Birth of a Warrior (19 page)

Isolated Persians were edging around the rear of the Spartan troops. Diokles charged his horse through a group of the enemy, scattering them. One managed to grab his reins and Lysander saw his tutor slip from the saddle into the mess of bodies. He darted forward to help.

‘I'm coming,' he shouted. But a solitary Persian rounded to face Lysander and grinned, showing teeth filed to points. Lysander kept running, dropped to a crouch, and lifted his shield to block the Persian's scimitar. He swung his own sword. The blade sliced into his enemy's leg and lodged against the thigh-bone. The Persian screamed. Lysander pulled out the sword, shoved the Persian back with his shield, and swung again at the neck. The head flew off in an arc and the corpse coiled to the floor.

A body crashed into Lysander, sending him sprawling to the ground. Ariston. Blood bubbled from between his lips as he mouthed a silent prayer – half a spear was protruding from his back. Lysander eased Ariston's body off himself. A Persian stood above them, holding the other half of the spear. Lysander kicked him in the shin. The Persian bent over. The distraction was enough. Lysander swung his sword, slicing through his enemy's
cheek and sending him spinning to the ground. But the Persian was still alive, and turned slowly, his mouth open in a bloody roar of pain. Lysander scrambled over, lifting his shield. The Persian's eyes were wide with astonishment as Lysander rammed the rim down hard across the neck, killing him instantly.

Lysander climbed to his feet, feeling every muscle in his body fired with power, tears of anger and fear streaming down his cheeks. He wanted to throw himself back into the fight, to kill again or be killed. The battle raged; around him were the sounds of metal on metal, of death-cries and swords slicing into flesh, of terror and pain. Diokles was up and hacking at a figure on the ground, who was desperately trying to protect himself as the blade's edge cut him to pieces. All around, Persians and Spartans mixed in a crowd of slaughter – it was impossible to tell which side was winning. Lysander pulled his shield up, seized his sword and plunged amongst them. He found Orpheus, bravely facing two Persians. He moved just as he had on the training ground – ducking below their scimitars and fending off blows with his shield and sword.

‘I'll show you the taste of iron,' Lysander shouted. One of the Persians turned to deal with him, thrusting at his face. Lysander dodged to the side, feeling the edge of the blade nick his helmet. He hacked down hard at the Persian's shoulder, severing his arm. It clattered to the ground, still holding the sword.

But the Persian didn't give up, and kicked Lysander
fiercely in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him, before grabbing the sword from his own severed hand. Blood poured down his side as he came forward, swinging the blade in dizzying arcs. Lysander straightened and stood his ground.

‘Come on, you Persian dog!' he screamed. ‘I'll show you how a Spartan fights.'

The Persian brought his sword down from above and Lysander blocked with his shield. He drove his own blade into the Persian's belly. The soldier let out a pitiful cry and toppled backwards.

Lysander pulled out the sword and the Persian squirmed on the ground. A few paces away, Orpheus swung his sword at the Persian in front of him with a grunt. A thin red line appeared across his throat. Blood overflowed the gash and drained down his front. Orpheus finished the job with a stab to the heart. He turned to Lysander; his eyes were wild and his armour covered in blood.

‘This is nothing like the training in the barracks,' he said.

There was a flash of metal, and Orpheus's face twisted as he looked down. A small, two-headed axe was buried in his leg. A Persian, heavily armoured in an unusual suit of linked metal pieces, stepped close. He was carrying a second axe. He brought the handle down on Orpheus's helmeted head, and Lysander's friend crumpled to the ground. Lysander ran towards him.

‘Get away from him!'

The Persian was reaching down to pull his other axe from Orpheus's leg, when Lysander's sword struck his arm. The blade didn't pierce the armour, and sent shockwaves through Lysander's shoulder. He swung again, this time at the head. The Persian moved forward at the same time, under the blow and burying his shoulder into Lysander's stomach. Lysander was lifted off the ground, and thrown through the air. His sword slipped from his fingers as he smashed back on to the earth.

The soldier trudged forward, knelt on Lysander's chest and landed a heavy blow to the side of his helmet with the axe. The Persian aimed another blow, but Lysander managed to lift his arm and deflect it with his elbow. He was losing strength. His opponent swung again, and Lysander felt the axe bite into the top of his arm. He couldn't help the cry that escaped his lips. His enemy lifted the axe above his head, the blade dripping blood.

