Spartan

  He hoped that the night might still bring him a little rest, and he stopped racking his brains; he would have to wait until he returned to Sparta to seek an answer. The ground he was lying on was dry and the big woollen blanket kept him warm. He drowsed again. The wind had eased and the place was immersed in deep silence. A sudden beating of wings: the birds of prey were rising from the ruins in search of food, soaring through the darkness.

  The neighing of his horse woke him abruptly shortly before dawn: the animal was nervous, as if something had spooked him. He was pawing the ground with his hooves and blowing hard out of his nostrils. As Kleidemos was getting up to calm him, he reared and attempted to break free, clearly terrified. Kleidemos looked all around but saw nothing. He approached the horse, calling out to him and slackening the reins he had tied to a bush. He tried to pet his muzzle but the bay showed no signs of calming down; if anything, he was increasingly upset. Kleidemos picked up his blanket while holding tight to the reins, and dragged the horse away from the walls.

  At that moment he heard a dull rumble, a suffocated roar coming from under the ground. He was afraid: all the stories he’d heard about that place as a little boy suddenly seemed credible, and he was sorry he had ever set foot there. As he tried to pull his horse down the hill, he heard another roar and he felt the earth tremble. A light shock at first, then a strong, prolonged tremor that made him sway. A much harder shock made him fall to the ground with his horse, who nearly crushed him. As he rolled down the muddy path he heard the crash of the ruins; raising his head, he saw huge boulders tumbling to the ground from the top of the walls and the towers. The earth trembled again, shaking beneath him, and more stones gave way, raising great billows of dust; the gods were destroying what was left of Ithome while huge leaden clouds, swollen with rain, gathered above.

  A bolt of lightning darted among the livid cloudbanks, illuminating the mountain with a blinding light, chased by a thunderous roar. More bolts swiftly followed, flattening the ghostly shadows of the bulwarks and bastions onto the ground. Peal upon peal of thunder cracked with such a din that it seemed that the earth would split open and swallow up the city.

  Kleidemos stood petrified, contemplating the scene, certain that the undermined walls would tumble down on him and bury him. Just for a moment; then he turned and ran down the slope as fast as he could, stumbling and falling again and again, filthy with mud, elbows and knees bleeding. He finally reached the base of the mountain and called his horse. The steed raced over with his reins tangled between his legs and Kleidemos jumped into the saddle, spurring him on furiously. The animal galloped forward, whipping the air with his tail, blowing huge clouds of steam from his dilated nostrils, his pupils widening with every bolt of lightning that flashed on the road. His horseman continued to urge him along the narrow trail at a mad pace as the rain began to fall. Gusts of wind swept over the deserted road and the rain turned into a downpour, but Kleidemos drove him on as if out of his mind until he heard the horse’s breath coming in short pants and he began to pull in the reins to slow him down.

  Leaving the storm behind him, he slowed the drenched, sweaty animal to a walk. He crossed a village, and then another; everywhere he witnessed scenes of terrified people digging with their hands through the ruins of their homes or chasing after the animals who had mown down their pens and were frantically running through the fields.

  In the late afternoon, exhausted and starving, he reached Gathaei and then, towards evening, Belemina, both devastated by the earthquake. He realized that as he neared Laconia the effects of the earthquake worsened. The wooden houses were still standing, but the stone structures had crumbled under the force of the shocks. Everywhere weeping women and bewildered men wandered among the debris or dug through the rubble. Children screamed in despair, calling parents who were perhaps buried forever in the wreckage of their homes. Kleidemos slept a few hours in a hayloft, crushed by fatigue and anguish, and then set off again in the direction of Macistus, stopping every now and then to let his horse rest. He was fearful of what might have happened to his house, to his mother. It was clear that the earthquake had struck most of the Peloponnese and he couldn’t even be sure that Pelias and Antinea’s home had not been destroyed. Macistus appeared to be devastated as well and he saw hundreds of corpses lined up along the roads, more being added constantly as the survivors succeeded in opening a passage between the demolished houses.

