Spartan by Valerio Massimo Manfredi Page A

Molossian hound was ripping the
lifeless body of little Krios to pieces. Talos ran to the inside room and found his mother near the hearth, dishevelled and paralysed with terror, trying to light a lamp. The door was abruptly
unhinged by a savage kick, and four men broke into the cottage, pointing their javelins at his chest.
    Talos knew that his time had come. ‘Don’t hurt her!’ he said, shielding his mother. ‘I’ll go with you.’
    They dragged him outside, wrenching him away from the weeping woman who clung to his waist. Two of them held his arms while another struck him ferociously with the shaft of his javelin on his
knees, his chest, his stomach.
    The fourth opened the pen, and the frightened sheep ran forth, bleating wildly.
    ‘Look!’ he shouted with a voice that echoed ominously in the bronze helmet. And to the waiting dog: ‘Now, Melas!’
    The black monster rushed into the fold like a fury. He massacred the terrified animals, tore his teeth through the ram’s hocks, devoured the lambs with his frightful jaws. When the earth
was covered with their corpses, the man called back the beast whose mouth was foaming with blood.
    ‘Here, Melas! That’s enough. Let’s go!’ He gestured to one of his companions whose javelin shaft struck Talos’ sternum with such violence that the boy collapsed to
the ground without a whimper.
    His mother’s shrieks kept him conscious for a few more moments. He felt the weight of a boot pressed against his chest, and heard a voice: ‘Let’s hope this is enough for him.
If he survives. Let’s get out of here, Brithos.’
    Talos saw the Molossian above him, he felt its steaming breath, but then his eyes veiled over red and his mind sank slowly into a frozen silence.
    An excruciating pain in his abdomen shocked Talos awake, and he opened his eyes to the darkness of night. He felt two strong arms lift him and gently deposit him on his pallet. By the oil
lamp’s pale light, he made out a large bearded face leaning over him: the Herculean shepherd who had greeted him when he left Kritolaos’ deathbed two months earlier. Talos tried to say
something, but could only force out a low lament.
    ‘I am Karas,’ said the bearded giant. ‘I came too late this time, but it won’t happen again. From now on, I will always be ready to protect you. No harm must befall you,
not ever again.’
    He uncovered the boy’s distended, painful stomach.
    ‘They tried to burst you open like a wineskin. Those damned rabid dogs. But their day will come . . .’
    Talos turned his eyes to his mother who sat crushed in a corner, her hands in her lap, her eyes red and swollen.
    ‘They shut her up inside,’ murmured Karas, ‘so she wouldn’t be in their way. She thought you were dead when I brought you in here. She’s coming back to her senses
now.’
    Karas clenched his callused fists as if seeking a target for them, grinding teeth as white as wolves’ fangs. He turned towards the woman. ‘Prepare him something that will make him
sleep. That’s all he needs now. He’ll make it through, don’t worry.’
    The next day, Talos was awakened by the sunlight that entered from the half-open window shade. His mother entered with a steaming potion in a wooden bowl.
    ‘Drink this, son,’ she said, ‘before the pain in your stomach awakens again.’ She watched him lovingly as he drank.
    ‘Where is Karas?’ he asked, drying his mouth.
    ‘He’ll be here in a moment,’ answered the woman, lowering her moist eyes. ‘He’s in the sheep pen, gathering up the carrion of our slaughtered animals.’
    In that moment Karas entered with a butcher’s knife, a bloody apron tied at his waist.
    ‘I’ve skinned the dead animals. There are at least a dozen, others will die soon from their wounds. But don’t fear, Talos, I’ll pass the word to the other shepherds of
the mountain, and your flock will be replenished. You won’t have to suffer hunger because of the work of our masters.’
    ‘No,