Legacy of Blood (7 page)

‘Better,' said Leonidas. ‘Money –
drachma
.'

Lysander tipped the rough discs of metal into his hands. He'd never seen coins before – what use were
they in Sparta, where iron bars were currency? But he'd heard the boys talk about them. In the dim light, he inspected one. A picture of an owl had been hammered into the surface. The other side showed a woman wearing a helmet.

‘Where are they from?'

‘Don't worry about that,' said Leonidas.

Lysander slipped the coins back into the pouch and placed them under his blanket. Leonidas's father was a king, so perhaps these were from the treasury.

‘Thanks,' said Lysander, but Leonidas was already asleep – his breathing had become shallow and measured.

Lysander woke early, and fastened his travelling cloak – a brown one – in the darkness of the dormitory. He took his sack, and stuffed the blanket inside. Something glinted in the darkness by his folded clothes. The gold ring enclosing the lock of his father's hair. Lysander snatched it up and placed it into his sack as well. He'd need all the good omens he could get.

Pausing at the barracks door, he looked back over the bodies of his sleeping comrades. Would he ever really be one of them? Did any of them suffer the same doubts he did? Perhaps the Oracle could tell him.

Outside, he made his way quickly through the town, only stopping to buy a loaf. He descended into the centre of Limnae, where he saw the occasional Helot trudging between errands. He fought the urge to tear
off chunks of warm bread; he'd need to ration himself. For a moment, he considered taking the road up to Kassandra's villa. He could see now how foolish their argument had been. Their grief, and Tellios' power games, had sown the seeds of doubt in their minds, turned them against one another. But what if she was still angry with him? She'd be asleep at this hour, surely.

He took the left fork northwards along the banks of the Eurotas. The water was deep here, and swept along quickly. On the far bank, a heron stood sentinel, still as a statue.

The cold air was refreshing in Lysander's lungs, and he walked quickly around the northern edge of Pitane, leaving the low rise of the acropolis behind him. Soon the morning sun rose above the mountains, and warmed his right side. He chewed on the bread, and swallowed some water from his flask.

Gradually the houses gave way to the farmlands north of Sparta. Huge fields stretched out either side of the river, with only the occasional stone equipment store, or shepherd's hut to break the expanse. Beyond the fields, mountains rose up, cupping the wide valley. Lysander knew from his Ordeal with Demaratos how wild and inhospitable those lands could be. It was no wonder foreign invaders had not encroached their territory for hundreds of years. The hills enclosed Sparta on three sides. The fourth edge of their territory bordered the sea. Only an audacious, and cleverly planned assault, would stand a chance.

But that was what Vaumisa had done, and it had taken the lives of thousands to drive him back. Sarpedon was not the only man who had died.

It must have been between dawn and midday when the first people crossed his path. It was a band of Helots being led by an overseer. From his own days working on the land, Lysander knew that the winter months were quiet, but hard. With little to do other than prune the fruit trees, harvest the crops of winter vegetables and repair equipment, everything fitted easily into the meagre daylight hours. But it was back-breaking work, bending and lifting, and many times he had gone to bed aching. Firewood was always a luxury, and he remembered seeing his mother's lips turn blue with cold in their ramshackle hut.

The grey-faced Helots trudged past him in two columns. Lysander passed the overseer at the rear of the group. He carried no whip on his belt, as Lysander's former gang boss had done, but the long staff in his hand had most likely landed across the backs, or the legs, of his charges in the past.

‘May the Twin Gods be with you,' the overseer grumbled in greeting without breaking his stride.

Lysander couldn't help his darkening mood. Tellios' words had left no doubt that the Helots in his charge would suffer. Mistreatment – beatings, starvation, cold – would be commonplace. And there was nothing he could do.

* * *

Lysander walked late into the night, chasing fatigue in order to banish those images that still haunted him: Timeon's pale body under his shroud, his mother Athenasia being lowered into her grave, Sarpedon's twisted features as he drove a sword into his own chest.

Ghosts of the past
, thought Lysander, as he marched along the track.
Will I ever be free?

