Authors: Michael Ford
Legacy of Blood
For Rebecca, as ever
âThe hour is late, mortal,' said the Oracle, from her tripod stool. âWhy do you wish to wake Apollo from his slumber?'
The man before her wore a red cloak, dripping from the rain that lashed the mountainside beyond the cavern. In his hand was a laurel branch, to show that he came as a supplicant across the God's threshold. He wasn't sure why the Council had sent him, an Ephor, to consult the Oracle. All this was smoke and superstition, nothing more.
âI hail from Sparta,' he said, kneeling before the old woman â the priestess of Apollo, the Pythia. Her eyes were hidden behind matted strands of grey hair, but he felt her gaze burn into him. âI am sent by the Council. We have a problem ⦠a boy.'
The Oracle's cackle echoed off the cavern walls.
âA boy! What danger does a boy pose to mighty Sparta?'
The man bit his lip and forced himself to stay
patient. He was here now; he had to go through with this.
âPlease,' he said. âYou must tell me what the future holds. How can we meet this young threat to our city?'
âI am obliged to tell you nothing, Tellios,' replied the Oracle. âIf the God wishes to speak, he will speak.' She turned to her attendant priests. Both men were cloaked in white and stood beside the sacred egg-shaped
navel
stone â said to be the place Zeus had marked the centre of the world. âHas this man made the sacrifices as the God decrees?'
âHe has, Pythia, mistress of the bow,' intoned one of the attendants. âA black ram's blood stains the springs of Apollo.'
âThen prepare the fires.'
Lighting a taper from the torch hanging on the wall, one of the men placed it among the dry tinder beneath the Oracle's cauldron. The Spartan watched the flames sizzle and flare, first green, then yellow, then orange. Soon the air was filled with strange-scented smoke, and he felt his head swim.
The Oracle leant over her cauldron, staring into the water.
âWhat can you see?' coughed the Spartan.
The Oracle sucked in a deep breath of the air.
âFire,' she whispered. âA building ablaze. Flames climbing wooden walls.'
âAnything else?'
âI see a boy in rags, in a foreign land. He plunges his
hand into the flames. What pain!' She gripped the edges of the cauldron. âNot rags. A cloak made of red wool. A Spartan!'
Tellios narrowed his eyes; this might be interesting. âTell me more.'
âI see a jewel amidst the flames â it speaks to me.'
âAnd what does it say?' asked the man, his mouth turning dry.
â
The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous.
'
The Spartan rushed over to the cauldron. The water inside was as still and clear as a mountain lake. There was no vision here!
âWhat trickery is this?' he demanded.
A deep moan rose in a crescendo from the Pythia's lips. Tellios nervously looked round at her minions.
âWhat's the matter with her?'
âThe boy! The boy!' wailed the Oracle, swaying dangerously on her chair. The two attendants rushed forward and took an arm each to steady her. She convulsed in their grasp. âThe boy is in danger. What pain, what agony!'
The Spartan backed away. âWill he die?'
âOh, oh, the God is thrown into confusion. The boy is a danger to himself and to Sparta. Sparta's shields will tremble. Go, Tellios of Sparta, go and warn your people. Go!'
The Oracle's eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed in a faint. Tellios gathered his cloak around his body, and left the poisonous fumes of the cave.
Outside, the rain had stopped. As Tellios picked his way down the mountainside, his head cleared. He had to admit that the details the Oracle had given him were satisfying; the boy was a danger, not just to Sparta, but to himself too.
There's hope then
, he thought.
The sun broke over the mountains to the east and a smile crept over Tellios' face. Thank goodness old Sarpedon was gone. The other Ephors couldn't ignore Tellios any longer â the boy, Lysander, could be dealt with now. He was a danger â the Oracle had said so. Any threat had to be removed.
He untethered his stallion at the bottom of the slope and swung himself into the saddle. A day's hard riding should get him back to Sparta.
He pressed his heels into the horse's flanks and the stallion leapt forward. With the clouds above clearing, Tellios never stopped to think how the Oracle had known his name.
He'd never said who he was.
One of the boys in the barracks coughed in his sleep. Lysander's head was heavy with dreams of battle â images of slaughter chasing each other through his brain. Ares, God of War, snatching men's lives by sword and spear.
A floorboard creaked.
Lysander shot out an arm, his eyes snapping open, and grabbed a thin wrist. He drew his dagger from beneath his rolled blanket.
âWho are you?' he hissed, holding the blade to a stranger's throat. Blue eyes looked back at him, a pale face threatening to crumple into tears. The boy looked so young.
âMy name's Idas, Master Lysander,' he whispered.
âHow do you know my name?' said Lysander, keeping his voice low as the boys around him lay deep in slumber.
The boy frowned. âEveryone knows your name, master. You saved Sparta from the Persians.'
Lysander snorted. âYou've heard wrongly. Hundreds died to save Sparta. I was just one of the few who remained standing. What have you got there?'
