The Fire of Ares (23 page)

Sarpedon turned to Lysander, but he could not read his grandfather's expression.
Disappointment? Hope? Fear?
Lysander faced the Helot with the knife.

‘What are you doing?' he asked.

‘It is time to show the Spartans that we Helots are not their slaves any more,' came the deep, muffled voice from behind the mask. It sounded amplified in the stillness. ‘We outnumber them ten to one, yet they treat us no better than beasts of burden. From this day, they will learn the folly of their ways.'

The crowd lifted a mighty cheer towards the stars and banged their weapons together. Once the clamour had died down, Lysander pointed to Sarpedon.

‘And what are you planning with him?'

‘This man is an Ephor of Amikles – the most powerful man in the town, and one of those who each year declares a war upon the Helots to keep us
oppressed. Today his
war
will come back to haunt him. We will sacrifice him to the Gods as a blessing of our new freedom.'

The mob roared in delight, but Lysander heard a whimper behind him. Kassandra was being loosely held by Nestor, and her face was twisted with agony.

‘Help him, please. Don't let them kill my grandfather.'

Lysander saw the faces of the Helots in the background. In the flickering torchlight, their expressions looked sinister. He understood then that he wanted no part in a massacre. He looked again at the would-be assassin.

‘Killing these people is not the answer,' he said.

A laugh barked from behind the mask.

‘And what do you know, half-breed?' The word shocked Lysander even more from the mouth of a Helot. ‘You are one of them now. Of course you do not want us to succeed.' The crowd shouted their approval of his words.

‘The rebellion will start like a fire. First here in Amikles, then the spark will catch across the five villages. We will burn Sparta to the ground! It's war!'

Another cheer. Lysander saw Sarpedon's head drop as torches were seized and new ones lit all around. He had to do something, and quickly. Then it hit him.
Of course!

‘Wait, all of you!' he shouted. He lifted his hand aloft, and let the pendant hang where all could see it.
‘Behold, if you want fires and war, I have the Fire of Ares!'

It was as though a sudden wind had gusted from the stars. Some Helots staggered slightly. All were silent for several seconds. Then the muttering began.
Is it really the pendant? Is the prophecy true? How did the boy come to possess it?

The masked figure must have been able to see the doubts setting in the hearts of the other Helots.

‘It means nothing,' he yelled. ‘The Fire of Ares is just a stone. Battles are not fought with jewels. We must fight with real weapons. This is our chance: here and now!'

Though the majority again shouted their agreement, the clamour was not as deafening as before.

‘The Delphic Oracle itself has tied our destiny to the Fire of Ares,' countered Lysander. He looked from the bowed head of Sarpedon to the weeping Kassandra, her tangled hair hanging over her face. ‘Cutting the throat of an old man, and murdering the defenceless is wrong!'

‘Do not listen to him! What we are doing is the right thing! Tonight is our opportunity, before the bulk of the army returns. We must seize control now!'

Lysander made a show of studying the amulet closely, then showed it again to the Helots. ‘It says here
The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous
. Ask yourselves, is this righteous? Look into your hearts. Look into the eyes of your prisoners. To kill in cold blood makes us no better than the worst Spartans.'The shadowy image
of Diokles and the other faceless members of the Krypteia came to his mind.
Their time will come
, he thought,
but not yet.

Before him, Lysander saw the faces of the Helots crease in concern. They looked at each other in confusion. A few lowered their weapons. Lysander felt the advantage tipping in his favour.

‘Let these prisoners go free. No Helot – no Messenian – victory has ever been won by spilling the blood of innocents. You have vanquished the Spartans today without shedding blood. This day will live on in their minds as the day the Helots spared them.'

Nestor spoke up.

‘Maybe Lysander's right. We have all known enough of death in our lifetimes.'

Nestor was one of the most respected of his people, and this time several voices spoke out in tones of compromise. Lysander listened as the rippled murmurs gathered to a wave. One Helot walked forward and threw down his sickle. Another followed his example, dropping the short sword he must have taken from a Spartan, and soon Helots were dropping down their weapons all around. The two with daggers who had rescued Lysander from the hut stepped purposely forward and pushed the masked figure out of the way. But he was not ready to give up.

‘You turned your back on your people,' he spat at Lysander. ‘You are nothing but a traitor!' The words stung Lysander.

‘He is not the traitor,' Sarpedon growled, twisting in his bonds. ‘You are, hiding behind that mask. I know who you are. How could you betray me, after all this time?'

Lysander watched as the man dropped his sacrificial knife. A hand reached up and removed the mask. Strabo!

Sarpedon's slave stared back, hatred lighting his eyes. He threw down the knife and ran in the direction of the fields. No one stood in his way. Lysander picked up the knife and cut through Sarpedon's bonds. Kassandra rushed out of Nestor's grasp and wrapped her arms around her grandfather's waist. Her body shook as she wept.

