by Michael Ford
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.
There was a splash as the oars entered the water again on one side, and the stern shifted a few degrees.
‘We’re turning around …’ whispered Demaratos.
Lysander pointed to the ladder. Shall we look? he mouthed. Demaratos nodded.
Lysander went first, carefully placing his feet on the rungs. The ladder creaked a little, but the sound mingled with the other noises on the ship. They found themselves on a raised platform, boxed in by a low guardrail of polished wood. The ship had turned a full half circle, so the prow now faced out to sea. On his belly, Lysander crawled to look over the edge.
He drew a breath. Below them, standing on the deck, was Vaumisa. He was a giant. He must be three times my weight, thought Lysander. A slave with skin as black as ebony was helping him to remove the outer pieces of scaled armour. The bodyguards, still wearing their black leather, were staring back towards the shore. They had removed their helmets, revealing heads shaved bare.
Demaratos tugged at his shoulder, and stabbed a finger to the left side of the deck. Kassandra was crouched among two huge coils of rope. Her hands were tied behind her back and her mouth was gagged. Two red streaks marked her cheeks.
Below them, Vaumisa was now washing his muscular arms and thick neck, scooping water from a bowl held by the slave.
Lysander slipped the dagger silently from its sheath on his leg.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Demaratos.
‘Stay out of sight,’ replied Lysander. He clenched the cold blade beneath his teeth. The autumn sun was warming his skin, but still goose pimples broke out over his flesh. Lysander could smell the sweat from the general’s skin. He would only have one chance, and if he failed, they’d all be dead.
Lysander leapt off the platform towards Vaumisa.
CHAPTER 22
Lysander hit the deck. He thrust both hands in Vaumisa’s chest, sending him flying on to the deck. Vaumisa’s face registered panic. Lysander swung a fist into his stomach, feeling the muscles tighten in his enemy’s abdomen. The general bent double, wheezing for breath. Several of his bodyguards charged across the deck, but Lysander was too quick for them. He seized Vaumisa’s long hair with his left hand, and the dagger with his right. He tugged back on the Persian’s dark locks, and rammed a knee into the back of his legs. Vaumisa crumpled as Lysander brought the blade against his neck.
The bodyguards stopped dead.
For a few breaths, everything was silent. Kassandra’s eyes were wide. Beneath the tip of his dagger, Lysander could see Vaumisa’s pulse beating rapidly in his throat. He tugged back harder on the hair and pressed the tip of the blade into the flesh. Vaumisa drew a breath through his teeth as a bead of blood trickled towards his chest.
One of the Persian soldiers broke from the crowd and came at Lysander, sword in hand. Lysander backed away, keeping his grip on Vaumisa, but the soldier raised the sword above his head. Kassandra gave a muffled scream.
Suddenly the Persian was thrown back through the air, and landed hard against the railings on the side of the vessel. There was an arrow sticking out of his chest. The dying man looked down at his wound in astonishment, then stared above Lysander’s head. Demaratos was standing on the platform, already stringing a second arrow and bringing it to bear on the other Persians.
He gazed down the shaft.
‘Get back,’ he shouted. ‘All of you.’
He must have found a bow and arrow up there! Lysander thought.
Demaratos’s intention was clear. The Persians backed away.
Lysander’s breathing had steadied, and his fingers ached around the hilt of the knife.
‘Is there anyone here who understands Greek?’ he shouted across the deck.
Vaumisa shifted a little on his knees.
‘I need no translator, boy,’ he spat. ‘What is it you want? You will have it, then I’ll throw you overboard. If the fish can stomach your Spartan flesh.’
Lysander nodded towards the bodyguards.
‘First tell them to throw their weapons on the deck.’
Vaumisa barked an order at his men. They looked at each other uncertainly. Vaumisa repeated the order, and one by one, the Persians unsheathed their swords and threw them down.
‘Now what is your pleasure, master,’ said Vaumisa sarcastically.
‘Release the girl,’ said Lysander. Hope filled Kassandra’s eyes.
‘She is my prize,’ said Vaumisa. ‘She’s just a Helot,’ he said.
Vaumisa laughed. ‘I know well what she is, boy. And I also know that two Spartans wouldn’t risk their lives for a slave.’
