Read Online Legacy of Blood by Michael Ford - Free Book Online

drive him back. Sarpedon was not the only man who had died.
    It must have been between dawn and midday when the first people crossed his path. It was a band of Helots being led by an overseer. From his own days working on the land, Lysander knew that the winter months were quiet, but hard. With little to do other than prune the fruit trees, harvest the crops of winter vegetables and repair equipment, everything fitted easily into the meagre daylight hours. But it was back-breaking work, bending and lifting, and many times he had gone to bed aching. Firewood was always a luxury, and he remembered seeing his mother’s lips turn blue with cold in their ramshackle hut.
    The grey-faced Helots trudged past him in two columns. Lysander passed the overseer at the rear of the group. He carried no whip on his belt, as Lysander’s former gang boss had done, but the long staff in his hand had most likely landed across the backs, or the legs, of his charges in the past.
    â€˜May the Twin Gods be with you,’ the overseer grumbled in greeting without breaking his stride.
    Lysander couldn’t help his darkening mood. Tellios’ words had left no doubt that the Helots in his charge would suffer. Mistreatment – beatings, starvation, cold – would be commonplace. And there was nothing he could do.
    * * *
    Lysander walked late into the night, chasing fatigue in order to banish those images that still haunted him: Timeon’s pale body under his shroud, his mother Athenasia being lowered into her grave, Sarpedon’s twisted features as he drove a sword into his own chest.
    Ghosts of the past
, thought Lysander, as he marched along the track.
Will I ever be free?
    He slept in a pine forest on a soft cushion of fallen needles. In the stillness every sound seemed swallowed by the spaces between the conifers. Using the sun as his guide at dawn he continued north, following the river’s course along the valley, and passing by several small settlements, though none were as extensive as the five villages of Sparta.
    The land rose, and eventually he left the river along one of the tributaries. He began to see more people on the paths, other travellers like himself. Many eyed him with suspicion, no doubt fearful of thieves in the wild places, but Lysander was happy to run past them. He found the only way he could clear his mind was to push his body as hard as he could. Blisters stung his feet, but soon that discomfort died. Lysander took off his sandals, and marched barefoot across the rocky path, relishing the pain. As the night drew in, he walked on through the cold until his sinews burned, then collapsed by the track, exhausted.
    On the third morning, he woke to dew on his face. He tried to eat some bread, but it had turned almost solid. He washed down a few mouthfuls with rank-tastingwater, and continued on his way. Soon after dawn, he came upon a merchant guiding a low wagon, drawn by a single mule. Lysander had no intention of stopping to speak, but as he tried to pass by, rounding the wagon above the path, he tripped and fell, scraping his arms as he put out his hands to break his fall.
    â€˜Curse Hades!’ he said.
    â€˜Whoa!’ said the merchant, bringing his mule to a halt with a tug on the long reins.
    Lysander dusted down his tunic.
    â€˜Are you hurt?’ asked the merchant.
    â€˜I’m fine,’ said Lysander, reaching to pick up his sack.
    â€˜Where are you in such a rush to get to?’
    â€˜Delphi.’
    The merchant looked puzzled. ‘Then you’re going the wrong way, my boy,’ he said.
    Lysander frowned. ‘But I was told that Corinth was the quickest route.’
    â€˜Not in these times. The Nemeans and the Athenians are warring again.’
    â€˜Then which way?’ asked Lysander.
    â€˜My advice is to stay north-west,’ said the man. ‘Take the mountain tracks through Arcadia, across the Ceryneian plains, and into Achaea, then on to Agion. You