by Michael Ford
He remembered the smile of the Messapian in the water. Now it made sense.
The men fleeing into the sea had been a trick; a distraction.
Now Lysander and his comrades were trapped.
Chapter 18
‘Take cover!’ shouted Lysander.
The air whooshed as arrows sailed from the bows. Lysander leapt from his vantage point. Across the square, men who had shields lifted them above their heads.
The deadly hail fell, thudding into the ground and into men’s bodies. Cries came from all over the square, and a Spartan soldier collided with Lysander. They fell together, and Lysander grunted as the man toppled on to him. The air around was suddenly hot with fire.
He wriggled from underneath. The Spartan was a dead weight. One arrow was lodged in the man’s chest, another had entered at the base of his neck. Lysander gagged at the aroma of seared flesh, from the dying flames of the arrows. Across the square, panic had set in. Many had fallen, and were either lying still, or writhing across the ground to find shelter. He saw Demaratos breaking the arrows from the front of his shield. The men on the slopes were lighting another volley of arrows.
As the archers released, Lysander grabbed the dead man’s body and pulled it on top of him just in time. Another two shafts buried themselves in the corpse.
‘Spartans, rally!’ shouted one of the leaders. ‘Attack their positions.’
Lysander ran back into the middle of the square, and found the rest of the boys’ division gathered around Aristodermus.
A group of Nikos’ Spartans were streaming up the hill, roaring at the archers ahead. Lysander took a spear from the ground and headed after them.
‘Stop, Lysander!’ It was Aristodermus.
Lysander turned. ‘We need to neutralise the archers, otherwise we’re all dead.’
‘Let Nikos’ men handle it,’ said his tutor. ‘We must stay here to face any who attack from the flanks.’
The Tarantian Spartans were twenty paces from the archers. ‘Take aim!’ yelled a voice above the din. They brought their bows level, and fired into the oncoming wall of men. Lysander watched as several from the front Spartan rank collapsed, their places only to be filled with more red cloaks. They reached twenty paces, and the bowmen fired again at point blank range. They couldn’t miss, and although most of the arrows slammed into their shields, soldiers collapsed as other shafts pierced their legs or slipped though the gaps. They were scythed down like fresh corn.
‘Keep on them, men!’ shouted Nikos from the base of the hill. It was suicide, but Lysander realised that without the attack there’d be nothing to stop the archers. The Spartan advance was slowed, but still they reformed and trudged on. The archers tried to reload, but there wasn’t time. Lysander lost sight of them as the Spartan soldiers leapt the fires and overwhelmed them. The archers fell beneath their spears. Screams were cut short as the points drove through their flesh, or the heavy lizard-stickers smashed their brains from their skulls.
From his right came the rumble of feet, men running. A huge mob, many hundreds strong, careered down the western entrance to the square. Most wore simple tunics, and made no effort to stay in order. Lysander took his place beside Demaratos and Prokles in the front line.
Any remaining people of Taras had finally come out to fight.
‘Fall back!’ called Nikos. ‘Back to the square.’
Where had these people been hiding? In cellars and attics, no doubt. Packed together in courtyards watching as the Spartans marched through their streets unchallenged.
From the smattering of matching leather jerkins, Lysander saw there were some remaining Messapian soldiers among the crowd, but most of the fighters looked like ordinary men. They marched to the edge of the square, then drew up, facing the Spartans.
Nikos’ men descended the hill again, and quickly took up their positions behind the ranks of boys. Lysander felt better with them at his back. The phalanx was dense, but would it be enough?
This was happening just as he had said – a few of the enemy soldiers had slipped through their tightening grip, and had marshalled the angry populace.
For the first time since the battle against the Persians, Lysander felt the thud of true fear in his chest. His hands tightened into fists as he tried to control the emotions that whirled through him.
The men didn’t hold ordinary weapons. A few carried axes for chopping wood. Some had rough pieces of timber jutting with rusty nails, or strapped with sharpened flints. One man, whose shoulders bulged with muscle was brandishing a blacksmith’s mallet. They had no armour to speak of, and wore simple peasant clothes, but Lysander could tell from their eyes that they’d fight to the death.
