by Michael Ford
The scarred man and his stocky friend gathered themselves and ran at Lysander. He sidestepped to keep one blocking the other, and kicked the armpit of the man holding the dagger. The blade clattered to the ground and Lysander dived for it. As his hand closed around the hilt, someone stamped on his back. Lysander swung the blade, and drove it into the knee of his attacker, the man with the loose hair. He screamed and fell backwards, clutching his leg.
Lysander saw two others barrel into Orpheus, and then the flash of a blade as one of them stabbed Orpheus’s breastplate. The world seemed to slow as the dagger pierced the metal. The armour was only good for deflecting glancing or weak blows, not a direct attack.
Orpheus let out a moan as blood gushed up around the hilt.
Lysander stumbled backwards.
‘No! No! No!’ he heard himself mumbling.
He ran towards the two men, but the other attacker scythed into his side, sending him crashing against the cave wall. He saw Orpheus sink to the ground, his hands fumbling at the wound to his chest.
Lysander swung a punch at his attacker, but it was poorly aimed, and had no power. The others joined in, kicking him in the ribs and stomach, and all he could do was cover up his head with his elbows. A blow caught him on his broken nose, and white pain exploded through his head.
He fell on to his back and clutched his face. The men all laughed.
Through his fingers Lysander saw the flash of a sword blade and there was a sickening crunch. The chuckling stopped dead, replaced with a scream. Something landed on Lysander’s leg, and he looked through his blurred watering eyes. It was an arm – the fingers still gripping the hilt of a knife.
As the man stared in terror at his missing limb and the blood pumping from the wound, the other three were looking out into the cavern at the three entrances, gabbling to each other. One held a dagger, and the other two had Orpheus’s and Lysander’s swords. No one looked at Lysander.
The man with the missing arm moaned on the ground.
There was movement from one of the tunnels and a shield spun out, striking the lead Tarantian in the thigh, and doubling him over. A scarlet-cloaked figure charged in its wake from the darkness. For a moment, Lysander dared to believe that it was Orpheus. Was his friend alive?
But it was another face that came into the arc of torchlight.
Prokles.
He was carrying a sword that dripped black in the gloom, and he drove it upwards through the stomach of the distracted enemy, grunting with the effort. One of the other men swung his sword at Prokles, who deflected the blade with the guard on his arm, then punched the attacker in the face with the back of his fist. Lysander heard his jaw crunch. Prokles was wearing a wooden knuckle-duster.
Lysander sprang up, and tackled the legs of the other Tarantian. He felt an elbow dig into his back but ignored it, lifted the man off his feet and ran him into the opposite wall, driving his shoulder into the man’s stomach. He collapsed at Lysander’s feet.
Lysander put an arm around his neck from behind, seized his chin with the other hand, and yanked the head around as hard as he could. The neck snapped like a twig, and the man went limp.
Prokles had finished off the man with the broken jaw, and was pulling a sword from his chest. The scarred man was lying face down in a pool of blood. Only one was still alive, and he was crouched against the cave wall, clutching torn rags to the awful wound at his shoulder, his face bloodless and ghostly pale. His eyes flitted from one of them to the other.
‘What shall we do with him?’ said Prokles, picking up his shield.
Lysander was speechless. Orpheus was surely dead. But Prokles had saved him. The boy who had been his enemy since day one in the barracks. The boy he’d called a coward just a few nights before.
Prokles raised his sword over the cowering man.
‘No!’ shouted Lysander.
Prokles turned and gave a confused look. ‘He’ll tell others about us.’
‘Take him back to Aristodermus. He might be useful.’
Prokles hesitated. ‘You’re right,’ he said, after a moment. He jerked his sword in front of the bleeding enemy. ‘On your feet.’
The man understood, and shuffled groggily to his feet. Lysander went to Orpheus’s body. His friend’s eyes were open, but lifeless, his lips slightly parted. Lysander felt as though his stomach was being turned inside out, and he lowered his forehead until his skin touched Orpheus’s brow.
