Legacy of Blood (3 page)

‘At least enjoy some of the food.'

‘Thank you,' said Lysander, catching it clumsily. He turned and left to the howls of laughter from behind.

Lysander set off in a jog back towards the village, limping from a wound to the back of his leg. He had been with Kassandra only the day before. Was something wrong?

He retraced his path as far as the turning to Amikles. The temporary stalls that normally lined the road were all vacant, and he passed a few more Helots, mostly scavenging for food among the ruins of yesterday's feasting – fighting for scraps with the dogs that roamed the streets.

Lysander saw a Helot coming towards him with a large water jug. He was moving quickly, Lysander thought, as though the jug weighed almost nothing.

Wait a moment – he recognised that face. Wasn't it the same slave he'd seen earlier, watching him with Demaratos? Perhaps it was just a coincidence. As they drew level, the Helot tripped, and the jug smashed on the ground. Lysander bent down to help.

‘Are you hurt?'

A curved blade, single-edged, was pressed into Lysander's tunic under his ribs. Another hand gripped the back of his neck.

‘One move and I'll spill your guts over the road. Understand?'

‘I understand.'

‘Good, answered like a true Helot. Now we're going to take the alley you see on your left. Go.'

Together, they made their way off the main track and into a shady side street. Lysander's mind was reeling. This was no ordinary Helot. The hand that gripped him was strong and assured.

Lysander felt a blow to the back of his calf and fell to his knees. The blade was whipped across his stomach and for a moment he expected to feel his innards spill into the dirt. Instead the man brought the heavy hilt of the dagger hard into Lysander's face.

The bridge of his nose cracked, and light and pain exploded across his eyes as a cry escaped his lips. He felt blood pour over his mouth. The slave's face was close to his, swimming in and out of focus. Lysander tried to stand but his legs gave way and he crashed against the wall.

As his vision cleared he found himself staring at the
slave's feet, encased in their sandals. It didn't make sense. The leather soles and straps were brand new – way beyond the means of a mere Helot.

Understanding dawned.

‘You're not a slave, are you?' he asked quietly.

‘And you're no Spartan,' replied the man, seizing Lysander by his tunic. ‘On your feet!'

Lysander still felt too weak to fight back, and without a weapon it was risky. He was marched a few steps further down the alley. A door opened into one of the buildings, and he was pushed inside. The man slammed the door behind him. The shutters were closed, and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

It was a tavern – the remains of a broken-up straw bale were scattered on the floor among roughly-made stools, benches and tables. A row of empty wine jars, cracked and discarded, lay at one end. Lysander's eyes were drawn to the men who sat together at a table near the closed entrance. He noticed their faces were lean and sober, and they all wore identical rough grey cloaks. These were no ordinary free-dwellers, overindulging.

Lysander's blood ran cold.

One by one, the men stood up. They fanned out across the empty tavern towards him. Their height, not a man under six feet tall, and cold stares, left him in no doubt: these were the Krypteia. They looked like wolves stalking prey.

Lysander wouldn't let his life end like this. He saw a stool to his left and toppled it, then brought his foot down twice, breaking off two of the legs. He snatched them up, holding their splintered ends out in warning.

‘I'd think twice before you try anything,' he said. ‘I'm not afraid.'

One of the Spartans laughed. ‘What are you going to do with those sticks, boy? Stitch me a new cloak?' The others sniggered as well, and one drew a short sword.

The pieces of wood felt pathetically small in Lysander's hands, but they were all he had. Even if he could take one of their eyes out, it would be better than dying quietly. A drop of blood from Lysander's broken nose splashed on the floor.

‘Come and get them, then,' he said.

Lysander backed away as the Spartan with the sword approached.

He drew back his arm and hurled the leg at the Spartan. It thudded into his jaw. The man howled in pain and fell backwards, as Lysander scanned the room for another weapon.

A sound rang out behind Lysander and he spun round. A grey-haired Spartan, with a familiar face, stood gazing at him. He held a sword straight out in front of him, and brought the blade to press against Lysander's neck.

‘Enough!' barked the man. ‘Telamon, get to your feet.'

