by Michael Ford
‘Of course!’ said Lysander. He gazed up into the mountains. This was the inspiration he’d been looking for. The Delphic Oracle would be able to help him put to rest the demons tormenting his soul.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I am now,’ said Lysander, pushing himself off the well. ‘Let’s get to dinner – there’ll be nothing left but scraps.’
Orpheus shook his head and grinned, but Lysander’s mind was racing.
That was it.
Delphi!
Chapter 5
‘Someone needs to tell those Helots to use less vinegar,’ said Prokles, pulling a face.
Lysander dunked his bread into the thick dark broth. It was made from pig’s blood, but there was precious little meat in it. It was mostly plumped barley and a few figs. After the battle with the Persians, supplies in Sparta were running short.
‘Apparently,’ said a boy called Pelias, ‘there was once a visitor from Athens. When he tasted the black broth, he said, “Now I know why you Spartans are willing to give your lives so easily on the battlefield – you won’t have to eat this again.”’
Laughter erupted along the table. Lysander smiled, but he didn’t mind the taste. His thoughts were on the Oracle.
‘Are you really going to ask?’ said Orpheus. Lysander had whispered his plans to his friend between mouthfuls of food; the loud shouts and calls that rang around the dining hall meant they were in no danger of being overheard.
‘I have to,’ said Lysander. He glanced over at Aristodermus. He looked even more ghostly indoors, and his skin was pale as alabaster.
Will he let me leave the barracks? Lysander wondered. Diokles would have said ‘No’ in an instant.
‘Good luck,’ said Orpheus.
Leonidas leant over the table. ‘What are you two whispering about?’
‘I want to visit the Delphic Oracle,’ said Lysander.
Leonidas raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You’ll need money,’ he said.
‘But it’s a religious place, isn’t it?’ said Lysander.
Leonidas smiled. ‘Even the Gods have palms that must be crossed.’
After the bowls had been cleared away and the rest of the boys had retired to the dormitory to polish their shields, Lysander went to Aristodermus’ chamber. It had always been off-limits when Diokles inhabited it, but Lysander felt emboldened. If he didn’t ask now, in private, the others were sure to find out. As he approached he heard words from within. Did Aristodermus have another visitor?
‘Then said Achilles in his great grief:
I would die here and now,
for I could not save my comrade.’
Aristodermus’ voice rose, and Lysander realised he was reciting poetry. The door was open a crack, and he peered inside. The tutor was sat at a table, lit by the glow of a candle. His round shield lay face up, and Aristodermus was rubbing a pumice stone across its surface to remove scratches. It was a slave’s work; why was he lowering himself to this task? Aristodermus continued.
‘He has fallen far from home,
and in his hour of need I was not there.
What is there for me?
Return to my own land I shall not,
for I offered help not to Patroklus.’
Lysander knocked quietly.
‘Enter,’ said Aristodermus.
Lysander pushed open the door and walked inside. He was surprised that the room was much like where he slept in the dormitory. Sparsely furnished, with an oak chest, and a bed of blankets over dried rushes from the river. A collection of small statuettes stood around a wine bowl, with some pieces of pottery carved with symbols representing the Gods.
‘Why aren’t you tending your arms with the others?’
‘I am seeking permission to speak with you,’ said Lysander. ‘About …’ He searched for the words and cursed himself. You should have rehearsed this, you fool.
‘Close the door behind you.’
Lysander did as he was asked, then stood awkwardly. How could he explain his reasoning? Would Aristodermus think less of him?
‘You must have heard me speaking Homer’s verses.’ The words weren’t a question.
‘I heard something.’
‘They are about the great warrior Achilles, son of the Goddess Thetis. Did you know, he didn’t fight at all for the first nine years of the war? Refused to, and sat in his tent.’
‘Was he a coward?’ Lysander asked. Why is he telling me this? he wondered.
Aristodermus chuckled. ‘No, he had an argument with the Greek commander – about a girl, can you believe? His pride prevented him fighting. But not for ever.’
