Birth of a Warrior

by Michael Ford

  ‘You tried to kill me,’ he said.

  Now the older boy was tossing his dagger from hand to hand.

  ‘Feel free to return the favour,’ Lysander said. The older boy looked surprised and he missed catching the knife. It fell to the ground. Agesilaus swooped down and retrieved it for a second time. Lysander saw his grip tighten on the hilt. So this was it.

  ‘Wait! What’s that?’ said Demaratos. He was pointing behind Lysander. In the distance, several columns of grey smoke curled into the air. ‘Forest fire!’

  ‘Quick, we have to go and see,’ said Agesilaus. He stuffed the dagger back into his belt, shooting a warning glance in Lysander’s direction. Then he set off towards the bridge. Demaratos kicked over the remaining embers of their fire, and followed. Agesilaus turned back from the bridge to look at Lysander.

  ‘This isn’t over, Lysander – you’ll pay for what you did. Maybe not today, but soon. You had better sleep with one eye open from now on.’

  Lysander could see the smoke billowing over the horizon. His thighs burned as he climbed the steep cliff. He had already overtaken the other two. If there was a forest fire, the sooner they took the news back to Sparta the better. The crops might still be saved if people could be organised in time. He clambered up the slope on the far side of the river, feeling for handholds and hauling his body from rock to rock.

  But as they came closer, his instincts told him this was no forest fire. The smoke was separated into columns, as though there were lots of small fires.

  Finally he reached the top of the mountain, where the wind whipped around him. The view was astonishing. The hill fell away in a series of rocky ridges to the plain below. Lysander could see the river Eurotas like a silver snake as it meandered through the wide valley, all the way to the expanse of water beyond. The smoke rose from behind a low headland near the sea.

  Lysander had never seen the Great Sea before. It took his breath away. The water shone as blue as the sky, fringed with flashes of gold in the afternoon sun. But that wasn’t all. Riding the waves were warships, perhaps a hundred, painted red and black. The ones furthest from shore had their square white sails unfurled. The smoke was coming from the shoreline. Lysander heard Agesilaus and Demaratos scramble up behind him.

  ‘That’s no forest fire,’ said Agesilaus. ‘The smoke is above the harbour villages – they’ve been set ablaze!’

  ‘What? Who do those ships belong to?’ asked Demaratos, breathing heavily.

  ‘Persian triremes!’ said Agesilaus. ‘Dozens of them!’ For the first time ever, he sounded impressed.

  Lysander watched in silence as the ships, with their prows and two layers of oars looming out of the water, headed for the shore. The sound of the drums from the ships – meant to keep the rowers in time – boomed up the valley.

  As he watched, Lysander made out pinpricks of fire over the decks of one of the leading Persian vessels.

  ‘Archers!’ said Agesilaus. Lysander’s heart thumped in his chest as the flaming arrows sailed through the air, before descending to the shore out of sight. He felt completely powerless.

  ‘No …’ he mumbled beneath his breath. He could imagine the flames springing up through the town. Thank the Gods he couldn’t hear the people’s screams.

  Suddenly, further inland, a lone rider burst from the trees by the river, galloping north towards Sparta, his red cloak billowing on the wind. Two more riders appeared in pursuit, one carrying a short spear, the other with a bow slung over his shoulder. Lysander could tell from their colourful, baggy clothes and dark skins that they weren’t Greeks.

  ‘He must be a messenger,’ said Demaratos. ‘He’s gone to warn the Spartans about the attack.’

  The Persians were closing on the solitary Spartan rider, and when they were ten lengths behind, the spearman released his weapon. Lysander could just see it bury itself in the top of the horse’s leg. The animal crumpled to the ground, sending the rider headlong on to the path. The man quickly regained his feet and drew his sword, but the Persians were now out of range. The other rider slowly unslung his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver. The archer casually strung the arrow, drew the string, and released. It was strange watching the fight from so high above. No sound reached Lysander’s ears. The Spartan soldier fell backwards, with the arrow through his head. He twitched on the ground.

  ‘Cowards,’ said Demaratos.

  ‘We have to get back to Sparta,’ said Lysander. ‘Without the messenger, the city won’t know of the danger.’

