Spartan

  The account of the frightful death of Aghias flew through the city and reached Brithos’ house. It was his mother who brought him the news:

  ‘Brithos,’ she said, ‘something horrible has happened. Aghias . . . is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ echoed her son, jerking to face her.

  ‘Yes, son. He hanged himself, in his own home, last night.’

  Brithos stood for a moment as if struck by lightning, unable to control the tremor that coursed through his body. He then left the courtyard, headed towards his friend’s house. A small group of women dressed in black was in front of the door, lamenting feebly. He entered the dark room; at the centre was his friend’s body, arranged on his funeral bed, dressed in the armour that his parents had polished to restore at least a part of its old decorum.

  His mother sat dry-eyed, her face veiled, at the dead boy’s head. His father approached Brithos and embraced him. ‘Brithos,’ he said in a broken voice, ‘Brithos, there will be no funeral for your poor friend, nor will he be escorted by his companions in arms. The commander of your battalion told me that no honours are paid to “those who trembled”.’

  He fell silent, wringing a corner of his cloak through his hands.

  ‘Those who trembled . . .’ muttered Brithos, as if out of his mind. ‘Those who trembled!’ He embraced the devastated old man again. ‘Aghias will have his funeral rites,’ he said with a firm voice, ‘as befits a warrior.’

  He left for his own house as four Helots began to prepare the stretcher that would bear the body to the cremation site, where a modest funeral pyre of branches had been prepared.

  Under the astonished gaze of his mother, Brithos took from a coffer the parade armour of the Kleomenids, the same that his father had worn on feast days when he appeared at the House of Bronze with King Cleomenes.

  He washed carefully, combed and scented his long raven hair, and gathered it at the back of his neck. Onto his legs he fitted the embossed shin-plates, he donned the bronze cuirass adorned with copper and tin ornaments, he tightened the belt from which the heavy Spartan sword hung. On his shoulders he fastened the black cloak with a buckle embellished by a great drop of amber. He slipped on the immense shield of the dragon and took up the spear.

  ‘Son, why are you doing this? Where are you going?’ asked Ismene.

  ‘The commander of our battalion has refused an escort for the funeral of Aghias. He said that Sparta pays no honour to one who has trembled. So it is only fitting that a coward be escorted by a coward to his final resting place. I shall be Aghias’ honour guard.’

  He put the three-crested helmet on his head and started off towards Aghias’ house, ignoring the stupor and wonder of the passers-by. He held a vigil over his friend’s body all night, on his feet, like a statue of the god of war.

  Shortly before dawn, when the city was still deserted, the small procession started down the silent streets: in front, the four Helots with the stretcher, behind them, Aghias’ parents with their heads covered, joined by a small group of relatives. Last came Brithos in the superb parade armour that glittered in the pale light of a grey dawn.

  They crossed the centre of the city. The tripods in front of the House of Bronze were nearly extinguished, smoking only slightly. They turned towards the southern port. In the great silence, only the distant yelping of dogs could be heard, along with the crowing of a cock, immediately swallowed up by the stagnant and immobile air.

  As they entered the countryside on the road that led to Amyclae, Brithos noticed a figure wrapped in a worn grey cloak: it was Talos. He gestured for him to join them.

  ‘You were the only one missing,’ he said hoarsely, ‘at the funeral of “he-who-trembled”.’

  Talos joined the end of the small procession that proceeded along the dusty road. He walked for a stretch of road, staring at the meagre stretcher on which the dead man rolled to the unsteady pace of the four bearers. Then, suddenly, Talos took the reed flute from his pack and began to play. The music that rose from the humble instrument – tense, vibrant – startled Brithos, as he continued to advance solemnly in the slow funeral procession; it was the battle hymn of the Thermopylae.

  At the chosen site, the corpse was placed on the pyre and the flames soon consumed the limbs desiccated by fasting and folly.

  These were the funeral honours rendered to Aghias, son of Antimakhos, warrior of the twelfth syssitìa of the third battalion, Spartan.

