Birth of a Warrior

by Michael Ford

  ‘Make room for Lysander,’ said Demaratos, shoving an elbow in Prokles’ side.

  Prokles spat a mouthful of half-chewed bread on to the table and stared at Demaratos in astonishment.

  ‘You heard me,’ said Demaratos. ‘If Lysander is good enough to save my life in the mountains, he’s good enough to share my table also.’

  A murmur passed along the table, and Prokles shifted in his seat to give a place to Lysander. Orpheus was struggling to fight back his laughter. Ariston poured Lysander a cup of water. The gesture was small, but it meant everything. Lysander scooped out a bowl of the stew and ate greedily, hardly bothering to chew. They drank wine too, watered down in the way Spartan warriors took it. Lysander was on to his second helping of stew, and already a little light-headed, when Diokles stood up at the end of the table.

  ‘Students, we welcome back Lysander and Demaratos from their Ordeal. They have proved themselves true Spartans.’ The table raised their cups and cheered. ‘Soon the rest of you will face the challenge too.’ A second cry went up.

  Diokles’ face turned serious. ‘You all know what is happening. War is on our threshold. Many of your fathers have already marched to face Vaumisa and his warriors. We must behave with dignity and honour while our soldiers defend Sparta. The Gods are on our side. We will drive the Persians into the seas from whence they came, and burn their ships before their eyes. We will spare no one, from their bravest warriors to their beasts of burden. For now, enjoy your meal.’

  The table was filled with talk of war as the boys ate.

  ‘You missed a grand sight, Demaratos,’ said Ariston, slurping his stew. ‘The army was mobilised the day after you left for the mountains.’

  ‘Diokles was furious,’ said Prokles.

  Demaratos tore off a piece of bread from the loaf between them and dipped it in his bowl. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because he wanted to go too,’ replied Prokles. ‘But the barracks commanders have to stay. He’s been sulking ever since.’

  ‘We saw the Persian ships with our own eyes,’ said Lysander.

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ said Ariston. ‘How can you have seen them?’

  ‘From the mountains,’ said Lysander. ‘We saw them burning the southern villages.’

  Ariston sniggered. ‘Are you sure you want this liar as your friend, Demaratos?’

  ‘He’s not lying,’ said Demaratos. ‘I saw them too.’

  Ariston picked up his bowl and poured the remains of the stew into his mouth.

  ‘Perhaps they were simply trading ships,’ said Prokles.

  ‘No, they were warships,’ said Demaratos, banging his fist on the table. ‘We saw archers on horseback.’

  The table had fallen silent. Ariston and Prokles shared a look, and Meleager leant across.

  ‘But how can you have?’ he asked. ‘The Persians are attacking from the north!’

  ‘From the Arcadian coast,’ added Ariston. ‘That’s where the army is marching to.’

  But Lysander knew what he had seen.

  ‘The whole army is heading north?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Prokles. No one was eating now.

  A cold feeling swept over Lysander’s skin. He stood quickly, knocking over his cup of wine. If the army were all marching northwards …

  Lysander realised what this meant. The main invasion force was a diversion. Vaumisa would lead his raiding party from the south. Lysander ran towards the door.

  ‘Where do you think …’ shouted Diokles, but Lysander ignored him.

  He had to get to Sarpedon’s villa as soon as possible. Sparta was defenceless.

  CHAPTER 15

  Lysander raced back through the outer village of Amikles towards his grandfather’s house. The village streets were filled with people, but there was no disguising that the preparations weren’t for market – they were for war. A cart passed, piled high with medical supplies: saws for amputations, stretchers and splints. Another carried firewood. An overseer paced between the buildings.

  ‘Bring out all you can spare!’ he shouted. ‘All you can spare for the army. Your full larders will not keep the Persians at bay if our army is defeated.’

  Lysander was running so fast, he almost skidded into a fat man carrying a pile of shallow trays. When he saw Lysander’s red cloak, he gave an unsteady bow.

  ‘Sorry, master, I didn’t see you. I have to get these salted fish loaded up. All for our troops.’

  Lysander hurried on.