Orpheus was the first Spartan ever to have shown him kindness, a boy who knew how it felt to be an outsider. He had taken Lysander under his wing in the early days of the agoge, and protected him from the others. But what he’d shown Lysander more than anything was that the red cloak didn’t have to mean cruelty; it could mean honour, and nobility.
‘I’m to blame,’ said Lysander. ‘I said I’d look after him.’
‘We have to go,’ said Prokles. ‘The others will be waiting.’
Lysander nodded slowly, then reached out with a hand and closed Orpheus’s eyes.
The Fates had taken him. His life threads were cut.
‘He was a good Spartan,’ said Prokles. ‘He died with a wound to his front.’
‘He was my friend,’ said Lysander.
They tied a tourniquet around the prisoner’s arm using the belt of one of his dead companions. He winced as Lysander tightened it.
‘You’re fortunate to be alive,’ hissed Prokles.
As they marched their captive through the twisting tunnel by torchlight, Prokles told Lysander how they’d come out the far end in a dry riverbed, and the count had showed two short. Lernos had wanted to leave Lysander and Orpheus behind, but Aristodermus had insisted someone go back.
‘And you drew the short straw?’ asked Lysander.
‘Someone had to.’
‘Well, thank you. You saved my life.’
Prokles shrugged. ‘We need all the fighters we can get.’
Light began to infiltrate the tunnel, and the ground became littered with small rocks, and then larger boulders until Lysander caught sight of a patch of white light. They came out into a ravine between two shallow grassy banks. Aristodermus and the boys were sitting on rocks which must have been carried down when a river once flowed there. They jumped to attention when they saw Lysander.
‘Who’s this?’ said Aristodermus. ‘Why is he injured?’
‘He and three others attacked Orpheus and me in the tunnels,’ said Lysander.
Leonidas stepped up. ‘Where is Orpheus?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lysander. ‘I couldn’t save him.’
Leonidas sat heavily on a rock and placed his head in his hands.
‘He didn’t deserve to die in the dark,’ said Demaratos.
‘He didn’t deserve to die at all,’ whispered Leonidas.
‘And these other men?’ said Aristodermus grimly. ‘Where are they?’
‘Dead. Prokles killed two, and I killed the other.’
‘This one should die too,’ said Demaratos from his place on a boulder. He drew his sword, and panic spread in the prisoner’s eyes.
‘Wait,’ said Lernos. ‘I know this man – he’s a trader called Tullius. Let me question him.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Aristodermus.
Lernos spoke to Tullius in the native tongue and at first received only one word answers. But when he pointed around the Spartans and made a slashing motion across his throat, the prisoner became more talkative, pointing with his remaining arm into the tunnels and then over the ravine.
‘He says that the four of them were a lookout, nothing more.’
‘So no one else knows of our presence?’ Aristodermus asked.
Lernos had a brief exchange with Tullius, who shook his head.
‘Can this man be of any more use to us?’ asked Lysander’s tutor.
‘It’s doubtful. As soon as he gets a chance, he’ll reveal our position.’
‘No, he won’t,’ said Aristodermus. He turned his spear and slammed the point through Tullius’ chest
, knocking him to the ground. The Tarantian heaved a couple of times, then sank back among the rocks.
Lernos led them along the natural cleft carved out by the old river, and it wasn’t until they emerged into a wider plain that Lysander got an idea of the landscape. Rolling hills spread into the distance, some covered in olive groves, but many seemingly deserted. A huge forest spread over several hills.
‘The town is over that range,’ said Lernos, pointing northwest, ‘but if Tullius was speaking the truth, we should find Nikos and my comrades nearby.’
Leonidas had walked in silence until that point, but now he spoke to Lysander.
‘Did he suffer?’
Lysander remembered the way Orpheus’s face had writhed in the torchlight, and the gurgling sound as the blood filled his throat. He couldn’t tell that to Leonidas.
‘No, it was quick. He died like a warrior.’
They reached the edge of a forest of fir trees, and skirted around the eastern side with the sun on their cheeks.
‘I think he knew he was going to die,’ said Lysander.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Leonidas.
‘His leg was infected, and it was spreading. He could have stayed in Sparta, but he chose to come with us. He must have known he was too weak.’