  Agesilaus stood in his way. ‘We can’t go back yet,’ he said. ‘You haven’t finished your task.’

  Lysander looked at Agesilaus in astonishment, then pointed towards the sea.

  ‘Can’t you see what’s happening? War is on the threshold of our city, and you talk of tasks? The first boats will be on the beaches, unloading soldiers. They’ll kill innocent people: Helots and free-dwellers alike. We must go back now!’

  Agesilaus drew himself up.

  ‘You’ll do as I say!’ he shouted. ‘You must complete the Ordeal. A bird and a beast!’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ said Lysander. ‘You’d have us stand by while Sparta is attacked?’

  A fleeting look of uncertainty passed over Agesilaus’ face, and for a moment Lysander thought he’d got through to him. But Agesilaus suddenly charged forward, tripping him to the floor. He knelt on Lysander’s chest and put the dagger to his throat. Lysander hardly dared to swallow with the blade pressed so tightly to his skin.

  ‘Do you really think Sparta needs a Helot half-breed like you fighting her cause? What could you do to prevent a war? The army will deal with those Persians like they were swatting flies.’

  ‘Stop!’ said Demaratos, and Lysander saw his hand on Agesilaus’ shoulder. ‘If you hurt him, you’ll have to kill me too.’ Agesilaus turned and looked towards Demaratos. ‘You won’t look very good leaving the mountains on your own, will you?’

  Lysander wondered for a moment whether Agesilaus might simply kill them both on the spot, but he climbed off Lysander’s chest.

  ‘Sparta will be fine,’ he said more calmly. ‘There are maybe three thousand men in that attack – our army is thirty thousand strong and better trained. We’ll finish the Ordeal and head back tomorrow.’

  ‘But what about the people on the shoreline?’ said Lysander.

  Agesilaus grinned, and sheathed his dagger.

  ‘They’re only free-dwellers and Helots. Let them die.’

  Lysander led the way back down the mountain. Sparta was a full day’s walk on the valley floor, but they couldn’t risk going that way in case the Persians sent out scouts. They’d have to stick to the mountain route and drop back into the city the way they had left. Demaratos caught up with Lysander, wincing a little on his bad leg, and fell into step beside him.

  ‘What do you think the Persians will do?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lysander replied. ‘They’ll gather their forces tonight and make camp, I expect. It’s too late to attack now. Maybe they’ll wait a day before launching their attack, maybe not.’

  ‘Their attack?’ said Demaratos, breathing heavily.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lysander. ‘They may strike at dawn, or perhaps the following night.’

  ‘Lysander, my family are in Sparta, we have to get back soon,’ said Demaratos.

  ‘But first we have to fulfil these senseless tasks,’ Lysander replied. ‘You heard Agesilaus – I think he’d rather kill us than break the rules of the Ordeal.’

  Several birds were startled out of the tree ahead and scattered into the air, settling in a tree further down the slope.

  ‘I have an idea,’ said Lysander. He took the sling from his belt, and scooped several stones from the ground, loading them into the leather pouch.

  ‘You’ll never be able to hit a bird with that thing,’ Agesilaus called from behind them.

  ‘Maybe I can’t hit one bird,’ muttered Lysander. ‘But I have a chance if there are l
ots. Stay here, and come when you see my signal.’

  He made his way back up the slope, past Agesilaus. He headed along the ridge and descended beyond the tree where the birds were resting, hiding himself behind a boulder. He could see Demaratos and Agesilaus waiting and waved for them to come down the path. As they walked, kicking up gravel, the birds lifted from their perches, then wheeled in the sky and flew in Lysander’s direction. He swung the sling and released a volley of pebbles. Most missed their targets, but one bird flapped clumsily in the air, and then plummeted to the ground. Lysander reached the fallen bird at the same time as Agesilaus and Demaratos. It wasn’t quite dead, and moved one black wing slowly up and down as though trying to fly.

  ‘It’s a swift,’ said Demaratos. ‘They fly through at this time of year.’

  A small trickle of blood was flowing from the bird’s beak. Lysander picked up the bird carefully, supporting its body and its brown-hooded head. The short feathers of its belly were white and fluffy. With a quick wrenching movement, he snapped its neck and dropped the bird to the ground.

  ‘That’s one down,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Only a beast to go.’

