by Michael Ford
A thunderous sound from behind shocked Lysander, and he turned to see a cloud of dust at the entrance to the tunnel. As it cleared, he made out a jumble of limbs and scarlet cloth trapped beneath a blood-spattered boulder. A shout from above drew his eyes upwards. At the top of the cliff face stood a group of three men carrying long pieces of wood.
Where did they come from? Lysander wondered. No matter, they were here now. They levered another boulder, which tipped over the lip of the cliff and landed by the first.
‘They’re blocking us in,’ said Prokles, raising his spear.
With a quick step forward he released it, and it sailed through the air, punching through the belly of one of the Tarantians. With a gurgled cry, he fell forwards, crashing headfirst into the rocks below.
The children on the beach began to whimper with fear, and one of the women wailed. The other Tarantians on the cliff top backed away.
‘The odds have shifted,’ said Demaratos.
Lysander tightened his grip upon his sword hilt and faced out to sea. They might be trapped, but if this beach was to be his final resting place, he wouldn’t give his life without a fight.
Chapter 24
‘Ready your weapons,’ shouted Aristodermus. ‘Line up in front of the women and children.’
Lysander took his position alongside Leonidas and Demaratos in the centre of the shoreline, as the colony Spartans pushed their families to the far end of the beach, away from the approaching boats. Lysander’s burnt hand was useless for gripping, so Leonidas strapped a shield tightly to his friend’s injured arm. He counted around thirty vessels on the water heading for the other tip of the beach, each carrying between five and a dozen men. He guessed there were a hundred Spartans left, and many of those had injuries, just like him.
‘Stay in the phalanx,’ ordered Aristodermus. ‘We don’t stand a chance if we break formation.’
The first of the enemy boats nudged their way into the shallows, and the men began to disembark, shouting to each other in their tongue. All were heavily armed, with shields and swords taken from the dead on both sides.
‘We should attack now,’ said Cimon. ‘While they’re unprepared.’
‘No,’ said Aristodermus. ‘If we commit ourselves, they’ll send the rest of their men behind us and attack the families. We must wait until they are all on dry land, then deal the decisive blow.’
Gradually the enemy numbers increased, as the boats reached the shore and the men waded on to the sand. A Messapian, more grandly dressed than the others, with a plumed helmet and a double-ended spear, barked orders and formed the men into a line spanning the width of the beach. It was Viromanus, their leader. The enemy stood at least twenty across and ten rows deep. On the right were the Messapians, and on the left were the men of Taras.
‘He knows what he’s doing,’ said Leonidas. ‘He’s put the men he can trust there to stop the line turning.’
Lysander, with his heart thudding in his chest, tried to calm himself by breathing deeply.
‘They’ll roll us back like a rug,’ said one of the Spartans in the row behind. ‘We’ve no chance.’
Aristodermus scoffed.
‘While we have strength in our shield arms, we have a chance.’
The Messapian leader shouted two words, and his men began to step out.
‘Ready, Spartans!’ shouted Aristodermus. ‘March on my count. One … Two … One …’
Lysander marched in time, and the line moved forward. He kept his eyes locked dead ahead. He had been here before, with these friends beside him, and he knew he could trust each one of them with his life.
Aristodermus quickened the count, and Lysander paced in short strides across the sand. The unsteady ground was hard going, but the line didn’t break. The Messapians had sped up also, and were shouting threats and curses as they approached.
‘Save your breath, Spartans,’ yelled Aristodermus.
Lysander picked up his knees as the phalanx moved into a jog. The enemy were twenty paces away. He had already chosen his target man – the Messapian leader with the plumed helmet. Strength pulsed through his sword arm.
‘Ready!’ shouted Aristodermus, the words barely audible over the war cries of the enemy. Lysander raised his sword, and charged.
Viromanus’ spear-point slid over the top of Lysander’s shield, and missed his face by a hair’s breadth. The shaft scraped along his cheek.