  Along the street, occupants carried out armfuls of whatever they had in their stores. Wood for burning, salted meat, jars of wine and medical supplies. Lysander had never seen Sparta mobilised in such a way. All the people were coming together in the face of the enemy.

  Lysander passed the open front of a blacksmith’s shop, where a hairy, bare-chested free-dweller was hammering out a molten red sword, his iron ringing out across the street. He saw the cloak on Lysander’s back, and cried out to him.

  ‘May the Gods be with you, Spartan. Don’t be late for the battle.’

  Lysander quickened his step and pushed his way through the crowds bustling in the central square of Amikles. The sight there made him stop. A huge mass of Spartan soldiers was gathered, drawn up in formation. Lysander counted at least twenty-five rows across, and perhaps the same number of columns. Nearly five hundred soldiers – a full battalion – all dressed in their uniform cloaks, with their shields slung back over their shoulders. Spear-tips glinted in the sun. A high clear voice lifted a song above all the other noise. The singer was a young man with dark skin – perhaps a slave from the city of Carthage over the Great Sea.

  Many wealthy Spartans kept a foreign slave for entertainment, and the Carthaginians were reckoned the best singers. Lysander couldn’t make out the words until he drew closer:

  We praise those champions who lead the fight,

  who give their lives in the front line.

  In men who fear, all excellence is lost.

  Cowardice is a fate worse than death.

  Face the enemy, do not turn and run.

  Nothing shames more than a wound in your back.

  The song finished, and shrill pipes sounded from somewhere in the crowd. On the fourth blast, Lysander saw a Spartan soldier bring an instrument to his lips. Two other players followed suit, until all four were piping in unison. A horn sounded and a harsh cry echoed through the square.

  ‘Spartans! We march to war! Come back with your shields, or upon them!’

  Lysander watched as four soldiers moved out of the ranks to take the lead. Four more followed, and four after that, as the massed men narrowed into a column and began to file out of the square. All heading north to face the Persians. All heading away from Sparta when she needed them the most.

  As Lysander hurried down the road to Sarpedon’s grand villa, his cloak billowed out behind him. A convoy of dusty trailers rattled towards him. They were guided by a team of Helots streaked with dirt. A spear and other pieces of armour filled the carts.

  ‘You’re going the wrong way,’ said Lysander to the lead Helot, as they drew alongside. He lifted his tired, hollow eyes.

  ‘We’ve come from the battlefront,’ he said wearily.

  ‘How is the battle faring?’ asked Lysander.

  The slave shook his head.

  ‘After a day’s fighting, it is a stalemate. We drive them back with the phalanx, but the Persians regroup on the shoreline and attack again. Many have died – from both armies.’ He waved his hand at the contents of the cart – Lysander looked closer. The armour and weapons were all damaged. Lysander saw a mud-streaked breastplate and a spear, splintered in two. There were several shields, bearing dents and spattered with blood. He swallowed, thinking of the men who must have died, their terrible wounds.

  ‘Good day to you,’ said the Helot, and pulled away, the rickety cart shaking along behind him.

  Lysander continued to Sarpedon’s villa. Two Spartan guards stood slouched either side of the gate. When they hea
rd Lysander approach, they looked up and straightened their backs. Both were young men, perhaps twenty-five years old. Their cloaks were freshly dyed and their spears, by the looks of their straight and polished tips, had never seen use.

  As Lysander headed between them, they lowered the shafts across one another, blocking his path.

  ‘I need to speak with the Ephor Sarpedon,’ said Lysander.

  One of the soldiers smiled, and spoke to his fellow guard.

  ‘Did you hear, Kyros, this boy has business with the great general.’

  The other guard gave a snort, and leant forward.

  ‘I heard, Alexandros. You’re a little late for the Council, young one.’

  ‘I am not here for the Council,’ said Lysander. ‘I’m here to see Sarpedon.’

  The Spartan called Kyros lowered his spear point to Lysander’s face.

  ‘I’m telling you for the last time, boy. Sarpedon is in discussion with the other Elders. Be on your way.’

  ‘Please, it is urgent. I have information about the Persian army.’

  ‘And my grandfather was Achilles himself,’ joked Alexandros. ‘Now, move along,’ his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, ‘or we can give you something more painful to think about.’