âThey're your clothes, master; I'm your new servant.'
âMy
new
servant.'
âThey said your old one ⦠that he died.'
Lysander released his grip on the boy's arm.
âHe wasn't a servant, he was my friend.'
âYes, master,' said Idas.
âAnd stop calling me “master”. I don't need a slave.' Lysander lay back on his thin mattress. âGo away.'
Idas stood awkwardly on the spot, then placed the folded clothes on the table beside Lysander.
âVery well, master,' said the boy.
Lysander listened to his footsteps fade away. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so hard on the boy. After all, his own first day at the barracks had been terrifying. What was it â six moons ago? He remembered standing waiting with his grandfather's slave, Strabo, on a warm summer morning. His best friend, Timeon, had stood at his side.
And now?
Now they were all dead. Timeon, murdered in the night by the Krypteia, Strabo, killed in the battle against the Persians. All gone. Even his grandfather had descended to the land of the shades, slain by his own hand so that Lysander might live.
What a price to pay to be a Spartan.
He didn't need another servant. No one could
replace Timeon. He didn't want to be responsible for anyone ever again.
Lysander slipped back into a doze, trying to keep the images of blood and battle from flooding his mind. He remembered his life as a Helot, working for the Spartans in their fields. Was it really as bad as it had seemed at the time? He and his mother were slaves, with little to eat and only a leaking roof over their heads, but at least they had had each other. Now she too was rotting to dust in the earth.
Somewhere a bell sounded, and around him the other boys began to stir. As Lysander climbed off his rush mattress, every muscle in his body throbbed with a deep ache. The battle had lasted for almost half a day for the regular troops, but Lysander's fight had gone on for another day on board the Persian ship, ending with a plunge into the freezing sea.
Lysander hobbled stiffly towards the side door. Beside each of the beds were piles of armour, discarded in the exhausted return from the plains: breastplates dented from Persian swords, and arm-guards crusted with dried blood. Each scattered piece told a tale of death.
The sky outside was bright with winter sunlight, but the air was cold. Lysander drew a deep breath and squinted up at the sun. From its position in the sky, Lysander saw it was well into morning.
âGreetings, Lysander,' called a boy, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Other boys wandered out into the
courtyard. They had been permitted to sleep longer than usual, and why not? The whole of Sparta would be recovering from the battle, or from the celebrations that had followed the victory.
Lysander wandered over to the communal well, about a hundred paces â half a stadion â from his barracks building. He let the bucket splash into the water below, and drew it up to the ledge. Then he stripped down. A huge bruise spread out from underneath his right armpit where he'd fallen during his mountain survival exercise. The centre was green, spreading to yellow around the edges. His arms and legs were covered in angry welts and purple-black marks, reminders of the battle he and his fellow trainees had undertaken.
Finally he took off the pendant, a family heirloom, that hung around his neck: the Fire of Ares. What did it mean to him now? Surely it was the cause of all the misery he had suffered. Without the jewel and the chance discovery of his parentage, Timeon would still be alive. And Sarpedon would never have made his dreadful sacrifice.
I used to be proud of this trinket
, Lysander thought bitterly.
Now it feels like a curse.
Lysander cast the amulet on his cloak that covered the ground and drew up a bucket of water. He poured it over his head, washing the grime from his hair and doing his best to clean the dried blood and dirt from his body. He noticed two of his toenails had turned
black, from where a shield had been rammed down on his foot by a Persian.
âYou look dreadful,' said a voice behind him.
Lysander turned to see Demaratos, his fellow student. When he'd first entered the agoge, Demaratos had bullied him relentlessly. Now, his once mortal enemy was a trusted friend in the barracks. They'd survived together in the mountains, and after fighting shield by shield against the Persians, they were bonded by trust and bloodshed.
âYou've not fared much better,' said Lysander. Demaratos had a gash across the side of his head and ear, a black eye and his thigh was bandaged with a piece of dirty gauze where a Persian arrow had gouged the flesh.
Demaratos raised another bucket of water, and knelt on the ground scrubbing his chest and arms. âThey let us lie in,' he laughed. âWe'll be soft around the middle like Athenians with such bad habits.'
Lysander took a sponge offered by Demaratos. âDo you remember,' said Lysander. âYou once tried to push me down this well?'
Demaratos had unfastened his bandage and was gingerly cleaning his wound. It had been roughly stitched the previous evening, but some of the thread must have come loose in the night. Lysander could see bright red flesh breaking through the black scabs.
âYou were lucky,' Demaratos grinned. âDiokles caught you in time.'
At the mention of their former tutor, Lysander lowered his eyes. He had watched the Spartan die on the plains south of the city, with two arrows buried in his chest. Just after he'd saved Lysander's life. In peacetime, Diokles had made Lysander's life unbearable, but in battle he had been steadfast.