Lysander heard the fallen Spartan scramble up. He
glanced round to see the man pick up his sword. He spat a mouthful of blood on to the ground.

‘I'll teach you a lesson …' he hissed at Lysander.

‘No, you will not, Telamon,' said the Elder. ‘You can't even fight off a boy armed with a chair leg. I'll have you flogged by your compatriots before the day is out.'

Telamon growled and backed off.

Lysander looked at the old Spartan again.

‘You're an Ephor,' he said slowly, as recognition dawned. ‘I remember you from my grandfather's house. Tellios of Limnae.'

The old man smiled. ‘Yes, I haven't forgotten your insolence, either.'

Lysander felt a chill pass down his neck. Was it the cold blade, or the memory of Tellios before the battle with Vaumisa? Back then he had looked into Lysander's eyes with the same hatred.

‘If you'd had your way, Sparta would lie in ruins,' said Lysander.

‘Mind your tongue. I may be over sixty summers old, but I could still remove your head with a flick of my wrist.'

‘Then why haven't you?' said Lysander. ‘That's what the Krypteia do, isn't it? Kill people who cannot defend themselves? Like Timeon.'

Tellios' face tightened. ‘He was nothing.'

‘He was my friend.'

Tellios' glance darted over to the other Spartans, and he lowered the sword. ‘Tie him up.'

A strong arm slipped around Lysander's throat and a hand grabbed his wrist as he was dragged backwards. He was thrown on to a chair, gasping for breath and struggling as his ankles were tied to the chair legs and his arms were bound. Lysander's heart hammered in his chest. Something was puzzling him.

‘How did you know where to find me?'

Tellios' eyes narrowed. ‘I make it my business to know such things. Your slave should be more discreet.'

‘What do you want from me?' he said.

The Spartan called Telamon slapped the back of his hand across Lysander's cheek. Then he crouched on his haunches and brought his face close to Lysander's.

‘We ask the questions from now on.'

Lysander strained against the bonds, feeling them cut into his wrists.

‘Tell us about the Persian ship,' said Tellios. His voice was quiet, pregnant with threat. ‘Tell us everything you remember.'

Lysander continued to struggle. ‘Why do you want to know?'

‘Humour me.'

‘Is that what all this is for?' said Lysander. ‘To ask questions? Why not bring me before the Council?'

‘I told you once before, half-breed, don't meddle in politics. The Council like to debate until dawn, but there are those of us who prefer a more … direct approach.'

Lysander couldn't believe it. His own countrymen
were torturing him for information? ‘I would have volunteered the information without being tied up,' he said.

‘Well, talk quickly then. Or I'll have Telamon start removing little pieces of you.'

Lysander saw Telamon grin through his bloodied teeth. If the Krypteia were working without the Council's knowledge, they would be like a rabid dog off its leash. Lysander needed to give up everything he knew – now.

‘The ship – Vaumisa's – was moored off the headland west of Gytheion. We followed Vaumisa and his riders there after they kidnapped my cousin …'

Lysander went on to tell Tellios how he and Demaratos had swum out to the Persian ship. He shuddered as he recounted their capture. Recalling Sarpedon's brave sacrifice almost brought tears to his eyes, but he managed to hold himself together to describe the moment when he killed Vaumisa with his spear. The members of the Krypteia shared looks with one another, and one or two scoffed when he spoke of nearly being hung on the deck of the ship.

‘Is that all?' said Tellios when he paused.

‘You know the rest,' said Lysander. ‘The Spartan ships came to our rescue, the Persian vessel was sunk beneath the waves.'

‘That was regrettable,' said Tellios, leaning back against a table, and drawing a dagger from a second sheath that was fastened opposite his sword. ‘No
Spartan has ever stepped on board a Persian vessel before – it would have benefited us to know more. What weapons were on board?'

Lysander eyed the dagger warily. Its blade glinted silver in the cracks of light that came through the closed shutters.

‘Only those the men carried, I think. Curved blades, wicker shields, and bows and arrows.'

‘You think?' sneered Tellios. ‘Who was Vaumisa's second in command?'