  A slight figure appeared behind the two soldiers – dressed in a plain white dress.

  Kassandra. It felt a lifetime ago that Lysander had left her behind as he walked towards the mountains.

  ‘Let him in,’ she ordered.

  ‘But, my lady …’ began Kyros.

  ‘Do as I say,’ interrupted Kassandra, ‘or you’ll answer to Sarpedon himself.’

  The soldiers each gave a small bow and promptly uncrossed their spears. Lysander was admitted.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Kassandra. She led him along a corridor to the left of the entrance way, through a storage area piled with sacks, and into a bedchamber. Apart from a bed, there were several expensive-looking chests and the walls were hung with tapestries depicting the stories of the Gods. Her tortoise walked slowly across the tiled floor. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room and Kassandra couldn’t meet Lysander’s eyes. She plucked her pet off the floor and sat on the edge of the bed with it on her lap. Lysander remembered their strained words before he went into the mountains, and a feeling of guilt tugged at his conscience.

  ‘Kassandra … I have to …’

  ‘You are looking well,’ she interrupted with a smile. ‘You survived the Ordeal.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lysander. ‘I apologise for my behaviour before I left. You were right about Demaratos – we couldn’t have survived without each other.’

  ‘And he’s safe too?’ she asked. Lysander could hear she was trying to keep her voice under control.

  ‘He’s fine,’ he said, ‘but listen, I need you to help me speak with Grandfather. I have some important information.’

  ‘Very well,’ replied Kassandra. ‘But he’s talking with the other generals in the courtyard at the moment. We cannot interrupt.’

  ‘I must speak with him right away,’ said Lysander. ‘It cannot wait.’

  ‘It is a Council of War!’ said Kassandra. ‘They’re meeting here to be away from prying eyes in the acropolis.’

  ‘There must be some way we can sneak in,’ said Lysander. He spotted the door on the other side of the room and made for it.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Lysander,’ said Kassandra, putting the tortoise down, and trying to block the doorway. ‘The Council values its privacy highly. Only the Elders are allowed to speak.’

  Lysander had no choice – he could not waste a moment. He roughly pushed Kassandra aside and she cried out as she stumbled. But Lysander didn’t look back; he slipped out of the room.

  ‘Sarpedon will punish you,’ Kassandra called after him.

  Then he heard her give chase. She is almost as stubborn as me, he thought grimly. Lysander ran through a room lined with dining couches, emerging into a shaded outdoor area.

  It was the courtyard where Lysander had trained with his grandfather. Only now it was thronged with red-cloaked Spartans, their backs turned to Lysander and his cousin. Many of their heads were bald, or grey-haired. The Council of Elders! The low murmur of urgent conversation filled the courtyard. Kassandra grabbed his arm and pulled him back behind a pillar.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she whispered.

  ‘I need to tell them what I’ve seen,’ he hissed back. ‘Persians, coming from the south.’

  ‘You can’t simply barge into a Council meeting,’ said Kassandra. ‘It’s against the laws of Sparta – you’ll get us both killed!’

  Her words made Lysander stop. He needed to choose his moment carefully. The conversation suddenly stopped. He peered around the column and saw Sarpedon enter from a far door.

  It was six days since his grandfather had wished him well in front of the barracks. Six days that had changed Lysander for ever.

  ‘Elders of Sparta,’ began Sarpedon, his voice filling the courtyard. ‘My thanks for gathering here at short notice. News from the battle is good. The King who marches with the troops reports our army has withstood the Persian assault with courage. Many have fallen – at the last count over four thousand have died to protect the city. They will be able to walk in Hades with honour. Many more will die before the fight is won.’

  As Lysander watched, another old man, with wiry muscles, stepped forward.

  ‘Tellios, my fellow Ephor of Limnae,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Please say your piece.’

  ‘Thank you, Sarpedon of Amikles,’ replied Tellios. ‘We trust your words, of course, but can we trust the army to triumph? A thousand armed Spartans will stay in the five villages to protect the King who remains here, but they are ready to take up their weapons and join the fight. We must send them to reinforce the bulk of the army.’

