Spartan Read Online Free PDF Page A

the old man, startling the boy. ‘Don’t touch that weapon!’
    ‘You scared me! Why shouldn’t I touch it? It’s only a sword, even if it did belong to a king.’
    ‘To a great king, Talos. But that doesn’t matter,’ grumbled Kritolaos, as he hurried to shut the chest himself. ‘That weapon is cursed!’
    ‘Oh, you and your silly superstitions!’
    ‘Don’t joke about this, Talos,’ responded the old man, gravely. ‘You don’t know. With that very sword King Aristodemus sacrificed his own daughter to the gods of
the Underworld, to win victory over his enemies and freedom for his people. A futile act. No one has ever since dared to grip that sword. You must not touch it!’
    The chastened boy took the torch from the old man in silence and traced it along the borders of the chest, melting the pitch to seal it once again. They left the cavern, and Talos replaced the
rocks at the entrance, camouflaging them with moss so that they seemed undisturbed. He ran to catch up to Kritolaos, who had already started down the path. The old man’s torch was reduced to
a flaming stub.
    They walked in silence until they reached the edge of the clearing. The pale light of the setting moon revealed their cottage. Krios’ yelping greeted them.
    Kritolaos tossed away the butt of the torch and paused, turning to Talos. ‘Some day a man will come to take up that sword, Talos. It is written that he will be strong and innocent, moved
by such a strong love for his people that he will sacrifice the voice of his own blood.’
    ‘Where are these words written? Who said them? How do you know?’ asked Talos, searching for the old man’s eyes, hidden in the shadows. ‘Who are you, really?’
    ‘One day you will come to know all of this. And that will be the last day of Kritolaos. Let us go now, the night is almost over and our work awaits us tomorrow.’ He strode towards
the cottage. Talos followed him, tightly holding the great horn bow, the bow of Aristodemus, King.
    *
    Talos lay on his straw pallet, wide awake in the dark; a thousand thoughts tumbled through his mind. His heart pounded like it had that day down there on the plain, when that
mysterious warrior had spoken to him. He sat up and stretched a hand towards the wall, reaching for the bow that Kritolaos had given him. He gripped it tight with two hands: it was polished and
cold as death.
    Talos closed his eyes and listened to the furious beating of his heart, the hammering of his burning temples. He lay down again. His eyes, still closed, saw a city, fortified with powerful
ramparts, crowned with towers, built with gigantic boulders of grey stone on top of a desolate mountain. A city shrouded in a cloud of dust.
    Suddenly a violent wind came up, clearing away the thick fog from the parched fields. Warriors appeared, the same he had seen on the plain. There were thousands of them, encased in gleaming
armour, their faces hidden by helmets. They advanced from all directions, encircling the seemingly deserted city. Springing out from behind rocks, bushes, holes in the ground like phantoms, they
were urged onward by the obsessive drumming that came from nowhere. As they advanced, their ranks became tighter, more compact. They fell into a march. Their shields, close one against the other,
became a wall of bronze. Like an enormous, monstrous pair of claws, they prepared to close their grip on the deserted city.
    As the extraordinary circle closed, Talos felt his throat tightening so that he could not breathe. As much as he tried, he could not open his eyes or release his hold on the horn bow that burned
into his numb fingers.
    Suddenly a frightening, fierce cry exploded like thunder from within the city. The walls were alive with a multitude of warriors, different from the others. They wore strange armour and carried
immense shields of oxhide. Their helmets, also of leather, did not cover their faces. Talos saw the faces of men, of young boys, of old men with white