Birth of a Warrior Read Free Page A

Lysander,
but at what cost?
    â€˜Do it!’ shouted Timeon. ‘Just do it.’
    With a trembling hand, Lysander took the handle of the whip from Diokles. He pulled back his arm, letting the leather uncoil to the ground.
    â€˜May the Gods forgive me,’ he whispered. With a flick of his wrist, he brought the lash down across Timeon’s back.
    His friend let out a cry of agony, and Lysander saw his knuckles tighten on the post.
    â€˜It gets easier after the first,’ shouted one of the Spartans, and the others laughed.
    His friend gave another nod. Lysander swung the whip again. And again. Timeon writhed with every blow. On the fifth stroke, something wet splattered across Lysander’s face. It was his friend’s blood. Timeon moaned, but his eyes met Lysander’s once again. Pain had forced a glistening sheen of sweat to his skin. Lysander lost count of the strokes. His own muscles burned as he drew back his arm time after time. Finally he heard Diokles blow the horn once again. The sounds of the flogging were replaced by that of weeping. Lysander’s own face was wet with tears. One of the Krypteia drew his dagger and cut Timeon’s bonds. His friend slumped to the earth.
    A small group of women emerged from between the huts of the settlement.
    â€˜Timeon?’ said a female voice unsurely. One girl had broken away from the group. It was Sophia, Timeon’s younger sister. ‘Brother! Timeon!’ she cried as she fell to her knees, throwing her arms around him. Timeongroaned softly, his eyes only half open. Sophia looked down at her hands, now covered in blood. Her look of grief vanished when she caught sight of Lysander. Her face registered puzzlement, then horror. Lysander was speechless and light-headed. How could this be happening? How could he explain?
    Diokles took the whip from Lysander’s hands.
    â€˜Your father would have been proud of you today,’ he said with a tight smile.
    As the horse thundered back towards the barracks, the Fire of Ares knocked against Lysander’s chest. The pendant felt more like a curse than a talisman. It was the symbol of his ties not only to his father, but to Sparta. A place that thrived on the blood and sweat of Helot slaves.
    The other boys at the barracks were lined up outside. They must have been told what had happened. Lysander dismounted and made his way towards the entrance, head bowed.
    â€˜Welcome back Lysander!’ shouted Diokles. ‘The Earth Goddess was thirsty for Helot blood, and he poured her a fine offering tonight.’
    Lysander felt his fists clench, but he didn’t look back. A few of the boys slapped him on the back, murmuring words of encouragement.
    Orpheus alone, leaning heavily on his stick, stepped out of the crowd. He hobbled forward and placed a hand on Lysander’s shoulder.
    â€˜Are you all right, Lysander?’
    He stopped and faced his friend.
    â€˜Haven’t you heard? I’m one of you now. A true Spartan.’
    Lysander turned and walked inside.

CHAPTER 3
    â€˜You have to eat, Lysander,’ said Orpheus as they sat in the main hall of the barracks at the long table. Boys along the benches on either side were chattering through mouthfuls of food. A handful of Helot slaves waited patiently along the wall, ready to receive instructions. Lysander’s friend, Leonidas, looked up from his food – he hadn’t spoken to Lysander all day.
He probably doesn’t know what to say
, Lysander thought. Leonidas was the second son of one of Sparta’s two Kings. Only the first-born was spared the agoge, the barracks upbringing.
    Lysander stared at the bowl of lentils in front of him. He had washed the dried blood from his face and hands several times since that morning. Even after the water ran clear, he still felt stained.
    â€˜Those Helots deserved what they got,’ said Prokles from further down the table. ‘We couldn’t let them go unpunished.’