by Michael Ford
‘Then you’re no Spartan.’
There was a supreme confidence in the man’s eyes, and it unnerved Lysander. Was he carrying a concealed weapon? Lysander’s grip tightened around the shaft of the spear.
‘I’m from Taras,’ said the man. ‘My name is Lernos.’
‘Taras?’ repeated Aristodermus in disbelief, as though the man had just said he was from Poseidon’s kingdom beneath the sea. ‘The colony?’
‘You know of another?’ said the man. ‘Put down your sword, teacher. I’m a Phylarch.’
Lysander knew the name was that of a Spartan army commander, but he’d never heard of Taras. Aristodermus lowered his sword, but he didn’t sheathe it.
‘I’ve come to speak with the Council,’ said Lernos.
‘Then why are you here?’ said Aristodermus.
‘I was thirsty,’ said Lernos, ‘and this was the first barracks I reached. Another hour won’t make any difference.’
‘Any difference to what? Speak openly, or I shall lose patience.’
‘Calm yourself, comrade. I’ve come to tell the Council that the colony is under attack. We’re overrun.’
In Aristodermus’ chamber, Lernos sat at the table cramming wine-soaked bread into his mouth. Their tutor had sent the other boys back into their dormitories, allowing only Lysander and Leonidas access to the stranger. ‘I want to find out if he’s genuine before taking him before the Council,’ he had whispered.
‘I’ve had nothing but wild roots for two days,’ said Lernos. ‘I tried to steal a chicken from a farm inland, but the farmer set his dogs on me.’ He swallowed and took a gulp of water. Now he was sitting down, Lysander had a chance to look more closely at him. His hair was cut short, and his features wiry, but the taut muscles of his arms suggested he was strong and his face carried a fierce wildness, like a wolf. A short untidy beard matted his cheeks, and his eyes looked hollow, but alert. A nasty gash extended from his eyebrow, across his temple and into his hairline. It was scabbed and black now.
‘What of Taras?’ said Aristodermus. He was standing back against the door, as if afraid the new arrival might try to escape.
‘The city has fallen,’ said Lernos. ‘It started when we raised taxes – we needed to. We don’t have slaves – not like the Helots anyway, so there’s always tension between us and the natives. They must have been plotting with the leaders of Messapia – the next city along the coast. The attack came out of the blue – our Council of Elders was holding a meeting at the old theatre, when a group of locals fell upon them, armed by the Messapian leader Viromanus.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. ‘The Elders were slaughtered like chickens when a fox finds their coop. Next they set fire to our stores and armoury in the night, and attacked us like cowards while we were still in our nightclothes. We fled with our families. We didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Animals,’ said Aristodermus, thumping the door. ‘No Greek would fight so dishonourably.’
‘It was clear we couldn’t win,’ said Lernos, ‘but we fought anyway, with whatever was at hand. Pots and pans from the kitchen, wooden furniture, but it was hopeless. They seemed to come from everywhere, and cut us down. Some of my comrades fled out of town to the hills with the women and children. Others ran for their lives and left the rest of us – may the Gods curse their cowardice. I was with a group of fifty or so men who were pushed out towards the port, fighting all the way. Soon we were up to our ankles in the water, but the enemy kept on at us. Men fought until they could no longer stand, then drowned in the shallows. None perished with wounds to their back.’
Lysander’s anger at the story was mingled with sorrow. He’d seen brave Spartans fight on against all odds when they did battle with the Persians. These comrades of Lernos had died on foreign shores, but he felt their loss as if they were from his own barracks.
‘And what happened to you?’ asked Aristodermus with a toss of the head.
Lernos lowered his eyes.
‘I took a blow to my temple with the back of a meat cleaver,’ he said. ‘When I woke up, I was floating in the water – they’d left me for dead. I couldn’t go back on shore – I was weak as a newborn and they’d have executed me on the spot. I found the body of one of my dead comrades, and used it as a float. By Zeus the water was cold, but I had the strength to swim away from the shore, until I was picked up by a spice ship coming from Sicily to southern Greece.’
‘And then you came here?’
