Legacy of Blood (21 page)

The window pole was passed up and threaded through the hole in the roof to the men who had already got that high. Lysander could hear the growing shouts from the crowd outside.

‘You'll be food for the dogs soon!' someone called out.

The last of the men were at the bottom of the ladder, and Prokles shouted back to Lysander.

‘Come on, leave the doors!'

With a terrifying crunch, the wood split above the beam as the battering ram punctured the door. Lysander could see a smooth lock of hair chiselled into marble. They were using the statue!

‘Sacrilege!' said one of the men. ‘They defile Sparta.'

The ram withdrew, and the cries of the mob pierced the hall.

‘Tear them apart!'

‘Down with Sparta!'

Then the ram smashed again, sending splinters into the hall. Lysander caught a glimpse of something familiar.

It can't be!

‘Take it from them!' Lysander said tersely. He had no idea commands would ever flow so easily from his mouth; he, who had once been a slave. Two Spartans pulled away from the door, and seized the head of the statue. Lysander looped his arm around the massive torso and heaved.

The marble cracked across the middle, and Lysander
and his comrades fell to the ground holding their fragment.

‘Come on, this is a waste of time. We have to go – now!' said one of the Spartans. ‘Let's join the others on the roof.'

Lysander was staring at the statue, heady with shock. It wasn't the familiar face that drew his attention. No, it was the familiar carved emblem resting on the statue's chest.

He ran his fingers over the outline of a jewel surrounded by ancient script.

The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous
.

The Fire of Ares!

The amulet had been passed down from father to son in his family for over seven hundred years. It could mean only one thing.

My ancestor. Here, in Taras
.

The wooden beam buckled as the Tarantians hammered again with the remains of the statue.

‘Come, Lysander. Run!' said Prokles. He was at the top of the ladder, calling down.

Lysander let go of the marble fragment and dashed to the ladder, scaling it like a lizard. The beam on the door split in two and the pieces dropped to the floor. Angry attackers streamed into the hall.

One of them shouted and pointed to the second-level platform, and they charged for the ladder. One, barely older than Lysander, reached the bottom and started placing hand over hand on the rungs.

Lysander tried to kick the top of the ladder away, but it was nailed to the platform. The boy reached the top,
so he swung a foot into his face. With a cry, the attacker let go and tumbled backwards, taking another man with him. Lysander kicked ferociously at the ladder until the nails shook loose and it toppled backwards into the hall. Rocks and pieces of wood flew towards him, hurled by the people below, and Lysander shielded himself with his arm as he lumbered through the hole in the roof.

There were still five Spartans on top of the hall, including Aristodermus and Prokles, but others were already over the alleyway, and running across the roofs of the workshops. Leonidas was standing on the far side, catching those who swung across and throwing back the pole. Nikos' lieutenant, Sulla, went over. The pole came back.

‘We have to hurry,' said Lysander. ‘They'll work out soon enough what we're doing.'

‘You go next,' said Aristodermus, pointing to the gap.

Lysander shook his head. ‘I'll follow you. If this goes wrong, the others need their commander.'

Aristodermus gave a brisk nod. ‘Death and honour, Spartan.'

‘Death and honour,' Lysander replied.

Aristodermus ran to the edge, grasped the waiting pole, and vaulted smoothly across. As his feet hit the roof opposite, he rolled and righted himself. With a final look back, he made his escape across the roofs. Leonidas pushed back the pole. It was painfully slow, and Lysander could hear the confused shouts in the hall
below. It wouldn't be much longer.

Kantor went next, sailing over.

Now up stepped one of Nikos' Spartans. The soldier ran to the edge, took the pole in both hands and took off.

Something went wrong.

The Spartan's hands must have been sweaty, or his arms not strong enough. He slipped down the pole and slammed into the opposite wall. He rebounded and landed on his back in the alleyway below. After that he didn't move.

The pole landed beside him.

Someone shouted. The cry came from the end of the alley. A band of five Tarantians, armed with Spartan short spears, had seen the fallen man.

‘Leander, get up!' shouted Sulla from the far side. The fallen man stirred a little, reaching a hand to his head.