Lysander closed his eyes and prepared for death.

But the blow never came. Lysander dared to open his eyes. The axe hung loosely from the Persian's hand. A spear-tip pushed out through his mouth and his tongue squirmed around the wood. The body shivered, and the Persian sank sideways.

Diokles stood above him, breathing heavily. The lower part of his helmet had been torn away, leaving a jagged edge. His eye patch had come off as well. He offered a hand to Lysander, who took it and jumped to his feet.

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘You saved my life.'

‘I saved a Spartan,' said Diokles.

Lysander retrieved his sword and looked around. The Persians' superior numbers were beginning to tell. Spartans were falling everywhere, their torn red cloaks littering the ground. He couldn't see Demaratos, Orpheus or Leonidas. Another block of Persians was coming over the plain towards them.

‘We're losing the fight,' said Diokles. ‘We'll have
to fall back.'

‘No!' said Lysander. ‘We can't. The Persians will have a clear road to Sparta. We have to hold them until the reinforcements arrive.'

Two arrows hit Diokles in the chest. He stumbled towards Lysander, holding out his hands. Lysander caught him, but could only slow the fall. Diokles grunted as he hit the ground. Almost immediately, blood welled in his mouth. He held on to the back of Lysander's neck, his brow creased in pain.

‘Not a bad way to die,' choked his tutor, straining to keep his head raised.

‘Let me get help,' said Lysander.

‘There's no help for me now,' he gasped. His head sank back on to the ground, his lips moving slowly. Lysander leant closer to hear his words. They came in a whisper.

‘You've made a good soldier, mothax.'

The grip behind Lysander's head relaxed. Diokles was dead.

Lysander pulled his tutor's cloak over his body and stood up. All the times Diokles had bullied him weren't important now. On the battlefield he had proved himself a comrade. Lysander saw the Spartan forces were being pushed back towards their own camp. Two Persians ran at Lysander, each wielding a curved scimitar. Anger burned through his limbs.

Drawing his sword, he darted left, so that one Persian blocked the other's path. It was a trick he'd learnt in
the one-against-many fights from the barracks. To deal with one opponent at a time. The Persian swung his sword, and Lysander sidestepped. The blade whistled past his ear and slid down his shield.

With his enemy exposed, he sliced upwards with the point of his own sword into the soldier's unprotected armpit. The Persian tried to lift his own sword again, then looked in horror as he understood. His arm was hanging by a torn section of muscle and his blood sprayed down his side from the severed artery. Lysander lunged at his companion, but he was a skilled swordsman, parrying Lysander's blow.

The Persian brought his sword down in an arc. Lysander buckled his legs, pushed his shield on to the blow, then twisted full circle in a crouch to gain maximum power. His sword cut a horizontal arc, slicing the Persian's leg clean off. The Persian crumpled, and screamed in agony.

‘You can die slowly,' shouted Lysander, already walking away.

Lysander scanned the area where Orpheus had been fighting, but he couldn't see his friend anywhere. ‘Orpheus?' he shouted. ‘Where are you?'

A moan came from the sea of bodies ahead, and an injured Persian lifted his arm. Lysander edged nearer and saw that the Persian was dead, with half his head missing and shards of skull buried in a deep wound. There was a Spartan beneath him.

‘Orpheus?'

Another groan. Lysander ran forward and pushed the dead Persian off his friend. Orpheus was lying on his side, his face pale. His leg was hanging off at an angle and soaking the ground red. Lysander knew his friend would die if the blood flow wasn't staunched soon.

‘Hold on,' he said. While the fight raged around him and shouts in Persian and Greek filled the air, Lysander used his sword to tear off a strip of Orpheus's cloak. He carefully threaded it above the bleeding stump, then tied a knot. Orpheus hissed through his teeth as Lysander pulled the tourniquet as tight as he could. The bleeding slowed instantly.

The main fight had moved beyond them, as the Persians pushed the remainder of the army back. Lysander took in the corpses of Persians and Spartans that lay strewn around him, some still moving feebly or groaning in despair. Where were the flanking reinforcements? If they didn't come soon, the battle would be lost completely.

‘Go back to the fight,' said Orpheus. ‘Leave me here.'

