Birth of a Warrior

by Michael Ford

  Lysander peeled Thyestes’ fingers away from the hilt of his dagger, and untied the sheath from his belt. He strapped it to the side of his lower leg above his sandal. The dead Spartan wouldn’t need it now.

  All over the camp, boys were fixing on their armour. Lysander found his soldier’s outfit on the cart and positioned each piece with care. The bronze was cold against his skin, but reassuring. The vambraces would allow his forearms to deflect glancing blows, and the greaves would protect his lower legs. The heavy pieces of leather that hung from his waist wouldn’t stop a direct spear thrust, but they would prevent wayward strikes from drawing blood. He helped Leonidas to fasten his breastplate and the prince fastened Lysander’s. The lion’s head depicted on its surface fired Lysander with courage. He noticed that Leonidas’s hands were shaking.

  ‘They’ve been doing that since I woke up,’ said Leonidas.

  Lysander slapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Only a fool scorns death,’ he said. ‘After today, no one will call you a coward again.’

  Leonidas’s hands steadied a little. He slapped Lysander back.

  ‘Will you stand beside me in the phalanx?’ he said.

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ Lysander replied.

  With his short sword hanging at his side, he fastened his cloak again. The boys were lining up to collect their spears from the back of a cart. Lysander and Leonidas joined the queue. Diokles marched amongst them, banging his shield with the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Phalanx formations!’

  The time had come. Lysander curled his fingers around the shaft of his spear. It was slightly taller than his head. The iron tip was a point more than a handspan long. At the bottom end was the lizard sticker – a lump of bronze with a shallow point, blunted and heavy. Not for stabbing, but for smashing into the faces of men on the ground. Lysander hoisted the spear above his head to test the balance, then joined the others. Orpheus stood towards the rear.

  ‘I can’t run with the forward ranks,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be right behind you.’

  ‘Let’s hope the Gods are still on your side,’ said Lysander.

  Lysander looked at his friends. They’d been there for him since the first day in the agoge.

  ‘I want to tell you, if I don’t … if I’m killed …’

  ‘You don’t have to say,’ said Leonidas. ‘We all feel the same.’

  He put his hand out in a fist, as Agesilaus had done before they went into the mountains. Orpheus followed suit. Lysander didn’t hesitate and placed his on top.

  The boys had gathered in ten rows, each roughly fifty soldiers long. Lysander and Leonidas pushed to the front. Demaratos was already there, and they took their places beside him. With his shield on his left arm, he would be able to protect Leonidas. Demaratos on his right would protect him. All eyes were fixed ahead, where a dark line stretched over the horizon.

  The Persians were coming.

  As the enemy ranks inched forward, Lysander could make out helmeted heads. Sunlight glinted off their weapons – long curved swords and battle-axes. Their shields weren’t round like his own. They were tall oblongs, stretching from the shoulder to below the knee. The Persian line halted some two hundred paces away. One of us will have to give way, thought Lysander, and it’s not going to be us.

  Diokles emerged on horseback in front of Lysander and the other troops. He trotted along the ranks, moving boys backwards so that the line was straight. Then he drew up in front of the phalanx.

  ‘The phalanx relies on order, courage and trust. The boy to your right will defend you. You will defend the boy to your left. Stay tight. Stay firm. Every time you gave your blood and sweat in the agoge was to prepare you for this moment. This is what you were born for.’ He pointed with his sword across the battlefield. ‘These are your enemies now. I will not lie to you. We are outnumbered. Many of you will not see the sun fall this evening.’ Behind Lysander a boy whimpered. Diokles ignored him and continued. ‘If this is to be your last day with the living, make it a glorious one. Lift your shields high. Hold your spears firm. If you give your life, do not give it lightly. Make Vaumisa know how hard a Spartan dies. Death and honour!’

  ‘Death and honour!’ shouted Lysander and his comrades.

  ‘Start the drums!’ ordered Diokles.

  Behind the line, a heavy beat sounded across the plain.

  Boom!

  Boom!

  Boom!

  ‘March!’ barked the tutor.

