by Michael Ford
‘Are you all right?’ asked Chilonis.
Lysander nodded. What’s wrong with me, he thought, I’ve seen death countless times.
‘The sacrifice is complete,’ said the attendant, climbing to his feet. He wiped a blood-smeared hand across his shabby robe. He pointed to the first person in the queue, a pregnant young woman. ‘You,’ he said. ‘You may go up.’
Accompanied by the attendant, and clutching her rounded belly, the woman set off up the roughly cut rocky steps. Lysander watched as she disappeared around the edge of a bush. The sky above had turned the colour of lead.
The elderly couple, tired of standing, were sitting down by the time the young lady returned. She smiled briefly as she passed Lysander, but he couldn’t tell whether the look was one of happiness or sadness. The old man helped his wife to her feet, and together they ventured up the path. Chilonis leant against the trunk of an olive tree, but Lysander was so full of nerves, he couldn’t rest. What did the Oracle hold? What if his questions weren’t answered?
‘I wish they’d hurry up,’ he said.
‘I’d come under here, if I were you,’ she said. ‘It’s sure to rain soon.’
She was eating some cheese and dried figs she’d bought from a vendor back in the hamlet. ‘Do you want some of these?’ she asked.
Lysander shook his head, staring up the path. ‘What’s taking so long?’ he said. The clouds had thickened more, and were turning black like a bruise.
‘The Gods don’t keep time the same way as us,’ laughed Chilonis.
When his turn finally came, Lysander followed the attendant up the winding track. Fat drops of rain splashed on his face and on the path, but he hardly noticed them. This was it – the time had come. He calculated that they must have climbed another five hundred feet, along a tree-lined path. No wonder the attendant had such sturdy legs – when Lysander emerged from the trees, his calves were burning and his chest rose and fell sharply. The wind was whistling at this height, and snatched at his damp cloak.
‘Mind your step,’ advised the man, as the path levelled off. Lysander’s breath caught in his throat as he peered down the mountain. The path skirted the hillside and the drop beyond was sheer – bare rock giving way to trees and then finally fields. The gulf water lay beyond, black and still in the cold day. A fine curtain of rain misted the sky. Lysander felt his head swim, and backed away from the edge.
The attendant stopped ahead, and turned to face Lysander.
‘We’re here,’ he said, holding out his palm. He gazed expectantly. When Lysander didn’t do anything, he took a menacing step forwards, forcing Lysander close to the cliff edge.
Understanding dawned. He pulled out a coin from his pouch, and dropped it into the man’s hand. He fixed Lysander with a stare.
‘You insult Apollo?’
Lysander handed over another coin.
The man’s face didn’t shift, so he paid a third coin. ‘Is that enough?’
The attendant grinned. ‘Most generous, boy. I’m sure the Gods will be the same.’
Lysander felt his doubts grow again. If prophecies were for sale to the highest bidder, could he even trust what he was told? He’d have to hope that the Oracle itself wasn’t as corrupt as those that served it.
‘This way,’ said his guide, with an elaborate sweep of the hand. Lysander saw only a wall of solid rock.
‘Where to?’
But as he took a few more steps, he saw an opening in the rock face, a cave gaping black like a missing tooth in some Titan’s head. A dim light flickered within.
‘Go on, then,’ said the voice behind him, and Lysander felt a hand prod him in the back. He stooped under the overhang and stepped inside.
It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but eventually he could make out a tripod stood over a small fire. Balanced over the flames was a round-bottomed cauldron billowing smoke. The cave smelled of burnt laurel wood and perfumed incense.
Two attendants with shaven heads, and wearing ghostly white robes, stood beside the fire. In the recesses of the lair, something moved, detaching itself from the wall. It was a woman, tall and thin like the twisted trunk of an olive tree. The Pythia – named after a beast the God Apollo was supposed to have wrestled in this very spot. With rasping breaths, she took her place on a tall three-legged stool in front of the fire. Her hair was dark as a raven’s wing. With a movement like a willow in the breeze, she lifted a bony hand and pushed the locks from her face. Lysander noticed the dirt beneath her nails. He shivered as her eyes bored into him.