‘I should have made him stay at the barracks,’ said Leonidas, his head lowered.
‘You couldn’t have,’ said Lysander. ‘Remember when he insisted on facing the Persians – he was as stubborn as a mule. No, he knew this would be his final mission.’
‘I always thought he was blessed by the Gods,’ said Leonidas, with a thin smile. ‘Everyone did. His life seemed a miracle. Abandoned as a baby and kept alive by a she-wolf. It’s the stuff of legend.’
Lernos entered the forest by a narrow track, and Lysander found himself treading more quietly as they walked through the eerie gloom between the trunks. His eyes were drawn into the dark centre, and his breath came more quickly.
There was movement to his left and something thumped into a tree. The whole column ducked in unison and weapons were drawn. Lysander gripped the shaft of his spear. There was no person in sight, but there, buried in a trunk, was an arrow.
‘Lower your weapons, or die,’ boomed a voice.
Chapter 16
‘Keep hold of your weapons,’ shouted Aristodermus, ‘or you will die at my hand.’
Another arrow fizzed through the air and landed in his shield. Aristodermus spun around. ‘Show yourself, coward!’
From behind a tree, some fifty paces away, Lysander saw a man emerge. He wore only a short tunic, and carried a bow. His skin looked black in the distance.
Lernos pushed forward.
‘Nikos?’ he shouted. ‘Is that you, comrade?’
‘Lernos?’ said the stranger.
‘I bring reinforcements from Sparta.’
‘By the Gods, let that be true.’
The two approached each other and embraced. Lysander saw that the man’s face, arms and legs were smeared with dirt.
‘Come out!’ shouted Nikos. ‘These men are our allies.’
Lysander gasped as shadows peeled away from the trees around them. None of the men wore cloaks – all were camouflaged like their leader. The men appeared from every side, all carrying weapons, swords and curious short spears, only half the length of the eight-footer Lysander carried. Many looked gaunt with hunger, or carried roughly bandaged wounds.
Lernos took his friend by the elbow and threw a hand towards Lysander and the others.
‘Nikos, this is Aristodermus and his troop. The High Council of Sparta sent them to our aid.’
Aristodermus held out his hand.
‘You look unusual for a Spartan,’ said Nikos, ‘but it is not your fair hair we need you for; it’s your sword arm.’ Lysander noticed his accent was strange and the way he spoke was slightly old-fashioned. ‘Tell me, Aristodermus, where are the rest of your men?’
Aristodermus pointed at the boys. ‘This is all of us.’
Nikos chuckled. ‘Then you must have Kastor and Polydeukes on your side.’
‘This was all the Council could spare,’ said Lernos.
Lysander noticed Nikos struggle to keep the disappointment out of his face. ‘Listen well,’ he said eventually. ‘The Messapians are a thousand strong. We have two hundred men here, perhaps another two hundred held prisoner in our former barracks in Taras. While we stay in the forest, we can keep our families safe. The environment evens out the numbers, but in the city itself, we would stand no chance. We’d be outnumbered five to one.’
‘I can kill five men,’ said Lysander.
Nikos laughed.
‘Me too,’ said Demaratos, joining his side.
‘Your boys do not lack bravery,’ said Nikos. ‘Very well, you have pledged yourselves, and we are grateful. Now you must be hungry, so follow me.’
Nikos led them deeper into the forest.
They entered a clearing where tents were set up. Men milled around, sharpening weapons, gathering firewood and drying clothes. A few horses were tethered to a fallen tree. The smell of roasted meat filled the air.
‘Aren’t you worried the fires will attract the Messapians?’ asked Lernos.
‘They know we’re here,’ said Nikos. ‘We have lookouts around the perimeter of the forest. We can move camp quicker than any scout can get word to a party of attackers. The forest is good for pheasants, deer and wild boar, and there’s a good stream three stadia away.’ He pointed to a central tent. ‘Aristodermus, get your boys some food. They’ll need their strength. Hunting is difficult whilst we hide, but we manage to kill just enough to fend off starvation.’