  10

  THE LONE HOPLITE

  THE EVENTS THAT ACCOMPANIED Aghias’ death were the final blow for Brithos. In the days that followed he withdrew into himself refusing to speak or even to eat.

  One moonless night he left home, having decided to take his own life. He wanted to spare his mother the awful spectacle that Aghias’ parents had been forced to witness, so he headed off towards Mount Taygetus. He waited for the dead of night when all were sleeping, crossed the atrium barefoot and went out into the courtyard.

  Melas, his hound, ran to him yelping, and Brithos put out a hand to calm him.

  ‘Good boy, be quiet now,’ he whispered, patting the dog until he lay down. He stroked his sleek coat, remembering the proud day his father had presented him with Melas. Brithos rose to his feet and walked through the countryside along the path that led to the forest, the same one he had taken so many times with his friends as a boy.

  He wandered at length through the wood, panicking at the thought of such a dark death, without honour and without comfort – a death no one had ever prepared him for. He searched for a place where he would never be found, shuddering at the thought of his unburied body, prey to the beasts of the forest.

  He thought of his soul, which would drift restlessly at the threshold of the Underworld. He thought of his city; Sparta had demanded the blood of King Leonidas and his father, immolated like victims on the altar. A senseless sacrifice. His city was to blame for the agony of King Cleomenes, for Aghias’ harrowing end, and was soon to be stained with his own blood, without even knowing.

  He had reached a clearing on top of a hill near an enormous hollow-trunked holm oak surrounded by a thicket of brambles. The moment had come to silence all rumours; to do what had to be done. Brithos drew his dagger and pressed the tip to his heart. With his right hand open, he prepared to deliver the blow with his palm. But at that moment a great hairy fist pounded like a mallet onto his head, knocking him to the ground unconscious.

  ‘By Zeus, Karas, I told you to stun him, not to murder him,’ said a voice.

  ‘The fact is,’ muttered the giant, ‘that these young boys aren’t made of the same wood as in my day.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Just what I said,’ answered the voice from the thick of his beard. ‘You should have been with us when we fought on the Hellespont against the Thracians. There was a Spartan mercenary who had lost his spear, so do you know what he did? He smashed in the enemy shields with his fist.’

  ‘You never told me that you fought against the Thracians.’

  ‘I’ve fought against everyone,’ grunted Karas, hefting Brithos’ body to his shoulders. ‘Let’s get going now before day breaks.’ They headed towards the high spring, and reached Karas’ cabin by dawn.

  ‘Finally!’ muttered Karas, letting his burden down onto a goatskin pallet. ‘He was starting to weigh on me.’

  Talos removed the hooded cloak that completely covered him, and sat down. ‘Why don’t you get us out something to eat?’ he asked. ‘This midnight stroll has made me hungry.’

  ‘Right,’ said Karas, ‘but I don’t think I have much; I haven’t had much time lately for such matters.’ He pulled a crust of bread out of his pack and took a honeycomb from a cupboard.

  ‘You’re lucky I have this,’ he said, setting the food on a bench. ‘I found it yesterday, in the hollow of that oak on the peak that faces Amyclae. Now,’ he continued, ‘would you like to tell me what you intend to do with that?’ he asked, pointing to Brithos, still dead to the world.

&
nbsp; ‘I wanted him to live, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah,’ grumbled the bearded giant, ‘we’ve all gone crazy around here. If we had let things take their own course, there’d be one less Spartan by this time. But no,’ he continued with his mouth full, ‘you have me cover half the mountain to follow this fool, I have to lug him on my back like a sack of flour from the big holm oak all the way back here. Talos must have some plan, I think, he wants to get revenge for some reason. Or maybe he wants to ask for a pretty ransom, or hand him over to the Persians as soon as they show up here, but no, no sir, he only wants to save his life!’

  ‘Listen to me, hardhead,’ answered Talos, ‘there’s something about this man and his family that I still haven’t figured out, and so I don’t want him to die, understand?’

  ‘Yes, sure I do,’ grunted Karas, swallowing a mouthful. ‘I won’t argue any more.’

