Legacy of Blood (23 page)

‘You'll find out what this boy can do if you don't back away,' said Lysander. The heat from the forge was overwhelming, and Lysander's eyes stung with the smoke.

The man looked down casually at Demaratos. He still held the iron a few finger widths from his face.

‘Put down that horseshoe, boy. You're in no position to make demands.'

Lysander gripped his only weapon even harder. His palm was already slippery with sweat.

A voice grunted behind him, and with it came the stink of stale wine. Lysander felt the tip of a blade against the back of his neck.

You idiot!

He dropped the horseshoe, and it thudded on the hard-packed floor of the blacksmith's chamber. A hand pushed Lysander to one side and he saw a small, older man with a face like a stray dog. A few whiskers of grey hair stuck out under his chin, and his grin revealed rotten teeth like burnt tree stumps. He was carrying a Spartan sword.

‘Better do as Cato says,' said the man. ‘He may not speak your Greek tongue, but his sword speaks a language you can decipher.'

Lysander stood back against the wall. The man who spoke Greek was clearly no simpleton. His eyes gleamed in the orange glow of the fire, and he plunged the iron back into the flames.

What can I do?
thought Lysander, eyeing Demaratos's bonds. His friend wouldn't be of any use if it came to a fight. He'd have to talk his way out of danger. If only Timeon were here – he was always the persuasive one.

‘Why don't you let him go? The battle's over – you won.'

‘The battle may be over,' said the man, ‘but the war has only just started. The Spartans will return.'

‘No,' said Lysander. ‘Our numbers are few. Nikos, the commander, is dead.'

The man snorted and turned the iron in the flames.

‘Spartans treat their soldiers like slaves. There will be another Nikos.' He nodded to Demaratos, whose chest heaved with panic. ‘But this son of Sparta will not be there to see that fight. The Gods will save special
punishment for him, and the pain he will suffer here is only the start.'

He picked up the iron quickly and let it drop over Demaratos's chest. His friend screamed and the sound made Lysander's hair stand on end. Demaratos lurched on the bench, every limb straining to escape, and the smell of burning flesh filled Lysander's nostrils. He fought not to retch at the sickly aroma.

The man's face was like a statue, still as stone. His voice rumbled with a certainty that Lysander found unsettling, somehow far more terrifying than if he was shouting or cursing the Gods. He looked to the man called Cato. Could he tackle him without a weapon?

‘What good can a hostage be to you?' he said in desperation. ‘You say you know the Spartan ways. They won't bargain with you over the life of one boy.'

‘You think I want a hostage?' said the man, his voice suddenly raised in pitch. ‘This is not about bargaining. I've waited years for this moment. This is about revenge.'

‘For what?'

‘For decades of Spartan rule.'

The man plunged the iron back into the fire, turning it among the coals. There had to be something Lysander could say.

‘Take me instead. This boy's nothing – an embarrassment to the barracks where he trains.'

Demaratos frowned in confusion through his daze of pain.

‘I know who this boy is,' the man snarled. He held up his free hand. There, in his palm, was the Fire of Ares.

‘He's Lysander, grandson of the Ephor Sarpedon, sprung from the line of the legendary Menelaos himself.'

Lysander suddenly felt cold. This man knew of the Fire of Ares' origins, all the way back to Menelaos, one of the first Spartan Kings who'd fought at Troy. ‘No. No, he isn't …'

‘Yes, I am,' whispered Demaratos. ‘I'm the son of Thorakis.'

‘And between the times of Troy, and now, there came another of that family whom every Tarantian despises. Aristarkus.'

Aristarkus?
The name meant nothing to Lysander.

‘They don't teach you about him in the barracks, do they?' said the man.

Was this some sort of trick? Lysander shook his head. His clothes were stuck to his body with sweat and his mouth was dry as sand. The point of the Tarantian's sword pressed into his throat. One wrong move and his blood would be spilling over the ground.

‘And why should they,' continued the man. ‘Aristarkus was an exile from your land – the illegitimate son of mighty Lykurgos, born of a Helot woman. A mothax, that's what you call them. He was sent here with the rest of them by Lykurgos himself. Cast out of Sparta for their impure blood. His cursed statue has
stood on the temple steps for generations, a wretched reminder of our enslavement.'