‘Kneel before the Pythia,’ said one of the attendants.
Lysander sank to the floor, and listened as her breath became less laboured. The wind whistled outside the cave. One of the attendants stepped into a recess in the shadows and came forward with some more firewood. He dropped it under the cauldron and a shower of sparks burst upwards, spinning into the darkness.
‘What would you ask the God?’ said the woman, in a cracked, quiet voice.
What did he want to know? He suddenly felt foolish. He wasn’t here like the others: he didn’t need to ensure his child grew up healthy, or ask what crops to plant that year. He wanted the answer to his whole life; why he, a Helot in the fields, had been chosen by the Fates to become something he hated – an oppressor, a soldier, a Spartan.
‘There are others waiting,’ said one of the attendants. ‘Apollo cannot read your thoughts.’
Lysander remembered his Ordeal in the mountains, and the night he’d lost all hope buried under the freezing snow, waiting for death to draw her hand over his eyes. That night he had seen his father’s face in the stars; he’d awoken the next day feeling a new power lodged in his chest.
‘I’m lost,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘I want to speak with my father.’
He allowed his chin to drop to his chest as he felt his cheeks burn red with the humiliation of admitting what had been going on inside his head and his heart. After long moments, he dared to look back up at the priestess. She was nodding slowly, understanding lighting up her eyes.
‘He is here,’ she said.
Lysander felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
‘You have something that belongs to him,’ said the priestess.
Lysander opened his bag and took out the roll of leather secured with the golden ring. One of the attendants came forward and held out his hand.
He handed over the leather. The attendant slid off the ring, and unrolled the material. The lock of hair from Lysander’s father tipped into his palm. He handed back the ring and the leather.
‘The God has no need of mortal riches.’
He handed the lock of hair to the priestess, and reassumed his position by a stone shaped like a large egg. The priestess rolled the hairs between her fingers, closing her eyes in concentration.
‘He was a brave man,’ she said eventually, ‘and his spirit remains close to you.’
Lysander felt a prickle again. Was she really in touch with his father?
The priestess’s head dropped to her chest, as if in a dead faint. At the same time, the wind outside stilled.
It was as if Apollo himself had suddenly laid a calming hand upon the earth. Lysander felt his mouth go dry and his eyes were drawn into the depths of the flames beneath the cauldron.
A strange rattling sound began to emerge from the Pythia’s throat – it was like the choking sound of a dying man on the battlefield. Her body rocked back and forth as though buffeted by an invisible gale. Suddenly, her back locked straight and her chin jerked upwards. Lysander looked into her eyes; they shone like polished onyx. Her arm shot out, throwing the lock of hair into the fire, where it sizzled and burned. She pointed towards Lysander, her fingers trembling.
‘Are you ready to hear?’ asked one of the attendants. Lysander scrambled across the cave floor and snatched his father’s charred lock of hair out of the fire. He looked back up into the face of the priestess, as she stared at him, her hand still
outstretched. Her lips moved as she murmured to herself, struggling to contain the words that filled her mouth.
Lysander nodded.
Chapter 8
‘You are a leader, but not so,’ she shrieked. ‘You are a slave, but to yourself. You must free yourself, child of two worlds.’
She gasped.
‘The shackles that bind you are of your own making,’ she continued. ‘Fear not, your destiny is branded on your heart.’
Her head dropped back to her chest, and her body sagged lifelessly. She did not move from her chair, her hands hanging by her sides and her hair drooping over her face. The howl of the wind resumed outside the cave. One of the attendants jerked his head towards the cave entrance. His audience was over.
Outside the sky had darkened. Though it was still early in the morning, it seemed like dusk. The rain was pouring down as Lysander left the cave, and the air smelled fresh as spring.