  Another man turned to face the crowd.

  ‘Fellow Councilmen, you know me as a man of good judgment. I have faced the enemy with many of you by my side.’

  ‘This is the truth, Myron, Ephor of Pitane,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Speak freely.’

  ‘Then I will say that we should keep the final battalions in Sparta. Without them, we are defenceless. Even a small force – a few thousand Helots – could overwhelm us.’

  ‘If the Persians break through, a thousand men will be useless,’ protested the Ephor called Tellios. ‘We must prevent that at all cost. The men should be dispatched immediately. The Helots will not revolt – they have as much to lose as noble Spartans. Anyway, after the punishment we meted out before, they wouldn’t dare rise up again.’

  The debate broke out amongst the men.

  ‘How can you be sure, Myron?’

  ‘The Helots are cowards – they have no leader.’

  ‘The slaves are looking for their chance for revenge.’

  ‘Silence!’ called Sarpedon. ‘We will have order in this Council!’ The voices died down, and Sarpedon’s face pronounced his fury. ‘This is not the Assembly of Athens, where the mob shout over one another for attention. This is Sparta! We will have order.’

  Lysander watched as the faces of the gathered men grew serious.

  ‘We must put this to a vote. All in favour of keeping the garrison in Sparta, raise your hands.’ Lysander counted the arms – twelve, including Sarpedon himself. ‘All in favour of sending the remaining battalions north, show your choice.’ Fourteen. ‘So be it,’ said Sarpedon. ‘I will send a message to the King, telling him that the Council is decided: the remains of the army will head north immediately.’

  ‘No!’ Lysander shouted, stepping out from behind the pillar. He couldn’t let the Spartans leave themselves defenceless. Kassandra looked at him, her face pale with fear. The grizzled faces of the Elders turned towards them, their faces full of suspicion.

  ‘Spies!’ said one of them.

  CHAPTER 16

  Four of the Elders ran towards him, sword-tips pointed straight at his neck. Lysander knew that if he moved, his life would be ov
er.

  ‘Don’t hurt him!’ shouted Kassandra. She pushed herself in front of him, regardless of the swords. The Spartans looked back hesitantly at Sarpedon, waiting for his orders.

  ‘Kassandra?’ came a voice. Sarpedon pushed between the armed men. His face was twisted with fury. ‘Lower your weapons,’ he growled, and pushed down the blade of the nearest sword.

  He seized Lysander and Kassandra roughly by the arms, and marched them away.

  ‘Wait,’ said Lysander. ‘I have information … about Vaumisa.’

  Sarpedon let go of his granddaughter, and spun Lysander around, pushing him against a column.

  ‘You have offended my household and the Spartan Council already. Don’t try my patience with lies …’

  ‘I’m not lying!’ shouted Lysander, shaking his arm free. ‘Persian ships have already landed on the south coast near Gytheion.’

  The Council huddled in small groups and began whispering. One of the men looked over at Lysander and shook his head.

  ‘The boy must be lying,’ called Tellios, but Sarpedon raised a hand to silence him. ‘Vaumisa wouldn’t be so bold.’

  ‘I saw them with my own eyes,’ urged Lysander. ‘Dozens of boats – the harbour villages were ablaze.’

  ‘It cannot be,’ mumbled Sarpedon, but he didn’t sound convinced. ‘The coastal villages would have sent word. They would have warned us.’

  ‘They sent a messenger,’ said Lysander. ‘But the Persians already had men ashore. They killed him, with arrows.’

  Sarpedon turned from him, and faced the anxious faces of the Council.

  ‘It sounds as though he speaks the truth – the Persians are fond of their cowardly bows. It means they don’t have to look into the eyes of the man they killed.’

  Some of the men nodded. Tellios did not. He pointed at Lysander.

  ‘How can we trust this boy? Look at him. He’s not yet a man.’

  ‘He is my grandson,’ said Sarpedon, ‘and he has completed the Ordeal. His word is as good as my own.’

  Tellios bowed his head respectfully.

  Sarpedon motioned to Kassandra. ‘Leave us, granddaughter.’ Kassandra did as she was told, and Lysander turned to go after her.