Michael Ford

Spartan Warrior: The Fire of Ares

Lysander stood outside the barracks with Timeon and Strabo.
  ‘And we are going in there?’ said his friend, gazing at the building in front of them. ‘They could have made it more pleasing to the eye, couldn’t they?’
  Lysander had to admit his friend was right. The barracks was a huge, one-storey square building built of wood. He could only see two sides, but it looked as though there was a single door in each, and a row of windows along the top, well above head height.
  ‘Wait here,’ Strabo said, then disappeared inside.
  Looking at the barracks, Lysander wondered if he had made the right decision. This one building would be his home until the age of eighteen. Nearly six years! He would eat, sleep, learn and train here with other boys of his own age. Can I really live here? he asked himself.
  ‘The other Helot's didn't trust their ears. You! A Spartan warrior,’ said Timeon. ‘Agestes’ face was a sight to behold.’ Timeon mimicked the overseer’s booming voice: ‘I hope they use him for target practice.’
  Lysander burst out laughing, but had to straighten his face when Strabo came out of the barracks door accompanied by another man.
  ‘He’s bigger than Herakles!’ whispered Timeon. Lysander nodded. When the two men reached them, Lysander had to lift his chin to look the stranger in the face. A thick dark beard climbed his cheeks, and one of his eyes was covered with a patch. The top half of his left ear was missing, and Lysander found it hard to keep his eyes off the ragged pink scarring.
  ‘Lysander, this is Diokles. He’s a tutor at the barracks. He will be your guide in the agoge.’ Something about the way Strabo said the word guide made Lysander uneasy.
  ‘So, half-breed,’ snarled Diokles, ‘you must think yourself a Spartan already.’
  ‘I…?’ Lysander didn’t understand.
  ‘Well, look at your hair, boy. It hangs around your shoulders. Only Spartan warriors and women are permitted to wear their hair long. You will have to have it cut. Is this your slave?’ He waved his hand towards Lysander’s friend.
  ‘His name is Timeon,’ said Lysander.
  Diokles struck Lysander in the chest with the heel of his hand. The blow was like a charging bull, and Lysander slid across the dirt. The tutor stood over him, his face red with fury.
  ‘You, boy, will call me Sir, and I will call your Helot whatever I wish. His life is worth less than yours here. Do you understand?’ Lysander was dazed and shot a look to Strabo, who stood by. Diokles leant down and took hold of Lysander’s jaw, turning it so that their eyes met.
  ‘Do. You. Understand?’
  Lysander nodded.
  ‘Y…Yes, Sir!’
  Diokles released him.
  ‘Follow me!’ ordered the tutor, striding back towards the barracks door. Timeon helped Lysander get to his feet.
  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
  ‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Lysander.
  Diokles was disappearing inside the barracks and Lysander and Timeon ran to catch up. Just as they reached the door, Lysander turned to say farewell to Strabo, but Sarpedon’s servant was already walking away.
  Inside the building it was surprisingly cool. They were in a small vestibule area, with doors leading off to the left and right. Those must be the dormitories, thought Lysander. Looking directly ahead, he realised that the building was not a solid square after all, but four long sides surrounding a central exercise yard.
  ‘This way,’ instructed Diokles, and led them straight ahead and into the yard. He spread his hands. ‘Welcome to the arena.’
  Boys filled the training ground. Immediately to his left two boys wrestled, their arms locked around each other. They circled, each looking for the advantage, grunting while their feet kicked up clouds of dust. One boy pushed a foot behind his opponent and with a twist of the hips, threw the other boy to the floor, before landing on top. The dust stuck to the sweat on both boys’ bodies.
  Beyond them stood a wooden frame, hanging from which was a row of hoops of different sizes and at different heights. A queue of boys with wooden poles took it in turns to thrust into each of the holes. Lysander realized it must be some type of spear practice. One boy expertly jabbed his pole several times without touching the sides of the hoops.
  ‘Good head shots,’ said Diokles. ‘His brain would be on the end of your spear.’
  In two lines in the centre of the yard, one row of young Spartans attacked with wooden swords, while opposite them, another row defended with circular wicker shields. They were following a pattern of pre-arranged moves, and both rows moved with precision and in symmetry. The boys shouted a count to stay in time, and the swords crashed on the shields, hard enough to shatter bones. Lysander was impressed.
  More boys to the left seemed to be lifting weights in pairs. One squatted by the side of a rock as big as a watermelon. Placing his arms either side, the veins in his head stood out as he tried to lift it. Finally with a gasp, he managed to stand straight, and place the rock onto a platform at head height. His partner then picked the rock up and ran with it to a post a few paces away, and then back again. They repeated the exercise. Could I lift that? wondered Lysander.
  ‘You two, out of the way,’ someone shouted, and Lysander turned to see a boy sprinting towards him at full speed. Everyone watched as the boy pushed off from the ground and sailed through the air, landing in a pit of sand.
  ‘This is where you will do your indoor training. You will go outside for marches, and javelin and discus.’
  As they worked their way through the crowd, Lysander began to understand why the Spartans were so powerful. All of their male citizens went through this. Almost every day, of every year, between the ages of seven and eighteen. Even after that, men continued to train together and live together until they were thirty. Only then were they permitted to live in a house of their own.
  Timeon stood close by his side.
  ‘It feels like being a mouse surrounded by cats.’
  Lysander was about to respond when an unusual sight caught his eye. In the far corner of the yard, a boy was tied by his wrists to the top of a wooden pillar. His body hung down, so that his feet were about a foot above the ground. His naked torso glistened with sweat, and the muscles on his arms bulged. But the boy’s face showed no emotion.
  ‘How long has he been there, Sir?’ Lysander asked.
  ‘Who?’ asked Diokles, then he saw what Lysander was looking at. ‘Oh, Drako, is he still there? It must be time to bring him down.’ He walked behind the pillar and unhooked a rope. The boy fell to his knees on the ground. ‘Thank you, Sir,’ he managed to say to Diokles in a deep voice. Drako got to his feet. He was heavy with muscle and as tall as Sarpedon.
  ‘His arms are as wide as my legs!’ whispered Timeon.
  ‘Drako was caught out after dark last night – he feels the needs to supplement his rations by theft. Fine, of course, but he was foolish enough to be caught. This was his punishment,’ the tutor informed them. His manner was so offhand he might have been speaking about the weather.
  The group they came to next seemed to be playing some sort of one-against-many game. One boy stood with his back to them as others rushed in from all sides to set upon him with their bare fists and feet.
  ‘This is to teach a Spartan how to face several adversaries at once,’ said Diokles. ‘On the battlefield, you can’t expect our enemy to fight one-on-one.’
  The victim was quick on his feet, dodging and changing his position to meet his attackers. Each one was sent crashing to the floor or beaten back, but still they came. Lysander could see the single Spartan was getting tired. He panted for breath. Finally, one of the hunters managed to seize him around the middle and draw him to the ground. The others piled in too. Surely they’ve got him now, thought Lysander. But no! With a mighty cry, the Spartan broke free and threw the others off. He stood over them, victorious, and then walked out of the ring. But when he saw Lysander his face went deadly cold. His dark, flashing eyes, the curl of his lips and the arrogant gait were unmistakable.
  Lysander reeled backwards.

Spartan Warrior: The Fire of Ares © Michael Ford, 2008. Published by Bloomsbury Publishing.