Spartan

  Talos moved up among the crowd, grinding his teeth in pain from the jabs and shoves of the spectators. He finally reached the first row, lined up to watch the frightful rite. His eyes rested mercilessly on Brithos’ tormented body. Brithos continued to stand upright, whereas the other two boys called with him to the test had begun to bend their knees. The cool, strange music of the pipes went on, measured by the cracking of the whips as the boys’ bare backs were flogged.

  Kresilas was the first to fall. The servants immediately ran to help him up and to carry him out of the sacred enclosure. Next was Kleandridas. Although they all passed the test, each tried to hold out as long as possible to demonstrate his superiority over pain. Brithos alone remained. He ground his teeth, his hair was plastered to his forehead, his chest drenched with sweat. His eyes were glassy, but he remained standing.

  Talos lowered his eyes to the ground in disgust. When he lifted them it was to see Brithos crumble to his knees and then to his hands, his head swinging between his shoulders. Talos felt an acrid joy invade his spirit, poisoned by the desire for revenge. The servants came towards Brithos to lift him, but he motioned them away.

  He slowly lifted his head and chest to look at the crowd before him. Talos lowered his hood, uncovering his battered face. Brithos blinked several times to clear away the tears and the sweat from his eyes, and recognized the boy before him. They glared at each other for long moments with eyes full of ire, of challenge . . . of admiration.

  *

  The bloody rite went on until all the youths had passed the initiation trial. Their shoulders were then covered with the crimson cape of the eirenes, and each new warrior received a shield adorned with the great ‘lambda’ which stood for Lakedaimon, the ancient name of Sparta.

  ‘Which one of these youths will someday receive the shield of the dragon?’ Talos asked himself. The fathers of the eirenes, one by one, put down their weapons. Each warrior left his post on the square, and went towards the priests to receive the shield which he then delivered to his own son. Talos eagerly watched as the warrior of the dragon lay his weapons on the ground and left the lines of the royal guard of King Cleomenes. He proudly gave the shield . . . to Brithos!

  Talos was deeply shaken. That long-ago emotion of his childhood was re-awakened in his soul, and clashed fiercely with his hate for Brithos, his resentment, his wounded pride, his fear.

  ‘Are you mad? You must want to get yourself killed!’ breathed a voice in his ear. It was Pelias, warned by Antinea. He had been searching for Talos, only to find him among the crowd watching the initiation rite.

  ‘Don’t worry, Pelias,’ Talos responded calmly. ‘I’ve already been recognized, but nothing has happened. I don’t know why, but nothing has happened.’

  ‘But why expose yourself so foolishly to such fatal danger?’ reprimanded Pelias.

  ‘Don’t ask me why. I wouldn’t know how to answer. I had to do what I did. What I do know is that it’s never possible to escape your destiny; it’s better to face it.’

  Antinea took him gently by the hand. ‘Let’s go, Talos, please let’s go now. You’re still so weak, you’re tired.’

  Talos pulled up his hood and followed Pelias and Antinea. They turned off the main road and entered one of the many alleyways that formed the dense and intricate network of the old city. They emerged in the square of the other great temple, the one dedicated to Athena, called the House of Bronze. They turned behind the massive construction, and proceeded among the low white stucco houses until they reached the road for Amyclae. It was not long before they had reached Pelias’ farm.

  5

  KRYPTEIA

  IN ARISTARKHOS’ HOME, THERE was great feasting that day: Brithos, the son of the noble warrior, had become an eiren. He would stay with his family only one more week before entering the military barracks as a member of the twelfth syssitìa, the company he would join at table. The members of his syssitìa, fifteen men in all, were part of the third of the four great battalions which composed the Spartan army at that time.

  For ten long years they were to be his family; he would eat and sleep with them, returning to his father’s home only for special occasions. Ismene, his mother, had prepared herself long ago for this separation. Like every Spartan mother, she knew that she had brought her son into the world first for his city, and only secondarily for herself and her husband.