  ‘Good, and now we have to make sure he stays asleep; if he wakes up he’s likely to go into a frenzy.’ Karas lifted his cyclopean fist.

  ‘By Zeus, not like that! You’ll end up killing him.’

  ‘Listen, boy, I’m sure you didn’t mean for me to take him into my arms and sing him a lullaby; he’s too big, and I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Come on, Karas, this is no time for joking. Give him some kind of drug that will put him out. What was that stuff you had me drink after the krypteia raid? Something that made the pain pass and let me sleep.’

  ‘I don’t have any more of that,’ grumbled the shepherd, taking some powder from a leather sack and mixing it with wine and honey. Talos smiled. Karas made the semiconscious boy on the pallet take a few sips of the liquid.

  ‘And now, listen well, Karas, because I have another favour to ask you.’

  ‘What now? You want me to bring you King Leotychidas tied up in a sack, or maybe all five of the ephors?’

  ‘No, I want a suit of armour.’

  Karas scowled, fixing the boy’s eyes. ‘You have your armour . . . if you really want it.’

  ‘No, Karas, the time hasn’t come yet.’

  ‘But then what armour are you talking about? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Karas, don’t worry about whether you understand, just do what I’m asking, if you can.’

  ‘It will have to be stolen, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘You’re not mistaken in the least – well?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not afraid of anything. What kind of armour do you need?’

  ‘Not just any armour: what I want is the armour of noble Aristarkhos. You can find it in a coffer in the house of the Kleomenids.’

  Karas gulped. ‘The House of the Kleomenids? By Pollux, couldn’t you have found another place?’

  ‘I know, I know, Karas, if you don’t think you can do it . . .’

  ‘Oh, by all the witches in hell, if you want that stuff I’ll get it for you. It’s just that it won’t be easy to get rid of that damned beast that’s always pacing back and forth in the courtyard. I’d rather be face to face with Cerberus than that black monster.’

  ‘You can count on the servant, he’s one of us.’

  ‘All right,’ said Karas. ‘You’ll have that armour within three days at the most.’

  *

  Brithos tried to sit up but a sudden pain in his head nailed him to the bed. He couldn’t understand where he was; figures slowly began to take shape as his vision became clearer.

  ‘So, you’ve finally woken up,’ said Talos, seated at the hearth. ‘Know how long you’ve been asleep?’

  ‘You?’ asked Brithos astonished. ‘Where am I? . . . Who . . .?’

  ‘I’ll explain everything, but you must listen. No,’ said Talos, watching as Brithos’ hand slipped down to his belt, ‘no, your dagger has been taken away. You’ve shown that you don’t know how to use it.’

  Brithos tried again to sit up, furious as he realized what must have happened, but another sharp pain in his head made him fall back on the goatskin pallet.

  ‘Karas has heavy hands,’ said Talos, ‘I’m afraid that your head will be hurting for a while. Then we gave you a potion to make you sleep, as well. Now I’ll get you something to eat, you need to get your strength back.’

  ‘I won’t eat,’ answered Brithos tersely. ‘I’ll find a way to die. My mind is made up; I won’t turn back just because you and this Karas have played a trick on me. Do you think I decided to kill myself because I was a bit discouraged? A Spartiate warrior does not lose heart, Helot. I must die because I cannot live without honour. Just as Aghias could not.’

  ‘Stop talking as if you were the great Zeus in person. At this moment you’re just a man, like I am. I know what you’re thinking, and I also know what the others in your city call you: “He who trembled”.’

  Brithos fixed him with a look full of hate. ‘It’s your moment, Helot, isn’t it? Well, enjoy it for as long as you can, because if I can’t kill myself, I’ll kill you with my own hands.’

  Talos sneered. ‘What a glorious gesture, killing a lame Helot. I know you’re not new to this type of game, although you usually surround yourself with lots of company to make sure you won’t fail.’

  ‘Damned cripple,’ snarled Brithos, ‘I should have killed you that day like a dog.’