The Tarantians were on him like a pack of dogs, stabbing with their spears. Blood spattered their faces and clothes, spilling out into the road. Lysander thanked the Gods that Leander's death was quick.

Prokles pulled Lysander back from the edge.

‘Stay down.'

It was just the two of them left on the roof now, and Leonidas who waited for them on the rooftop across the alley. The others had obviously made it to street level, pursued by the bloodthirsty cat-calls of the Tarantians.

Lysander signalled to Leonidas with his hand:
Go!

Leonidas stepped to the edge of the workshop roof and looked into the alley beneath. Lysander could hear that it was thronged with angry townsfolk.

Leonidas looked back at Lysander and their eyes met across the empty space that separated them.

Go, friend
, Lysander willed him. Leonidas lowered his gaze and turned, bounding across the roofs until he disappeared from sight.

Maybe it's our turn to die
, Lysander thought.

‘Over here!' hissed Prokles. He was by the northern side of the hall, where thick smoke billowed up the side of the building. He held his arm over his nose and mouth, and pointed down. ‘Think we can make it?'

Lysander peered over the edge, and saw a stack of wooden cases in a yard, no doubt ready to be loaded on to a ship. There were pottery wine jugs too, some as tall as a man, others half and quarter size. Now the people of Taras were pursuing the fleeing Spartans, Lysander counted only three people about thirty paces away, but their attention was on stripping the armour from the dead bodies. The drop was about fifteen feet.

‘What choice do we have?'

Prokles turned and lowered himself over the edge, extending his arms to get as near as possible to the ground. He let go, and hit the ground with a thump. Lysander heard him draw a sharp breath and grip his knee, but he managed not to cry out.

Lysander prepared himself to jump. As he tensed his
muscles, a band of four Messapians came around the corner. They were at ease, with loosened armour, big men, laughing to each other as a man tried on a Spartan helmet. Only one seemed to be carrying a weapon – a sword. Lysander lay flat on the roof to wait for them to pass.

But they didn't.

The men took their seats on the outlying crates, just a few paces from where Prokles was hidden below. Lysander saw the sheen of sweat on Prokles' brow. He looked up, and motioned for Lysander to jump.

‘How can I?' he whispered. ‘They'll see me.'

Prokles gazed back up at Lysander, a frown creasing his brow. Then Lysander saw the boy's face clear; it was as if he'd come to a decision. Prokles crept out from his hiding place behind the crates.

What's he doing?

Prokles shuffled around so that he was within spitting distance of the enemy, concealed only by a small stack of cargo. As Prokles put his hands against the top crate and began to push, Lysander realised his plan.

He's saving me!

Prokles lunged, and the crate toppled off the pile and smashed open on the floor in the middle of the group of men, making them stumble backwards. Bolts of linen spilled out over the ground, and Prokles made a dash for it, but he was hobbling from the fall. The startled Tarantians paused for a heartbeat, then started in pursuit, yelling at each other. They caught Prokles as he
tried to slip between two buildings, and tripped him. Immediately, they were kicking and clawing, and Prokles rolled into a ball to protect himself.

‘I have to jump,' Lysander muttered. ‘I can't let Prokles' sacrifice be wasted.'

Lysander took a few steps back up the roof, then ran at the edge and leapt off. His legs circled through the air, and he smashed on to a crate, splintering the wood, then rolled forward to break his fall. He jumped down to another crate and then to the ground. The man with the sword was telling the others to move aside so he could finish Prokles, and it was a Messapian at the back of the group who turned and saw Lysander coming towards him.

Lysander took hold of the ears of a small jug, and swung it around. The pottery exploded against the side of the man's face, showering red wine over the group. With the shard that remained in his hand, Lysander slashed across the throat of the man with the sword.

A fist hit him in the kidney, and Lysander buckled to one knee. As a second punch came towards his face, he blocked with his elbow and pulled the attacker over his shoulder. He stood, then brought his knee down on the shoulder and heard the joint break. The man scrambled away. Lysander turned to see Prokles grinding his foot into the other man's neck. The Messapian was trying to twist Prokles' ankle, but from his flailing hands Lysander could see his strength was waning.

