Birth of a Warrior by Michael Ford Page A

Demaratos’s task, and he’s failed. There’s not enough kindling there to warm an infant. We won’t have a fire tonight.’
    Lysander was past caring. He watched Demaratos scrabbling in the dirt, trying to rescue the crushed peppermint. His fury began to ease. Is this what it meant to be a Spartan? Turning on each other like animals, ready to fight like scavengers over scraps of food?
    Lysander turned away from the boy on his knees and the older Spartan who laughed at them. He leant his head back and rubbed his knuckles into his sore eyes. Then he walked away, desperate for a few moments away from his mountain compatriots.
If I survive this
, he told himself,
I swear I’ll never suffer such indignities again
. After everything he had endured as a Helot slave, this was worse. This was as bad as it got.
    Morning brought back the pain. As soon as he opened his eyes Lysander felt nausea squirm in his stomach. He was going to be sick. He managed to scrabble a few paces away from where the other boys slept before retching. Nothing came but a gagging cough and a thin trickle of bitter yellow bile. After a few more convulsions, Lysander climbed to his feet andinspected his body in the pale light. A huge bruise, angry purple, spread under his chest on the left side. Part of it was spongy to the touch, definitely broken.
    â€˜Feeling hungry?’ said Agesilaus behind him.
    Demaratos, too, had stirred, and was looking at Agesilaus with a mixture of pleading and anger, as the older Spartan took out another piece of meat and held it under his nostrils.
    â€˜It smells very good,’ he said, inhaling deeply. ‘I want to give you your day’s ration, but first you have to earn it. Show me what you’ve learnt in the barracks.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ asked Lysander.
    â€˜Well, you can start with some wrestling,’ said Agesilaus. ‘They say that Diokles isn’t as tough as he once was. They say he’s going soft on you youngsters.’
    Demaratos and Lysander shared a panicked glance. Lysander knew how weak he was feeling – surely Demaratos was the same.
    â€˜You want us to wrestle each other?’ said Demaratos quietly.
    â€˜That’s right,’ said the older boy. ‘The winner gets this.’ He held up the piece of meat. Lysander couldn’t take his eyes from it. He would do anything for some food now, and even wondered if he could snatch it from Agesilaus’ hands. He could run away, devour it and deal with the consequences later. But that was impossible. Agesilaus still looked strong and able – he was coping fine with the Ordeal.
    â€˜I’ll do it,’ said Demaratos, and flashed a look at Lysander.
    Lysander knew he had no choice. ‘Very well,’ he said.
    â€˜Good,’ said Agesilaus, smiling. ‘The first to submit is the loser.’
    Demaratos climbed slowly to his feet, never taking his gaze from Lysander. He was stood on slightly higher ground and already had an advantage. The look in his eyes reminded Lysander of a wild animal – focused and dangerous. Lysander longed to have the Fire of Ares hanging around his neck. He thought of the inscription written on the reverse.
The Fire of Ares shall inflame the righteous.
He needed that strength now. There was no way he could beat Demaratos – his bones felt fragile and his limbs sapped of energy.
    Demaratos darted forward, and Lysander managed to skip out of his grasp, but an arm caught his rib, making his head spin. He held his hand to his side. A spark of annoyance flared. They circled, and now Lysander stood further up the slope.
    â€˜It’s like watching two girls fighting,’ said Agesilaus from his perch.
    Demaratos came forward again, and this time he managed to get his hands around Lysander’s waist. With a heave, Lysander felt his body lifted off the ground. He let out a cry, but there was nothing he could do. Demaratos threw him to the