again. It's all a
mistake.
As he pulled the layers away, he could make out features under the fragile linen: a nose, the hollows of her eyes.
That's right, Lysander. You're nearly there now.

He pulled the final swathe aside. But it wasn't his mother. It was Timeon. Lysander fell backwards off the cart, crying out in terror.

‘No!'

Lysander sat up in bed, panting for breath, his arms locked in front of him. The darkness in the room enveloped him.

A faint light appeared on the far wall. There were steps outside and a lantern appeared, illuminating Sarpedon's face. Strabo entered beside him, holding a bowl of steaming water.

‘It is time,' said his grandfather.

Lysander threw off the bedclothes and washed quickly. With his sandals fastened, he gathered his cloak around him and left the chamber. Outside, a fine layer of condensation coated the columns around the villa's courtyard. Ice seemed to hang in the air, stinging his throat with each breath. A horse waited at the entrance way, grey clouds of hot breath rising from its nostrils.

‘I prayed to the Gods for your safety in the mountains,' said Sarpedon. ‘Now I will thank them for your return.' He paused for a moment. ‘A messenger has brought word about Agesilaus' death.' Lysander couldn't tell if his grandfather was angry.

‘There was nothing we could …'

‘You owe me no explanations,' interrupted Sarpedon. ‘The mountains are the test of a man, and you have made me proud. Prouder even than when my two sons returned.' Lysander pulled back his shoulders – he knew such words would not come lightly from his grandfather. ‘Take my horse to the barracks,' said Sarpedon. ‘Your comrades are waiting for you.'

‘Where will you be?' asked Lysander.

‘I wish I could join you,' said Sarpedon, ‘but one Ephor must always remain in Sparta.' The moonlight caught a glint in Sarpedon's eye, and Lysander's grandfather gathered him in a tight embrace. ‘You will need all the skills you have learnt, son of Thorakis. And remember, death is the greatest honour for a Spartan warrior.' Lysander seized the reins of the horse, and swung himself into the saddle.

‘Death and honour!'

He kicked the horse's flank and galloped away from the villa. As he pounded through the bleak morning light, Lysander thought about Sarpedon's words. He'd said he was proud. Lysander was fired up with courage, though a part of him wondered if he'd ever see his grandfather again.

The sky was pale as Lysander tied up the horse outside the barracks. He ran inside. All the boys were fitting on their armour in the dormitory with the help of their slaves. Anxious faces turned to the door as he entered. Yesterday they had been boys talking about battles.
Now Lysander could see they knew that they were going to war.

‘Lysander!' said Leonidas, rushing forward.

Demaratos lifted off his helmet. A clean bandage was tied to his leg, and he smiled in welcome. ‘Sarpedon's hunchbacked messenger said you interrupted a Council meeting?'

Lysander nodded. ‘News travels quickly.'

‘And that you addressed the Ephors?' asked Leonidas.

Diokles marched into the room before Lysander could reply. He wore a dented breastplate over his chest, and a thick leather apron hung below. Both his forearms and shins were covered in armour. He carried a helmet under his arm.

‘Hurry up, all of you,' he bellowed. ‘Death does not like to be kept waiting.' His gaze fell on Lysander. ‘Ah, the mothax has returned! Get on your kit immediately. Assemble outside.'

Diokles turned to leave. Then he looked back at a corner of the barracks and hissed, ‘What in Hades are you doing?' Lysander looked over. There, by his bed, Orpheus was strapping a greave to his deformed leg.

‘I'm coming too,' he said, not even looking at the tutor. ‘Sparta needs every man able to fight.'

‘Don't be foolish, boy,' spat Diokles. ‘A cripple like you can't even stand straight to hold up a shield. You'd be no use in a shield wall. Stick to your music and singing.'

Orpheus pulled out his dagger, and hurled it through the air. It thudded into the wall a hand's breadth away from Diokles' face.

‘The shield wall isn't everything,' said Orpheus. His voice was menacing – Lysander had never heard this from his friend before.

Diokles pulled the dagger from the wall, and walked slowly to Orpheus. Every boy watched in silence. Lysander's lame friend lifted his chin and stared straight back at his tutor.
Diokles is going to kill him,
thought Lysander. He edged forward, pulling his own sword from its sheath. But Diokles turned the blade in his hand, offering the hilt to Orpheus. His friend took the dagger back and sheathed it.

‘Perhaps you can be useful,' admitted Diokles, before adding, ‘But never do that again.' He turned to the roomful of boys. ‘What are you all waiting for? Outside!'

Lysander darted to his chest, and pulled out the armour his grandfather had given him. He remembered the night of the Festival Games when Timeon had helped him fasten the pieces on. How long ago that seemed now. And how much had changed. The armour still sparkled from the last time Timeon had polished it. Around him, Helots helped the other boys climb into their armour, but Lysander struggled into his with no assistance. He placed a hand over the carving that rested against his chest.

‘I can't bring you back,' he muttered, ‘but I'll make you proud, Timeon.'

With the final arm-guard fastened, Lysander ran to the arms room and picked out a shield. Made of wood, it was coated in a layer of bronze, and marked with the Greek letter
L
to symbolise Lakedaimon, Sparta's ancient name. He slipped his hand between the two looped straps on the back and joined the lines of boys who waited in front of the barracks.

‘Get to the front, Lysander,' shouted Diokles. ‘You have completed the Ordeal.'

Lysander took his place beside Demaratos.

‘Death and honour!' said his new friend.

‘Death and honour!' Lysander replied.

As they walked towards Amikles, it felt like the day they'd set off towards the mountains. But this was no Ordeal. Lysander shifted his shield higher on to his arm. This was the ultimate test.

They fell into formation with four more sets of barracks students as they descended into the village. Lysander reckoned they were about five hundred strong now. They gathered at the stadium, the scene of Lysander's victory at the Festival Games. The parade ground was bustling with Helots, free-dwellers and red-cloaked Spartans. A few Spartans pushed through the crowd on horseback, barking orders. Mules were loaded with bags. Carts were piled with supplies. Sparks showered from a rotating grind-stone, where a barrel-chested man dripping with sweat held a soldier's sword to the spinning surface. A carpenter's mallet
sounded out a regular beat.

‘Put your shields in the baggage carts,' ordered Diokles. ‘You'll need to save your strength.'

They trooped over and handed their shields to a Helot who stood on the cart, stacking them high and binding the stacks with rope. As he wandered back towards Diokles, Lysander noticed a small figure folding linen bandages on the edge of the parade ground. There was something about those small, pale hands … He approached slowly, watching the delicate fingers as they smoothed the linen. Lysander drew near and snatched back the cloak's hood.

‘What are you doing here?' he asked.

‘Be quiet,' hissed Kassandra, pulling the hood back over her head. ‘You'll draw attention to me.'

‘You haven't answered my question. What do you think you're doing? Women don't fight for Sparta, and certainly not the granddaughter of an Ephor.'

‘I'm not going to join the army,' said Kassandra. She pointed to a Helot talking with a soldier a few paces away. ‘I've bribed that Helot to take me with the baggage.'

Lysander shook his head. He would have to put a stop to it.

‘Does Sarpedon know?' he asked.

‘Of course not,' said Kassandra. ‘You must promise me that you won't tell him.'