The Fire of Ares by Michael Ford

you?’ she asked.
    â€˜Who else, Athenasia?’ replied the man. Lysander realised they must have met before he was born.
    â€˜Do you two know each other?’
    Athenasia replied: ‘We did once, yes. Strabo was the head slave in Sarpedon’s household when I worked there.’ Lysander thought he detected a note of unease in his mother’s voice.
    â€˜I was a slave,’ said Strabo with slight impatience. ‘But Sarpedon freed me after years of good service. I now work of my own free will. Come, let us eat. There is much to discuss.’
    Opening the sack, Strabo laid out the food on a piece of coarse cloth. It was a feast: there was fresh, warm bread, bright oranges and honey-coated oatcakes. There was even some dried meat – crispy, sun-dried strips of pork. There were other items that Lysander didn’t know the name of.
    Lysander sank his teeth into the soft fruit – the skin was lightly furred, the flesh soft. Juice trickled down his chin. He had never tasted anything so sweet.
    â€˜What’s this called?’ he said through a mouthful.
    Strabo smiled.
    â€˜It is a peach,’ he replied. ‘They are grown in the east.’
    Soon Athenasia and Lysander were surrounded by the remnants of their breakfast. His mother had not eaten a great deal, but already Lysander saw some colour in her cheeks. Strabo had given his mother a thick, spiced medicine, and a stoppered jar containing a week’s supply. Meanwhile, Lysander had gorged himself. By the time he sat back against the wall, his stomach was hurting. A loud belch escaped his lips.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m not used to such rich food.’
    â€˜Indeed,’ said Strabo, wiping his own lips with a square of linen.
    â€˜I had better go to the fields,’ said Lysander, getting to his feet.
    â€˜How would you like never to toil in the fields again, Master Lysander?’ Strabo said.
    Lysander laughed, but Strabo was not smiling.
    â€˜You’re not serious?’ he asked.
    â€˜I am,’ replied Strabo. ‘From this day forward, you need never sow or reap another harvest.’
    â€˜And the River Eurotas might flow backwards up the mountains!’ said Lysander. With a smile, he made towards the door.
    â€˜Wait, Master,’ said Strabo. ‘Sarpedon has a proposition for you.’ Lysander stopped. Strabo looked at him with his piercing pale eyes.
    â€˜As you know, Sarpedon is without a male heir. Butnow he has found you.’ Strabo spoke as though it was a simple domestic arrangement. ‘Sarpedon was wondering if you would do him the honour of entering the agoge.’
    Lysander’s hand dropped from the door.
    â€˜Me? Enter Spartan training?’ he said in disbelief. Lysander knew all about the agoge. It was the system of education undergone by all Spartan boys in order to prepare them for manhood. It was famed for being brutal and uncompromising. Many boys did not make it, and died in the course of the training. It was the reason that Spartans had such a fearsome reputation all over Greece. If you could last the training, you could face any enemy without fear. Lysander felt his heartbeat quicken at such a prospect.
    â€˜Yes, you,’ said Strabo. ‘In his youth, Sarpedon was one of the greatest warriors in all of Sparta. He was a natural leader of men, and always the first to throw himself against the enemy. His sons were no different. And now it would be a great pleasure for him to see his grandson become such a man.’
    â€˜Wait,’ Lysander said, ‘surely I am too old. Spartans start the training when they are seven years old. I am thirteen – I’ve too much to learn.’
    â€˜Well, you are right that it’s not normal,’ said Strabo. ‘But most of their training is physical, and you look strong enough from your work in the fields. You will soon catch up if you apply yourself.’
    â€˜But I am