Legacy of Blood (2 page)

A few slaves were milling around the barracks doors now, carrying water, and fresh clothes for the tired students.

‘My Helot tells me they've planned a feast in our honour,' said Demaratos, shaking droplets of water from his hair. ‘It's at River's Rush.'

‘The elite mess?' said Lysander, tying his belt around his tunic.

Demaratos nodded and grinned. River's Rush was an area to the east of the villages where the River Eurotas narrowed in its channel and swept over a series of low rocks, churning white water. Beside the banks was a set of barracks that housed the cream of Spartan infantry. They had been away fighting the bulk of the Persians in the north, while Lysander and Demaratos had met the secondary invasion at Gytheion on the south coast.

‘Are you coming?' Demaratos called back over his shoulder as he walked towards the barracks. Lysander was looking at the Fire of Ares, lying on his cloak in the dust. The burden was too much for him. For now at least.

‘Of course,' Lysander replied. ‘But wait a moment.'

Demaratos turned around. ‘What is it?'

The rest of the boys were emerging from the barracks, coming towards the well. Many were limping, or wearing bandages over their wounds – scars they'd carry proudly for years to come.

Lysander held out the pendant on its leather thong and lowered his voice as he approached Demaratos. ‘I can't wear this any more.'

‘Don't be silly,' said Demaratos, his eyes darting uncomfortably from the jewel to Lysander's face. ‘It was your father's. When I took it before, I didn't know what it meant to you.'

It was true that Demaratos had taken it when Lysander first entered the barracks, but their previous squabbles seemed alien to him now.

‘That's in the past,' he said. There was laughter as the boys threw buckets of water over each other. Since Diokles' death a new tutor had yet to be allocated, and the trainees were enjoying their brief spell of freedom.

Lysander took Demaratos's hand, and dropped the Fire of Ares in his palm.

‘I don't even know what this means to me now,' he said. ‘I'd rather it was in the possession of someone I trust. Keep it safe for me, will you?'

Demaratos nodded slowly. ‘If you wish.' He bowed his head and looped the amulet around his neck. The sight of it resting against his friend's chest brought a sense of relief to Lysander.

‘Stop being so glum,' said Demaratos. ‘This feast will
be one to remember.'

Lysander fastened his cloak and ran inside to find Idas standing dutifully beside his bed.

‘I hear someone's been summoned to River's Rush,' Leonidas called over, as he dressed. ‘Congratulations.'

Lysander had been unsure about Leonidas, second son of the Spartan King Cleomenes, when he first came to the barracks. He'd mistaken the prince's lack of aggression for cowardice, but after the battle against the Persian general, Vaumisa, those doubts had been pushed aside. Leonidas had fought like the lion after which he was named, taking his place at the front of the phalanx.

‘Don't be too quick to cheer him,' said Prokles.

‘What do you mean?' asked Lysander.

‘Well,' said Prokles. ‘I hear that their leader, the Phylarch Peleus, doesn't suffer fools, or youngsters, gladly.'

‘Nonsense!' said Leonidas. ‘You have earned the right to sit with the bravest of Sparta.'

Lysander dried himself by his bedside, and ran an ivory comb through his hair. When Idas held out his tunic to him, Lysander noticed the boy's hands were shaking.

‘There's nothing to be scared of,' he said, pulling the tunic over his head. ‘Just because some of the others beat their servants, it doesn't mean we're all the same.'

Idas managed a small smile, but didn't say anything.
He offered Lysander a new red cloak – the old one had been torn apart and lost in the battle with Vaumisa's army.

Something about the cloak, which previously had filled Lysander with pride, now made him unsure of himself. The coarse red wool was heavy, and uncomfortable.

‘Which settlement are you from?' he asked the Helot.

‘I'm from Messenia,' said Idas. ‘My people were shepherds west of the mountains. We came here after my father died, and worked on a settlement.'

‘Which one?'

‘Near Amikles,' said Idas. ‘It belonged to an old Ephor, but he's dead now.'

Lysander took a sharp breath. The boy was talking about Lysander's own grandfather.

‘My family came from Messenia too,' he said, forcing himself to ignore the stab of loss that returned with the mention of Sarpedon. The Helot boy didn't reply; he was staring at Lysander's red cloak, his jaw tensing.