  He stopped a couple of horsemen who were arriving at full gallop from the southern road. ‘Where are you from?’ he shouted at them.

  ‘From Tegea. Who are you?’

  ‘I am Kleidemos, son of Aristarkhos, Spartan. What news is there of my city?’

  ‘All bad,’ replied one of the men, shaking his head. ‘Most of the houses have collapsed or are precarious. There have been thousands of deaths. All able-bodied men have been asked to help in the rescue efforts and ensure order in the city. Many of the elders are dead, as are several of the ephors. Confusion is rampant.’

  ‘The kings?’

  ‘King Archidamus is alive; one of my comrades saw him near the acropolis, where he has set up headquarters. I know nothing of King Pleistarchus.’

  ‘Where are you directed now?’

  ‘North to seek help, in Arcadia, even in Achaea if necessary. But we’ve found naught but death and ruin. We met two royal guards headed towards Sicyon and Corinth in search of aid. Amyclae has been levelled to the ground; Gytheum is almost completely destroyed. Make haste if you have any of your family at Sparta, because the city is devastated.’ They galloped off towards the north while Kleidemos spurred his mount in the opposite direction.

  Along the road he encountered columns of refugees with carts and pack animals. Groups of horsemen raced by, covered with mud, whipping their horses and shouting in the attempt to make their way among that homeless multitude. He left Sellasia behind him, ravaged by the disaster, and reached the banks of the Eurotas, in full flood; in just a few hours he would be in Sparta, if his horse could only endure the strain. The generous animal devoured the road, his belly to the ground, stretching his head rhythmically forward and arching his powerful neck. Kleidemos had to slow him down every so often so that his heart would not burst.

  The marks of destruction lay all around him, terrible and dramatic; the closer he got to the city, the more he saw villages reduced to piles of debris, without a single wall in sight. Entire populations must have been exterminated, if the shocks that he had felt at Ithome were but the distant reverberation of the frightful tremor that had shaken all of Laconia and flattened city after city to the ground, surprising most of their inhabitants in their sleep.

  He gradually began to note groups of hoplites in full battle gear guarding crossroads and patrolling the countryside, sinking into the ploughed, rain-soaked fields. What on earth could be happening? As he proceeded, the patrols were increasingly frequent and included young boys and even wounded men with makeshift bandages, nonetheless carrying the shield with the red lambda. Kleidemos did not stop to ask for explanations, worried as he was about his mother’s safety.

  He finally came within sight of the Kleomenid home as night fell. All he could make out was a dark mass in the countryside and he could not tell whether the house was still standing or had been reduced to a shapeless heap of ruins. As he reached the entrance to the courtyard he breathed a sigh of relief: there were cracks here and there, and the roof had partially caved in, but on the whole, the robust stone structure with its jointed corners had held, while the stables and the peasants’ dwellings had all crumbled. There was no light inside, however, and he could hear no sound. He pushed the door open, shoving aside the rubble that was partially blocking the entrance. Some embers still glowed faintly in the hearth; he managed to rekindle the fire and lit a torch.

  Many of the ceiling beams had been jarred out of place and several hung down. He called his mother and then Alesos, repeatedly, but there was no answer. He ran from one room to another but found no one. The house
was completely empty, although a fire had certainly been lit here the night before, and he could see no traces of blood anywhere. The bed in his mother’s room was full of debris and dust, but it seemed that no one had slept there. He returned to the great atrium and sat near the fire, seized by anguish: what had happened during his absence? It seemed that his mother had abandoned the house; or had she been dragged off by force while he was away? He couldn’t believe that she would have gone without leaving a message. He was so exhausted that he didn’t have the strength to start searching for her in the dark countryside or, worse yet, in the devastated city.

  He went out to take care of his horse: the poor animal, drenched in sweat and weakened by the strain, had to be protected from the cold, gusty night. He dried him off as best he could with a little hay he found by groping around the ruins of the stable. He put a blanket on his back and took him to shelter, throwing a little forage in front of him and then finally re-entering the house. Oblivious to the danger that further shocks might send the whole ceiling crashing down upon him, he dragged his bed close to the fire and dropped onto it like a dead man.