He slept in a pine forest on a soft cushion of fallen needles. In the stillness every sound seemed swallowed by the spaces between the conifers. Using the sun as his guide at dawn he continued north, following the river's course along the valley, and passing by several small settlements, though none were as extensive as the five villages of Sparta.

The land rose, and eventually he left the river along one of the tributaries. He began to see more people on the paths, other travellers like himself. Many eyed him with suspicion, no doubt fearful of thieves in the wild places, but Lysander was happy to run past them. He found the only way he could clear his mind was to push his body as hard as he could. Blisters stung his feet, but soon that discomfort died. Lysander took off his sandals, and marched barefoot across the rocky path, relishing the pain. As the night drew in, he walked on through the cold until his sinews burned, then collapsed by the track, exhausted.

On the third morning, he woke to dew on his face. He tried to eat some bread, but it had turned almost solid. He washed down a few mouthfuls with rank-tasting
water, and continued on his way. Soon after dawn, he came upon a merchant guiding a low wagon, drawn by a single mule. Lysander had no intention of stopping to speak, but as he tried to pass by, rounding the wagon above the path, he tripped and fell, scraping his arms as he put out his hands to break his fall.

‘Curse Hades!' he said.

‘Whoa!' said the merchant, bringing his mule to a halt with a tug on the long reins.

Lysander dusted down his tunic.

‘Are you hurt?' asked the merchant.

‘I'm fine,' said Lysander, reaching to pick up his sack.

‘Where are you in such a rush to get to?'

‘Delphi.'

The merchant looked puzzled. ‘Then you're going the wrong way, my boy,' he said.

Lysander frowned. ‘But I was told that Corinth was the quickest route.'

‘Not in these times. The Nemeans and the Athenians are warring again.'

‘Then which way?' asked Lysander.

‘My advice is to stay north-west,' said the man. ‘Take the mountain tracks through Arcadia, across the Ceryneian plains, and into Achaea, then on to Agion. You can catch a boat across the water there. It'll be no slower, though you'll need money for the ferrymen.'

‘Thank you,' said Lysander.

‘Why not hop on board the wagon? I'm only going as far as the junction to Elis, but you can ride until
then,' said the stranger. Lysander looked at his dirtstained clothes, and the new scrapes down his arms. He didn't deserve help.

‘I prefer to make my own way,' he said.

‘With an attitude like that, you belong at Sparta.' The merchant chuckled to himself and, with a crack of his whip, the wagon pulled away, leaving Lysander alone once more.

He passed a junction, at the lower end of a rocky gorge. A small shrine to Zeus, no more than a cairn of rocks marked with the God's name, stood at the crossroads. Shards of pottery painted with votive messages stood around the base, and Lysander inspected one. ‘Kamelos, son of Korinth, prays for the Thunder-God's Blessings in the javelin at Olympia.'

This must be the route to Elis
, Lysander realised. The Olympic Games were held every four years in that region. He wondered if Kamelos' prayers had been answered. He had always doubted the Gods, despite his mother's warnings. What had they ever done for her, or him? She had died young from the coughing sickness, brought on by long hours tending the Spartans' crops. Lysander swallowed back the sorrow that tightened in his throat. No, now he had to trust the Gods; there was no one else left to turn to.

Lysander placed the tablet back carefully. But as he straightened up he felt the hairs stiffen on the back of his neck as a scream sliced through the air.

Breaking into a run, Lysander darted off the path and climbed, hand over hand, up the ravine. He had to get to a higher vantage point.

He didn't have to go far. Below, some two hundred paces distant, were three men. One was seated on a horse, and the other two were rifling through a leather bag.

But his eye was drawn by the young woman who stood between the men, loosely holding the reins of her horse. She must have been sixteen or seventeen, with red hair. Lysander had never seen anyone with such flaming locks before. She screamed again.

‘Get away from me, sons of Dis,' she shouted.

Lysander edged along the top of the ridge in a crouch, keeping out of sight. One of the men, small and wiry with a narrow face like a weasel, approached the girl and said something. She slapped him across the face. The sound echoed off the rocks like a whipcrack. The man staggered backwards, but his long-haired
friend shoved the woman.