‘Apollo must be grumpy,’ said the attendant, who was waiting at the cave entrance.
Lysander was light-headed. He thought it must be the effects of the incense, but something told him that it was more than that. The Oracle’s words had been vague, yet precise. Had she really known about the lock of hair he carried with him, or simply guessed?
Child of two worlds – had she seen his mixed parentage?
He lifted his head, and tasted the rain. How could his destiny be written on his heart?
The attendant picked his way carefully down the path, which was churning with mud. Lysander set off at a jog, splashing through the puddles that had already gathered. As he reached the bottom, he saw the queue of waiting supplicants had grown. Chilonis was next in line. Her red hair was drenched and hung over her shoulders, and her clothes were sodden, but she smiled as she saw Lysander approach.
‘What happened? What is she like?’ she asked.
Lysander shrugged as he sought to find the right words. It had certainly been mysterious, a little frightening even. Should I tell her that? Lysander thought to himself. He saw the fire of excitement lighting up his new friend’s eyes, and didn’t have the heart to tell her that she might come away nothing more than … confused.
He smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder.
‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘I bet she tells you you’ll be the best athlete ever.’
‘What will you do now?’ she asked.
‘I have to return to Sparta,’ he said. ‘The new barracks commander I told you about seems more patient than the old one, but I’d rather not test him …’
Chilonis surprised him by leaning forward and kissing his cheek. ‘Thank you again, Lysander, for coming to my rescue.’
The sky flashed with lightning, and a great peal of thunder ricocheted off the mountainside.
‘It looks like I’m in for a soaking,’ he said, and Chilonis smiled.
‘So the God wishes. Goodbye, Lysander. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day.’
‘I hope so.’
Lysander ran down the mountain. He took a steep short cut, hopping from rock to rock and skidding around bushes. He didn’t understand the Oracle’s words, but they had helped him nonetheless. His destiny was in his own grasp, written on his heart. All he needed to do was seize it.
The downpour chilled his skin, but after the days of hiking to the Oracle, it was welcome. All the dirt of his travels was washed away. No, more than that. It felt like the rain was scouring his spirit as well, cleansing the misery and pain that had gathered over the previous months.
By the time he reached the jetty, his clothes were plastered to his skin and his fingers were blue with cold.
‘What do you have to grin about?’ the ferryman grumbled when Lysander climbed on board. He hadn’t realised that he was smiling.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered. As the boat pushed off into the gulf, and the driving rain pricked the water’s surface in a million places, Lysander felt renewed.
He was ready to return to the barracks.
The journey back to Sparta seemed quicker than the trek to visit the Oracle. When Lysander reached the outskirts of Spartan territory, he paused in the road. It was good to be back in his homeland, and he longed to tell Leonidas and the others about his experiences with the Oracle. On the other hand, he’d enjoyed the freedom and anonymity of the previous days. The red cloak would bring back responsibility.
Lysander’s fingers stroked the sling in his pocket. It had been his only weapon on this journey, and he’d needed to use it just once against the bandits attacking Chilonis.
Come on, Lysander, he told himself. It’s time to feel that shield on your arm again.
As he walked through the streets of Sparta, the only signs that the city had recently been at war were the sounds of hammers ringing against iron in every blacksmith’s shop and yard. The whole city was working to replenish and repair the weaponry lost in the fight against the Persians. Everything else seemed back to normal. The Helots in the fields, the Spartans training at their barracks. Lysander saw them practising manoeuvres by the river. He heard the distant cries of orders being bellowed by a commander. He wondered how Kassandra was feeling. How foolish their argument had been! He promised himself that he would send a message with Idas the following day.
It was nightfall when he reached his own barracks, and a dog barked at him from the darkness. He sneaked into the kitchen and found the leftovers from dinner – some cold broth and hard cheese.
Back in his barracks, he sat on a bench and rested his head against the wall, feeling six days of weariness overcome him. His eyelids, heavy with sleep, closed.