  The muffled cries and suffocated screams of the tormented city arrived from a distance. Sparta, the invincible.

  On the distant surf-beaten Taenarum promontory, the temple of Poseidon had collapsed onto its foundations. The statue of the god, whom mariners called Enosigeus – ‘he who shakes the earth’ – had fallen from its pedestal and tumbled to the foot of the altar, still stained with the Helots’ blood.

  Kleidemos rose before the sun, awakened by the lowing of the starving oxen who had survived the earthquake and were huddled near the crumbled stables, looking for food. He sat for a few moments, trying to organize his confused thoughts. He was distressed about his mother’s disappearance, but hoped that she and Alesos had sought refuge on the mountainside, where the Helots’ wooden cottages would have better resisted the earthquake.

  He thought bitterly of the night spent amidst the ruins of Ithome: he had been struck by the idea that he might uncover the truth behind the deaths of his brother and Aghias, rejected by Sparta, one driven to suicide, the other killed seeking to redeem his honour. At the very moment when the truth seemed close at hand, the city had been destroyed by the earthquake. What sense now in attempting to discover the true contents of Leonidas’ message? Sparta had decreed the death of his father Aristarkhos, and of his brother Brithos. Sparta was responsible for the end of Ismene, her life cut short by a pain no human being could withstand. Those words remained on her tomb, engraved by an unknown hand but meant, perhaps, for him. Perhaps. A fleeting clue, leading him towards a truth that had little significance any more. Sparta was paying for its inhuman harshness, paying for its horrible sacrilege at Taenarum. The gods were wiping them off the face of the earth.

  The time had come to make a decision. He got up to look for some food to calm his hunger cramps; after having eaten a piece of stale bread found in a cupboard, he walked out into the courtyard. The wind had risen, drying the ground a little and carrying away the clouds. He looked in the direction of Sparta and noted numerous clusters of soldiers patrolling around the razed houses. Something strange was certainly going on; he could hear trumpet blasts, see warriors rushing in every direction, a man on horseback caracoling back and forth and waving his right arm as if giving orders. He wore a crested helmet; it may have been one of the kings – Pleistarchus, perhaps, or Archidamus. What could be happening?

  He turned his gaze to the mountain and understood: hundreds and hundreds of men were descending from Mount Taygetus, emerging from the forests and the brush, disappearing and then re-emerging further down the valley. They were armed with spears, swords, sticks. They had nearly reached the olive grove extending from the lower slopes of the mountain to the city.

  The wrath of the gods had not yet been appeased: the Helots were attacking Sparta!

  21

  THE WORD OF THE KING

  THRONGS OF HELOTS SOON reached the plain. When they were a short distance from the city, they all stopped, as if an unseen commander had halted the disorganized rush. The first ones formed a line, and those behind them followed suit, until they had produced a passably regular front, much longer than the scanty line of warriors that Sparta had managed to send into battle. Kleidemos left his courtyard and walked through the fields until he reached a wreck of a house from which he could watch what was happening.

  An awesome shout rent the air and the Helots lunged into an attack. The Spartans slowly drew back towards the ruins of their city so as to keep their flanks covered, then tightened into a compact front, lowering their spears. The two formations clashed: the Helot lines soon tangled in the fury of their assault, as though none of them could refrain from the massacre of their enemies, hated and feared for centuries. But the Spartans fought for their very lives, knowing that if they succumbed that day, it could mean the end for their city. Their wives raped and killed, their children run through. All those that the earthquake had spared: annihilated.

  Kleidemos felt like rushing home to take up arms and throw himself into the thick of the battle: this was the day that Kritolaos had dreamed of for him and for his people. But how could he don the armour of Aristarkhos and Brithos to deal a death blow to the city for which they had given their lives? He was immobilized, trembling and angry, in his hiding place and could do nothing but watch the fray wide-eyed, his heart violently unsettled. His heart was the true battlefield; there the two peoples fought with savage fury. Death, blood, screams sowed horror and agony. He could no longer watch and he slowly crumpled to his knees, leaning his head against the wall, racked by painful spasms, weeping inconsolably.