  She was accustomed to him being away; during the various stages of his initiation Brithos had lived for long periods of time outside of his home with his companions under the supervision of the paedonomus. These trainers prepared the boys to endure fatigue, cold and hunger and to confront pain without a whimper. Brithos had won the admiration of the whole crowd present at the flagellation trials by surpassing all limits of endurance. They were sure that the youth would become, without a doubt, one of the strongest and most courageous warriors of Sparta.

  Despite all this, Ismene could not share in her husband’s serene pride. The loss of her other son had left an indelible mark on her. Although she had been prepared since childhood for the possibility of losing a son for the honour and well-being of her country, the realization that Brithos was the only one left to her filled her with gnawing apprehension. Her son’s fiery nature would always push him forward in a risky situation, and their country was now nearer to war than peace. She watched him as he packed his things, assisted by his nurse and one of the servants. Only six days after the trial he had already recovered, and was moving about easily. Ismene herself had prepared the unguents to cure the bruises and wounds that the flagellation had left on his back.

  It was time for her husband to give Brithos the special gift that tradition required on such an occasion. Ismene heard him calling his son from the outer courtyard: ‘Brithos! Don’t you want to see your father’s gift?’

  The boy stopped his packing and went outside.

  ‘Here is my gift for you, son,’ said Aristarkhos. From behind a corner of the house came a servant trying to control a superb Laconian Molossian hound on a leash.

  Brithos, glowing, warmly grasped his father’s hand. ‘Only noble Aristarkhos could have thought of such a precious gift. Thank you, father; he’s really splendid! I’ve never seen such a beautiful dog.’

  ‘He’s already fully trained. I’ve had my best man raising him for three years on our farm in Tegea.’

  ‘You’ve been rash, father,’ teased the boy. ‘What if I hadn’t lasted at the trial?’

  ‘Oh, in that case, I would have kept him for myself; he certainly wouldn’t have gone to waste. Let me tell you, though, that I was certain that the son of Aristarkhos would be the best, and I wasn’t wrong. The king himself complimented me on your superb performance, but you needn’t have pushed yourself so far, Brithos. Your mother suffered terribly in that square: she’s a proud woman, but a woman she is,’ said Aristarkhos, looking away.

  ‘Oh, father, you know well that a warrior can’t let himself be influenced by such things.’

  ‘Yes, son, that may be true, but remember that a real warrior is a real man and that a real man has strong limbs, a quick mind, and also a heart: without any one of these things the armour that covers you is no more than an empty shell.’

  Brithos contemplated his father in silence, taken aback by his words.

  ‘Well then, son,’ continued Aristarkhos, ‘Aren’t you going to take your gift? Here . . .’ he said, taking the leash from his servant, ‘This is Melas. I’ve named him for the colour of his fur. It’s rare to find a Molossian with such an intensely black coat.’

  The gigantic dog, as black as night, approached Brithos and sniffed his hand.

  ‘See?’ Aristarkhos smiled. ‘It seems he already knows that you are his master. I think you’ll become good friends. But now, go to your mother, spend some time with her. Tomorrow you will enter the syssitìa and you won’t have another chance to enjoy her company for the next couple of years.’

  The next day, at first light, Brithos awoke and ate a fru
gal meal with his parents. He then put on his armour and bid them goodbye; the time had come for Brithos to leave home. He crossed the great atrium, and bowed his head in respect to the images of the Kleomenid heroes. He unbolted the door that led to the outer courtyard where a Helot servant was waiting for him with his bags. In that moment he heard his name called. ‘Brithos . . .’ It was his mother, standing before the hearth.

  The youth turned back towards her. ‘What is it, mother?’

  ‘I have something to ask you, if I may,’ answered Ismene.

  ‘Ask me freely,’ said Brithos.

  ‘Do you remember the day of your test?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘After you had fallen to the ground, on your knees . . .’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The servants wanted to lift you but you waved them away. You stayed that way . . . for just a few moments. You seemed to be staring, intensely, at someone in front of you . . .’ Brithos wrinkled his forehead. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘A Helot.’

