Legacy of Blood (24 page)

‘What are they doing?' hissed Lysander.

‘They must know that a second attack is coming,' said Demaratos. ‘They're running away.'

But Lysander could see there was no panic in the preparations. No fear. Understanding spread through Lysander's brain like a gorse fire.

‘They're not running away,' said Lysander. ‘They're attacking.'

‘By sea?' said Demaratos, then his eyes widened. ‘They must have found out about the smugglers' cove. That's our only way out!'

Lysander made his way quickly out to the forest, with Demaratos by his side. His chest burned, but now it was a race against time. If the Tarantians reached the beach first, they'd overwhelm Moskos' marines and attack the forest from the rear. They'd have no way to get home.

And all the time, with the throb of pain in his hand, the revelation of his ancestors pulsed in his mind. Sarpedon was not a true Spartan. Even an Ephor had Helot blood!

In the distance, Lysander saw the Spartan forces approaching through the trees. At two hundred paces away, they spotted Lysander and Demaratos. A shout
went up and the lines dropped into phalanx formation, spears at the ready. Lysander called to them as they came closer.

‘It's us. Lysander and Demaratos.'

‘Lower your weapons!' shouted Aristodermus. ‘They're ours.'

Their tutor broke from the lines, and stormed towards them. His face was dark with fury, and he slammed his fist into Lysander's shoulder.

‘How dare you disobey an order! You may think you're special, Lysander, but the truth is you're one of many expendable soldiers. Your injuries should tell you that.' He looked at Demaratos. ‘And what happened to you?'

Demaratos pulled aside his tunic and showed the welts that scarred his body.

‘I was captured. Lysander rescued me.'

Their tutor recovered himself.

‘I told him to attempt no such thing, and he'll be flogged on our return to Sparta. For now, both of you get in line. We're retaking the town.'

He began to pace back to the phalanx.

‘You'll find it empty of fighting men,' shouted Lysander defiantly.

Aristodermus spun around. ‘What are you talking about?'

Lysander told him what they'd seen at the harbour. While he was talking, Sulla and Anaxander came from the ranks to investigate. ‘They're heading for the
smugglers' cove,' said Lysander.

‘We've sent the women and children there for safety,' said Sulla, panic filling his voice.

‘Then they're walking straight to their deaths,' said Aristodermus.

Lysander's hand was quickly bandaged by Leonidas, and Prokles dressed Demaratos's wounds, as Aristodermus addressed the troops. Agitated murmurs passed among the men when they heard of the Messapian and Tarantian plans.

‘We must go at once,' said Cimon. ‘There's no time for wasting.'

‘We must maintain our order,' said Aristodermus. ‘If we attack in disarray, they will vanquish us. The fight is no longer about land, or trading rights. Now you fight to protect your families.'

Running as fast as their tired legs could carry them, they skirted back along the edge of the forest, and followed the track towards the tunnels. Lysander took a sword and an ill-fitting helmet from one of the dead Spartans who lay at the side of the road. There was no time to fix on armour.

They filed in pairs into the rocky streambed, and entered the tunnels in single file. The clanging of their weapons reverberated off the dark walls and the stench of sweat was thick. Lysander tried to ignore the throbbing in his injured hand. His mind was focused on what they'd find on the beach side of the tunnel.
Would the enemy have reached there ahead of them? But more importantly, if they had, would he have the strength left for a final fight?

Midway through the winding passage the column slowed. There was Orpheus's body. Dark patches had gathered in his limbs where they touched the ground, and the blood had pooled under the skin. Beside him knelt Leonidas. As the other men pushed on, Lysander crouched beside the prince.

‘Come,' he said. ‘He wouldn't want you to delay.'

Leonidas nodded, and wiped the tears from his eyes.

‘I'll kill every last one of them,' he said grimly.

‘We'll come back for him afterwards,' said Lysander. ‘Let's go.'

As they neared the exit, Lysander felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Sand. He stumbled out into the light.

The beach was almost as they'd left it since their landing. The ship was anchored just fifty paces offshore, floating evenly in the water.

