Legacy of Blood (18 page)

There had been no shortage of volunteers, and Lysander had been glad to see Leonidas and Demaratos step forward. Prokles had been more of a surprise, but he hadn't hesitated for a moment.
He's changed since we
crossed the sea
, thought Lysander.
I was wrong to call him a coward.

There were three others hidden in the cart as well. Lernos was there to lead the way, and to do any talking should they be stopped. Lysander wondered how the other forces were progressing. Aristodermus' eyes had gleamed at the prospect of the attack they were about to launch. ‘See you in Taras,' he said as they departed. ‘Or failing that, in the fields of Elysium.'

‘Even if all the armies make it,' said Lysander, ‘we still leave ourselves exposed.'

‘What do you mean?' said Demaratos. ‘We'll deal with the Messapians on the way in.'

‘And what about the normal citizens who don't come out to fight; who stay in their houses?' said Lysander. ‘If they had anything to do with the previous attack, they might not sit back and let Nikos retake the town.'

‘If we stick together and follow orders, we'll stand a chance,' said Prokles.

The cart bounced along between low white-washed houses, and a couple of people called out greetings to Lernos in accented Greek. Then came a gruff voice.

‘Halt! Who are you?'

Lysander held his breath.

‘A simple tradesman,' said Lernos. ‘These three are my sons.'

‘What's your trade?'

‘Courgettes and marrows, anything that grows this
time of year in my wretched soil,' Lernos laughed. Then he added, ‘Take a look. If you wish.'

‘What's he doing!' hissed Prokles.

Lysander gripped his sword and tried to remain still.

‘I have no wish to, trader,' said the soldier. ‘You're late for market. Be on your way.'

Lysander breathed again, despite the sweat running down his temples. They were safe. But as Lysander turned to smile in relief at his friends, he saw Prokles rubbing at his eyes. Lysander could see his nostrils flaring.

No
, Lysander thought desperately.
Not now
. Clearly, he wasn't the only one suffering from the hay dust.

Prokles' body shook with the violence of a sneeze that he tried to bring under control. But the canvas covering them shifted as Prokles' shoulders jerked, and there was the unmistakable sound of a boy sneezing.

‘What was that?' said the man.

‘What?' said Lernos.

‘Take off the cover,' he ordered.

A hand came under the cover. It grabbed one of the swords that was stashed in the cart. Lysander heard a blade slice into flesh, a scuffle. He dared to look out. Drako was holding a young soldier in distinctive black leather with a sword buried in his neck. The man's body spasmed then went slack.

‘Get him off the road,' said Lernos. ‘No one has seen.'

Drako dragged the body off the path by the feet,
leaving a long streak of blood, and threw it in a ditch. He scattered water from his flask and splashed the evidence away.

They continued as if nothing had happened, but Lysander's heart was pounding. They had so nearly been discovered. After a little while, the cart pulled up.

‘The barracks are a stadion away,' said Lernos, ‘on the outskirts of the town. It looks like all the stall doors have been sealed.'

Lysander looked out and saw a long low building a little like their barracks. A crowd of twenty soldiers, armed with swords, were standing in a group at the front. More were posted every ten paces along the outside of the building, and more still were pacing around the perimeter. Maybe fifty in all.

Lernos led the cart off the track.

‘Out, all of you.'

Lysander threw off the cover, grateful for some fresh air. Lernos went over the plan a final time, until everyone was clear. They unhooked the horses, and took their spears, some of which had been cut down to half size. Demaratos struck a flint into the dry kindling that lined the cart. Flames crackled the air, and sent up a column of black smoke. The horses whinnied, but Drako calmed them.

‘Let's hope they see the signal,' said Prokles, staring back up the ridge to where Sulla and Phlebas would be waiting.

Lysander, Demaratos and Leonidas threw the sack
back over the flames, and for a moment it looked like they might be extinguished. But almost straight away, a patch of black began to grow in the middle. They pushed the cart back out into the road, and aimed it down the hill towards the entrance to the barracks. A single column of smoke emerged through a hole in the sack.

