Free The Town Mouse and the Spartan House by Terry Deary Page A

sneered. “They will probably use you as target practice for their spears!”
    â€œIt’s better than dying slowly from the plague,” I replied.
    The guard shrugged and swung open a small gate in the wall. “May the gods be with you,” he said.

    But everyone in Athens knew that the gods were with the Spartans.
    The Spartan camp was guarded by wide-eyed boys. They were only my age but their eyes were as sharp and hard as spear tips. They grabbed me roughly and tied my hands. They tore open my bundle, ate my food and stole my mother’s ring. Then they dragged me into the camp.

    â€œI am Darius … nephew of Alcmaeon the Spartan,” I tried to tell them.
    â€œAnd I am Brasidas the Spartan,” one of the boys laughed. “I am nephew of no one, son of no one.”

    â€œYou have no parents?”
    â€œSparta is my mother and my father,” he said, his eyes glittering like the sea.
    Hard-faced men were loading weapons onto carts and taking down tents. “Are you leaving?” I asked Brasidas.
    â€œWe are going back to Sparta to gather in the crops,” he explained. “We have helots to do the work – our slaves. But we can’t trust them.”
    â€œSo Athens will be free?” I groaned. Had I left an hour too soon?
    â€œThe plague will kill more than Spartan spears,” Brasidas snorted. “We’ll come back in the spring to take Athens. By then there will be no soldiers left to defend its walls.”
    He pushed me towards a group of armed men, who were watching the carts being loaded.
    â€œWho’s this?” the soldier in the middle of the group asked.
    â€œA spy from Athens, General Alcmaeon,” the boy said. “May I hand him over to my company to beat him to death.”

    The general reached out a massive hand and grabbed Brasidas by the throat. “The boy could be carrying the plague. Why did you bring him into the camp?”

    â€œSorry, sir, I didn’t think!” Brasidas choked.
    The general spoke slowly. “Take him away, kill him quickly, and throw his body into the sea.”
    â€œYes, sir,” the boy gasped and turned to grab the rope around my wrist.
    â€œUncle Alcmaeon!” I cried. “I am Darius. The gods will curse you if you kill your sister’s son!”

Chapter Three
    The general turned and looked at me. “You are the son of Timareta?” he asked.
    I nodded eagerly. I think I expected Alcmaeon to wrap his arms around me in welcome.
    But the general shook his head wearily. “I have to spare him,” he told Brasidas in a cold voice. “Take him back to Sparta as a helot. He can be another pair of hands to gather in the crops. He is in your care now.”
    My uncle turned away, as if I had never existed. Brasidas pulled at my rope. He set me to work carrying the canvas tents to the carts and unloading them onto the Spartan ships. If I slowed or stumbled, I was beaten with a stick.

    Brasidas laughed. “Welcome to the Spartan way of life,” he said.
    I worked all day in the cruel sun and was given a small bowl of thin porridge. “Fit for a mouse like you,” Brasidas said.

    The next morning, we set sail.
    At home, in Athens, we had had many servants, like Syme, but we hadn’t treated them the way the Spartans treated me.
    Every day, I worked till I ached. I sat in the stinking water at the bottom of the ship. When the ship leaked, I filled the leather buckets with water, then threw the water over the side.
    The ship was old and leaked badly. It seemed I emptied half the ocean over the side. I carried buckets till my arms ached.

    When the soldiers had finished eating, I was allowed to feed on their scraps.

    At the end of the day, Brasidas took some time to explain the Spartan way to me.
    â€œThe greatest crime of all is to run away in battle,” he said. “The punishment is death.”
    â€œYou kill your own soldiers if they try to