Lysander took his place in a line where the boys queued for food, and was handed a wooden platter with a slab of venison, cut from a spitted carcass. At a distance, a great crowd of women and children watched them warily with hollow eyes. A few looked elderly, and some carried babies on their hips. Their faces too were emaciated, and creased in desperation. They were Spartans, but they resembled an army of peasants.
They look like Helots, thought Lysander in astonishment.
The men began to make their final preparations, donning what scraps of armour they had, and fastening their grubby cloaks.
Nikos took his place on the fallen log where the horses were tethered, and addressed the gathered soldiers.
‘Men of Taras, you know me for a man of few words, and I shall not disappoint you.’ A cheer went up. ‘Our land was taken from us unjustly. With the Gods’ favour, it shall be returned.’ Another cheer, as the men raised their arms. Nikos jumped down. ‘Sulla, Cimon, Anaxander, Phlebas, gather round with your seconds. Aristodermus of Sparta, bring your lieutenant.’ Aristodermus looked at Lysander, who felt the faces of the other boys turn towards him.
‘You’ve been promoted,’ whispered Demaratos.
While the others finalised their arms, Lysander joined Aristodermus and the other summoned men with Nikos. On a patch of bare soil, the commander took a stick and sketched a slightly curved line, then drew a cross halfway along. ‘That marks Taras, the line the coast.’ Inland, he drew a half circle. ‘The ridge is above the city, almost enclosing it. Three roads lead into Taras, and we must split our forces along each. We pour men into the centre, clearing the enemy as we go, then gather in the central market square,’ he said, drawing a large rectangle, ‘that sits on the harbour front behind a wall. The key is surprise and speed. We kill anyone who stands in our way, Messapian or citizen. Both are our enemy now. Understand?’
Lysander noticed Aristodermus frown.
Is he thinking the same as me? There was a flaw in the plan. They couldn’t possibly cover every route; some inhabitants of Taras would escape and regroup.
‘How will the troops be split?’ asked one of the men.
‘Sulla will go with you, Phlebas, down the western road,’ said Nikos. ‘Cimon and Anaxander will take a hundred men along the east. I will march with Lernos, Aristodermus and his troop. We’ll a
pproach from the north. That way, if one lieutenant dies, there will still be another to lead.’
‘And what of the prisoners?’ said Lernos. ‘If we can free them, we’ll have perhaps two hundred more men.’
‘The stables where they’re held are towards the western edge of the town, and will be heavily guarded. It will hold up the advance if we reroute troops there.’
Lysander cleared his throat.
‘If we don’t tackle the Messapian soldiers who guard the prisoners on the way in, they’ll be able to regroup behind us. Plus if we enter the town like you’ve suggested, we’re sure to let several of the enemy slip away through the closing net. They’ll be able to counter-attack.’
‘If I wanted a child’s opinion, I’d have asked for it,’ said Nikos, his face colouring.
‘Perhaps the boy’s right,’ said Lernos.
‘Silence!’ said Nikos, breaking the stick across his knee. ‘We may not be in Sparta, but I’ll still have you flogged if you question my orders again.’
Lernos bowed respectfully, but Aristodermus was not cowed.
‘With respect, Commander. I see a way to rescue the prisoners.’
Nikos’ expression calmed. ‘Go on.’
‘The Messapians will be expecting soldiers to storm the barracks on the edge of the town, but as you have said, we are not normal soldiers. There must be boys in Taras though. Normal boys who play in the streets and cause trouble. Grown men couldn’t get near to the barracks, but boys stand a chance.’
Nikos raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘An ambush?’
‘A distraction,’ said Aristodermus. ‘Just to give us the element of surprise.’
‘An interesting proposal,’ said Nikos. ‘Let’s do it. Choose ten of your best, and tell them to take off their armour and cloaks.’ He turned to his man Phlebas. ‘Do we still have the farmer’s cart?’
‘It needs repairs, but it should be fine.’
‘Good,’ said Nikos. ‘Have it fixed immediately.’
Lysander and Aristodermus ran back to the main group.
‘I need some volunteers,’ said their tutor. ‘Nine boys.’
‘Nikos said ten,’ said Lysander.
