Birth of a Warrior (20 page)

‘Leave her alone!' shouted Lysander.

Vaumisa drew up in his saddle. His bodyguards fell in beside him. Lysander ran forward. He wouldn't allow them to take Kassandra.

One of the archers levelled his bow and drew back the string. The jagged tip was pointing directly at his chest. Lysander slowed. He couldn't dodge an arrow.

‘Halt, Spartan!' boomed Vaumisa. He was a huge man, with a tanned face and large, deep-set eyes. The black shadow of a beard clouded his jaw and cheeks. His armour seemed to be made up of hundreds of golden scales, interlapping over his massive frame. Without his shield, Lysander knew he had no chance. He stood in front of the Persian general. The bowman's hand was steady and he looked at Lysander without pity.

‘You are brave, Spartan,' said Vaumisa in a strange accent, ‘but you'll learn that there is more than bravery to being a soldier.'

‘Like kidnapping innocent girls?' Lysander said.

Vaumisa laughed. ‘Don't try my patience. Be grateful that I am giving you your life today. Move aside, and enjoy the years ahead.'

The Persian's laughter was too much for Lysander.

‘I'm a Spartan, and I'm not afraid to die!' he said. The smile fell from Vaumisa's face.

‘Very well.' He nodded to the archer. ‘Kill him.'

Lysander felt the arrow hit him, like a vicious punch to the chest. The force made him spin around and he fell to the ground, landing on his face. He couldn't move. The sound of horses' hooves receded into the distance. He struggled to breathe.
Am I dying?
he wondered.
Is this what it feels like?

‘Lysander?' came a familiar voice. ‘Lysander! No … no … no!' It was Leonidas.

‘Is he dead?' joined in Demaratos.

Lysander wanted to speak, to tell them that he wasn't dead, but he still hadn't caught his breath. The pain in his chest was overwhelming. A hand tugged at his shoulder, and pulled him on to his back. Lysander opened his eyes. Two silhouettes were moving above him. His two friends.

‘Wh—?' Lysander's hands moved over his chest, expecting to find blood. His fingers touched the arrow shaft. No pain.

‘Huh!' Demaratos laughed. ‘Look! The arrow hit that clasp.'

Lysander looked down his body and saw that Demaratos was right. The pain in his chest was gone. The arrow tip was buried in the wood of Timeon's carving. He sat up. Demaratos seized the carving in one hand and the arrow in his other and gave a tug. The shaft came away, but the arrowhead remained lodged.

‘The Gods must be smiling on you,' said Demaratos.

Or Timeon
, thought Lysander. But there was no time to offer thanks. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed Demaratos's arm.

‘We have to go after Vaumisa. He's taken Kassandra.'

‘Kassandra is here?' said Demaratos, his face uncomprehending.

‘She sneaked along with the baggage handlers,' said Lysander. ‘She wanted to play her part in the war for Sparta.'

‘Why didn't you tell me?' said Demaratos, grabbing Lysander's arm. ‘You know what she means to me!'

‘I thought I'd persuaded her not to,' said Lysander, shaking him off. ‘We haven't got time to waste. They headed back towards the sea. On horseback. I'll go after them, you have to go back to Sparta and tell Sarpedon.'

‘I'm coming with you,' said Demaratos. ‘You can't take on Vaumisa on your own.'

‘I'll take a message to the Ephor,' said Leonidas. ‘Take that horse.' He pointed to the edge of the battlefield, near to where a well-drilled line of Spartans were seeing off a small group of Persians. A horse stood with its head bowed. A Persian archer with only half his
scalp attached hung limply from the side, tangled in his stirrups.

Demaratos ran over to the horse and Lysander followed him. Together they pulled the dead rider off and climbed into the saddle, Lysander at the front.

‘May the Fates look on you kindly,' said Leonidas. Lysander kicked the horse's side and galloped up the edge of the battlefield, heading south.

The stallion was strong. Lysander steered him up the slope on the eastern side of the plain, down which the flanking army had advanced. Once on the ridge above, they had a view of the whole battlefield. The tide had well and truly turned and the fight was dying out. Though a few Persians were still resisting, small pockets had given themselves up, and were throwing down their weapons. The ones who were fleeing were being picked off with spears to the back. Not a brave way to die.