  Talos slipped Brithos’ dagger from Karas’ pack and offered it to him. ‘If that’s what you want, there’s still time,’ he said.

  Brithos gazed at the blade for a moment as if spellbound, then lowered his head. ‘Why did you stop me from killing myself?’

  Talos took a breath, putting back the weapon. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure myself. Keeping you alive certainly has no advantage for me. Let’s say that I do have a reason, but it only concerns me, and for now I can’t tell you about it. I can give you a reason for staying alive, if you’re interested.’

  ‘If there were one, I would have found it,’ answered Brithos with a bitter grimace. ‘Do you think it’s pleasant to stick a knife between your ribs?’

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Talos. ‘I don’t understand your code of honour very well, but I think that in any case by killing yourself you’d only have fed into their accusation that you selfishly saved yourself from the slaughter at the Thermopylae along with your friend Aghias. And you would have left your mother completely alone, after she had already lost her husband—’

  ‘A Spartan woman is accustomed to living alone,’ interrupted Brithos. ‘And she’s prepared for the idea that her men may die in the defence of their country.’

  ‘Right,’ continued Talos, ‘but does it seem to you that you were about to die defending your country last night? As for your women: they may not weep and wail as women do in the other cities. They may be brought up to bear up against any disaster through the force of their wills. But do you really think, Brithos, that they don’t feel the pain? That’s not the point, though. If you are a man, you must find the strength to survive, and you must prove that the atrocity that you’ve been accused of is unfounded. You must redeem your family name, once one of the most illustrious of the city.’

  Brithos remained in thought for a long time, holding his head between his hands, then broke the silence: ‘How can I do what you say? There are no witnesses to what happened at the Thermopylae . . . Wait, there’s Kresilas! Yes, that’s right, Kresilas was taken to the village of Alpeni with that eye infection and perhaps—’

  ‘Kresilas is dead,’ Talos interrupted him brusquely. ‘When he heard that the three hundred Spartiates were surrounded, he had his Helot lead him by the hand onto the battlefield and into the thick of the fighting; nearly blind as he was, the Persians slaughtered him immediately.’

  Brithos sat up slowly and brought his right hand to his forehead. ‘You know too many things for a Helot.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Brithos; it’s exactly because I’m a Helot that I know so many things. Your caste can’t do without us, and so our people are everywhere: they were at the Thermopylae, they were with Kresilas, they were at the funeral of Aghias.’
r />   ‘You’re crazy,’ murmured Brithos. ‘You’re not saying I can redeem my honour and that of my family by asking your people to pass on the word of how valorous I was!’

  Talos smiled. ‘No, I’m not that crazy. Let’s say that I’m crazy enough to go one step further.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That you can redeem your honour in combat; that’s the only way for a warrior.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ answered Brithos resignedly. ‘My companions would refuse; no one would consent to draw up next to me in battle.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant to say,’ came back Talos. ‘I realize that you can’t take your place back in the ranks of your army.’

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘You can do it alone.’ Brithos stared at him, bewildered. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean; if the only way for you to survive is to redeem yourself, then you must combat alone. Listen to me well. Right now you must worry about regaining your strength. Then we’ll leave together for the north to fight against the Persians however we can, in any way possible, until your fame convinces your city to change its ideas and call you back.’

  ‘You really are crazy, Helot,’ replied Brithos after a few moments of reflection. ‘No one has ever attempted such a thing, and besides I’m unarmed.’

  ‘If you haven’t the courage to attempt such a desperate endeavour, then I have nothing else to say to you. But remember, only a venture so extreme can redeem such an extreme situation. As for your weapons, you’ll have them before the sun has set twice.’

  Brithos began to gain interest, despite himself. He argued with Talos and refuted his answers, he made objections. Talos realized that he had saved him from death . . . at least that death.

  ‘I could return home to get my armour,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ argued Talos. ‘No one must see you until the time is right, not even your mother. Think of what I’ve told you, consider it well.’

  At that moment the door opened and Karas walked in.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Brithos.