‘That’s right,’ said Lernos, tipping the remains of the wine down his throat. ‘Taras may be across the sea, but it’s still Sparta. I persuaded the captain of the spice vessel to land at Gytheion. Then I dragged myself through the night to get here. The Council must send reinforcements.’
Aristodermus’ face had turned serious. ‘I will accompany you to the acropolis. Leonidas! Go ahead and have the Council summon its members. Lysander, come with me. We’ll not let these Messapians spit in the faces of Kastor and Polydeukes.’
The names of the twin gods most dear to Sparta made the blood course stronger through Lysander’s veins. As he left the barracks, Lysander wondered if this was what the Oracle had described; a chance to throw off the shackles that bound him?
My destiny is there for me to take. It’s branded on my heart.
His hand went to his chest, but of course there was nothing there. Demaratos still wore the amulet.
I’ll do whatever it takes, he promised himself. Then I’ll have earned the right to wear the Fire of Ares again.
Chapter 9
‘And why,’ boomed Tellios, ‘should we believe this man? He comes to us with stories of battle and miraculous escape.’ He sneered. ‘Truly he is blessed by the Gods.’
Lysander stood on the floor of the Council chamber, and gazed up at the semicircle of seats, where the Elders sat. Normally there’d be thirty of them, but as yet his grandfather Sarpedon had not been replaced as Ephor of Amikles. Twenty-three normal Elders, four other Ephors, and the two Kings. Lysander recognised King Cleomenes sitting beside another man. That must be King Demaratos, thought Lysander, Leonidas’s father. They shared the same fair hair and grey eyes.
The Kings were dressed no differently to the others – all wore identical red cloaks – but they were younger. The minimum age for serving on the Council was sixty years. Lysander and Leonidas had only been allowed to attend as Lernos’ guards. The stranger knelt on the floor, and Lysander and his friend stood either side with their spears at the ready. Aristodermus was kneeling in front of the Elders in the centre of the floor, and hadn’t moved since he had related Lernos’ story.
‘What would you have us do?’ said the Ephor Myron, standing by his seat in the front row. ‘If we do not heed his warnings, and they are true, think of the damage to our reputation. Soon the word will be abroad that the Spartans cannot even defend themselves against a band of upstart brigands.’
‘Myron is right,’ said Cleomenes, pacing across the floor. ‘Our enemies will seize upon this and it will drive them to similar measures. Indeed, even if it is not true, how can we trust other cities to separate fact from fiction? Think of the Helots as well. If they get wind of this attack, it may inspire them to look above their station once again.’
‘So you propose to send an army of men across the sea to face a danger that is possibly all in this man’s imagination?’ said Tellios, pointing at Lernos. Lysander saw the man from Taras flinch, but he was wise enough not to protest.
Tellios stepped down from his seat in the third row, and walked slowly towards them. He gazed at Lysander for a moment, then spun round to face the other Ephors.
‘The army is weakened as it is,’ he continued. ‘We need time to regroup and tend to our wounds after the struggles against the Persians. Another fight this soon would leave us vulnerable. With that there can be no argument.’
Lysander saw a number of the Council nodding, and a murmur of approval travelled along the lines.
‘But these men are our allies,’ said
Myron. ‘Spartan men, women and children. To leave them in their time of greatest need is an offence to our Gods.’
‘Myron,’ said Tellios, ‘you are noble, but do not pretend the same can be said for the people of Taras.’ He pointed at Lernos. ‘They are not true Spartans.’
More muttering, louder this time, broke out.
‘Silence!’ said King Demaratos. ‘The Council must decide on the motion. Should we send soldiers to Taras? All in favour, stand.’
Lysander watched as Myron took to his feet, and several of the men who sat near him did the same. Still, there were only nine men standing.
‘It is decided, then,’ said Demaratos. ‘Give this man lodging in a barracks for a month, then send him back to wherever he came. The session is ended.’
As the Council members began to leave their seats, Lysander saw Lernos stiffen.
‘Wait!’ he shouted. ‘They set fire to the shrine of Zeus Lakedaimon. They trampled our Gods!’
The Elders paused at the doorways and glanced at each other. The atmosphere shifted immediately.
