The Fire of Ares Read Free

lashing.’
    Lysander was led by the overseer over to the wall of the barn, where a huge cartwheel stood upright, awaiting repair.
    â€˜Strip, Helot!’ barked Agestes, uncoiling the whip from his side and flexing his arm. Lysander slowly pulled his tunic down over his shoulders, slipping the Fire of Ares safely out of sight in the folds. The overseer bound his wrists to two of the wheel’s spokes, wide apart. Lysander told himself that Spartan boys went through this many times as part of their brutal training. The crowd from the queue gathered to watch. Even though Lysander was one of their own, he could feel the other Helots’ eyes drilling into his back.
    Lysander bowed his head. He could hear the overseer shift his feet in the dirt, establishing his position.
Anything a Spartan can take, so can I
, thought Lysander, gritting his teeth.
    â€˜I am ready. Do what you –’ His words were interrupted by the crack of the whip across his shoulder blades. At first, all Lysander sensed was the sudden cold of the leather across his back. But then came the pain, as the burning spread out in prickles like a thousand pins simultaneously driven into his flesh. His vision went white, and he tasted the iron tang of blood where he was biting down into his lip. He managed not to cry out. The crowd roared, ‘One!’
    As each blow fell, Lysander shrank deeper into himself, becoming more mind than body. His heartbeat slowed and the noises of the jeering mob grew distant. He concentrated on the pendant that blazed under his clothes. Its red glow seemed to give him strength and hope. One day he would escape slavery. He would take himself and his mother away from this place, where his once-proud people were made to toil by Spartans too proud to work the land themselves. He would taste freedom.
    By the time the last stroke fell, the crowd’s bloodlust had subsided. Only a few of them murmured, ‘Six.’ His hands were untied, but still gripped the wheel rim like stiff claws. Lysander’s legs threatened to give way beneath him. The evening breeze that gusted through the yard made the broken skin of his back throb, and the blood pooled in the folds of fabric around his waist. He pulled his tunic back up without a grimace,walked over to the overseer’s table and seized two bags of grain – his by right all along.
    â€˜Taken like a true Spartan,’ scoffed Agestes, but the overseer could not meet Lysander’s eye.

CHAPTER 2
    The horizon burned red with the setting sun. The strength returned to his legs, Lysander lengthened his stride and marched towards the outskirts of Limnae, one of the five villages that made up the central district of Sparta. Timeon, whose head came only a little above Lysander’s shoulder, struggled to keep pace alongside. They passed the street vendors who lined the roads, trying to sell the last of the day’s wares.
Ripe watermelons
–
perfect after a day in the fields! Roasted hazelnuts
–
only three bags left!
Normally, Lysander would have stopped and shared a joke or two, but not today.
    â€˜You should let my mother look at those wounds,’ Timeon said nervously. ‘They might become infected.’
    â€˜I’m fine,’ replied Lysander, pressing on. His back stung like it was being held too close to a fire, hot and itchy. Every now and then, his tunic pulled away from where it was caked to the drying wounds. Each time, Lysander had to dig his nails into his palms and try not to whimper. There was not much time to get to thephysician’s store before it closed, and he needed his mother’s medicines.
    â€˜Agestes won’t forget this day,’ said Timeon. ‘I wish you had seen his face when you didn’t cry out – like the blacksmith God Hephaistos hammering at a stubborn piece of iron.’
    Lysander was pleased that Timeon could not see his face in the failing light. He knew his cheeks were flushed with