‘If the plan fails,' said Lernos, ‘it was an honour.'

‘For Sparta,' said Demaratos.

‘For Sparta,' the others replied.

Flames took the sacking, and suddenly the heat in Lysander's face was intense.

‘For Orpheus,' he said to himself.

Together, they set the blazing cart rolling down the road. It shot down towards the barracks, and the guards began to point and shout. For some it was too late, and it slammed into a group of five, throwing them aside or crushing them beneath the wheels, before overturning and skidding to a halt. The flames licked up the side of the barracks building.

Lernos charged after the cart, and Lysander and his comrades streaked down the hill in his wake. He was dimly aware of a hunting horn sounding in the background, followed by two other blasts.

The signal to advance!

The net was closing.

The soldiers were regrouping below. Lysander met the first before he even had time to draw his sword and ran him through with his short spear. He took the
man's shield, a small but light circular one. Another soldier, fat and sweating, ran up to him, and Lysander smashed the shield into his chin, knocking him out cold.

A cry went up from massive Drako, and Lysander saw he had a man lifted above his head with both hands. He threw him against the flaming barracks door, smashing it open. Smoke billowed out. Messapians were closing in from all sides. They had no chance if they waited to be surrounded.

‘Advance!' shouted Lysander, running out to meet the nearest attacker. He stooped and drove his spear up into the groin of a leather-clad giant, then sliced with his sword across the back of another man's knees. A sword blow glanced off his shield, and cut into his shoulder. He drew a breath through his teeth and head-butted his attacker.

Someone ploughed into his side, and landed on top of him. Lysander scrambled out, using the hilt of his sword to box the man's ears. He was nearly free when an almost naked figure appeared above him, holding a sword.

But the man didn't attack. Instead, he pulled away the body that was pinning Lysander. His ribs were pronounced above the scraps of tunic.

One of the prisoners!

‘Nikos sent us,' said Lysander, getting up. ‘They're retaking the town.'

Screams came from all around as the remaining
Messapians were overcome by unarmed men, emerging out of the prison like pale ants from their nest. They looked malnourished and desperate.

Lysander's rescuer took a sword from one of the dead guards and raised it above his head. ‘Freedom!'

‘Freedom!' came the shout.

He saw Demaratos tying a scrap of clothing around his forearm, using his teeth to pull the knot tight, over a blossoming patch of blood.

Looking about, it seemed no one else was hurt, apart from the Messapians. Their bodies lay all around, broken and battered.

A horn sounded from higher up the slope, close this time, and Lysander saw a sea of red swarm down the road. Four men wide, and twenty-five deep, the block of soldiers led by Phlebas and Sulla marched at double time. The ones at the front all had short spears, helmets and shields, but Lysander knew that further back they were less well equipped.

When they saw their freed countrymen, there was much shouting and embracing, but soon the ragged men had been absorbed into the corps.

Phlebas slapped Lernos on the back. ‘Two hundred men freed by a handful of children. Perhaps the Council does like us after all. Now it's only two against one.'

They descended into the town. Taras was larger than any of the five Spartan villages, the white-washed
houses tightly packed around narrow alleys. Sweat trickled down Lysander's back. The enemy could be just around the next bend, and he'd only know when they were upon them.

As the track widened, and the column fanned out to fill it, terrified inhabitants scurried across their path. Lysander saw them fleeing into their houses like rabbits bolting into their warrens. A few hovered by the edge of the homes, prostrating themselves on the ground to show they meant no harm. Ahead, he caught glimpses of the glittering sea, and the pediments of a temple.

‘They kneel now,' said Phlebas. ‘The same ones who were baying for our blood a month ago.'

But Lysander was worried. All the people he saw were women and children, or the elderly. He had hardly seen one able-bodied man.

‘This doesn't feel right,' said Lysander.

They reached a storehouse surrounded by pottery wine jugs, when a shriek came from ahead. Suddenly, through a gate in a wall ahead burst a huge band of soldiers in brown leather uniforms and fat conical helmets strapped under their chins. Their shields were small and round.

Messapians!