  Lysander’s row stepped forward in time with the beat. His stomach churned and his legs threatened to give way. He concentrated on keeping his shield level and covering Leonidas’s right side. That was the only way the phalanx would succeed. Somewhere behind him another boy whimpered, and the bitter smell of urine wafted under his nose. Lysander’s whole world was the narrow view from his helmet. The drumbeat quickened. He gripped his spear more tightly, and broke into a jog. The ground thundered. The Persians stayed still. Why don’t they come? thought Lysander. He could see that their helmets were conical, some with spikes on top. A cloud of dark smoke rose quickly above the Persian line. It took him a moment to realise what it was.

  ‘Arrows!’ shouted Leonidas, his voice muffled through his helmet.

  He was right. The curtain of shafts floated, rising in an arc towards them.

  ‘Ignore them!’ shouted Diokles from his horse. ‘Maintain order!’

  The arrows left Lysander’s field of vision over the brim of his helmet. He started to run. Then there was a sound like wind gusting past his ear. A thud sounded to his right. Prokles screamed and fell. Then thuds all around, sounding like hail on the roof of the barracks. Cries of terror rose to the skies. Another boy filled the place beside him. The drums speeded up again. They were running now and boys were shouting war cries above the drums: ‘Death to the Persians!’ Still the Persians were steady in their ranks. Lysander didn’t know how many of his comrades had fallen. More glory for those who remain. He pushed on.

  The Persians were no more than fifty paces away now. Had the drums stopped? He didn’t know. They were all running now, and Lysander lusted for Persian blood. The shield on his arm weighed nothing. The spear in his hand was an extension of his body. Lysander saw a Persian, with his sword raised above his head. Lysander could make out the wicker of his shield, the white of his eyes under painted lashes. You’re mine, thought Lysander.

  ‘Ready your spears,’ ordered Diokles. Lysander adjusted his grip, as he had done so many times in training. The others in the line did the same. The shouts around him grew to a crescendo as they reached ten paces’ distance from the Persians, closing still. Lysander found himself joining in with the cries.

  ‘For Sparta!’

  CHAPTER 19

  The Persian’s shield buckled under Lysander’s spear, and the point hit the middle of his chest. Lysander felt resistance for a fraction of a heartbeat before the tip buried itself in the flesh. Even if he’d wanted to stop, Lysander couldn’t have. With the weight of the phalanx behind him, he crashed through the front rows of Persians, pressing the shaft further through his victim until they were almost face-to-face. Warm blood sprayed across Lysander’s cheek, and the Persian’s face twisted in pain. His eyes rolled back in his head, and Lysander felt the warmth of his final breath as it escaped in a sigh.

  Lysander brought his foot up to the Persian’s chest and pushed him off the spear, leaving a trail of blood along its length. The whole of the enemy front line had been pushed back, and the Spartan phalanx had held firm.

  ‘Crush them!’ came an order from behind.

  Lysander pulled his shield back into position, and the row straightened. It was the Persians’ turn to charge. Their line ran forward. Lysander knew what to do. Just before they hit, he took a step forward. Shields and weapons crashed together along the line. The sound was deafening. The line held.

  Lysander adjusted his grip for an overarm thrust and marched forward with the others. Leonidas gave a blood-curdling cry at hi
s side. The enemy were already edging backwards. There were shouts from their lines too, in a language that Lysander couldn’t understand. It seemed their commander was telling them to stay and fight. Lysander came within range and aimed at another Persian ahead and lunged with his spear. The tip only grazed the Persian’s neck. His enemy saw his chance and lunged with his sword towards Lysander’s armpit.

  ‘No!’ It was Demaratos. He pushed out his shield and the blade clattered safely away from Lysander. Lysander stabbed again with his spear and this time it pierced the Persian’s throat. He gave a stifled cry. Lysander forced the point downwards, into the chest cavity. The Persian dropped his sword and shield, fell to his knees and reached up to his torn neck. Blood gushed over his fingers as he writhed on the floor.