‘Let go your weapons!’ said a Messapian from the front of the Tarantian force. ‘And live.’
All eyes went to Nikos, but he looked around him with uncertainty. Lysander let his gaze travel over the men – there were maybe two hundred and fifty left. The Tarantians numbered twice that many, at least.
He can’t surrender! thought Lysander. The shame would be too great to live with.
He looked backwards towards the eastern entrance to the square. They were hemmed in. To turn and flee that way would be futile.
Aristodermus jumped up on to the edge of a collapsed stall.
‘If you want our weapons, Messapian, come and get them!’
Lysander cheered and the other Spartans joined in the shout of defiance. The lead Messapian turned to his men and raised his sword over his head. He gave a blood-curdling howl. The other men took up the cry and the square was filled with the sound of rage. The Messapian lowered his weapon and pointed. The desperate mob flooded into the square.
There was no chance to gather into formation, no time to assemble the phalanx. This was fighting beyond Lysander’s training. He had a sword, a shield, and his courage. As the two armies clashed, Lysander picked a Messapian carrying a spear. The point thrust towards his head, an elementary mistake. Always aim at the biggest target – the body, Diokles had said. Lysander dodged and jumped forward, piling his knee into the soldier’s stomach. As the man bent over, he adjusted his grip and rammed his sword downwards into the spinal column.
He was pulling out his sword when a blow caught him on the upper arm. As he spun around, a Tarantian bore down on him, swinging a poker. Lysander half ducked, half stumbled out of the way. The man’s eyes were wild.
The Tarantian took a swing, and was momentarily off balance. Lysander stabbed and drew blood from his torso. When the man’s glance dropped to his wound, Lysander finished the job, hacking down into the neck. The corpse sank at his feet, gurgling blood.
The square resounded with the thud of metal on wood, and the shouts of pain, fear and anger. Lysander found himself attacking anyone who wasn’t in a red cloak. Someone crashed into his back and he spun round, sword raised. Prokles stood there, short spear poised and dripping with blood. For a heartbeat they stared at each other.
‘Save some for me, comrade,’ he said, then plunged back into the crowd.
A Spartan soldier tumbled like a felled tree in front of Lysander, dead before he hit the ground. The side of his head was brutally caved in. Lysander saw why. A man wearing the charred leather apron of a blacksmith held aloft a mallet.
‘Are you ready to die, Spartan?’ he shouted.
‘A Spartan is always ready to die,’ said Lysander.
The man growled and swung his mallet with ferocious speed. It connected in the centre of Lysander’s breastplate. He flew backwards through the air, feeling every bone shake, and slammed into a market stall, jarring his back.
His ears and head rang, and his vision blurred double. He lay back on the wood, and tried to find his breath.
A shadow loomed above him, and the mallet arced towards his face, ready to crush his skull. Groggy, Lysander rolled sideways and heard the hammer crunch into the wood, showering his face with splinters. As the man struggled to free the head, Lysander sliced across the back of his legs, severi
ng the tendons under his knees. The man gave a throaty groan like an ox being slaughtered, and smashed face first into the stall. The wooden structure fell in from above, burying him.
Lysander tried to stand, but his chest was in agony from the hammer blow, and he saw that the bronze of the chest plate was heavily dented. He managed to hobble towards the temple. Two men were struggling hand to hand at the base of the statue, and Lysander realised one of them was Aristodermus. He’d lost his helmet and his hair was as white as the marble of the temple. The man he was fighting had a short dagger in his hand, and Aristodermus was gripping his wrist. Aristodermus suddenly turned, and threw the man over his hip. With a clever twist of the wrist the knife was in his hand, and he slashed the inside of his enemy’s arm, through the artery. The man screamed and gripped the wound, but the sound was cut short when Aristodermus stamped on his exposed throat.