‘But … I don't understand,' said Lysander.

‘It is clear now,' growled Sarpedon, stroking Kassandra's hair. ‘Who better to feed information to a rebellion than the slave of an Ephor? I cannot believe I was so foolish. I have known Strabo my whole life: he was my companion in the agoge, just like Timeon is yours. I trusted him completely – that is why I made him a free man. I thought he was staying with me out of loyalty, but I was wrong. He wanted information for the Resistance.'

Lysander sensed the crowd behind him grow restless again. They were not safe yet. He turned to address them.

‘Listen!' he said. ‘You showed yourself true heroes this evening. I have learnt a good deal in the Spartan school, but the lessons I carry closest to my heart are those I learnt as a Helot in the fields: bravery, perseverance, patience, and a sense of right and wrong. You have proved you have all of these qualities tonight.'

A lone voice spoke from the crowd: ‘Yes, and we will be killed in our beds by the Krypteia for our sense of right and wrong,' he said sarcastically.

‘That will not happen,' shouted Lysander, so everyone could hear. ‘You have my word. One day our people will be truly free, but now is not the time. Go back to your homes and to your families, and bless the Gods that they are not without fathers, sons and brothers this evening.'

One by one, and then in groups, the Helots began to leave the sanctuary, peeling off into the darkness. As Lysander watched them leave, a hand was placed on his shoulder. It was Sarpedon.

‘I am proud of you, Lysander,' he said. ‘What you did tonight showed the courage of three hundred Spartans.'

While the spectators returned home and the boys headed back to their barracks or helped to tend to the injured, Lysander walked to the changing hut. He found Diokles where they'd left him in the corner of the room. The tutor was still unconscious. Standing over him with his sword, Lysander gazed at his throat. He lowered the point of his sword. No one would ever
know it was him.
Diokles would kill me if he had the chance
, Lysander told himself. He steadied his aim. All it would take was a single thrust.

But no
. He could not kill like this, like a member of the Krypteia. He leant down and sliced through the bonds that held Diokles' arms. The tutor grunted, but did not wake. Lysander slipped back out. Sarpedon was talking with a group of Spartan men by the Temple. Lysander headed to where Timeon stood with Orpheus and a tired-looking Leonidas. He caught sight of Kassandra. She had her back to him, and she was walking close by Demaratos away from the sanctuary. There would be time later to settle that score.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

‘We should get back,' said Orpheus. ‘A storm is coming.'

Lysander glanced at the sky. A bank of blue-black clouds passed over the moon above. But it was the turmoil in Lysander's heart that preoccupied him. He looked at his companions in turn.
Do these people really know me?
he asked himself.
Do I know myself?
Tonight he had sided with the Spartans against his people. He had passed from being a boy to a man. But what type of man? Helot or Spartan?

‘It has been a long night,' said Timeon from his side.

‘It has, Timeon,' replied Lysander, as fat drops of rain began to splash on the ground. ‘My mother always used to speak of destiny, of great events, but I never really believed her. But here we are – she was right.' He
paused and the rain fell harder. ‘If I could wake up tomorrow and find today's trials washed away … but that will not happen, will it? This is just the beginning …' Lysander shook himself out of his reveries. ‘Come on,' he said to his friend. ‘Let's get back.'Who knew what tomorrow would bring? Whatever happened, the Gods would guide him. He would face whatever came with the courage of a warrior. As they walked back towards the barracks in silence, Lysander let his fingers rest around the cool stone that lay against his skin, back where it belonged. The words on the amulet burned like lightning behind his eyes:
The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous.

Whatever Lysander had started, he would finish.

Copyright © 2008 by Working Partners

First published in Great Britain by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Published in the United States of America by Walker Publishing Company, Inc.
Electronic edition published in October 2011
Distributed to the trade by Macmillan

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ford, Michael (Michael James).

The Fire of Ares / Michael Ford.

p. cm.

Summary: When slaves rebel in ancient Sparta, twelve-year-old Lysander, guarded by an heirloom amulet, the Fire of Ares, is caught between the Spartan ruling class, with whom he has been training as a warrior since his noble heritage was revealed, and those among whom he was recently laboring as a slave.

eISBN: 978 0 8027 2817 3 (ebook)

1. Lysander, d. 395 B.C.—Juvenile fiction. [1. Lysander, d. 395 B.C.—Fiction. 2. Slavery—Fiction. 3. Amulets—Fiction. 4. Social classes—Fiction. 5. Sparta (Extinct city)—Fiction. 6. Greece—History—Spartan and Theban supremacies, 404–362 B.C.—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7. F75328Fir 2008 [Fic]—dc22 2007024237

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