‘Release her,’ said Lysander, ignoring Vaumisa’s taunts, ‘or the deck will be soaked in the blood of a Persian general.’
Vaumisa hesitated, then shouted an order in Persian, and one of his men hurried forward and untied Kassandra’s ropes. As soon as her hands were free she rubbed her wrists and climbed to her feet. She walked towards where Vaumisa knelt on the deck. She spat in his face.
‘Thank you, Lysander,’ she said.
Vaumisa wiped the spittle away with his arm, and smiled up at Lysander.
‘And what now, brave Spartan? How will you make your escape? You cannot kill us all, and you cannot swim away.’
Lysander looked up at Demaratos unsurely. His comrade still stood with his bowstring taut and an arrow trained on the deck below.
‘We can take Vaumisa’s boat,’ Kassandra said.
The general laughed.
‘And what will prevent me chasing you down,’ he said, ‘or my archers from cutting you to pieces with arrows?’
‘Because,’ said Kassandra, ‘you’ll be coming with us. Lower the boat.’
Vaumisa’s face fell. He shouted an order, and there was a scuffle below deck, as some of the oarsmen moved about.
‘You think you have beaten Vaumisa,’ said the general to Lysander and Kassandra. ‘But you will both die slowly for this.’
‘Tell that to the Spartan Council,’ said Lysander.
Vaumisa shouted another order.
‘Tell them to move more quickly,’ Lysander said. Kassandra’s head jerked up.
‘Look out!’ she shouted. Lysander looked up, as the bare-chested Persian who had pulled up the anchor appeared on the forecastle and barrelled into Demaratos from behind. The arrow zipped from his bow and darted harmlessly into the water. At the same moment, Lysander heard a noise beside him and turned. Another rower, wearing a loincloth, swung an oar towards his head. His neck jarred painfully. Then nothing.
Water splashed over Lysander’s face. He tasted blood inside his mouth and he could feel that one of his teeth was loose. He was sitting up on a hard surface. Opening his eyes, he squinted. The sun was impossibly bright and all he could see was the deck at his feet. You fool! he cursed himself. The boat was just a distraction: Vaumisa must have kept him talking while his men below planned a trap.
Lysander couldn’t move his hands. They were tied and the rope was already chafing against his skin. He was tied to someone else.
‘Demaratos?’
‘You’re awake,’ replied his friend behind him.
Lysander’s head was heavy and thudded with pain.
‘Is Kassandra safe?’
‘I’m here, too,’ she said. Lysander turned his head slowly. The three of them were tied around the central mast of the ship.
‘We were stupid,’ said Demaratos. ‘Vaumisa wasn’t ordering his men to lower the boat. He was organising a trap.’
‘You were stupid,’ said Vaumisa as his shadow fell over them. ‘But what can one expect from a Spartan? I’ve heard your people cannot even read!’
‘The Athenians spread those rumours,’ said Demaratos. ‘They are only jealous because they cannot hold a spear.’
Vaumisa laughed, but the smile quickly faded.
‘So tell me, Spartan,’ he said, kicking Lysander on the bruise over his broken ribs. Lysander moaned as the pain brought him close to blacking out. ‘Why did you risk everything for this girl?’
Lysander grimaced.
‘Curse you,’ he said.
‘Come,’ said Vaumisa. ‘Satisfy my curiosity. I will make your death a quick one.’
Lysander remained silent.
‘They’re my protectors,’ said Kassandra.
Vaumisa raised an eyebrow. ‘Are they indeed? I would expect Sarpedon’s granddaughter to make better choices.’
Lysander’s pulse quickened.
‘I wasn’t sure at first,’ said Vaumisa. ‘My men simply wanted a hostage. When you shouted her name on the battlefield, I couldn’t believe my luck. But there’s really no mistaking it, is there?’ He stroked the side of Kassandra’s face. ‘You can see it in the profile – this girl is no Helot.’
One of the bodyguards came to Vaumisa’s side, and whispered in his ear. The general shook his head and spoke a few words, before turning to Lysander and his friends.
‘Cleeto wants to know if it’s time to sail home,’ he nodded to the Persian beside him, who came forward brandishing a knife, ‘but I’ve told him that plans have changed.’