  Agesilaus grunted and gave a small nod. Demaratos grinned. Lysander didn’t have time to feel remorse. They continued walking in silence until they reached the river.

  ‘Lysander, I’m sorry about Timeon,’ said Demaratos. ‘He was a good slave.’ Lysander shot him a look. ‘And a good person,’ Demaratos added hastily.

  They covered ground quickly and reached their old shelter under the cliff face as the sun was setting, extinguishing their long shadows. Agesilaus called them to a halt.

  ‘We’ll sleep here tonight,’ he said. ‘There’s no use trying to hunt until morning.’

  Lysander tried to make himself comfortable on the rough ground, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not while the Persians amassed their forces near the shore. Someone had to warn Sparta. Lysander felt fierce loyalty and realised that, Spartan or Helot, one thing was for sure. He wanted to save his home.

  CHAPTER 13

  Lysander lay in the darkness, listening to his companions’ breathing. In his hand he held the carving that Timeon’s mother had given him. What should I do, Timeon? Stay here? He closed his eyes and let his fingers move over the ridges in the wood. Why were they wasting time in the mountains when they could be helping their countrymen? It was just like a Spartan to put tradition before all else. Even common sense.

  Despite Agesilaus’ confidence, Lysander wasn’t so sure of the Spartan defences. Even if the Persians were beaten, how many of his comrades would be killed first? Sarpedon’s words echoed in his head: ‘Remember all you have learnt, obey Agesilaus, and work together.’ Would his grandfather have said that if he had seen Agesilaus’ behaviour in the mountains? Lysander didn’t think so.

  No, he told himself, I’m not going to lie here. Lysander knew what he had to do.

  He got to his feet. Stepping into the pale glow of the moonlight, a tingle of fear prickled the length of his spine. What if Agesilaus wakes? Will he try to follow me? Lysander looked at where the older boy lay. He was on his side, facing the rocks. In his belt, the hilt of his dagger gleamed. His only weapon. Could Lysander risk taking it?

  He crept back towards the Spartan. Agesilaus didn’t stir. Crouching down, Lysander reached towards the dagger. His fingers were shaking. Concentrate, he told himself. He took a deep breath, closing one hand around the hilt. He steadied the sheath with his other hand. Slowly, he pulled. The dagger slipped out smoothly, without a sound. Lysander stood up, weighing the blade in his palm. Agesilaus wasn’t half as dangerous any more. He tucked the knife into his own belt, with the blade pointing downwards. It was time to go.

  Lysander felt liberated as soon as the shelter was out of sight. On his first day in the mountains, he wouldn’t have dared even look the wrong way at Agesilaus. Now he was stealing his knife and disobeying his orders. But he’d learnt so much, about himself and the others. He had seized his destiny and survived.

  If he moved quickly, he could be in Sparta before dawn. He imagined Agesilaus waking to find him gone. He’d be furious, and might blame Demaratos, but Lysander couldn’t worry about that now. Demaratos could look after himself.

  He reached a clearing in the trees. Something rustled ahead. He stopped in his tracks and drew the dagger, scanning the bushes for any signs of life. Lysander watched as a shadow passed between the trees ahead. It was bigger than a wild boar. Had Agesilaus come to cut him off?

  ‘Come out,’ said Lysander, trying to control the tremor in his voice. The shadow stopped dead. Lysander hid the knife behind his back.

  ‘I know it’s you, Agesilaus.’

  The shadow moved again, and something emerged from behind the tree. It wasn’t Agesilaus. A long grey snout, catching flecks of silver in the moonlight. A wolf. Lysander gripped the knife more tightly in his hand, feeling his pulse quicken, and glanced all around him. He’d heard wolves hunted in packs, but this one seemed to be alone. It sloped out from its hiding place, feet padding softly in the pine needles that littered the ground. Its black lip twitched upwards, revealing pointed white teeth. A low snarl escaped its mouth. Its eyes, like molten discs, fixed on Lysander.

  Lysander started to back off, facing the wolf. It moved slowly forward, giving a low growl. Lysander could see by its lean body that it must be hungry. There was no way he could outrun the animal. If he turned his back, it would tear him apart.