‘What happened?’ asked Lysander.
‘His friend, Patroklus, was killed. He knew then it was time to put his stubbornness aside and take to the battlefield. What brings you here?’
‘I’d like to visit the Oracle at Delphi,’ Lysander blurted out.
To his surprise, Aristodermus didn’t laugh, or tell him to get out, but gestured with his hand to sit on a stool.
‘Take a seat, Lysander. Explain yourself.’
Lysander’s heart was thumping under his ribs. He sat opposite the tutor, but couldn’t look him in the eye. What was he thinking? A boy asking to be excused from training to consult with the Gods! Who did he think he was? His cheeks felt like they were aflame.
‘I … I…’ The pressure inside his head was building and the sense of panic from earlier returned. He had to get out! Lysander tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness made him fall sideways, and he staggered against the wall of the chamber.
‘What’s the matter?’ came Aristodermus’ voice. ‘Are you injured?’
Lysander shook his head. His vision blurred in and out of focus. He felt an arm guiding him back to his seat. ‘Sit down. Drink some water. Take your time.’
A cup was placed in his hand, and Lysander swallowed a long draught.
While he waited for his breathing to return to normal, Aristodermus took a cloth and began polishing the dull surface of the shield.
Without looking up, Aristodermus began to talk. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Does this illness have something to do with your wish to visit the Oracle?’
‘Ever since the battle … Since my grandfather …’ Lysander began to reply.
‘I know of Sarpedon’s death,’ said Aristodermus. ‘He is a loss to Sparta.’
‘I don’t know my place any more. It feels like the world is dark, that I’m alone … I feel myself panicking, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I’ve searched my heart, but can’t find the answers there. The Oracle is my last hope.’
Aristodermus watched his face intently, then gave a small nod. ‘It sounds as though you know what must be done.’
‘So I may go?’
‘You may leave at dawn,’ said Aristodermus. ‘I hope the Pythia gives you the answers you’re looking for.’
Aristodermus’ skin looked pale as the moon in the black sky. The flickering candle flame caught a pink tinge in his eyes. Lysander had never seen a man like him.
‘You’re wondering how I’ve survived, aren’t you?’ said the tutor. ‘Looking like this.’
Lysander nodded.
‘I was almost abandoned as a baby,’ said Aristodermus. ‘My mother thought I was cursed. But my father had waited so long for a boy child, he trained me himself within the walls of the house – made sure I was strong before I entered the agoge. I was bullied by the others, but I let it fuel my training. It’s a case of adapting. My skin burns easily in the sunlight, so I train at dawn and at night. I keep in the shade when I can, and rarely remove my cloak in the day. You’d do well to remember the same, Lysander. Rest when you can. Fight when you have to. The Gods will take you when they want.’
Lysander smiled. ‘It wasn’t like that under Diokles. He used to say there was time to rest when you’re dead.’
Aristodermus snorted. ‘And do you believe that?’
‘But that’s all we’ve been taught to do,’ said Lysand
er. ‘The Spartan system relies on it.’
‘Times change, Lysander. Despite what the old men would have you believe, nothing stays the same for ever. It’s all very well following the strictures of Lykurgos, but our population is shrinking. One day we’ll have to let the free-dwellers fight alongside us. Perhaps even the Helots …’
Lysander gasped.
‘Just remember, I know what it’s like to be different. Now, go.’
Lysander lay down on his bed. Some of the other boys were already asleep, but Leonidas called over quietly.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said I could go.’
Leonidas let out a low whistle. ‘Do you know the way?’
Lysander shook his head.
‘It’s easy enough. Follow the northern road through Argos, and on to Corinth. Then take the road to Delphi along the northern shore of the Gulf. It’s a long way, four or five days on foot.’
‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Lysander. ‘I need to be away from Sparta for a while. I feel … suffocated here.’
Leonidas reached into the chest next to his bed.
‘Remember, Lysander. At Delphi the Gods don’t talk straight.’ He threw something that landed with a clang of metal on Lysander’s bed. It was a small bag tied with a leather cord.