‘I'll be back later,' Lysander told his new slave. ‘Keep yourself to yourself, and no one will bother you.'

Idas gave a small bow. Then Lysander strode out of the barracks again.

Demaratos was waiting for him by the track that led into the villages. With no tutor to give them orders, they were free to make their own way to River's Rush. Lysander's stomach growled. He'd managed only a few
scraps of food after watching his grandfather's body consumed by the funeral pyre the previous night.

‘Let's hurry,' he said. ‘I'm starving.'

They strode through the outskirts of the city, past the remains of the previous day's feasting: spitted carcasses of roasted sheep and pigs, stripped to the bone, wine jars toppled in the dust. Lysander saw a few Helots sweeping, or chopping wood, but for the most part it was quiet – none of the free-dwellers would be working today.

Lysander spotted a servant carrying a water skin. Unusually for a Helot, the muscles rippled across the man's broad back and he didn't look as starved as many who worked the fields. He noticed Lysander watching him and gave him a suspicious look. Even a day after the city had been spared, the old distrust between Spartans and Helots was growing back, like a mould infecting the city.

Roars of laughter and shouting carried across the river. Lysander crossed the bridge with Demaratos and inspected the massive barracks building. It looked like it had once been a two-storey stable block.

‘Are you sure they're expecting us?' he asked Demaratos.

‘Stop worrying,' said his friend. ‘We're the toast of Sparta now.'

Outside, shields were resting against the walls, and eight-foot spears bristled in a rack.

Suddenly the door flew open and a Spartan soldier stumbled out. He pushed past Lysander and ran to the railings, before vomiting over the side. Demaratos pulled a disgusted face.

Once the man had emptied his stomach, he turned and wiped his mouth with a thick forearm.

‘Greetings, young ones,' he slurred. ‘Forgive me – Peleus mixes the wine too strong for my stomach.'

Demaratos stepped forward. ‘We've been summoned for the feast,' he said.

The Spartan raised his eyebrows in a look of mock surprise.

‘Have you now? This is River's Rush, you know. What makes you two boys think this is a place for you?'

Lysander was annoyed at the tone in the Spartan's voice.

‘I took Vaumisa's life with my spear,' he said.

The smile dropped from the man's face, and he seemed suddenly sober.

‘It was you? Yes, I recognise you now. You initiated Sarpedon's funeral rites. Lysander, isn't it?'

Lysander nodded, and then gestured to Demaratos.

‘This is Demaratos; he rescued the granddaughter of the Ephor Sarpedon from the Persian ship.'

‘I am Phalerius,' said the man. ‘Peleus is expecting you. Follow me.' The words were spoken as an order, not an invitation.

The Spartan led them to the double doors of the
dining hall.

‘If Peleus is expecting us,' Lysander hissed to Demaratos, ‘why all the questions?'

‘It's the Spartan way,' said Demaratos, hurrying after Phalerius. ‘They like to see what novices are made of.'

The Spartan threw the doors open, and a blast of warm air, thick with the stench of sweat and food, reached Lysander's nostrils.

About a hundred men sat along three long tables, while others walked between. Many of the men had scabs on their faces and arms, or scraps of their cloaks tied around their heads and limbs. On the table were loaves of bread, great wooden platters of sliced meats and several jugs.

One by one, they fell silent and turned to scrutinise Lysander and Demaratos.

Phalerius took his seat beside a man part-way along the bench. He wore a prosthetic wooden nose strapped across his face, and his eyes were black as charcoal.

Peleus
, thought Lysander.

Slowly rising from the bench, Peleus turned to face them. Silence swept through the room. ‘These are the two mighty warriors who took on the Persian general,' he said.

The men stared.

‘Make them welcome, then!' yelled Peleus.

Suddenly the hall was filled with shouts, and the men shuffled down one bench to make room.

Lysander and Demaratos took a seat, and were
offered food. Lysander chewed on the ribs of a sheep. The men were soon absorbed in their conversations again.

Good
, thought Lysander.
The less fuss the better
.

‘So, how many was it, Phalerius?' said one of the soldiers.

‘Six, for sure,' replied the Spartan. ‘But I took both arms off another, so he probably didn't make it through the night.'

