Birth of a Warrior (24 page)

Lysander drew Sarpedon's sword. Cleeto stiffened when he saw the blade. Lysander flexed his fingers around the handle and stepped slowly towards Cleeto.
After a day on the battlefield, he knew how easy it was to take another man's life. Cleeto bowed his head, exposing the back of his neck. Lysander placed the tip of the sword against the ridges of the Persian's spine, where head met torso. One thrust would do it.

Lysander adjusted his hands on the hilt, but instead of ramming the blade home, he twisted it under the leather thong that encircled the Persian's neck. The Fire of Ares clattered on to the ground. Lysander stooped and retrieved it, stroking the familiar jewel with the pad of his thumb.

He walked over to Myron, leaving Cleeto on his knees.

‘I have seen enough death today,' he said, sheathing the sword. Lysander tied the Fire of Ares back where it belonged – around his own neck. He made his way towards Pegasus.

‘What shall we do with the prisoner?' asked Myron.

Lysander turned and looked at Cleeto, cowering beside the Ephor.

‘Send him back to Persia to tell of our victory,' said Lysander.

Placing his foot in the stirrup, he climbed into the saddle.

‘Thorakis would be proud of you,' said the Ephor, before slapping the carthorses into motion. As the cart moved away from the shore, Lysander felt his father's spirit closer than ever.

* * *

Demaratos comforted Kassandra as they passed the battlefields where the Spartans and Persians had fought. Lysander rode in silence through the devastation. The ground was littered with bodies – Spartans and Persians together. In places, the ground was soaked red with blood. So many had died. Hilarion, Ariston, Diokles. So many others whose names he'd never know. How many empty beds would there be in the dormitory now?

It was almost dawn when they reached the outskirts of Sparta. Looking back, Lysander saw that Kassandra's eyes were closed in sleep and she leant heavily against Demaratos's chest.

The first person they met was a young Helot woman, cradling a baby at her breast. She held out a pink flower as they passed, and Lysander leant from the saddle to take it.

‘Thank you,' he said. Her silent gesture lifted Lysander's spirits. Without the Spartan sacrifice, who knew what the Persians would have done to the Helot population?

As they made their way into the streets of Sparta, men and women, Helots and free-dwellers, came out of their houses. They shouted words of triumph and encouragement as Lysander led the cart past.

‘Bless you!' said an old man, turning to an elderly woman by his side. ‘We're saved, Nylix. We're saved!'

‘Praise the Gods,' she said. ‘Praise Sparta!'

As Lysander came nearer to the agora – the marketplace at the foot of the acropolis – he caught sight of
Spartan soldiers ahead. They lined the road on one side, standing straight-backed and staring ahead, their spears vertical. The sight swelled Lysander with pride.

He reached the first in the line, and the Spartan pushed out his spear arm, holding the shaft steady. His neighbour did the same. And the next man, and the next.
They're saluting me!
Lysander drew Sarpedon's sword from its sheath, and held it out to each, tapping the tips of their spears with the end of his blade.

At one end of the agora stood the round Council House. The marketplace was almost empty of people. Torches rested in tall iron tripods at regular intervals around the outside. Spartan soldiers stood between them in rows, four men deep. In the centre three carts had gathered. Each carried long planks of wood. Between them, a structure was being built by a team of carpenters. Lysander immediately recognised what it was. A funeral pyre. He dismounted from his horse, and the cart with Sarpedon's body stopped behind him.

One of the Spartan soldiers at the edge of the marketplace lifted a horn to his lips and gave a long blast. Moments later, the heavy bronze door of the Council House creaked open, and from inside stepped a Spartan whom Lysander hadn't seen before. He was of medium height, with a narrow, gnarled face and blue eyes. Behind him came the Ephor Tellios and then the rest of the Elders. They proceeded slowly across the agora until they reached Lysander.

‘Greetings, son of Thorakis,' said the leader. ‘I am
Cleomenes, one of the two Kings of Sparta.'

Lysander climbed out of the saddle and dropped to his knees, his head reeling.
A King!

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.'

King Cleomenes placed a hand on Lysander's head, signalling him to rise.

‘There is no need to kneel, my boy. A King in Sparta is the same as any other man: a soldier.'

Lysander stood up and looked the King in the eye.

‘Sarpedon … he's …'

‘The Council has been told,' said Cleomenes. ‘Have no fear. He will be given a funeral like a hero of old. But first, let our wives, good women of Sparta all, prepare the body. You must cleanse yourself in the river, also.' He turned to the soldier who had blown the horn. ‘Chrysippus, find Lysander clean garments.'