Lysander was suddenly in the air. He landed in the middle of the enemy’s second line, and slid his sword into the exposed flesh on the back of Viromanus’ thigh. The Messapian leader screamed and dropped his weapon, clutching at the wound. His life blood poured out over his fingers, and his eyes were wide with horror behind the slits of his helmet.
Lysander sprang up as blows rained down on his shield from another Messapian, each one sending bolts of pain through his hand. He drove the shield upwards into the wide face of the soldier, then fell back into position beside Demaratos.
The phalanx was restored. Their only chance.
Lysander’s heel dug into the sand as he leant into the enemy line with his shield. He stabbed over the top with his sword at the heads and necks of the enemy. Lysander concentrated on keeping the formation tight, pushing and thrusting, again and again. He lost track of the horrible wounds he inflicted, slicing into necks, cheeks, mouths and eye sockets. Men fell screaming at his feet, and soon he was pushing on over a carpet of the dead and dying.
Spartans make their own odds, he thought grimly.
The enemy line buckled, and Lysander found himself with room to take a breath. The left side of the Spartan phalanx was pushing back their adversaries, and the whole block of men wheeled about, to face away from the sea.
‘Press on,’ came Aristodermus’ voice. ‘Drive them back.’
Lysander obeyed, and shouldered into a Tarantian who was carrying a Spartan shield and spear. Lysander could tell from the way he held the shield away from his body that the man wasn’t an experienced soldier. He feinted a low thrust with his sword. The man dropped his guard and Lysander half took off his scalp with a powerful swipe of his sword. Blood cascaded like spilt wine, splashing the pebbles at the Tarantian’s feet.
Lysander sheathed his sword and unpeeled the dead man’s fingers from his spear. The enemy line had broken up completely, and Spartans were plunging into the midst of pockets of men, wreaking slaughter with their swords and spears. The energy that coursed through Lysander masked the pain in his hand. A Spartan fell in front of him, clutching his face, and screaming. Above him stood a long-haired, bare-chested Tarantian, swinging a length of rope.
What harm can he do with that?
He lunged at Lysander and the rope whipped round. Something caught Lysander’s arm and tore away. Suddenly there were deep gouges in his skin, oozing thick streams of blood. He ducked as the rope swung again. Thick, iron fish-hooks were tied on to the end of the rope, ready to tear flesh to pieces. The man shouted at Lysander and swung the deadly hooks again towards his legs. Lysander lowered his shield, and the hooks lodged in the surface. The Tarantian tugged at his end of the rope, but Lysander saw his chance and spun inwards, coiling the rope around his waist as he came closer to the enemy soldier. Using his momentum, he heaved his spear downwards through the Tarantian’s unprotected torso. Blood appeared between his gritted teeth, as he fell on to his knees, and then backwards. Lysander put his feet on the dead man’s chest and pulled out his spear.
‘You should have stayed at sea, fisherman.’
He let the rope fall around his ankles.
The remains of the enemy were fighting in the shallows now, some up to their knees in the water. Lysander noticed that behind the men fighting, the Spartan ship lay still in the water. Where were Moskos and his marines?
He found Aristodermus, and pulled him from the fray.
‘Look!’ he said, pointing out to sea. ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘Find Leonidas and Demaratos,’ said Aristodermus. ‘Take a boat and see what’s goin
g on.’
Lysander found both friends quickly and Prokles too, and explained what he’d seen.
‘They’re probably just cowering in the cargo hold,’ said Demaratos.
Nevertheless, they loaded their weapons on to an abandoned enemy rowing boat. They pushed it out of the shallows, then jumped on board. Prokles and Leonidas took an oar each; Lysander’s injuries prevented him rowing. Demaratos stood on the edge, watching the battle unfold on the shore. Lysander saw a wisp of black smoke rise from the far end of the deck of Moskos’ ship.
‘It’s on fire!’ said Lysander. ‘Pull harder!’
They rowed alongside their ship, and as they rounded the prow, they saw a small boat hidden on the far side. A man was sitting, looking up towards the deck of their ship. Two ropes, presumably attached to grappling hooks, hung from the deck. He spotted Lysander and his comrades approaching, and began to scramble around in the little hull and to shout up wildly.