Lysander swallowed a lungful of smoke and coughed. The fires had caught nearby, and black clouds were drifting across the square, temporarily obscuring the fighting men. They cleared for a moment, and Lysander saw Demaratos and Leonidas side by side, fighting with short spears and swords. They faced four locals, who were circling them. One carried a harpoon and a fishing net. Demaratos caught a blow with a club to the ear, which made Lysander flinch, and his friend fell out of sight. His attacker lifted the club high and for a terrible moment, Lysander thought Demaratos would be killed.
He jumped down from the steps and ran. As he approached, Leonidas caught one of the attackers in the belly with his spear and the man keeled backwards, screaming as he clutched his punctured bowels. But at the same time, the Tarantian with the net had entangled Leonidas’s feet.
Lysander ran through the crowd as the man stabbed at Leonidas with the harpoon. His friend managed to block the movement with his hand, but the point tore his skin, and blood coursed along his arm. The man raised his weapon to stab again but Lysander buried his sword up to the hilt in the man’s side. The point emerged on the other side, streaked with gore, and the blood rushed over Lysander’s knuckles.
‘Thanks, friend,’ said the prince.
Lysander searched the ground.
‘Where’s Demaratos?’
‘He was here a moment ago.’
With a great cry, another wave of Tarantians pushed into the square, this time from behind the temple where the archers had been hiding. The fires had taken hold of several buildings now, and the smoke stung Lysander’s eyes. He searched around for Demaratos.
‘Fall back!’ came a Greek voice. ‘Abandon the square!’
Lysander could see it was hopeless. They were outnumbered, and exhaustion was taking its toll. The corpses of both sides lay together all around the square, by the doors of buildings and on the temple steps. There was no sign of Nikos, but his horse was standing by a water trough.
The remaining Spartans were leaving their sporadic fights and gathering towards the eastern side of the square by the large hall, and Lysander sprinted behind Leonidas to join them, avoiding the missiles thrown by the locals.
Suddenly something swamped him from behind, and Lysander lost his footing. His sword clattered to the ground. Someone was on his back, and hands clawed at his face. He felt nails gouge his cheeks as the fingers searched out his eyes. With one hand trapped beneath him and holding his shield, he managed with the other to bat the hands away, but they closed again on his throat. He spluttered for breath, but the grip was strong.
Looking across the ground he caught sight of a rock. If only he could reach it.
The person strangling him let out a screech, and Lysander felt his strength waning. The tendons of his shoulder and elbow popped as he stretched for the rock.
His fingertips stroked the ground. Just a fraction more.
The world lost colour, and blood rushed up behind his eyes. He could feel the hot breath of his attacker on his neck.
With the last of his strength, Lysander jerked his hip and managed to close his fingers around the rock. He threw it backwards and heard it connect. Suddenly, the pressure on his throat was gone. Twisting, he threw the person off, and scrambled to grab his sword. The attacker was clutching his face where the rock had struck him, and long hair trailed over his hands. Lysander drove his sword into the man’s heart.
With a choked breath, the attacker fell backwards and the hands fell away from the bloody face. Smooth skin and dark features.
A woman.
Lysander’s eyes fell over her slender, well-muscled arms. Her legs were strong and lithe.
An athlete, perhaps, thought Lysander. Like Chilonis. This is how desperate the fight had become; even the local women were joining the rebels to attack Spartans like Lysander. He felt a rush of emotion as he thought about Kassandra and Chilonis, his dead mother – the only females who had come close to touching his heart.
‘I’m sorry,’ he told the dead woman, closing her eyes.
‘Lysander!’ shouted a voice. ‘Come on!’
He turned to see Prokles calling to him from the double gate of the two-storey market hall. That must be where the Spartans were going to regroup.
Lysander left the woman’s body, and ran towards Prokles. Spartans were streaming in through the gates, while a small phalanx, four men deep, had linked shields to guard the entrance. He slipped inside.
‘Fall in!’ came the cry. The remaining soldiers drew up their shields and retreated inside. The last two dragged the doors shut behind them, and pulled down the heavy wooden beam into place.
