The Fire of Ares (6 page)

‘Keep your sympathy to yourself,' said the Spartan. Lysander caught sight of the rod in the Spartan's hand. The other boy raised his hand suddenly and Lysander flinched, putting up his arms to protect himself. No blow came.

‘What are you doing?' said the boy in the cloak.

Lysander lowered his defence.

‘I … I thought you were going to beat me,' he replied.

The Spartan laughed. ‘This is my walking stick. What good would it do to break it over your head?' He paused. ‘What's your name?'

Lysander was speechless. He had never been asked such a personal question by a Spartan.

‘You do have a name? I am Orpheus.'

‘Lysander,' he replied.

‘Well, Lysander, why the hurry?'

‘My apologies, I … I'm looking for …' He checked himself.

The boy in the red cloak held up his hands, to calm Lysander.

‘Listen, Lysander, you look terrible.' Lysander remembered the bruises and scrapes that covered his face. ‘Come, sit over here,' he said, pointing to a vacant bench. Lysander felt as though he was caught in a river current from which he did not have strength to escape. With the Spartan limping ahead, he threaded a path over to the edge of the market square. He took a seat beside Orpheus, taking care to keep a respectful distance and not look the Spartan in the eye.

‘Not seen a Spartan cripple before?' said Orpheus.

Lysander didn't know how to react. Was this a trap? If this Spartan had been born with his leg like that, he shouldn't even have been allowed to live. Any Spartan baby with weakness or disease was exposed and left to die on the freezing slopes of the mountains.

‘It has been like that always. But sometimes my knee aches in the morning.' He paused for a moment, then added: ‘They say you can't miss what you have never had, but I don't think that is true.'

Lysander dared to raise his head. The Spartan was not looking at him, but stared into the crowd. Lysander found he felt sorry for Orpheus. It must have been hard for the boy to know that he could never be a warrior.

The owner of a nearby stall, a potter with a bald
head and great rolls of fat on his neck, leant over to see who was sitting on his bench. He scowled. Then his eyes fell on the red cloak and he turned back to his work.

‘There are some benefits to being a Spartan, even a lame one!' said Orpheus, suddenly smiling. ‘Now are you going to tell me what is the problem? You said you had to find something …'

Lysander could not help but warm to his new acquaintance. There was an honesty about him that made the red cloak seem like nothing.

‘I'm looking for something that is precious to me,' he said.

‘What is it?' asked the Spartan boy.

Lysander heard his mother's voice –
Keep it secret
.

‘I … I can't tell you,' he said.

‘Who took it?' the Spartan asked.

‘I can't tell you that either!' said Lysander. ‘Because I don't know. I was attacked from behind.' He must have sounded foolish.

‘That's fine, Lysander. It is not my affair, but I may be able to help. Four eyes are better than two, surely …'

Orpheus was no threat, Lysander could see that. Lysander took a bold step.

‘I'm looking for a pendant. It's my most treasured possession and it was stolen just before I bumped into you.'

The other boy frowned, then said, ‘Well, I doubt that whoever has taken it will still be nearby, so charging
around probably will not help. We need to use our brains. Bet you never thought you would hear a Spartan say that?' His openness was infectious.

‘No, but I've never met a Spartan with a limp, either,' said Lysander. The words were out before he could think. He watched Orpheus for a reaction, but the smile remained.

‘Our births put us both at a disadvantage,' said the Spartan, ‘but to blame one's birth is an affront to the Gods. Who else knew about the pendant?'

‘No one, other than my mother,' said Lysander. ‘Although after yesterday …'

Lysander thought back to the day before – to Demaratos and his gang, to Sarpedon and his stern, scarred face. Whoever attacked him knew what they were looking for. But the knife that had been used was not iron or bronze, he was sure of that. It had been flint – a home-made, Helot knife. But why would a Helot attack him? He was one of their own. Orpheus interrupted his thoughts.

‘I have to go back to my barracks. I came out only to buy a gift for my mother.' He took from a pouch a small carving of a four-legged creature, made out of green quartz. It looked like a malformed pig, with a long, drooping nose. ‘It's called an elephant,' said Orpheus. ‘Our barracks tutor will not be merciful if I'm late.'

Late! Lysander shot to his feet. How long had he been at the market? The overseer would be furious!

‘I must go as well,' he said. Through a gap in the crowd, he spotted a stall selling hemp sacks.
How could I have missed it before?
he asked himself.

With Orpheus walking behind, Lysander approached the stall. The owner was an elderly man.

‘I need forty sacks, please,' said Lysander, showing the stallholder his iron bar.

The stallholder nodded his head, and began to slowly count the hemp bags.

‘Can you go any quicker?' asked Lysander. ‘If I am not back soon I'll receive a flogging.'

‘All in good time,' said the free-dweller, tying the sacks into two separate bundles.

‘Don't worry,' said Orpheus, pointing at a cart being tied to an ass. ‘You can flag a lift.'

‘No free-dweller would give a ride to a Helot like me,' said Lysander.

‘Perhaps not,' said Orpheus, ‘but they will do it for a Spartan.' He shouted over to the driver.

‘Hey, you, where are you heading?'

The cart owner glanced over in puzzlement, but when he saw Orpheus's cloak, he mended his expression.

‘Down the Hyacinthine Way,' he said. He jabbed a finger at the jars that filled the bottom of his cart. ‘This oil is bound for the port at Gytheio.'

‘That is our way also,' said Orpheus. He didn't wait for permission. ‘Come on, Lysander,' he said. ‘Place your bags in the back.'

Lysander did as the Spartan told him, ignoring the look of annoyance on the owner's face. He helped Orpheus up beside him. As they settled in the back, the driver flicked his whip at the ass. The cart jolted forward, and the jars rattled against one another.