Lysander felt his knees weaken as the man's story filtered through his brain.

‘The statue with the Fire of Ares …' he muttered. ‘Aristarkus was a mothax?'

‘They're all mothakes!' laughed the Tarantian maniacally. ‘You Spartans pride yourself on your bloodlines, your links to the past.' He prodded the iron towards Demaratos. ‘Well, Lysander's blood here is as pure as ditchwater.'

Lysander's head was dizzy with the heat. If Aristarkus was a mothax, all his ancestors were. That meant Sarpedon too, his father Thorakis, his uncle Demokrates. Even Kassandra … none of them were Spartans of true blood. He needed to stall.

‘And Aristarkus founded Taras?'

‘Founded? No. Taras was here long before the half-breed Spartans came here. My ancestors fished these seas and farmed the vines in peace. What use did we have for weapons and war? No, we were put under the yoke by the invaders from Greece. They made us slaves, like their Helots.'

Now Lysander understood why Demaratos hadn't been killed in the market square. This man held him responsible for all Taras' woes. The strength of his hatred burned as fiercely as the forge.

‘But the Fire of Ares is mine,' he said. ‘It was given to me in Sparta.'

The blacksmith grunted. ‘Aristarkus was exiled from Taras by his own men in the end. They grew tired of his strictness. It wouldn't surprise me if he ended up back in Sparta – a wolf always slinks back to its den.'

The man with the sword gabbled a few words, and the man with the branding iron replied.

‘My brother says we should kill you both.'

Lysander held up his hands. ‘Listen to me. This boy isn't Lysander – I am.'

The man tipped back his head and howled with laughter. ‘I admire your bravery, Spartan, but I am no fool. Don't try me with lies.'

All this is my fault
, thought Lysander.

‘I'm telling the truth. I gave the amulet to this boy – Demaratos is his name – because I didn't want it any more. I felt I didn't deserve it, that it didn't belong around my neck. I was a mothax too, a Helot of the fields. The amulet was my father's, but since I've known of him, it's brought nothing but misery and pain. If I could, if it brought back the people whom I love, I'd go back to the fields and toil for the rest of my days. The amulet has been a curse.'

‘You press a convincing case, twisting words like a lawyer in the courts,' said the man. ‘But I don't believe you. This boy will die for the evil his ancestor wreaked.' He put down the branding iron and picked up a mallet. ‘I'll break his bones, like Aristarkus broke the spirit of my people.'

Lysander sank to his knees. ‘Please, you must believe
me. I'm the one you want.'

Demaratos moved his head slowly from side to side.

‘He's lying,' he whispered. ‘Let this impostor go, and get this over with.'

The man raised the mallet over Demaratos's lower ribs.

‘This is for all my people.'

With a sharp swing, he brought the mallet down against Demaratos's side.

Lysander couldn't let Demaratos die in his place. There had to be a way to convince this man of the truth. But how could he do that with a sword at his throat?

The man lifted the mallet over his friend's kneecap next.

‘Wait,' said Lysander. ‘I can prove who I am.'

The Tarantian stopped, and the first frown of uncertainty crossed his face. ‘How?'

‘The amulet,' said Lysander. ‘I can tell you what's written on it. It's in the old language – it says “The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous”.'

The Tarantian huffed. ‘Even I know this.' He turned back towards Demaratos.

‘But I can draw the words themselves,' said Lysander. ‘They're from the time of Troy.'

The man lowered his mallet, and looked at the Fire of Ares closely in the dim light. ‘Go ahead – use that scrap.'

Lysander saw where he pointed. There was a piece of
iron lying against a stone trough, and he took it under the watchful eye of Cato. After clearing the stray pieces of straw from the ground in front of him, he etched a circle an arm's length across. Then, taking great care, he scratched around the outside the shapes of the ancient letters. He'd seen them so many times they were carved into his memory. All the time, the Tarantian observed him with a deadly calm stare.

When Lysander had finished he knelt back. The man with the mallet looked from the ground to the amulet, and back again.