‘Messapians!’ said Prokles.
Two more faces appeared on the deck.
The smoke was thickening now, and black clouds were spiralling into the sky.
‘They’re not trying to steal the ship,’ said Leonidas. ‘They’re trying to destroy it.’
The two Messapians from the deck lowered themselves over the side, and shimmied down the ropes. Immediately they were on their benches, oars in hand. Leonidas and Prokles pulled hard, grunting with the effort, and set off in pursuit.
‘Get closer,’ said Lysander, drawing his sword.
They drew level with the enemy after a few strokes, and Lysander put a foot on the edge of the boat, and leapt into the base of the Messapian vessel, slicing downwards through the arm of one of the rowers. The man screamed as the oar, and his arm, fell into the water.
The other man, who didn’t have an oar, kicked the inside of Lysander’s knee, and Lysander toppled backwards over a bench. The man lifted a small anchor with both hands, stood over Lysander and hurled it towards his head. Lysander rolled sideways as the chunk of metal crashed into the deck. Over the sound of splintered wood came the splash of water, and he was instantly aware of cold water gushing over his shoulders and neck. The anchor had smashed a hole in the boat’s fragile hull.
The boat lurched to one side.
‘Look out!’ shouted Demaratos.
The Messapian landed on top of Lysander, crushing the breath from his chest. Lysander’s hands instinctively sought his attacker’s throat, and his fingers sank into the thick beard. He tried to roll over, but the boat came with him. He managed to take a lungful of air and suddenly they were both plunged into the water.
Lysander kept his grip on the Messapian’s neck as they rolled over each other. Locked in a death grip, the Messapian’s nails gouged at Lysander’s face, but the stinging pain only made Lysander’s hands clench tighter, crushing against his windpipe.
Lysander’s head broke the surface and he gasped. The breath gave him the strength he needed to carry on, and the Messapian’s hands moved more weakly.
Then they fell away all together.
Through the clear sea water, he saw the distorted, purple face of his enemy. The eyes were open, but unseeing.
Lysander lay back, utterly spent and let the waves take his weight while he caught his breath. Prokles was climbing up the rope on to the deck of the ship, with Leonidas right behind him.
‘Need a hand?’ said Demaratos.
Lysander rolled over slowly and trod water. His friend was leaning over the deck of their rowing boat, extending his arm. Lysander took it, and heaved himself aboard. Moments later, Prokles appeared at the edge of the Spartan vessel.
‘We’ve put the fire out. It’s lucky we got here in time. The damage isn’t too bad.’
‘Moskos and Sirkon. The others?’
Prokles shook his head. ‘They’re on the oar-deck. Throats cut.’
With Leonidas and Prokles safely back on board, they rowed to shore. The battle was over, and a great mass of the enemy were sitting on the sand, stripped of all but their tunics, their heads hanging. Even their sandals and footwear were in a pile, to prevent them running away.
‘We did it,’ said Leonidas.
‘They’ll think twice before attacking true Spartans again,’ Demaratos added.
Lysander didn’t feel the need to say anything. All that had stood between their slaughter or survival was their training, and they had triumphed. But he could not feel pleasure at the carnage displayed before him. Bring Spartans together in an army and they were killing machines. But in the aftermath, the bloodbath sickened his stomach.
Their boat reached the shallows, and banged into the bodies that drifted on the swell. Lysander noticed a face he recognised among them – the man who tortured Demaratos in Taras. A deep gash opened right into the middle of his chest. Lysander touched Demaratos’s shoulder.
‘Look, friend.’
Demaratos peered over the side of the boat.
‘I would have spared him.’ He turned away.
Lysander climbed out of the boat and noticed the red tinge of the water around his ankles.
Leonidas reported what they’d found on board the ship. Getting home without a navigator would be next to impossible, but Aristodermus didn’t seem interested. He surveyed the remains of the enemy.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Cimon at his side. ‘Victory is ours.’ Nikos’ lieutenant had lost his right ear in the battle, and raw flesh glistened around the dark hole of his hearing canal.