‘What’s this?’ he whispered, weighing it in his hand. ‘Iron?’
‘Better,’ said Leonidas. ‘Money – drachma.’
Lysander tipped the rough discs of metal into his hands. He’d never seen coins before – what use were they in Sparta, where iron bars were currency? But he’d heard the boys talk about them. In the dim light, he inspected one. A picture of an owl had been hammered into the surface. The other side showed a woman wearing a helmet.
‘Where are they from?’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Leonidas.
Lysander slipped the coins back into the pouch and placed them under his blanket. Leonidas’s father was a king, so perhaps these were from the treasury.
‘Thanks,’ said Lysander, but Leonidas was already asleep – his breathing had become shallow and measured.
Lysander woke early, and fastened his travelling cloak – a brown one – in the darkness of the dormitory. He took his sack, and stuffed the blanket inside. Something glinted in the darkness by his folded clothes. The gold ring enclosing the lock of his father’s hair. Lysander snatched it up and placed it into his sack as well. He’d need all the good omens he could get.
Pausing at the barracks door, he looked back over the bodies of his sleeping comrades. Would he ever really be one of them? Did any of them suffer the same doubts he did? Perhaps the Oracle could tell him.
Outside, he made his way quickly through the town, only stopping to buy a loaf. He descended into the centre of Limnae, where he saw the occasional Helot trudging between errands. He fought the urge to tear off chunks of warm bread; he’d need to ration himself. For a moment, he considered taking the road up to Kassandra’s villa. He could see now how foolish their argument had been. Their grief, and Tellios’ power games, had sown the seeds of doubt in their minds, turned them against one another. But what if she was still angry with him? She’d be asleep at this hour, surely.
He took the left fork northwards along the banks of the Eurotas. The water was deep here, and swept along quickly. On the far bank, a heron stood sentinel, still as a statue.
The cold air was refreshing in Lysander’s lungs, and he walked quickly around the northern edge of Pitane, leaving the low rise of the acropolis behind him. Soon the morning sun rose above the mountains, and warmed his right side. He chewed on the bread, and swallowed some water from his flask.
Gradually the houses gave way to the farmlands north of Sparta. Huge fields stretched out either side of the river, with only the occasional stone equipment store, or shepherd’s hut to break the expanse. Beyond the fields, mountains rose up, cupping the wide valley. Lysander knew from his Ordeal with Demaratos how wild and inhospitable those lands could be. It was no wonder foreign invaders had not encroached their territory for hundreds of years. The hills enclosed Sparta on three sides. The fourth edge of their territory bordered the sea. Only an audacious, and cleverly planned assault, would stand a chance.
But that was what Vaumisa had done, and it had taken the lives of thousands to drive him back. Sarpedon was not the only man who had died.
It must have been between dawn and midday when the first people crossed his path. It was a band of Helots being led by an overseer. From his own days working on the land, Lysander knew that the winter months were quiet, but hard. With little to do other than prune the fruit trees, harvest the crops of winter vegetables and repair equipment, everything fitted easily into the meagre daylight hours. But it was back-breaking work, bending and lifting, and many times he had gone to bed aching. Firewood was always a luxury, and he remembered seeing his mother’s lips turn blue with cold in their ramshackle hut.
The grey-faced Helots trudged past him in two columns. Lysander passed the overseer at the rear of the group. He carried no whip on his belt, as Lysander’s former gang boss had done, but the long staff in his hand had most likely landed across the backs, or the legs, of his charges in the past.
‘May the Twin Gods be with you,’ the overseer grumbled in greeting without breaking his stride.
Lysander couldn’t help his darkening mood. Tellios’ words had left no doubt that the Helots in his charge would suffer. Mistreatment – beatings, starvation, cold – would be commonplace. And there was nothing he could do.
* * *
Lysander walked late into the night, chasing fatigue in order to banish those images that still haunted him: Timeon’s pale body under his shroud, his mother Athenasia being lowered into her grave, Sarpedon’s twisted features as he drove a sword into his own chest.