Lysander followed the King's orders, washing the blood and dirt from his body in the river Eurotas, and dressing himself in a clean tunic, sandals and cloak. When he returned to the agora he felt as though he had been born anew. The soldiers from outside the marketplace had moved in around the funeral pyre. Behind them stood crowds of free-dwellers and Helots, the crowds stretching back into the surrounding streets. As Lysander approached, the people parted to let him pass, calling out thanks, or simply bowing their heads.

At the edge of the agora, a Spartan came forward, and handed a torch to Lysander. ‘You must light the
pyre, son of Thorakis, to speed the great Sarpedon to the fields of Elysion, where the shades of heroes walk in the Underworld.'

Lysander took the flaming bundle of sticks, and walked solemnly back to the centre of the agora. His breath misted the air, but he didn't feel the cold. He felt a new flame burning within him.

He climbed the wooden steps up to the edge of the pyre, and stood still, taking in Sarpedon's corpse for the last time. Dressed in a clean white tunic, his arms were folded over his chest, his hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword, which lay flat along his front. He was wearing his red cloak. The women had trimmed his beard and combed back his hair, and although he wasn't diminished in death, there was no doubt in Lysander's mind that his grandfather's spirit had left him.
Are you walking the fields of Elysion?
he whispered.
Are you walking with Thorakis, your son?

Lysander looked down into the marketplace. King Cleomenes and the Elders were all watching him, and as he looked at each of them in turn, they gave a bow of respect. Then they parted and Kassandra came forward. She was standing straight, dressed in a clean white dress, with her hair tied up and her head high. Her eyes were dry of tears. Demaratos came behind her, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

‘Behold Spartans!' Lysander shouted, holding the torch aloft. ‘Behold free-dwellers and Helots! Here lies the Ephor Sarpedon! He died as he lived, with courage,
with honour.' Lysander paused to let his words sink in. ‘Today we have earned victory over the Persians, but be in no doubt, the price has been heavy. Sparta has lost the best of men!' He thought of Ariston, of Hilarion, of Diokles. He thought of Thyestes and his courage as he awaited death.

Lysander lowered the torch to the dry kindling near Sarpedon's bare feet. The twigs caught with a crackle. He moved the torch along the length of the pyre, making sure the funeral bier would burn evenly. As the smoke rose to his eyes and Sarpedon's cloak began to blacken at the edges, he climbed down.

Spartan soldiers crowded around him at the base of the pyre and one took the torch from him. Before he could do anything else, two others had hoisted him on to their shoulders. One of them shouted, ‘Lysander!' at the top of his lungs. ‘Lysander!' said two more behind him.

Others joined in, until all the Spartans were shouting his name. Then the Helots and free-dwellers took up the chant as well.

‘Lysander! Lysander! Lysander!'

He was carried aloft through the agora, and saw Demaratos and Kassandra behind. The faces of the crowd, rapt with joy, were lifted to his, and their arms reached into the air as they called out his name.

Lysander looked over the heads of the crowd. The heat of Sarpedon's pyre reminded him how much he had lost, how much had been given for this victory. His
father, mother and now his grandfather were all gone. He was almost alone in the world. But maybe not. All of the men and women that surrounded him were his people: not only the Spartans, but the free-dwellers and Helots who lived in the same land. For this, Lysander had fought. And for this, Lysander would fight another day.

The Fire of Ares

Copyright © 2008 by Working Partners
All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Published in the United States of America in 2008 by Walker Publishing Company, Inc.
Electronic edition published in September 2012
www.bloomsburykids.com

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to
Permissions, Walker & Company, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ford, Michael (Michael James).
Birth of a warrior / Michael Ford.

p.     cm.
“Spartan Quest.”

Summary: When Persians invade Sparta while thirteen-year-old Lysander is training to
be a soldier, he finds his loyalties are divided between Spartan honor and the Helot
slaves with whom he lived most of his life.

1. Lysander, d. 395 B.C.—Juvenile fiction. [1. Lysander, d. 395 B.C.—Fiction.
2. Soldiers—Fiction. 3. Slavery—Fiction. 4. Amulets—Fiction. 5. Social classes—
Fiction. 6. Orphans—Fiction. 7. Sparta (Extinct city)—Fiction. 8. Greece—
History—Spartan and Theban supremacies, 404–362 B.C.—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.F75328Bir 2008        [Fic]—dc22        2008004988

ISBN: 978-0-80272-805-0 (e-book)