‘The vote is taken,’ said Tellios. ‘The case is settled.’
‘But this is a new charge,’ said Myron. ‘Sacrilege.’
Tellios looked angry, but then his eyes settled on Lysander, and he smiled. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I have an amendment to suggest.’
The Elders, walking stiffly, returned to their seats.
‘Speak,’ said King Cleomenes.
Tellios opened his arms. ‘Let us send help to the poor citizens of Taras, but let us not jeopardise our own safety. Send those young men who acquitted themselves so honourably on the plains of the Eurotas against Vaumisa’s hordes. Send the fortune-favoured grandson of Sarpedon and his barracks. About eighty Spartan boys, well drilled by Diokles, should be able to take back the town.’
Was Tellios serious? Lysander and his comrades go to Taras!
Aristodermus looked up from his kneeling position, and the Ephors on their benches shared nervous glances.
Lysander felt a crackle in the air, as before a thunderstorm. A mission to Taras could be his opportunity to prove himself again.
‘We’ll need more men,’ said Lernos.
‘You’ll manage with whatever we bestow,’ snapped Tellios. ‘And if you speak again in this chamber, we’ll have you thrown into the sea with rocks fastened to your neck.’ He looked around, challenging anyone to disagree. ‘I move to vote then.’
‘Very well,’ said King Demaratos, getting to his feet. Lysander could see he shared the same straight-backed posture as his son. ‘All those in favour of sending the barracks of Aristodermus, stand.’
Myron remained seated this time, but one by one, the others in the chamber rose to their feet. Lysander counted frantically: twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Half were standing. Without another, the motion could not carry. Both Kings were seated.
Come on, Lysander willed them. Let me go! Lysander knew little about the men, other than they were of two families who famously disagreed. The eyes of the chamber were on them, and each King looked at the other. Slowly, Cleomenes stood.
‘The boys’ barracks will march,’ said Cleomenes.
Lysander had been handed the opportunity to prove to himself that he was still a warrior.
But will we ever come back alive? he thought.
The boys in the barracks were wrestling outside when Lysander and his companions returned.
‘Quit your games,’ bellowed Aristodermus. ‘We’re shipping out! Gather your cloaks and weapons. The baggage carts will be here before dusk, and we march tonight.’
Orpheus hobbled alongside Lysander.
‘Where are we going?’
Lysander explained the extraordinary debate in the Council chamber.
‘Taras is at least three days away by boat,’ calculated Orpheus. ‘By now the Messapians will have consolidated their positions. We have to hope that some of the Spartans there will have survived and be in a good enough condition to fight.’
‘We?’ said Lysander. ‘Surely you’re not coming? You need more time for your injury to heal.’
‘I don’t think my leg’s going to grow back, Lysander,’ he laughed. ‘You’ll need all the men you can get.’ Orpheus sat heavily on his bed, and unrolled his cloak.
‘Why did Tellios say that the Tarantians weren’t true Spartans?’ asked Lysander. He fastened his marching sandals on to his feet.
‘People don’t talk about it often, and I only heard because we had a slave from Taras when I was young. The colony was founded about two hundred years ago, in Lykurgos’ time,’ said Orpheus, ‘but not by pure-blooded Spartans. They say that during the long wars against your people, the Messenians, the Spartan leaders allowed Spartan women to bear children with free-dwellers, and Spartan men to father children with non-Spartan women. The idea was to give their offspring full citizenship – to let them wear the red cloak and grow the fighting population. But after the conflict ended, and Messenia was subdued, their citizenship was withdrawn. They had a choice: stay in Sparta and be no better than a free-dweller, or travel overseas and found their own city. They chose to leave.’
‘So they’re mothakes?’ said Lysander.
‘I suppose so,’ said Orpheus. ‘Taras is an important trading port as well.’
As Lysander gathered together his blanket and armour, he dwelled on Orpheus’s words. He wasn’t interested in the economics, but these people were outcasts, on the blurred edge of Spartan citizenship, just like him. Perhaps this was where the Oracle had foreseen his destiny, among his own sort. There he would no longer be tainted as the Spartan who was once a slave.