She fell to the ground. ‘Cowards!' she spat, as she pushed her hair back out of her face.

The man who'd pushed her jumped into her horse's saddle, and tightened the reins.

Lysander reached for his sling. He was directly above now, maybe fifty paces away. Too far to hit a man accurately, and besides, there were three of them, all armed with daggers and maybe worse.

But perhaps I don't need to fight them all.

The third man, wearing a thick leather belt, climbed off his horse and stood over the girl.

Lysander slipped a sizeable pebble into the pouch of his sling, and began to swing it above his head.

Weasel-face grabbed the girl's legs, holding them together while the man on the girl's horse looped a rope. She struggled, beating her attackers with her fists, but they laughed as her hands bounced uselessly off their bodies.

Lysander released the sling and the pebble shot out. It fizzed through the air and smacked into the rump of the girl's horse. It gave a terrified whinny and reared, kicking the man wearing the belt in the neck. The rider cried out as he was hurled off the horse's back, landing heavily among the rocks. Weasel-face received a kick in the jaw and stumbled to one side. The robbers' abandoned horse gave a whicker of fear and cantered off down the dusty path.

Lysander dumped his sack and scrambled down the
slope. He grabbed a rock and charged forward. The fallen rider was back on his feet and spun round at the sound of Lysander's approach.

‘Get away from her!' Lysander shouted, smashing the rock into the man's temple. He watched the man crumple at his feet. The young woman was trying to untie the ropes at her feet, and staring at Lysander in astonishment. Her horse was still bucking wildly and whinnying in pain.

The rope snapped in the girl's hands and she ducked under the horse's thrashing hooves to seize the reins. Weasel-face took one look at his fallen accomplices, turned on his heel and ran.

‘Watch my horse!' the girl said, thrusting the reins into Lysander's grasp. She rescued a discarded dagger from the ground.

‘Where are you going?' said Lysander.

But she was already sprinting after the bandit.

By the Gods, she's fast
, thought Lysander.

The girl seemed to glide fluidly over the path. Lysander doubted whether he'd have been able to keep up. She caught the man after about seventy paces and heaved the dagger down between his shoulder blades. He careered into the ground, and she leapt on his back. Lysander saw her hand rise and fall a couple of times, then she wiped the blade clean and walked casually back. A thin streak of blood stained her cheek.

‘You were quick as a fox,' said Lysander.

‘Never seen a girl who can run?' she said, stroking
the horse's nose. ‘There, there, Hector,' she soothed. ‘What made you start?'

‘I'm afraid that may have been my fault,' admitted Lysander, holding up his sling.

‘Do you make a habit of attacking defenceless animals?' she asked, her eyes sparking. Her hair, up close, was like burnished bronze.

‘I thought …'

‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘We've all had enough upset for one day. He's a tough old thing, aren't you, Hector? I'm Chilonis. Thanks for your help. I couldn't have fought them off alone.' Lysander could see that the girl was more upset than she wanted to admit.

Lysander peered down at the man who'd taken a hoof to the neck. He was unmoving, his head twisted at an unnatural angle.

‘I'm Lysander,' he said. ‘I think you probably could have defended yourself without my help, if you'd had to. But thank the Gods, I happened to be passing.'

‘No. Thank
you
, Lysander. They were trying to rob me of my horse. Where are you heading?'

‘To Delphi.'

‘The Oracle?'

‘Yes.'
Please don't ask me why
, he prayed.

‘Me too,' she said. ‘Where are you from?'

‘Sparta.'

Her eyes widened, then narrowed with suspicion. ‘You look like you make a habit of fighting – is your nose broken?'

Lysander smiled and nodded. ‘It was an accident. I ran into someone on the street.' He had no wish to burden this stranger with his tales of the Krypteia.

‘From the way you handled that sling, I wouldn't have taken you for the clumsy sort,' his new friend said.

Lysander laughed. ‘What about you?'

‘Argos,' she said. ‘We should travel the rest of the way together. I hear there's a boat from Agion.'