The Fire of Ares by Michael Ford

Lysander. ‘If I am not back soon I’ll receive a flogging.’
    â€˜All in good time,’ said the free-dweller, tying the sacks into two separate bundles.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ said Orpheus, pointing at a cart being tied to an ass. ‘You can flag a lift.’
    â€˜No free-dweller would give a ride to a Helot like me,’ said Lysander.
    â€˜Perhaps not,’ said Orpheus, ‘but they will do it for a Spartan.’ He shouted over to the driver.
    â€˜Hey, you, where are you heading?’
    The cart owner glanced over in puzzlement, but when he saw Orpheus’s cloak, he mended his expression.
    â€˜Down the Hyacinthine Way,’ he said. He jabbed a finger at the jars that filled the bottom of his cart. ‘This oil is bound for the port at Gytheio.’
    â€˜That is our way also,’ said Orpheus. He didn’t wait for permission. ‘Come on, Lysander,’ he said. ‘Place your bags in the back.’
    Lysander did as the Spartan told him, ignoring the look of annoyance on the owner’s face. He helped Orpheus up beside him. As they settled in the back, the driver flicked his whip at the ass. The cart jolted forward, and the jars rattled against one another.
    As Lysander leant against the wooden side of the cart, he gazed over at the other boy. What a strange day this was becoming. Lysander had barely spoken to a Spartan before. Now he’d made friends with one.

CHAPTER 7
    As the rickety cart trundled along in the direction of Prince Kiros’s estate, the thunder of hooves came from up ahead. A Spartan soldier rounded the corner ahead of them. One arm held his horse’s reins, the other clutched a bundle close to his chest. The driver of the cart swerved aside just in time, and the cart juddered to a halt as one set of wheels lodged into the roadside ditch. The rider galloped past regardless, and above the sound of the horse’s feet, Lysander heard the wail of a baby, and saw the wriggling of pink limbs.
    He looked at Orpheus. It was obvious what was happening. The baby must be unhealthy or suffering from a disability. The Spartan was taking it to the mountains, as was the custom. Lysander remembered the look of shame on Orpheus’s face when he had exposed his leg. After the horseman disappeared round a corner, the Spartan spoke.
    â€˜I know what you’re thinking, Lysander. How can my people bear the sight of a boy like me?’
    Lysander shook his head.
    â€˜I wasn’t thinking anything –’
    â€˜As a baby, I was inspected as the custom commands,’ Orpheus interrupted. ‘My twisted left leg sealed my fate – death. I cannot remember, of course, but my mother told me later.’
    â€˜What happened to you?’ asked Lysander.
    â€˜A soldier came to the house. My parents knew there was no sense trying to prevent the inevitable. Spartans don’t know the meaning of mercy. I was taken from her arms and carried up the path into the western mountains. There the soldier left me by a rosinweed bush just as the winter snows started to fall. They reasoned that if the cold did not kill me, there were many wild animals in that region that would soon sniff me out.’
    â€˜But how could you have survived? You were just a baby!’
    â€˜Well,’ continued Orpheus, ‘a week later, the soldier returned the same way on a hunting trip with some men from his dining mess. They were chasing down a pack of wolves. They had already killed the lead male, and injured the female, but she had escaped into the bushes. The soldier, a man called Thyestes, dismounted from his horse and entered the thicket, his short spear ready. An injured wolf is more deadly than a healthy one.’
    â€˜What happened?’ asked Lysander, leaning forward.
    â€˜Thyestes followed a trail of blood deeper into thetrees. It was one of those winter days when the sun never seems to appear. It was just a weak haze behind the white