Lysander's throat tightened as he remembered the rope thrown around his neck by Vaumisa's lieutenant. ‘His name was Cleeto.'

‘What happened to him?' Tellios used the point of his dagger to delicately clean beneath his fingernails.

‘We thought he'd drowned, but after the battle, he was captured.'

‘And?'

‘The Ephor Myron asked me what should be done with him. I let him go.'

‘You let a prisoner of Sparta live?' said Tellios, his voice suddenly rising. He rammed the dagger hard into the table. ‘You should have killed him on the spot!'

‘One man means nothing if an army is defeated,' said Lysander.

Tellios snorted in disgust. ‘You know nothing of our ways.'

‘I know the shame of defeat is a heavier burden than death.'

Tellios pulled out the dagger, and jabbed it towards Lysander.

‘How many oarsmen were there?'

‘I… I don't know,' said Lysander. ‘They were on the deck below.'

‘Pathetic. You're of no use at all.'

Tellios went over to the other men and began a whispered conversation.

There must be something I can tell them,
thought Lysander.
Something else useful.

‘I do remember Vaumisa's armour,' he said, an image flashing into his mind.

Tellios' head snapped round. ‘What's that, boy?'

Lysander didn't like the tone in his voice.

‘The Persian's armour. It wasn't like anything I'd seen before. It was made of polished metal discs, like a snake's scales.'

‘Perhaps you're not as stupid as you look,' said Tellios. ‘And what happened to this armour – did it sink with the ship?'

‘I can't remember,' said Lysander. ‘After my grandfather took his own life, Kassandra and I …'

A fist crashed into his jaw and knocked him sideways from his chair. He hit the ground hard. Tellios gripped his face between powerful fingers and turned his head towards him.

‘You will never mention this again,' he said quietly. ‘No Ephor of Sparta would take his own life. It is a coward's way. He would fight to the death.'

‘But he did it for us,' pleaded Lysander. ‘He did it to give us time to escape.'

‘Silence!' shouted Tellios. ‘Who do you think you are, boy, spitting on the memory of a Spartan? Listen carefully to my words, and take heed. You were never on that Persian vessel. You never laid eyes on the general, Vaumisa. Sarpedon died fighting like a warrior, not by his own sword like some coward … like some Athenian.' He spoke the last word as though it tasted rotten in his mouth. ‘Do you understand, Lysander? Keep your
stories
to yourself.'

Lysander wanted to shout out, but he felt his strength sap away. He nodded. ‘I understand.'

‘Sparta must never know how close she came to defeat. If our enemies get wind of it, they will think us weak.'

Tellios released Lysander's face and turned to the men. ‘Let's leave the half-breed to think things over. He must learn to honour his grandfather with more respectful … memories.'

Lysander was in no doubt what Tellios meant. He was asking him to rewrite history.

With a swirl of their cloaks, the Krypteia were gone.

Lysander was alone.

Lysander waited for his heartbeat to slow, then squirmed on to his knees. He managed to push himself back into a sitting position, but the ropes were still tight on his wrists and ankles.

Rocking back, he could feel that the chair was loose where the upright slats met the seat. He leant back hard, arching his spine, and the supports creaked. He strained against the cords and used all the weight of his torso to try and break the chair.

Finally he heard the wood splinter, and the back of the chair fell away.

He was dripping with sweat, but almost there.

‘Come on,' he muttered. Kassandra would be wondering where he was! He tried to bring his bound hands over the top of his head, but couldn't – not without dislocating his shoulder. Then he saw the candle burning on the table. Of course. With the base of the chair still attached to him, he dragged himself over to it.

With his back to the table, and craning behind him, he lowered his hands slowly above the candle. Straight away the rope started to blacken and give off a noxious smell. It sizzled a little, then gave way. Yes! Lysander immediately bent over to grapple with the knotted rope that tied his ankles.

He was free!

Pushing open the door, he peered into the alley. No sign of Tellios, his henchmen, or the man disguised as a Helot. Lysander headed back quickly into the bright street and found it eerily quiet. The fragments of the jar in the middle of the track were the only sign of his capture. Lysander suddenly felt dizzy and placed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. It gave a little from side to side – definitely broken.