  But the battle before the crumbling houses of Sparta was becoming more and more violent. The Helots fought on without respite, rotating as the combatants in the front lines were wounded or debilitated. The wall of shields before them was already dripping blood, and seemed unyielding; thick with spears, the front line of the hated enemy was not giving way. King Archidamus himself had drawn up at the centre of the line and was battling with great valour. The hoplites alongside him fought prodigiously so as not to dishonour themselves in the eyes of their king. Reinforcements arrived and were deployed at the sides where the risk of being encircled was greatest. With them came the pipers, whose music rose amidst the broken houses above the shouts of the combatants, and wafted through the fields – the voice of one mortally wounded who refuses to die. In the end the Helots began to retreat into the forest, taking their injured and their dead with them.

  The Spartans did not follow, satisfied with having repulsed them. They laid down their arms, assisted their wounded and gathered up their dead. The king stationed groups of sentries all around the city, took the fittest men with him and went to the aid of those still trapped among the ruins. For the entire day he could be seen in the midst of all that debris, untiring, his clothing torn, wherever his help was needed. As evening fell, many of the survivors had already found shelter in the field tents that he had had raised in many parts of the city, wherever there was an open clearing. The women had lit fires and were cooking what food they could to reinvigorate their weary, hungry companions. Military surgeons worked ceaselessly by the light of torches and lamps, stitching wounds, setting fractured limbs, cauterizing with red-hot irons to prevent infection from spreading or to stop the flow of blood.

  King Pleistarchus, in the meantime, was galloping north towards Corinth, accompanied by a group of guards. From there he would be able to organize rescue efforts and establish contact with the Athenians. Cimon would certainly not refuse his help, and might even agree to send the fleet with stores of wheat to feed his people. The son of Leonidas felt that he could appeal to the son of Miltiades, the winner of Marathon, for the aid he so desperately needed.

  When the Helots had withdrawn, Kleidemos had collapsed to the ground unconscious and there he remained for many hours in a dazed state until the chill of the night brought him to his senses. His stomach wa
s cramping with hunger pangs and he decided to go back to his house. He managed to light a fire and to bake himself a little unleavened bread in the ashes, and then fell back onto his bed, completely done in.

  In the middle of the night he was still sleeping deeply when he thought he heard a knock at the door. He forced himself awake; yes, someone was there. He leapt up and drew his sword, took a torch and opened the door but saw no one.

  ‘Who goes there?’ he demanded, scanning the darkness.

  He walked down the steps of the threshold towards the courtyard, lifting his torch high to spread a little light. He looked out to the right, towards the stable and then to the left, illuminating the outer wall of the house. It was then that he saw a man, standing motionless, wrapped in a cloak that covered half of his face, wearing a black patch over his left eye. He started, taken completely by surprise, and thrust out his sword.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The man brought his right hand to the edge of the cloak and uncovered a scarred face: Karas!

  Kleidemos dropped the sword and stood looking at him, speechless.

  ‘Is that how you greet a friend you haven’t seen for years?’ asked Karas, approaching him.

  ‘I . . .’ babbled Kleidemos, ‘I couldn’t believe . . . I never expected. O powerful gods . . . Karas . . . it’s you! But your eye!’ One day a man will come to you, blind in one eye . . . ‘What happened to your eye?’

  Karas tossed the cloak back off his shoulders and opened his arms.

  ‘Oh, my friend, my dear, old friend . . .’ Kleidemos said, clasping him tight. ‘I was afraid I’d never see you again . . .’ He can remove the curse of the sword of the King . . .

  They entered the atrium and sat by the hearth, where Kleidemos rekindled the dying fire.

  ‘By Pollux . . . your face!’ he said, staring at Karas’ black bandage, the deep gouges. ‘Who did this to you?’