  ‘A Helot?’

  ‘A Helot. A cripple.’

  He turned and crossed the atrium again. His hobnailed boots resounded on the hard stone as he closed the heavy oak door behind him. Ismene remained staring at the ashes of the hearth, her dark eyes brimming with tears.

  *

  Talos was worried that his prolonged absence might distress his family, and so convinced his host that he could stay no longer.

  ‘I have to go, Pelias, my mother will be getting anxious and my grandfather Kritolaos will be unbearable. That old man is as crafty as a fox; he’ll have a thousand questions ready for me, and he’ll make me fall into some trap for sure. Believe me, it’s better that I go, for your sake as well. If nothing happens you’ll see me returning soon.’

  ‘Yes, maybe you should go, my boy. But be careful, watch out for yourself. Are you sure that you feel well enough? It’s a long walk, and the mountain trail is very steep. Shall I come with you?’

  ‘No, Pelias, if you came with me, it would just stir up suspicion. My grandfather, you know . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know, Kritolaos is an old fox. Then may the gods go with you, Talos. I will not forget what you did for Antinea. If you should ever need anything, you know that you can trust me. My door is open at any moment, and that little that I have—’

  ‘Oh, Pelias,’ Talos interrupted smiling, ‘don’t say such things. All I really did was to take a bit of beating.’

  He walked alone down the path that led to Mount Taygetus, having said goodbye to Antinea.

  ‘I’ll come with you up to the wood,’ she had said.

  ‘No, you stay here. Don’t leave your house at all, not for any reason.’ He touched her hair. ‘Don’t worry, Antinea, and don’t be afraid for me. Nothing can happen on the mountain.’

  He set off, disappearing into the olive trees that spread out at the base of Taygetus. He hurried along the road, hastened by an uneasiness that he couldn’t really explain. He had been gone from his house for many days now, and even though Pelias had sworn to him that his family had believed his story, he still felt uncertain about keeping such a big secret from Kritolaos.

  Besides, he was afraid of what might still befall him. Trying to cope without his grandfather’s advice and experience made him feel very alone. For him, Kritolaos was beyond doubt the wisest man on earth. What would happen in the days, or the months, or the years to come? He knew of men sentenced to death by the Spartans who survived for a long time, only to have their destiny finally catch up with them. He remembered the hooded man they had seen at the high spring on the day when Kritolaos had tested the boy’s skill with the bow. Most likely, Sparta knew about that too. But, then, why hadn’t they reacted? What were they waiting for? He had gone into the city, shown himself in the square. Surely he must have been recognized, and yet nothing had happened.

  He thought of what he had heard about the dreaded krypteia, the secret forces of the Spartan army. The Helots of the mountain said that they would stalk anyone they considered dangerous and would think nothing of eliminating him, without mercy, without warning, in the darkness of the night, in the middle of the forest. He had sometimes heard the word whispered, charged with terror, over the lifeless body of a Helot found in the wood or in a cabin.

  Kritolaos had told him once of a peasant from the plains who, pursued by the krypteia, had escaped to Messenia with the help of the mountain shepherds. The relentless revenge of Sparta reached him four years later in a tavern at the port of Methone. Suddenly the wood which had always seemed protective and secure to Talos – in which he had found himself many times face to face with a wolf or a bear without trembling – seemed hostile and fraught with danger. He felt hunted, certainly followed. Talos drove away these thoughts and quickened his pace, trying to calm down. How he longed not to be so alone at that moment! Even the company of little Krios would have lightened the weight in his heart.

  Antinea. How strange, he still couldn’t understand what had happened to him. It was like some kind of magic and now her face and her eyes were always appearing in front of him; he dreamed of her rough peasant’s hands, her bare feet, her golden hair. But his feelings for her could not wash away the rest. He thought of the wretched peasants of the plains, crushed by responsibility for their families and perpetually exposed to the cruelty of their masters.