The man shrugged. ‘Righteous, eh! Very well,
Lysander.
If you are so inflamed with righteousness, I will let you save your friend.'

The Tarantian held the Fire of Ares above the fire behind the grate, then let go. The amulet dropped into the flames. ‘Take your precious amulet, and you both go free.'

The brother, Cato, chortled through the blackened remains of his teeth.

The room suddenly seemed suffocating and small. Lysander stepped forward to the fire, where the jewel sparkled among the red-hot embers.

‘Don't do it, Lysander.' Demaratos was staring intently at him, shaking his head. ‘Run away. Don't – not for me.'

But other words were echoing in Lysander's brain. Those of Prokles.

Sacrifice is the Spartan way.

The heat licked his face and he clenched his fist, then stretched his fingers. He focused on the amulet.

Nothing else matters.

Lysander pushed his hand deep into the flames.

It felt as though his whole forearm was being ripped apart. Lysander's vision went black, and he willed his fingers to close. He tore his hand out of the flames, and screams surrounded him. He fell to his knees and rolled into a ball, as the noises turned to whimpers; the sounds came from him. He opened his eyes. A smell like roasted pork sickened him.

He dared not look at his hand – he was sure it would be nothing more than a bleeding, melted stump, but he spotted a water bucket in the corner of the room and scrambled over on his knees and plunged his hand in.

Lysander wept in shame and dared not turn to face the room. He'd failed.

He didn't deserve the name of a Spartan. He felt the disappointment of his father and grandfather in the Underworld.

A hand touched the top of his head. Lysander expected a blade to cut his throat, and braced himself.

‘Come, let me see,' said the man. There wasn't a trace of the former anger in his voice.

‘I failed,' said Lysander.

‘There is no failure in what you did.'

Still balled into a claw, the skin on Lysander's hand had gone. All that remained was black and red. His nails were peeling away. There was no blood, but he could see the scarring would be with him for ever. He turned over his hand.

‘By the Gods!' cried the Tarantian. Lysander felt tears well in his eyes again, and blinked. Was it possible?

In the middle of his palm, hanging from the raw flesh, was the Fire of Ares.

Slowly, the amulet dropped away and landed on the floor, pulling off another layer of skin. In its place was a clear outline of the jewel and the letters that curled around the outside:
The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous
.

The Oracle had told Lysander: ‘Fear not, your destiny is branded on your heart.' Lysander understood now what she had meant. The amulet's prophecy had become a part of him for ever, burned into his skin.

Lysander stood up, but couldn't take his eyes from his disfigured hand.

The Tarantian and his brother exchanged words, and both raised their voices in argument, though it was quickly settled.

‘Go,' said their captor.

Lysander looked up into his eyes. ‘What?'

‘I gave you my word, and you have proved yourself. I have no wish to kill a boy who is followed by the Gods.'

Cato was already untying Demaratos, with his eyes warily on him. As soon as he was free, Demaratos stood unsteadily, tucking his arm over his smashed ribs. He staggered over to the water bucket where Lysander had plunged his hand, and frantically cupped the filthy liquid into his parched mouth.

Lysander faced the Tarantian.

‘Thank you,' he said. The words felt strange in his mouth. This man had tortured them both, but he had given them back their lives when he could have taken them. Lysander helped Demaratos up again, but his friend seemed to have found new strength, and stood on his own. He glared at the Tarantian with undisguised loathing.

‘Take heed, Spartans,' said the man. ‘If I see your faces in Taras again, I will have no mercy. I swear that by the Gods. Go now.'

Lysander wasted no time and together he and Demaratos went out blinking into the morning light. There was a stable lad tending to a horse in the yard, but he was barely their age, and looked away nervously.

‘Come on,' said Lysander. ‘We have to get back to the forest. Aristodermus will be leading the others back soon for another assault.'

Despite his injuries, Demaratos managed to run alongside Lysander as they made their way through the
backstreets of Taras. The town was coming to life. From beside the market hall, Lysander saw the port was busy, with men – Messapians and Tarantians alike – piling into boats of all sizes carrying weapons.