‘The traveller returns!’ said a voice. ‘And oversleeps. He’s taken on the slack ways of the north.’
Lysander opened his eyes to see Aristodermus standing over him, with a Helot at his side. Lysander realised he had slept through the night, leaning awkwardly against the wall. He sat bolt upright.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he muttered. ‘I got back late, and must have…’
Aristodermus frowned. ‘Get yourself cleaned up,’ he said. ‘You smell like a Thracian.’
Lysander stumbled outside, washed by the well, then went to his dormitory. Dressed in a fresh tunic, he joined the other boys at the breakfast table. Orpheus looked shocked to see him.
‘You’re back!’ he said. ‘What happened?’
Lysander sat beside his friend, and noticed that several of the other boys had stopped eating and were listening to their conversation. He took his time tearing off some bread and helping himself to a cup of goat’s milk.
He gave a short version of his trip, keeping things light-hearted; he didn’t want to share any of the important details, like meeting Chilonis or his conversation with the priestess.
‘I was lucky enough to spend one night in an inn. Before that I slept out in the open, and found an abandoned shepherd’s hut to shelter in another evening. Well, I thought it was abandoned until a family of foxes appeared before dawn. Scared me stiff like Medusa’s stare when one of them licked my foot …’
Everyone laughed. Almost everyone.
‘How exciting for you,’ said a lone sarcastic voice. It was Prokles. ‘The rest of us were training while you were off having fun.’
Demaratos put his hand on his friend’s arm, but didn’t say anything, and Prokles returned to eating. Ever since Lysander had put aside his differences with Demaratos, Prokles’ hatred seemed to have grown.
Aristodermus came into the room, and flashed them all a look. His eyes lingered on Lysander, and he gave a nod, almost imperceptible, in his direction.
‘We’ll have marching practice today,’ he said. ‘Three times around the old walls, first at half pace, second at double pace, and again at half.’
The boys at the table let out a groan.
‘Enough!’ said the tutor. ‘An army that can’t get to the battlefield is as useless as a wine sack with a hole in the bottom. Finish your food and gather …’
The door burst open and Demaratos’s Helot,
a boy called Boas, fell into the room.
‘Sirs…’ he said. ‘Masters…’
‘What is it?’ said Aristodermus.
‘There’s a stranger, master, by the well …’
‘A stranger?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Boas. ‘He wouldn’t say who he was.’
Aristodermus’ hand fell to the sword at his side as he scanned the faces at the table.
‘Lysander, Leonidas, come with me. The rest of you, stay here!’ He strode out of the room.
Lysander stood up with Leonidas and they rushed out after their tutor.
‘Get spears and shields,’ Aristodermus said.
In the arms room, Lysander grabbed two shields and threw one to Leonidas, who caught and shouldered it deftly. He handed Lysander an eight-foot spear without a word, and they walked back out past the dining hall. Greetings can wait, thought Lysander. He heard the scuffle of feet as the other boys came to the entranceway to see what was happening.
Outside, Lysander watched Aristodermus walk purposefully over towards the well with his sword drawn. They ran to his side.
‘Don’t do anything without my order,’ he warned.
There was a man drinking straight from the bucket at the well’s edge. The water splashed over his torn clothing – he wore no cloak, and one of his feet was bare and filthy.
‘Face me!’ shouted Aristodermus.
The man turned slowly around and placed the bucket on the lip of the well. His eyes took in the sword in Aristodermus’ hand, but he didn’t seem afraid. Lysander and Leonidas stood with their spears at the ready.
‘Greetings, comrade,’ said the man, without a trace of fear.
‘I’m no comrade of yours,’ said Aristodermus. ‘Explain this trespass, or I’ll send you straight to the fires of Hades with this iron in your belly. Where are you from?’
The man wiped his dripping chin with his sleeve. ‘I’m a Spartan, comrade.’
‘Which barracks?’ asked Aristodermus.
‘I don’t belong to any barracks,’ said the stranger.