Ghosts of the past, thought Lysander, as he marched along the track. Will I ever be free?
He slept in a pine forest on a soft cushion of fallen needles. In the stillness every sound seemed swallowed by the spaces between the conifers. Using the sun as his guide at dawn he continued north, following the river’s course along the valley, and passing by several small settlements, though none were as extensive as the five villages of Sparta.
The land rose, and eventually he left the river along one of the tributaries. He began to see more people on the paths, other travellers like himself. Many eyed him with suspicion, no doubt fearful of thieves in the wild places, but Lysander was happy to run past them. He found the only way he could clear his mind was to push his body as hard as he could. Blisters stung his feet, but soon that discomfort died. Lysander took off his sandals, and marched barefoot across the rocky path, relishing the pain. As the night drew in, he walked on through the cold until his sinews burned, then collapsed by the track, exhausted.
On the third morning, he woke to dew on his face. He tried to eat some bread, but it had turned almost solid. He washed down a few mouthfuls with rank-tasting water, and continued on his way. Soon after dawn, he came upon a merchant guiding a low wagon, drawn by a single mule. Lysander had no intention of stopping to speak, but as he tried to pass by, rounding the wagon above the path, he tripped and fell, scraping his arms as he put out his hands to break his fall.
‘Curse Hades!’ he said.
‘Whoa!’ said the merchant, bringing his mule to a halt with a tug on the long reins.
Lysander dusted down his tunic.
‘Are you hurt?’ asked the merchant.
‘I’m fine,’ said Lysander, reaching to pick up his sack.
‘Where are you in such a rush to get to?’
‘Delphi.’
The merchant looked puzzled. ‘Then you’re going the wrong way, my boy,’ he said.
Lysander frowned. ‘But I was told that Corinth was the quickest route.’
‘Not in these times. The Nemeans and the Athenians are warring again.’
‘Then which way?’ asked Lysander.
‘My advice i
s to stay north-west,’ said the man. ‘Take the mountain tracks through Arcadia, across the Ceryneian plains, and into Achaea, then on to Agion. You can catch a boat across the water there. It’ll be no slower, though you’ll need money for the ferrymen.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lysander.
‘Why not hop on board the wagon? I’m only going as far as the junction to Elis, but you can ride until then,’ said the stranger. Lysander looked at his dirtstained clothes, and the new scrapes down his arms. He didn’t deserve help.
‘I prefer to make my own way,’ he said.
‘With an attitude like that, you belong at Sparta.’ The merchant chuckled to himself and, with a crack of his whip, the wagon pulled away, leaving Lysander alone once more.
He passed a junction, at the lower end of a rocky gorge. A small shrine to Zeus, no more than a cairn of rocks marked with the God’s name, stood at the crossroads. Shards of pottery painted with votive messages stood around the base, and Lysander inspected one. ‘Kamelos, son of Korinth, prays for the Thunder-God’s Blessings in the javelin at Olympia.’
This must be the route to Elis, Lysander realised. The Olympic Games were held every four years in that region. He wondered if Kamelos’ prayers had been answered. He had always doubted the Gods, despite his mother’s warnings. What had they ever done for her, or him? She had died young from the coughing sickness, brought on by long hours tending the Spartans’ crops. Lysander swallowed back the sorrow that tightened in his throat. No, now he had to trust the Gods; there was no one else left to turn to.
Lysander placed the tablet back carefully. But as he straightened up he felt the hairs stiffen on the back of his neck as a scream sliced through the air.
Chapter 6
Breaking into a run, Lysander darted off the path and climbed, hand over hand, up the ravine. He had to get to a higher vantage point.
He didn’t have to go far. Below, some two hundred paces distant, were three men. One was seated on a horse, and the other two were rifling through a leather bag.
But his eye was drawn by the young woman who stood between the men, loosely holding the reins of her horse. She must have been sixteen or seventeen, with red hair. Lysander had never seen anyone with such flaming locks before. She screamed again.