The tracks left by Vaumisa and his retreating band of horses could be clearly made out in the mud.

‘Hang on,' said Lysander as he drove the stallion in pursuit, leaping over small bushes and fallen trees. His arms ached from gripping the reins so tightly, and he could feel Demaratos's arms around his chest like hoops of iron.

‘Slow down!' he yelled. ‘You'll get us killed!'

‘I can't,' Lysander yelled back. ‘We have to catch Vaumisa. It looks as though they're heading to the coast
– perhaps a ship is moored there.'

They entered a thicket of trees, and the thin branches whipped at his face. He steered through the trees.

‘Duck!' he shouted as a low branch scythed towards them. He felt it brush his hair as they passed.

Emerging on the other side, the sea sparkled in the sun. Lysander saw a group of white horses, their heads bowed and munching grass. Something was wrong. Where were the riders? Then he understood: ahead, the ground dropped away, plummeting down to the sea in a sheer cliff face.

Lysander yanked hard on the reins, and the horse snorted, rearing on its hind legs. Its hooves skidded across the ground in a cloud of dust and it toppled backwards, throwing Lysander to the ground. He landed on top of Demaratos, who let out a cry. Thankfully the horse crashed beside rather than on top of them. The stallion struggled to its feet and galloped off into the forest.

Demaratos stood up and pointed down to the sea.

‘Look!' he said.

A small cove the shape of a horseshoe nestled between two rocky headlands. The shoreline was mostly made up of large boulders, with a few spots of sand. On one of these, Vaumisa and his bodyguards were climbing into a small boat that knocked against the rocks. Kassandra stood between two Persians, each gripping an arm. She struggled between them, but was
powerless. They dragged her across the sand and into the shallow water, then threw her roughly into the boat. Four rowers manning two oars were seated in the middle of the craft. Once they were all aboard, with Kassandra flanked by two bodyguards, one of the crew pushed the boat out of the shallows with his oar and rejoined the others. In time, they heaved away from the shore. The faint splash of oars reached Lysander's ears.

‘They can't be going all the way across the sea in that,' he said. ‘There must be a larger boat beyond the peninsula. Come on, we have to get down there.'

Demaratos nodded, and began to take off his armour. Lysander did the same – there was no way they could complete the treacherous descent laden down. A steep path, shielded by rough gorse, weaved down the cliff face. The earth between the rocks was soft and sandy, and pebbles clattered at every step.

They picked their way down as quickly as possible. By the time they reached the base of the cliff, Lysander's legs were shaking with the effort and the rowing boat was a speck rounding the headland. From here they could see a larger ship, bristling with oars, anchored a short way from the cliffs.

‘How can we get there?' said Demaratos. ‘They can row quicker than we can swim.'

‘The boat is anchored close to the headland. If we can get to the tip, maybe we can climb down.'

Demaratos looked unsure.

‘Do you have a better plan?' said Lysander.

Demaratos shrugged and shook his head. ‘Let's go!'

Lysander led the way over the slippery rocks, limping from one to the next, taking care not to let his feet fall through the cracks. Demaratos was close behind, breathing heavily. White foam churned beneath the boulders, sending up occasional sprays of salty water that stung his many grazes and cuts from the battlefield. They reached the headland at the end of the rocky patch and Lysander was grateful to have his feet on dry land again. The headland was little more than a narrow tongue of land covered in low scrub. It rose as it entered the water, ending in a steep, snub-nosed cliff where a Persian ship stood at anchor.

They ran up the slope until they reached the end of the headland. The sight of the Persian vessel close up made Lysander draw a gasp.

The ship was a bireme, with two tiers of oars, locked at ease above the water. It stood bow on to them in the water, the stern pointing out to sea. A single mast stood in the centre, with a wooden structure – the forecastle – built forward of the mast and overlooking the deck. Crewmen swarmed over the vessel, too busy to notice Lysander and Demaratos watching them, and the sail was being hoisted. Lysander guessed the ship would be under way as soon as the anchor was pulled up and secured. He could see the other Persian ships at anchor further out, waiting for their warrior crews to return.