‘He won't be much good in a shield wall, then.'

‘Not unless they use him
as
a shield.'

Laughter rippled along the table.

A Spartan with a jug under his arm walked along the table, and stopped by their side.

‘A drink for you boys?'

Lysander held out a wide drinking cup. The man poured the red wine clumsily.

‘Make sure you mix plenty of water with that,' said Phalerius. ‘Many a battle-hardened warrior has been floored by Peleus' brew.'

Lysander poured water into the cup, and lifted it by the two handles.

‘All of it!' shouted a Spartan. ‘In one!'

Lysander was thirsty, but the wine was fiery and he had to take a breath before tipping all the dregs down his throat. As he placed the cup on the table and wiped his mouth, the soldiers cheered. The wine seeped along his limbs, and his aches and pains dulled to a soft throb.

‘Your friend's turn,' said Peleus. Demaratos grinned
as the cup was refilled.

Demaratos lifted the cup to his lips and took a long draught as two rivulets dribbled down each cheek and on to his cloak. He let out a loud belch.

Typical Demaratos
, Lysander thought, smiling. He was always happiest surrounded by others.

‘The boy is Dionysus in the flesh,' said Phalerius.

‘The God of Wine never held a spear,' said Peleus. ‘And from what I have been told, these boys acquitted themselves like Ares himself on the plains of the Eurotas.' He looked hard at Lysander and Demaratos and the room fell quiet. ‘They say you braved Vaumisa on his own vessel. Is that the truth?'

‘We did,' said Demaratos. ‘We took on ten men, and prevailed. We swam out through freezing seas, climbed the anchor rope, and rescued the Lady Kassandra. If you had seen Vaumisa's face when we …'

Peleus grinned widely. ‘What about you?' he said, pointing at Lysander. ‘Anything to say?'

Lysander lowered his eyes. He did not feel ready yet to find glory in the events that had unfolded on the Persian ship. ‘It happened just as Demaratos says.'

‘A quiet one, eh? Well, Spartan valour is not measured by words,' said Peleus. ‘We already know what deeds you have performed. Raise your cups, men, and salute these young men. They are true Spartans!'

A deafening raucous cheer filled the hall. A cup was thrust into Lysander's hand, when a sudden hush descended.

Idas stood at the door of the hall, his gaze darting from face to face as he stood before the gathered soldiers. Lysander couldn't help but notice that one of his Helot's knees was quivering.

‘I … I …'

‘Come on, boy,' said Phalerius. ‘It'll be night by the time you get your words out.'

Lysander saw a flash of contempt pass over his servant's face.
What's he playing at?
Lysander thought. These men would flog him to death him in an instant.

‘He's my servant,' Lysander called, scrambling to his feet. ‘I'll deal with it.'

He marched Idas to the door, beyond the gaze of the Spartan soldiers.

‘I was told to come and find you.'

‘What is it?' asked Lysander, shaking Idas by the arm.

‘A messenger from the mistress Kassandra's villa. You are wanted there straight away.'

‘Does she know that I'm here?' said Lysander, feeling a flash of annoyance.

‘No, sir,' said Idas. ‘Her messenger came to the barracks to find you. He said it was urgent.'

‘Very well. Now go back to the barracks, before the soldiers in there decide to have sport with you.'

Lysander watched Idas leave, then went back into the dining hall, where Demaratos was leaning back, some sort of brown sauce dripping down his chin.

‘I've been called away,' he said, loudly enough that Peleus could hear.

‘Where are you going?' demanded the Spartan.

‘To my cousin's villa,' he said. ‘If I may be excused.'

Peleus stood up and spoke quietly. ‘May you be excused?' He looked up and down the rows, then pointed to Lysander. ‘We invite you to our barracks, you accept our hospitality, then you ask to leave.' His voice had risen to a roar. ‘Have we offended you, Spartan?'

Demaratos's face was white.

‘No, of course not,' said Lysander. ‘My cousin … she said it was urgent.'

The table was silent, and Peleus glowered at Lysander, then drew a knife from his belt. Lysander swallowed.

Peleus' mouth broke into a smile, and with the knife he carved a leg off the goat carcass that lay on a platter in front of him. He threw it to Lysander.