  The phalanx pushed on. With the Persians on the back foot, everything depended upon Lysander and his comrades holding the line, and using their spears. A mass of dead and dying Persians lay at his feet. Groans of agony filled the air. He trampled over the fallen men as the line surged on. The Persians were looking unsure now, and some were even beginning to turn. The enemy commanders issued angry shouts.

  Lysander felt a sharp pain and fell to one knee, crying out in surprise. A bloodied Persian had rammed his dagger into the back of his calf. Lysander lifted his spear and rammed the lizard-sticker down on to the Persian’s arm. He saw the limb buckle as the bone shattered. The soldier screamed and writhed on the ground. The other Spartans surged around Lysander, continuing their advance. He lifted the spear-butt and struck again, this time into the Persian’s face. The Persian’s head twisted and he stopped moving.

  Lysander pulled the dagger from his leg. It was bleeding, but not heavily. He struggled to his feet and hobbled on. He was in the middle of the Spartan ranks now, and could see the front line lunging with their spears ahead. Then he saw Hilarion. He was lying on his back, looking upwards, gripping his side with bloody hands. His chest rose and fell quickly as he gasped for breath.

  ‘Leave him!’ came a voice from behind. It was Diokles. ‘You’re here to fight!’

  Lysander threw himself forward once more, picking his way over the tangle of bodies. Most were Persians, but a few red cloaks were scattered among them as well. Lysander recognised some of the faces from his own barracks. Each one tightened the knot of his anger. He saw a gap and charged back into the fray with an underarm thrust that lifted a Persian off his feet as the spear entered his groin. Lysander pulled it loose, then drove it into his chest, twisting the point deeper.

  A cheer rose through the ranks, and Lysander looked up to see the remaining Persians turn away. It seemed like they were running for their lives. Lysander turned to the boys around him. Their faces, mostly covered in blood, were ecstatic. Could victory be so easy?

  ‘Let’s go after them!’ said an older boy. Lysander felt people pushing from behind. Another voice called out, ‘We can finish them off!’ and another, ‘Glory will be ours!’

  Lysander heard Diokles’ voice, faint under the clamour, ‘Hold your lines!’ but if anyone else heard, they didn’t listen. Lysander found himself forced aside and knocked to the ground as the rows behind streamed past in pursuit of the retreating Persians. The phalanx fell apart.

  ‘No!’ shouted Diokles.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Leonidas, helping Lysander to his feet.

  ‘Yes, but …’

  Ahead, the Persians were still running back towards their commanders, but Lysander could see something wasn’t right. The retreat was too orderly. When they were thirty paces away, with scattered Spartans hotly in pursuit, the Persians began to fan out. Their line thinned as it became wider, stretching out across the plain.

  ‘What are they doing?’ shouted Leonidas.

  The tips of the Persian line suddenly turned right around and started charging back towards the Spartans. It was no retreat, it was a tactical move, and his comrades were running right into the middle of it.

  ‘They’ll surround us!’ shouted Lysander. A few of the Spartans stopped and turned at Lysander’s cry. ‘It’s a trap!’ he yelled. ‘Pull back!’

  More of the pursuing Spartans had obviously seen the threat as well. The advancing body split into groups to face the Persian attackers now threatening to encircle them.

  ‘The shield wall will be useless,’ said Leonidas. ‘We have to help!’

  ‘Fall back! Fall back!’ Diokles was shouting. The Persians were coming at the boys from the sides and the front. Lysander saw Demaratos desperately plunge his spear into the stomach of an attacker. While he was trying to free it another Persian came from the side, raising his mace, thick with spikes.

  Lysander didn’t think. He hoisted his spear and threw it, extending his arm to make sure it flew straight. The Persian was swinging his mace towards Demaratos’s neck when the spear-point caught him in the ribcage. The tip exploded through the other side of his body, sending the Persian staggering sideways, and dumping him on to the ground. Demaratos tugged his own spear out of the fallen man’s flesh, and shot Lysander a nod of thanks.

  ‘Where are the reinforcements?’ said Leonidas, glancing around. ‘They should be here by now.’ Lysander scanned the slopes to the east and west. Only rocks and trees. The battalions were nowhere to be seen.

  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 s
traightened 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.