Some thirty feet below, waves crashed into the base of the cliff. The water swirled with dark and forbidding
eddies. Lysander unhooked his cloak and pulled off his sandals. All he wore was his tunic, still filthy from the battle. His only weapon was the dagger strapped to his leg.

‘There could be rocks beneath the surface,' said Demaratos, peeling off his own cloak.

‘What choice do we have?' answered Lysander. ‘We can't let Vaumisa take Kassandra! After three?'

Demaratos nodded. Lysander edged towards the drop. The sunlight sparkled on the dark water below.

‘One … two …
three
!' He pushed himself off and leapt into the void. For a moment, he felt weightless in the air, but then the pull of gravity made his stomach lurch into his mouth. The air whipped past his ears and the swirling water rushed towards him. Lysander hit the waves feet first. It filled his nostrils and forced his eyes open. The cold seemed to seize upon his heart and squeeze. The air burst from his lungs in a rush of bubbles.

Which way was up? He hung in the water until the bubbles thinned, desperate for breath. He was aware of Demaratos, suspended in the water beside him. His friend began kicking in the water, and Lysander swam after him. His chest was tight and his lungs were close to bursting. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He heaved upwards with powerful strokes.

Lysander's head broke the surface of the water. Demaratos was choking beside him, coughing up sea water. Lysander drew deep breaths that made his chest
burn. He slowly recovered enough to take stock. They were several feet from the bottom of the cliff, and the waves rolled beneath them, lifting them gently up and down. With Demaratos, he swam to where a black rock jutted from the water and clung to its side. It was the only hiding place they had in this vast ocean. Four boat-lengths away, the enemy ship rocked in the water. He could see movement in the lower deck as the oarsmen took their seats. Someone was shouting orders. A figure appeared at the front of the boat, standing over the anchor pulley.

‘Quick,' said Demaratos. ‘They're preparing to depart.'

‘We've got to be careful,' said Lysander. ‘If the soldier sees us, it's over.'

Another order was barked, and the lower set of oars lifted in unison, before splashing into the water. The boat crept back to loosen the anchor from the seabed, and the figure on the prow began to wind in the rope, bending deeply at the waist as he heaved. The wooden pulley creaked. Lysander dived underwater and set off in a breaststroke towards the ship, ploughing onwards with all his strength. He was beyond exhaustion. His arms felt like iron as he dragged himself through the water. When he needed to take a breath, he came up to the surface as slowly as possible, sucked in a lungful of air, and dived again.

The third time he came up, they were approaching level with the prow, hidden from the oarsmen on the
port and starboard sides. Demaratos was beside him, and Lysander put a finger to his own lips. If they made too much noise, the Persians might still be alerted. All would be lost. The ship's hull loomed out of the water above him. He rested a hand against the rough wood, which was covered in a slimy green weed.

‘There's no way we can get up,' he whispered to Demaratos, who was treading water beside him.

‘Yes, there is,' replied his friend. ‘The anchor rope.'

Why hadn't he thought of that? The rope was still emerging from the water, dripping with water and seaweed. It was as thick as his arm, made of interwoven fibres. Lysander pushed off the hull and caught it with both hands. It was slippery and he twisted in an effort to hold on. He had to wrap his legs around the rope as well to prevent himself sliding off. Gradually, as the pulley creaked above, Lysander felt himself lifted out of the water. Demaratos grabbed hold of the rope too. Lysander prayed that the Persian at the pulley wouldn't feel the extra weight.

When the brim of the deck approached, he reached out. He released the rope and swung his other hand over. He pulled himself up so that he could peer over the deck.

The massive bare-chested man who had been pulling up the anchor locked the wheel and walked along the deck beside the forecastle, disappearing around the corner.

‘Quickly!' hissed Demaratos, beside Lysander now.

Lysander heaved himself up on to his elbows, and raised a leg on to the deck. Demaratos scrambled up beside him. The planks felt warm against his skin as he lay on the deck, panting. They were aboard.

Close up, the forecastle looked like a small wooden hut built on the deck. Against the back of it leant a simple ladder – a plank with grooves cut in either side. The forecastle shielded them from the view of the rest of the ship. Sounds of guttural conversation were drifting from the bow end, and there was a heavy thud of feet on the deck.