‘I cannot revel in another’s shame,’ said Lysander’s tutor. ‘I would have more respect for them if they’d fought until the death.’
Chapter 25
Aristodermus ordered a group of the prisoners to use oars to unblock the tunnel entrance. Two groups of two took an oar each and levered their paddles to dislodge the boulders. Their dejected faces poured with sweat as they groaned with the effort. After one oar had splintered, they got two more in its place, and finally moved the biggest boulders out of the way. Others joined their defeated comrades in lugging the smaller stones. Finally, the shattered bodies of the unfortunate Spartans were carried aside.
That could so easily have been me, thought Lysander.
With an armed Spartan for every two prisoners, they led their captives back through the cave passageway and on the road to Taras. They left the families at the forest.
Aristodermus was deep in discussion with Nikos’ lieutenants for most of the way.
The citizens who’d remained in the town came out of their houses to witness the parade of their defeated menfolk. No one spoke as the vanquished forces were marched towards the market square. Lysander noticed that his prisoners didn’t lift their heads to meet any of the accusing or sympathetic stares.
The bodies had all been cleared, but the smell of battle still hung in the air – a sickly aroma of sweat and iron. Aristodermus mounted the steps of the temple and faced the crowd, looking out to the sea beyond. By his side stood Sulla. The plinth where the statue of Aristarkus had stood remained empty.
‘Men of Taras!’ he shouted. Sulla translated into the native language beside him, though Lysander suspected many of those gathered knew Greek perfectly well.
‘This has been a dark episode in your lives,’ continued Aristodermus. ‘Many of your friends have died, many are terribly wounded. And for what?’ He paused and looked out over the crowd, as Sulla related his words.
‘I understand that you have grievances with your Spartan rulers, but bloodshed was not the answer. I am within my rights to have all of you put to death in front of your families, just as you would have slaughtered our people.’
Around the outside of the square, some of the spectators began to weep.
‘But I am a merciful man,’ said Aristodermus. ‘Even if Sparta is not a merciful ruler. You will know, all of you, that Sparta is not a typical city. We do not seek to conquer and expand. When we fight, it is to protect ourselves, and our people. To make our borders safe. Like a bear, we are slow to a
nger. But take heed, when roused, our anger is absolute. We do not rest until we have eradicated the source of that anger. Is that understood?’
All around the square, tired men nodded their heads.
‘Split the prisoners, Messapians on this side …’ he pointed, ‘and Tarantians on this.’
Both Lysander’s prisoners were Messapian, and he ushered them to the side of the square where the hall was. They looked at him with barely disguised hatred. When the Messapians were gathered together, there were around thirty.
‘My anger is not against the people of Taras,’ said Aristodermus. ‘On those people this colony will depend. But Sparta will not brook invaders from foreign cities. They must be dealt with in the Spartan way.’
Lysander felt a sense of dread rising from his belly, through his chest and up his throat.
‘Kneel Messapians!’ shouted Aristodermus.
Cimon repeated the order. Some of the defeated soldiers obeyed immediately without question, others looked to each other. Cimon shouted the order again. All did as they were told bar one. Sulla went forward and drew his sword. The man spat on the ground and knelt. Aristodermus surveyed the men, and Lysander saw his lips moving silently.
‘I need thirty-one volunteers,’ he shouted. ‘Men of Taras willing to show their allegiance to Sparta. Each will be given a place on the new town council.’
A low murmur passed through the crowd of Tarantians. One by one, men detached themselves from the group, looking expectant.
But Lysander knew what they were volunteering for. A place on the council would come with a heavy price.
‘Boys, give each of these men a sword,’ said Aristodermus. Lysander went forward with the others from his barracks and gave his sword to a Tarantian. Only a little while before, he would have happily run it through Lysander’s middle. Now, as he turned the hilt in his hand, he looked at it as though he couldn’t fathom its purpose.
‘You will buy back our trust with the blood of our enemies,’ said Aristodermus. ‘Kill these Messapian worms.’
The Tarantians looked at each other like lost children, and slowly walked towards the line of kneeling soldiers.