The roars from outside became muted. They were safe for the moment. And trapped. Lysander looked around him at the groups of Spartans who were wiping blood from their swords and straightening their red cloaks.
Never before in my life have I retreated, Lysander thought to himself.
As soldiers, they had failed.
Chapter 19
The door thudded as Tarantians threw their weight against it, and the reverberations filled the vacant hall. Spartans arranged themselves in a row with their backs to the wooden door. It shook again.
‘It won’t hold for long,’ said Cimon. ‘We’re finished.’
‘We’re not finished until our blood stains the earth,’ said Aristodermus. ‘Where’s Nikos?’
‘He lost his horse,’ said Lysander.
‘He’s dead,’ said Phlebas. ‘Gutted like a fish and hung from the temple rafters.’
A gasp spread through the men. Desecrating a body was the ultimate offence.
‘He was dragged from his horse, and stabbed to death.’
The hall was full of Spartans. Tables were being pushed back against the walls, and two chickens flapped among their feet, feathers flying. Half the hall was double height, built of solid logs, with small half-open shutters high up providing the only illumination. The far end had a second-storey platform reached by a ladder. A pulley was set up there, presumably for lifting heavy objects to the upper floor. The centre of the wide hall was supported by a row of wooden columns, hewn from full trunks.
In the meagre light Lysander inspected the weary faces of those around him. Streaked with blood and dust, many carrying wounds, the remains of the force looked defeated. Even Leonidas, who stood holding an axe in one hand and a Spartan shield in the other, looked full of fear. He saw at best fifty other boys from the barracks. But no Demaratos. There were twice as many of the native Spartans. Anyone else was already dead. Or left outside. Lysander shivered at the thought.
The thudding on the gate fell silent.
‘What’s happening?’ said a Spartan. ‘Why have they stopped?’
‘We’re at their mercy,’ said Cimon, stepping forwards. ‘Why rush?’
‘We need to make a plan,’ said Aristodermus. He climbed on to a table, and Lysander saw his hair was matted with blood. ‘Gather round.’
‘For what,’ laughed Cimon. ‘Death awaits all of us. You included. Prepare for it.’
A torch, flaming at one end, landed on the floor in the middle of the hall. A soldier
ran over and stamped it out. Looking up, Lysander saw where it had come from – the open shutter.
Two more came through the windows on opposite sides.
‘We have to close the windows,’ said Aristodermus. ‘Quickly!’
There was a long pole made of supple wood leaning against the wall by the nearest shutter, and Lysander used it to unhook the shutter. He did the same with the others, and soon the room was cast in near darkness besides the dying embers of the extinguished flames.
‘That will only buy us a little time,’ said Cimon.
‘Share your weapons,’ said Aristodermus. ‘Make sure each man has at least a fighting chance.’
Lysander fell in at Leonidas’s side.
‘What happened to Demaratos? He disappeared.’
‘Maybe he found somewhere to hide.’
‘No,’ said Lysander. ‘I saw him knocked unconscious.’
‘Then I pray the Gods spare him the same indignity Nikos suffered.’
‘I have to go back for him.’
‘Courage for the sake of hope is nothing but foolhardiness,’ said Leonidas. ‘You go out there, you die.’
The smell of smoke was suddenly stronger in the air, and Lysander saw a carpet of fumes flowing under the doors, beneath the feet of the Spartans manning them. The grunts and shouts from the men outside diminished. Were they backing off?
‘They’re trying to smoke us out!’
‘Or burn us alive,’ said Prokles.
The Spartans on the door tore off their cloaks and padded the base of the doors, covering their mouths as the smoke thickened.
Lysander walked up to Phlebas.
‘There must be another way out.’
The lieutenant shook his head. ‘This building is used to hold slaves and stores from trading ships before market. It’s meant to be secure. There’s no other way.’
Lysander looked around desperately, and his eyes fell on the low-beamed upper floor. The rafters were thatched. If only we could get up there.
