Legacy of Blood (20 page)

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.

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
.

‘What about the roof?' he said.

‘What about it? Are you Icarus, young man, with wings made of wax and feathers?'

Lysander ran to the ladder. Though his legs and arms were heavy with the day's fighting, he scaled it quickly, and climbed on to the upper floor. Standing on the pulley block, he felt along the inside of the roof between the rafters. The thatch boards were thick.

‘Does anyone have an axe?' he called down.

The Spartans gathered below were like shadows through the smoke which continued to billow under the gate; they must have lit fires all around the front of the building. It wouldn't be long until the air became unbreathable. One of the Spartans stepped forward, coughing into his hand.

‘I have this.' He was holding a mace – a wooden handle with a heavy ball of iron on the end.

‘Throw it to me,' said Lysander.

The man drew his arm back and on the forward
underarm swing, let go of the mace. Lysander caught it, and almost overbalanced. It weighed as much as a fattened lamb. He took his position under the rafters. With all the force he could gather, he thrust upwards with the heavy end into the wood. It cracked along its length.

‘What good will that do?' said Cimon.

‘It will let the smoke out for a start,' said Lysander, coughing.

Three more strokes and he could see what remained of the daylight. Dusk was drawing in and the moon was already in the sky. Straight away, smoke began to funnel through the hole, to be whipped away by the breeze.

Lysander dropped the mace with a heavy clang and tugged at the jagged edges, ripping the tightly packed straw away. Leonidas joined him. The noise from the crowd outside reached his ears. They were shouting to each other.

‘We'll roast them and feed them to the pigs!'

‘They'll have to come out soon; watch the front doors, Plautus.'

But we're not going that way
, Lysander said to himself.

Soon he had torn away enough of the roofing material to climb through, and Leonidas gave him a foot up on to the roof. Two gutters – dry now – ran the length of the building to carry away rainwater and the roof rose on each side meeting the vertical wall, so that
Lysander was shielded from the view of the people below. He climbed up on to the ledge and peered over. The vantage point afforded Lysander a view over the whole town.

Hundreds of bodies were strewn about, along the harbour wall, across the market square, and up the streets that led away from it. The sea was calm; corpses bobbed in the water like driftwood. The fires among the buildings up from the square had mostly been put out, but the glow of orange flame flickered at the far end of the building where the entrance was. Behind the town the ridge rose like a dark cloud.

What have we done?

Even if they drove the Messapians out, would there be any people left to live in Taras? How many of the houses would be empty, how many families decimated by their actions?

What glory is there in that?

‘Kill them all!' shouted a voice below. ‘Down with Sparta.'

The words shook Lysander to his senses. He was here because he had to be. It was his destiny. Why else had the Gods guided Lernos to his barracks? His father and grandfather had both given their lives to Sparta. Lysander would make the same sacrifice. He kept low, and made his way in a crouch across the roof to the rear of the hall – the eastern end – where he peeped out over the end into a deserted alley.

Another set of low buildings, workshops of the
artisan quarter if Lernos had spoken accurately, spread out, separated by a warren of narrow passageways. Was it possible they could make their escape that way?

Leonidas crawled alongside and inspected the drop. It was at least four times Lysander's height.

‘We'll break our legs,' said Lysander.

‘We could tie cloaks together, and climb down,' said Leonidas.

‘We'd be lowering ourselves into a den of lions,' said Lysander. ‘But if we could get on to the workshops,' he pointed across the gap, ‘we could separate; more could escape.'

Leonidas inspected the gap. ‘Even with a run up, it's a long way.'

He was right, but Lysander had another idea.

‘When Timeon and I were younger, we used to cross a narrow point in the river to bring our mothers wild garlic from the far bank. We used to cross the river without getting our feet wet by using an old piece of fence post. You know, by vaulting.'

‘We don't have a fencepost, and our spears aren't long enough.'

‘We have the window pole.'

A grin broke out across Leonidas's face. ‘It's ambitious, but it might work.'

Lysander clapped his friend on the back. ‘Your father, the king, would be proud of you,' he said.

Leonidas smiled, as two red spots appeared on his cheeks. ‘I've learnt a lot, fighting beside you.'

‘Then let's put that learning to good use,' Lysander announced.

He climbed back into the upper floor – the men within were all lying close to the floor to avoid the worst of the smoke. Lysander descended the ladder and leapt the last few steps.

‘We have to fight them,' said Sulla, shifting his shield further up on his arm. ‘I'm not waiting here to suffocate.'

‘No,' said Lysander, ‘there's another way out.'

‘You talk too much boy,' said Sulla. ‘I've lived here all my life – there's no way out of this building but through that front gate.'

Lysander grabbed the long pole. ‘We can get across to the workshops using this. The townspeople aren't watching the back of the building.'

A huge crash shook the door of the hall, and the Spartans guarding it were thrown clear. Immediately they hurled themselves back against it.

‘It looks like their patience has run out,' said Aristodermus, with a wry smile. ‘Let's see if Lysander is right. Head for the roof!'

The door shook again, and the sound of wood cracking split the smoky air.

‘Go,' said Lysander, pushing his shoulder up against the door. ‘We'll hold the door.'

The men coursed up the ladder close on each other's heels. The doors thudded, and this time the beam that locked them splintered a little. It wouldn't hold much longer.