Cleeto knelt beside them on the deck. Lysander avoided looking into the Persian’s eyes. If he was going to be their executioner, Lysander didn’t want to give him the pleasure of showing any fear. Lysander heard the blade sawing on a rope. Were they being freed? He tried to move his hands, but they were still tied. Demaratos stood up, a look of uncertainty playing on his features. Why are they only freeing him? Lysander wondered.
‘Why have the cub of the wolf,’ said Vaumisa, ‘when one can have the head of the pack? I have dreamt about vengeance for so long. I thought I could take Sparta by force, but now I can do so by guile. You!’ he pointed at Demaratos. ‘You can obviously swim. Head back to the shore. Tell Sarpedon that I have his beloved Kassandra, the daughter of Demokrates. He must be here by nightfall, or I will peel the skin from her body before she dies.’
Demaratos didn’t move.
‘No!’ said Lysander, pulling at his bonds again. ‘Don’t do it!’
‘Go now!’ ordered Vaumisa, drawing his sword. ‘Every moment you waste her death draws closer.’
Demaratos looked at Kassandra and Lysander.
‘I’ll come back with help,’ he said. He turned, and took four strides to the edge of the deck. Then he jumped over the side. With a splash, Demaratos was gone.
Lysander watched anxiously as the sun sank across the sky, turning the water to gold. Would Sarpedon come? If he didn’t, they were dead for sure. But if he did, what good could come of it?
On the deck, the Persians brought out huge legs of lamb, spiced breads and flasks of wine and began feasting. They sang strange, repetitive songs. Every so often, one of them would cast a look at Lysander and Kassandra, and curse in angry Persian. Vaumisa seemed on edge, pacing the deck and looking back towards the shore.
‘Do you think Sarpedon will come?’ whispered Kassandra.
‘I hope not,’ said Lysander. ‘Vaumisa has won, whatever happens now. Better that the two of us die, than we risk the life of Sarpedon.’
‘This is all my fault,’ she said quietly.
Cleeto was looking at Lysander. He tried to avoid the bodyguard’s eyes, but each time he looked up, they were upon him. Finally, the Persian stood up and walked over, chewing a p
iece of bread. When he reached Kassandra, he tore off a piece and offered it to her. Lysander could see how filthy his hands were, but with her hands tied behind her back, all Kassandra could do was nod. The Persian offered it to her lips and Kassandra took the food, chewing quickly. When she’d swallowed, Cleeto offered her another piece.
‘Feed him,’ said Kassandra, nodding to Lysander.
Cleeto obviously understood. He shifted until he was in front of Lysander, and held a piece of bread to his mouth. Lysander didn’t want to take it, but he didn’t know when he would next eat. He needed to keep his strength up. As he chewed, he saw Cleeto’s eyes fall to his throat. Too late.
‘No!’ he began, but the Persian reached forward and tugged the Fire of Ares loose, snapping the thong around Lysander’s neck. The red stone glinted in the late afternoon sun. Lysander fought against the ropes – they loosened a little, but not enough. All he could do was watch Cleeto tie the pendant around his own neck. He stuffed the remaining bread in Lysander’s mouth and walked back to join his comrades.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Kassandra.
Lysander spat the bread on to the deck.
‘He’s taken the Fire of Ares,’ he said.
There was a shout from the bow of the ship. Vaumisa called out orders in Persian. His face was full of life. Lysander couldn’t understand of course, but he heard one word repeated: ‘Sarpedon’.
Was it true? Was his grandfather coming?
CHAPTER 23
Persians hurried across the deck, and lit torches along the edges. Through the dusk air Lysander could hear the unmistakable splash of oars in the water. There was a clunk, and a Persian lowered a ladder over the side of the ship. It creaked as someone put their weight on the rungs. A hand appeared on the rail.
Sarpedon climbed on to the deck. He was dressed simply, in a grey tunic and his red cloak. Dark shadows ringed his eyes, and the creases in his face seemed to have grown deeper, but he carried himself with dignity. His presence filled the deck. His eyes met Lysander’s, and he gave a small bow of acknowledgment. Sarpedon turned and offered a hand to someone behind him. Strabo! Lysander realised.