  He thought of Pelias who would have borne their abuse of his daughter without protest, so that worse things would not follow. He remembered his own struggle against the young Spartans and felt full of pride. No, he would not bend: if he had made his masters taste dirt, maybe he wasn’t born to be a slave. He thought of the great horn bow and of the cursed sword that lay under the earth: what did Kritolaos expect of him? What did he want him to do? It was time to find out: he would ask him.

  With all these thoughts, Talos had nearly reached the end of his journey. He left the wood behind him and entered the great mountain clearing.

  He stopped to look at his land, his home which appeared in the distance with its rugged straw roof and its pen for the flocks. In just a little while Krios would run up to him, barking and wagging his tail in welcome. Talos began walking through the fields, soon noticing that there was a small group of people gathered in the courtyard of his house: mountain shepherds, it seemed, but Krios was nowhere to be seen. What could have happened? He hurried into the courtyard. His dog approached him slowly, its eyes veiled with cataracts. One of the men took his arm. ‘Talos,’ he said, ‘your grandfather Kritolaos . . .’

  The youth froze. ‘What has happened?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘He’s not well.’

  ‘Do you mean that he’s dying?’ The man lowered his head.

  Talos opened the door and entered; he crossed the room with the hearth and moved aside the hanging mat that separated it from the other room where Kritolaos was lying on his pallet. His mother, sitting on a stool, watched him in silence, her eyes full of tears. A ray of sunlight illuminated the simple bed, the old man’s gnarled hands, his tranquil eyes that seemed to search for distant truth. Talos fell to his knees next to the bed and took that cold hand into his. The old man turned his head towards the boy.

  ‘I knew that you would come,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I was waiting for you, I couldn’t have closed my eyes without seeing you.’

  ‘What are you saying,’ interrupted Talos with a tremor in his voice. ‘You’ve been ill other times, you’ll soon be on your feet again and we’ll go together to the spring.’

  ‘No, Talos; last night I heard Thanatos settling on the roof of this house. My time has come.’

  Talos passed his hand through Kritolaos’ snow white hair. ‘What foolishness, old man, I’ll go up to the roof and beat off Thanatos with a stick. I won’t let you go. There are so many things that you still have to teach me!’ He felt a knot closing his throat: ‘Will you leave this baby sparrow alone, Kritolaos?’

  The old man looked at him with dimmed eyes. ‘Kritolaos is ti
red,’ he said as he struggled for breath, ‘he’s going to join his ancestors. This baby sparrow . . .’ He began again, approximating a feeble smile. ‘No, I see a young wolf now.’

  Talos felt the old man’s hand weakly grasping his own. ‘I know everything,’ said Kritolaos. ‘I knew that one day it would happen.’

  ‘What do you know?’ asked Talos, drawing closer so as not to miss a sound of the dying man’s words.

  ‘Your struggle on the plain.’ The old man stared at the contusions still quite visible on Talos’ face and arms. ‘Talos, listen: they will come, you know, they will come, you must be ready . . . The bow . . . the bow of the king must not fall into their hands.’

  ‘Yes, the king’s bow is safe. Don’t talk now, you’re tiring yourself.’

  ‘It’s no use, Talos, this is the last day of Kritolaos, remember?’

  Talos saw the dim underground chamber in his mind’s eye, the weapons gleaming in the torchlight.

  ‘Talos, my boy, tomorrow I will not see the light . . . I’ll be leaving with the last rays of the sun. You are the keeper of the weapons of King Aristodemus. Of the sword . . . sacred . . . and cursed.’

  Talos felt a chill run along his spine. He squeezed the bony hand more tightly, his eyes veiled with tears, his heart swollen.

  ‘This old man . . .’ continued Kritolaos, his voice weaker still, ‘this old man is the last leader of his people, Talos. Talos, one day our people will shake off the yoke, and the city . . . the dead city will rise again on its ruins . . . That will be the day of the test . . . the final test.’

  Kritolaos spoke with great effort, his bony chest rising, wheezing in agony. ‘Listen to me . . . Talos . . . listen; on that day a man blind in one eye will come to you. He can remove the curse from the sword of the king . . .’