Lysander ignored his friend's protests, and put his arm around Orpheus's shoulder, lifting him to his feet. The Persians and Spartans were fighting among the baggage carts now, and the cries of fear came from the Helots. Lysander could see them cowering beneath some of the carts. Others had seized whatever weapons came to hand and were joining the fight. They were hopelessly outmatched, and Lysander longed to go to their aid. But he couldn't leave his friend. He watched
with despair as a middle-aged Helot, holding a charred log as a club, ran at a Persian soldier. The warrior stepped aside and ran his sword across the Helot's stomach, drawing a chilling howl from his lips.

A horn sounded. Lysander glanced around, scanning the battlefield. Then he saw. On the steep slopes either side of the plain, red-cloaked men were emerging. They edged from among the trees, their spears bristling. Hundreds of Spartan soldiers. He turned back to Orpheus.

‘The flanking battalions! They're here!'

The horn sounded again, and the waves of soldiers poured down the slopes. The effect on the Persians was instant. Many peeled away from the fight with the Helots and the remaining Spartan boys, and began making for the sides of the plain. They roared a battle cry as they charged to face the new attackers.

Lysander continued back towards the baggage carts. Suddenly he heard the pounding of hooves from behind. He dived to the side, taking Orpheus with him, as a troop of gleaming white horses thundered past.

The band was led by a Persian rider covered in golden armour, brilliant in the sun. Ten others, dressed entirely in black, galloped at his side.

It had to be Vaumisa.

A group of three Spartans charged at the Persians. The black-clad bodyguards formed a tight wall with their horses. Two unshouldered their bows and, in a
single fluid movement, unleashed arrows into the Spartans' chests. The third Spartan looked on, unsure what to do, before charging at the horses with his spear. The nearest Persian reared on his horse, then brought its hooves down on him.

Vaumisa twisted in his saddle, barking orders, but the bulk of his troops seemed in chaos as the Spartans came at them from the slopes on either side of the plain. They had formed hastily into two ranks, one facing east and one west, to meet the latest assault. The remainder continued to fight the Spartan boys beside the supply area. Lysander lifted Orpheus and began guiding him back towards a safe area of the camp.

‘You have to stay and fight,' said Orpheus.

The Spartans from the hills crashed into the Persians from both sides, splintering shields and raising screams of terror and pain from the enemy. Vaumisa turned his horse, and signalled to his bodyguards. They charged among the baggage carts and Lysander lost sight of them. Where were they going? A few dozen Spartans remained in the supply area, driving back the Persians who were still there. Lysander saw a Persian collapse into the ashes of one of the fires, writhing on the ground with a spear in his stomach. Over the fallen enemy stood Leonidas. When his eyes caught Lysander's, he ran over. Close up, Lysander could see a gash extended across his forehead. Blood and sweat slicked his face, but he looked jubilant. He whooped and slapped Lysander on the back. When he saw
Orpheus's wound, he blanched.

‘Your leg …'

‘I'm lucky; it's my bad one,' said his friend with a thin smile.

Lysander turned to Leonidas.

‘Vaumisa and his bodyguards are here.'

‘Here?' said the prince. ‘In the camp?'

Lysander was nodding when a high-pitched scream rang out above the other sounds of the battlefield. A figure ran through the ashes of a dead fire fifty paces away, leaping over the corpse Leonidas has speared. Lysander recognised the grey cloak with its distinctive black hood.

‘Kassandra!' he shouted.

Behind her appeared Vaumisa on horseback, his golden armour reflecting the sunlight. His bodyguards rode behind him in a V formation. Kassandra tripped over a rock. Vaumisa bore down closer. For a terrible moment, Lysander thought she'd be trampled beneath the hooves of his steed.

‘Look after Orpheus,' he said to Leonidas, throwing down his shield. He couldn't afford to be slowed down. The prince took Orpheus's weight and Lysander sprinted towards Kassandra, drawing his sword.

As Vaumisa closed in, and Kassandra struggled to her feet, the Persian leant from his saddle with an outstretched arm. His hand held no weapon.

‘Kassandra!' Lysander shouted again. He could see he was too late. Vaumisa seized Kassandra by the top of her
cloak and threw her across his saddle. His cousin squirmed and kicked against her captor as Lysander stood before Vaumisa's stallion, brandishing his sword.