  Lysander dropped into a crouch, moving into a fighting stance. The wolf drew its lips back over purple gums. Another deep, loud growl filled the clearing, and the hackles lifted across its back. The hairs on Lysander’s own neck rose. There was only one choice: fight. He adjusted the dagger so the blade pointed downwards along his forearm for a better grip.

  The wolf pounced, the weight of fur and claws crashing into him. Lysander cried out and put up his arms to protect himself. As he hit the ground, the knife sliced into the top of the wolf’s leg and it dropped back with a whimper. Blood dripped across the ground, glistening in the moonlight.

  Lysander scrambled back to his feet, but the wolf leapt at him again, its forepaws on his chest as its open jaws reached up and snapped at his throat. Lysander threw the creature to one side, slashing with the knife, and stumbled backwards. The blade clattered to the ground. Lysander staggered to his feet and looked desperately for the knife, but he couldn’t see it anywhere in the darkness. The wolf came more slowly this time, and Lysander aimed a kick at its neck. The beast moved to one side, easily dodging the blow, and snarled again, lowering its head. Lysander was breathing hard. Something was trickling down his arm. Blood.

  He looked around frantically for an escape. Then his eyes caught a shape on the horizon – a boy.

  ‘Demaratos?’ he shouted. ‘Help me!’ The silhouette didn’t move. Agesilaus? ‘Please!’ Lysander yelled. ‘It’s going to kill me!’

  The wolf licked its teeth, and circled. It’s toying with me, Lysander realised. Then he saw it: a low branch stuck out from a tree a few paces behind the wolf. If he could only reach it, perhaps he could climb out of danger.

  The wolf flattened its ears again, ready to pounce. Lysander kicked out, showering the wolf with dirt and dust. It was the distraction he needed. He dashed towards the tree, not looking back. He could hear the scratch of the wolf’s paws on the ground behind him. Lysander reached the tree and jumped for the branch. As his fingers closed around the wood he pulled his weight up. But at the same time there was a crunch. No! The branch was rotten, and fell away from the tree. Lysander fell with it.

  The wolf was on him before he could think, and Lysander could smell the savagery on its breath. His vision was filled with flashing eyes and snapping teeth. Lysander could hear his own cries of terror. His mind was telling him one thing: survive. But the wolf was strong. Pain ripped through him as the wolf’s jaws closed on his left forearm. Then he felt something under his right hand. Wood. His fingers closed arou
nd the branch, and he swung it as hard as he could. He connected and the wolf yelped, releasing his arm. He struck again, and the wolf’s forelegs collapsed. It was still lying on him, but its bloodied mouth hung open, dazed. Lysander adjusted his grip on the wood and aimed the tip at the wolf’s head, towards his eyes. Lysander hesitated, and then he pushed.

  The tip of the stake entered the glossy eyeball to a finger’s length, and the wolf gave a strange curdled breath through its teeth. Lysander brought his other hand around the staff and thrust it further into the socket. The beast went completely stiff, a whimper dying in its throat. Three spasms followed, each weaker than the one before. Then the wolf was still.

  Lysander sank back, gasping for air beneath the heavy bulk of the dead wolf. As the relief drained, he felt like laughing and crying at the same time. His arm was bloody and covered with puncture marks; blood trickled down his neck from a gash somewhere on his cheek.

  Another howl pierced the air, and Lysander struggled to sit up. But it wasn’t a wolf. The figure that he’d seen on the horizon stepped down from his vantage point. Lysander heard the crunch of his feet as he stepped through the shadows into the clearing. Then he moved into a patch of light. The blond hair looked white under the moon. Agesilaus.

  ‘Why didn’t you help me?’ said Lysander.

  Agesilaus didn’t speak, but bent to the ground and picked something up. The dagger. He walked towards Lysander with a sneer of contempt on his lips.

  ‘It looks like you managed to kill this old wolf.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lysander. There was an odd look in Agesilaus’ face. His eyes were cold as ice.

  ‘Let’s see where the rest of the pack are.’

  His hands were cupped under his mouth, and he let out a howl into the night air.

  ‘Are you mad?’ asked Lysander.

  Agesilaus raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You shouldn’t have run away, Lysander. My orders were to stay at the shelter until morning.’

  Lysander had to think fast.