In Taras he would be normal.
‘You look thoughtful,’ said Demaratos. In his arms was a shield, and piled inside the bowl were pieces of armour – bronze coated with tangled leather straps. Lysander thought he could still smell the blood from the battlefield.
‘I’m fine,’ said Lysander. ‘Ready to go?’
‘Almost,’ said Demaratos. He placed the shield on the ground. ‘But, first, I think you should take this back.’ He took the Fire of Ares from around his neck, and offered it to Lysander. The red stone glimmered with promise in the centre of the amulet. He reached out. As the jewel touched his skin, he expected to feel his old strength flood through his limbs, but nothing happened. He may as well have been holding a pebble from the training ground.
I’m not ready.
He hung the pendant back over Demaratos’s neck.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’
‘Whatever you say,’ said Demaratos. ‘I’ll keep it safe until you’re ready.’ He picked up his equipment once more. ‘Should we let Kassandra know? I haven’t seen her since the victory celebrations.’
‘Idas,’ Lysander called to his Helot. ‘Come here.’
The slave-boy hurried over. ‘Yes, Master Lysander?’ he said.
‘Go to the house of the deceased Ephor Sarpedon. Tell Lady Kassandra, daughter of Demokrates, that Demaratos and I are going to Italy.’
‘Yes, master,’ said Idas. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes,’ said Lysander, then, ‘No.’ He reached into his bag and took out the singed lock of hair. If he died in Taras, he didn’t want the only remnant of his father to be left there. ‘Give her this.’
The Helot took the leather roll, throwing Lysander a curious glance, and quit the dormitory.
‘Come on,’ Lysander said to Demaratos.
An uncovered baggage cart was waiting outside the barracks, and Lysander was surprised to see a crowd had gathered – it was mostly women, and young children. Word must have spread about the mission to Taras – these were the boys’ mothers. One or two came forward and hugged their sons, but most kept a reserved distance. It was nothing like the send-off when they had marched out to face the Persians. There were no songs now nor fanfares, no citizens crying out encouragement. The atmosphere was subdued.
Aristodermus stood waiting for them, beside a cart loaded
with shields, spears and supplies. Lernos stood at his side and Orpheus came behind him.
‘Even the cripple’s lining up,’ sniped Lernos.
‘This cripple lost his leg for Sparta,’ said Lysander. ‘Which is more than you ever gave.’
‘You little …’ said Lernos, coming at Lysander.
Aristodermus stepped between them, and pushed Lernos backwards against the cart. ‘Enough squabbling. Orpheus, you’re barely out of the infirmary. I admire your courage, but this is no place for you.’
‘I can march,’ said Orpheus.
‘He’ll slow us down,’ said Lernos.
‘No, I won’t,’ said Orpheus. ‘Look.’ He threw down his crutch and hobbled quickly in a circle. Aristodermus sighed.
‘I’ll vouch for him,’ said Lysander. ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t fall behind.’
‘Very well. We march tonight for Thalamae. A rider has gone ahead to secure a ship, and it will be there tomorrow, but no later.’ He pointed at Orpheus. ‘If you don’t make the pace, we leave you behind. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ said Orpheus.
While Aristodermus assembled the rest of the boys, Tyro emerged from the barracks leading four Helots.
‘Are they coming with us?’ Lysander asked him.
‘As far as the sea,’ said Tyro. ‘Aristodermus said the Council didn’t want to waste a good mule.’
The four Helots took hold of the ropes fastened to the cart and looped them over their shoulders.
Lysander didn’t have any doubts who’d ordered that particular humiliation. Tellios.
‘Get in line,’ shouted Aristodermus. Lysander joined one of the two columns that had formed in front of the cart. ‘Move out!’ yelled their tutor.
As they marched, Lysander heard a few of the mothers shout out words to their sons.
‘Come back with your shield, or on it,’ said one.
‘Your father died for Sparta,’ said another. ‘Make him proud with your death.’
A shiver went down Lysander’s back. He couldn’t ever have imagined his own mother saying such cold words of encouragement, but such was the Spartan custom. Death was something to be wished for, defeat and cowardice the ultimate failure.