‘Go to Hades,' said Prokles, as the man's face turned purple.

Prokles' own face was covered in scratches and the split in his lip, from the fight with Lysander back in Sparta, had reopened.

‘We'll be spotted like this,' said Prokles. ‘Help me with these bodies.'

They dragged the corpses of two of the men into the path between the houses, and stripped the Messapian leather jerkins, replacing their own soiled cloaks.

‘If we head roughly east, we should meet the road back to the ridge,' said Prokles.

They wasted no time, and slipped between houses. They went unchallenged, keeping their heads down. A few scattered bodies of the dead – Messapians and Spartans both – lay draining their blood into the narrow streets. Lysander didn't dwell on their lifeless faces, but furnished himself and Prokles with a short spear each, plucked from cold fingers. Soon the houses gave way to fields, with only the occasional farmhouse. As they passed what looked like an olive press, Lysander heard the gabble of voices from ahead. He seized Prokles' arm.

‘Quick, hide,' he said, and they both ducked behind the wooden contraption used for crushing oil from the olives.

A band of Messapian soldiers and some local Tarantians came over the brow of the hill. All walked heavily, and were still sweating from the pursuit. Lysander
wondered how many of the fleeing Spartans they'd managed to kill.

He waited for them to pass out of sight, and then set off again. They crossed the top of the hill, and saw the forest in the distance. There were bodies on the track. Spartans, by the colour of their cloaks.

They approached the low walls of a sheepfold on the left side of the path, and a voice called out in Italian. Two Messapians were behind the wall, stripping the breastplate of a dead Spartan.

Lysander and Prokles stopped dead and shared a look. One of the Messapians spoke to them again, obviously thinking they were on the same side. Lysander recognised the face of the corpse they were ransacking: Phlebas.

When they didn't reply, the faces of the Messapians showed confusion, and one of them stood up, and tried to draw his sword. It jammed in the scabbard. Lysander leapt into the sheepfold, and ran him through with his short spear. While his screams were still in the air, the remaining Messapian threw up his hands in surrender. Prokles didn't hesitate, stabbing first the stomach, and then the heart as the soldier fell.

Phlebas moved.

‘He's alive!' gasped Prokles.

‘Just,' whispered Phlebas, with barely moving lips. Blood had soaked his tunic and his face was white.

‘We'll get you back to the forest,' said Lysander, taking his arm.

‘No,' said Phlebas, ‘I'm halfway to the Underworld already.'

‘Your wounds can be tended,' said Lysander.

Phlebas opened his eyes a crack, and smiled. ‘My wounds are beyond tending.' He frowned. ‘You are the boy who dared to argue with Nikos.' He coughed, and blood spattered his lips. ‘You were right. Our tactics were … flawed.'

‘That's not important now,' said Lysander.

Phlebas' lips twisted and his back arched. He squeezed Lysander's arm, exhaled a long breath and sank back. His eyes closed.

‘Come on,' said Prokles, turning to go.

Lysander lowered Phlebas' limp arm to his side, then looked back along the road. So many Spartans slaughtered. And for what? A piece of land in a foreign country.

The light was fading as they entered the forest. Lysander had been worried they might not be able to find the camp again, but the way was clear from the churned footprints on the ground. The smell of woodsmoke drifted through the trees and soon they saw the orange glow of the Spartan campfires.

The camp had turned into an infirmary, and the sound of moaning mixed with the clanging of metal as weaponry was mended. The women and children were busy fetching water and looking after the injured soldiers. Lysander saw a man whose hand was hanging off. With a spit of wood between his teeth, the injured wrist was placed over a rock and a soldier sawed through the remaining tendons and bones with a short sword. The man writhed while three others held him down. Several men wore eyepatches or had bloody bandages on their heads.

‘Lysander! Prokles!' Aristodermus approached through the crowds. He had no obvious injuries other than a
thick swathe of linen wrapped around the top of his left arm. ‘We thought you were dead.'