The enemy soldiers ran in disarray towards Lysander's line, shouting in a foreign tongue.

‘On my count!' barked Sulla. ‘Left … Right … Left … Right.'

Lysander's lines moved forward in formation, gathering
speed until they too were running.

‘Cut them down!' shouted Phlebas.

Lysander saw there were perhaps three hundred Messapians, all armed. As he had been taught by his former tutor Diokles, he chose one, a strapping man whose chest hair seemed as thick as a dog's pelt, and ran at him.

Lysander parried the enemy's sword with his shield, and thrust down with his spear, but the force of the collision sent him cartwheeling through the air. He thumped into the midst of the Messapian line, scattering soldiers around him. But he had lost his spear. Up like lightning, Lysander backed away from a sword swipe, drew his own blade, and lunged. The man who faced him was cautious, and stayed out of reach, and their blows sailed harmlessly wide. Lysander saw a helmet on the ground. He placed his toe beneath it, then flicked the helmet into the air at his attacker. The man swung his sword to knock it away. Using the distraction, Lysander took two quick strides forward and sliced across the man's sword arm, drawing a high-pitched cry from his throat. He put all his weight behind the swing, cutting deep into the soldier's side.

A Messapian rolled over at Lysander's side, his face streaked with blood. As he tried to sit up, one of the unarmed Spartans drove his elbow into his face. The Messapian's head smashed on to the ground, and he didn't move again. The Spartan grabbed his shield and re-entered the fight. Lysander joined a group of three
Spartans who were surrounding a Messapian. He was swinging his sword wildly to force them back, but Lysander barrelled through their midst and caught him off balance. They slammed into the ground and the others piled on, pinning back the Messapian's arms while another punched his face again and again.

‘Good work,' said the Spartan, as he stood over the body.

Two of the men shared the dead Messapian's weapons – a shield and short dagger, while the third stripped his stiffened leather armour.

Through the streets, the Messapians were overcome, and with each that fell, Lysander saw the Spartan force grow stronger. Suddenly, a shout passed along the Messapian line, and they turned their backs and fled. Lysander and the others swarmed after them. Lysander caught one and buried his sword to the hilt between his shoulders. He felt the blade burst through the other side and the man crumpled to the ground, lying face down in the road.

‘That was for Orpheus,' Lysander said.

The Spartans coursed down the road, clambering over walls and through vegetable gardens, chasing down their foe. It was a surprise when the road suddenly opened up and Lysander reached the market square. It was larger than he had envisaged. A small temple of marble gleamed, and a statue stood on a plinth at the base of wide steps. The portico looked out towards the sea, and several other buildings looked administrative – perhaps
a law court and a counting house. On the far eastern side was a huge wooden hall, two storeys tall. A low wall, crumbling in places, separated the open space from the sea beyond. Two jetties, one a hundred paces long, and another much shorter, jutted out into the sea and were lined with boats. The square itself, which backed on to the sea on one side, was thronged with Messapian soldiers, all facing outwards to meet the oncoming attackers. They were trapped like sheep.

Lysander saw Nikos on a tall, chestnut horse, directing his men on the far side of the square, beside the market hall. Leonidas and Aristodermus stood side by side in the front line, with the rest of the boy's division ordered around them. The Spartan army waded among the enemy in tight formation, mowing them down with spear thrusts. They showed no mercy, but Lysander knew enough of his city's ways not to expect any.

A horn sounded as another gang of Spartans surged from behind the temple, led by Anaxander and Cimon. They joined the crush, and Lysander watched as the Messapians ran towards the sea. They sprinted along the long jetties, pushing each other into the water in a last hope of escape.

Lysander threw himself into pursuit, driven by a lust for revenge. His dead friend was worth a hundred of these men. He remembered Lernos' words – they'd killed the Elders of Taras like sheep. He leapt over the harbour wall, and on to the beach, then sprinted along
the jetty after the fleeing enemy. They splashed in the water either side, struggling to keep themselves above the water in their armour.

They'd rather drown than face a Spartan
, thought Lysander.
Well, let Poseidon have them.