‘Moskos and his boys got her shipshape again,' said Demaratos.

Lysander could see the marine soldiers on the deck, waving to shore. He waved back.

‘They probably thought we'd never make it,' said Prokles.

A strong wind was blowing across the bay, kicking up clouds of fine sand. At the far end of the beach, the wives and children of the Spartans huddled together.
They were unharmed, and the remains of Nikos' battalion dashed over to comfort them.

‘We made it,' said Leonidas. ‘They're safe.'

Lysander could see Moskos standing right on the prow of their ship, waving still.

‘He's trying to tell us something,' said Lysander. Moskos began pointing out to sea, away from the bay.

A lone fishing vessel peeped around the headland, propelled over the choppy waves by four rowers. Lysander counted eight others in the boat.

‘Is that their army?' laughed Aristodermus.

Another boat appeared in its wake, this time crowded to the beams with men. Then came two more ships, both carrying Messapians in battle array. Lysander saw the tips of metal pikes glinting. Suddenly the sea was full of boats, all carrying armed men, Messapians and Tarantians together. Their progress across the water, one stroke at a time, came with a menacing slowness.

‘What do we do?' said one of the Spartan men.

‘Take your families back through the tunnels,' said Aristodermus. ‘Take shelter in the forest. We'll face off the enemies.'

A thunderous sound from behind shocked Lysander, and he turned to see a cloud of dust at the entrance to the tunnel. As it cleared, he made out a jumble of limbs and scarlet cloth trapped beneath a blood-spattered boulder. A shout from above drew his eyes upwards. At the top of the cliff face stood a group of three men carrying long pieces of wood.

Where did they come from?
Lysander wondered. No matter, they were here now. They levered another boulder, which tipped over the lip of the cliff and landed by the first.

‘They're blocking us in,' said Prokles, raising his spear.

With a quick step forward he released it, and it sailed through the air, punching through the belly of one of the Tarantians. With a gurgled cry, he fell forwards, crashing headfirst into the rocks below.

The children on the beach began to whimper with fear, and one of the women wailed. The other Tarantians on the cliff top backed away.

‘The odds have shifted,' said Demaratos.

Lysander tightened his grip upon his sword hilt and faced out to sea. They might be trapped, but if this beach was to be his final resting place, he wouldn't give his life without a fight.

‘Ready your weapons,' shouted Aristodermus. ‘Line up in front of the women and children.'

Lysander took his position alongside Leonidas and Demaratos in the centre of the shoreline, as the colony Spartans pushed their families to the far end of the beach, away from the approaching boats. Lysander's burnt hand was useless for gripping, so Leonidas strapped a shield tightly to his friend's injured arm. He counted around thirty vessels on the water heading for the other tip of the beach, each carrying between five and a dozen men. He guessed there were a hundred Spartans left, and many of those had injuries, just like him.

‘Stay in the phalanx,' ordered Aristodermus. ‘We don't stand a chance if we break formation.'

The first of the enemy boats nudged their way into the shallows, and the men began to disembark, shouting to each other in their tongue. All were heavily armed, with shields and swords taken from the dead on both sides.

‘We should attack now,' said Cimon. ‘While they're unprepared.'

‘No,' said Aristodermus. ‘If we commit ourselves, they'll send the rest of their men behind us and attack the families. We must wait until they are all on dry land, then deal the decisive blow.'

Gradually the enemy numbers increased, as the boats reached the shore and the men waded on to the sand. A Messapian, more grandly dressed than the others, with a plumed helmet and a double-ended spear, barked orders and formed the men into a line spanning the width of the beach. It was Viromanus, their leader. The enemy stood at least twenty across and ten rows deep. On the right were the Messapians, and on the left were the men of Taras.

‘He knows what he's doing,' said Leonidas. ‘He's put the men he can trust there to stop the line turning.'

Lysander, with his heart thudding in his chest, tried to calm himself by breathing deeply.

‘They'll roll us back like a rug,' said one of the Spartans in the row behind. ‘We've no chance.'

Aristodermus scoffed.

‘While we have strength in our shield arms, we have a chance.'