As Lysander leant against the wooden side of the cart, he gazed over at the other boy. What a strange day this was becoming. Lysander had barely spoken to a Spartan before. Now he'd made friends with one.

As the rickety cart trundled along in the direction of Prince Kiros's estate, the thunder of hooves came from up ahead. A Spartan soldier rounded the corner ahead of them. One arm held his horse's reins, the other clutched a bundle close to his chest. The driver of the cart swerved aside just in time, and the cart juddered to a halt as one set of wheels lodged into the roadside ditch. The rider galloped past regardless, and above the sound of the horse's feet, Lysander heard the wail of a baby, and saw the wriggling of pink limbs.

He looked at Orpheus. It was obvious what was happening. The baby must be unhealthy or suffering from a disability. The Spartan was taking it to the mountains, as was the custom. Lysander remembered the look of shame on Orpheus's face when he had exposed his leg. After the horseman disappeared round a corner, the Spartan spoke.

‘I know what you're thinking, Lysander. How can my people bear the sight of a boy like me?'

Lysander shook his head.

‘I wasn't thinking anything –'

‘As a baby, I was inspected as the custom commands,' Orpheus interrupted. ‘My twisted left leg sealed my fate – death. I cannot remember, of course, but my mother told me later.'

‘What happened to you?' asked Lysander.

‘A soldier came to the house. My parents knew there was no sense trying to prevent the inevitable. Spartans don't know the meaning of mercy. I was taken from her arms and carried up the path into the western mountains. There the soldier left me by a rosinweed bush just as the winter snows started to fall. They reasoned that if the cold did not kill me, there were many wild animals in that region that would soon sniff me out.'

‘But how could you have survived? You were just a baby!'

‘Well,' continued Orpheus, ‘a week later, the soldier returned the same way on a hunting trip with some men from his dining mess. They were chasing down a pack of wolves. They had already killed the lead male, and injured the female, but she had escaped into the bushes. The soldier, a man called Thyestes, dismounted from his horse and entered the thicket, his short spear ready. An injured wolf is more deadly than a healthy one.'

‘What happened?' asked Lysander, leaning forward.

‘Thyestes followed a trail of blood deeper into the
trees. It was one of those winter days when the sun never seems to appear. It was just a weak haze behind the white sky. The wood was dark, and up ahead he heard a low growl between the trees. It sounded as though the she-wolf was licking her wounds. He edged forward …'

‘And?' said Lysander.

‘Thyestes came to a clearing, and there he saw her. The wolf crouched in front of a small cave, her side matted with dark blood. The hairs on her neck were raised and her bared teeth were white as the snow. But Thyestes could see she was weak. One of her front legs kept buckling. Why didn't she flee, he wondered? Then he heard a sound from the cave behind, a mewling squeak. She had cubs.'

‘And did he kill her, even when she had young?' asked Lysander.

‘Of course he did,' said Orpheus. ‘He edged as close as he dared, levelling the hunting spear. The she-wolf gave a final snarl, but it was cut short when the tip of the spear pierced between the neck and the shoulder. She died quickly.'

‘But what has that to do with you?' asked Lysander.

‘Thyestes drew his dagger, and crouched to go into the cave. The cubs would not be a threat. He saw there were three at the back of the cave, squirming blindly over each other. He could see their mother had brought them a recent kill. There was something pink and fleshy, perhaps a rabbit, lying right in their midst.
But as he moved closer, he could not believe his eyes. It was not food – it was a baby boy. And he was alive!'

‘You?' asked Lysander, amazed.

‘Indeed,' said Orpheus. ‘The wolf must have suckled me like one of her own cubs. Thyestes carried me back to his hunting companions. They didn't know what to do. One said they should simply leave me there in the snow. That, after all, was what Spartan law commanded. But others said I was a miracle, and that it was the work of the Gods. In the end, they brought me back to Sparta and presented me to the council.'

‘And they let you live?'

‘Yes, they voted to return me to my mother. They said I must be blessed by Lykurgos, the founder of Spartan society. His name means Wolf-Worker. My mother was overjoyed and called me Orpheus, after the famous musician who visited the land of the dead in the Underworld and came back out again alive.'

Lysander was astounded. Perhaps the Gods did pay attention to mortal affairs. They had reached the turning for the barracks, and Orpheus climbed down from the back of the cart.

‘Do you think you are protected by the Gods?' Lysander asked.

‘Either that,' replied Orpheus, ‘or I was born with the strength of a thousand Spartans! Take care, Lysander, and I wish you luck finding the pendant.'

As the cart moved off, Lysander watched Orpheus hobble away. He hoped they would meet again.

Lysander leapt off the back of the cart at the edge of Prince Kiros's estate. Shouldering the two bundles, he jogged back to the fields. There, crouching in the dirt and plucking weeds from the edges of the newly sprouted crop, was his mother. He dropped the sacks and ran to her side.

‘Mother! Why aren't you resting?' He could see she was too weak to reply and tears welled in his eyes. A voice boomed from behind him:

‘Because someone in your family has to earn a living!' Lysander turned to see Agestes's great bulk towering over him. He helped his mother to her feet, before rounding angrily on the overseer.

‘You can see she is ill!' he shouted. ‘Are you trying to kill her?'

‘Do not worry about me, Lysander,' urged Athenasia.

Agestes narrowed his eyes and pulled his head back. Then he spat on the ground, close to Lysander's foot.

‘I should listen to your mother, Helot,' he smirked. ‘Prince Kiros needs every pair of able hands in the fields to reap the harvest. That includes lazy slaves who'd rather be tucked up in bed. Unless, of course, you want me to bring the prince himself down to the fields …'

Lysander was about to launch a fist straight into the overseer's sternum, but he felt his mother's hand in the middle of his back. She spoke before he could, and there was fear in her voice.