The Messapian leader shouted two words, and his men began to step out.

‘Ready, Spartans!' shouted Aristodermus. ‘March on my count. One … Two … One …'

Lysander marched in time, and the line moved
forward. He kept his eyes locked dead ahead. He had been here before, with these friends beside him, and he knew he could trust each one of them with his life.

Aristodermus quickened the count, and Lysander paced in short strides across the sand. The unsteady ground was hard going, but the line didn't break. The Messapians had sped up also, and were shouting threats and curses as they approached.

‘Save your breath, Spartans,' yelled Aristodermus.

Lysander picked up his knees as the phalanx moved into a jog. The enemy were twenty paces away. He had already chosen his target man – the Messapian leader with the plumed helmet. Strength pulsed through his sword arm.

‘Ready!' shouted Aristodermus, the words barely audible over the war cries of the enemy. Lysander raised his sword, and charged.

Viromanus' spear-point slid over the top of Lysander's shield, and missed his face by a hair's breadth. The shaft scraped along his cheek.

Lysander was suddenly in the air. He landed in the middle of the enemy's second line, and slid his sword into the exposed flesh on the back of Viromanus' thigh. The Messapian leader screamed and dropped his weapon, clutching at the wound. His life blood poured out over his fingers, and his eyes were wide with horror behind the slits of his helmet.

Lysander sprang up as blows rained down on his shield from another Messapian, each one sending bolts
of pain through his hand. He drove the shield upwards into the wide face of the soldier, then fell back into position beside Demaratos.

The phalanx was restored. Their only chance.

Lysander's heel dug into the sand as he leant into the enemy line with his shield. He stabbed over the top with his sword at the heads and necks of the enemy. Lysander concentrated on keeping the formation tight, pushing and thrusting, again and again. He lost track of the horrible wounds he inflicted, slicing into necks, cheeks, mouths and eye sockets. Men fell screaming at his feet, and soon he was pushing on over a carpet of the dead and dying.

Spartans make their own odds
, he thought grimly.

The enemy line buckled, and Lysander found himself with room to take a breath. The left side of the Spartan phalanx was pushing back their adversaries, and the whole block of men wheeled about, to face away from the sea.

‘Press on,' came Aristodermus' voice. ‘Drive them back.'

Lysander obeyed, and shouldered into a Tarantian who was carrying a Spartan shield and spear. Lysander could tell from the way he held the shield away from his body that the man wasn't an experienced soldier. He feinted a low thrust with his sword. The man dropped his guard and Lysander half took off his scalp with a powerful swipe of his sword. Blood cascaded like spilt wine, splashing the pebbles at the Tarantian's feet.

Lysander sheathed his sword and unpeeled the dead man's fingers from his spear. The enemy line had broken up completely, and Spartans were plunging into the midst of pockets of men, wreaking slaughter with their swords and spears. The energy that coursed through Lysander masked the pain in his hand. A Spartan fell in front of him, clutching his face, and screaming. Above him stood a long-haired, bare-chested Tarantian, swinging a length of rope.

What harm can he do with that?

He lunged at Lysander and the rope whipped round. Something caught Lysander's arm and tore away. Suddenly there were deep gouges in his skin, oozing thick streams of blood. He ducked as the rope swung again. Thick, iron fish-hooks were tied on to the end of the rope, ready to tear flesh to pieces. The man shouted at Lysander and swung the deadly hooks again towards his legs. Lysander lowered his shield, and the hooks lodged in the surface. The Tarantian tugged at his end of the rope, but Lysander saw his chance and spun inwards, coiling the rope around his waist as he came closer to the enemy soldier. Using his momentum, he heaved his spear downwards through the Tarantian's unprotected torso. Blood appeared between his gritted teeth, as he fell on to his knees, and then backwards. Lysander put his feet on the dead man's chest and pulled out his spear.

‘You should have stayed at sea, fisherman.'

He let the rope fall around his ankles.

The remains of the enemy were fighting in the shallows now, some up to their knees in the water. Lysander noticed that behind the men fighting, the Spartan ship lay still in the water. Where were Moskos and his marines?