Spartan (25 page)

‘That the war isn’t over, and that hostilities could start up again at any moment.’

‘That’s right. Don’t forget that the Great King is still demanding that all of Hellas recognize his sovereignty. He has understood that he cannot dominate the Asian Greeks
without controlling those of us on the continent. When he makes another move, it will be to bring his army back to this land. So we must absolutely establish outposts in Asia to keep a watchful eye
on the movements of his armies. The barbarians are best fought in Asia, not at the doors to our own homes. The ephors and the elders have decided that I should depart with a squad of Peloponnesians
to occupy the island of Cyprus. Afterwards, I am to install a garrison at Byzantium, the city that controls the Hellespont strait. This is it, here.’ He pointed his finger at the map.
‘This narrow waterway separates Asia from Europe.’

Kleidemos could not understand how it was possible to draw the land and sea on a piece of sheepskin, and how such a drawing could help one to journey towards one place or return to one’s
point of departure. ‘Tell me,’ he asked timidly, ‘is Mount Taygetus shown in this drawing?’

‘Certainly,’ replied the king, smiling. ‘Look, your mountain is right here, and this is Sparta, our city.’

‘But are there other lands past the borders of this drawing?’

‘Yes, very many: towards the north and towards the south, towards the east and towards the setting sun. They are all surrounded by the river Ocean, whose waters cannot be navigated by any
ship built by man. And no one knows what is beyond the river Ocean.’

‘Have the ephors and elders decided on the moment of departure?’

‘The ships will set sail with the new moon, and I want you with me when we leave. I will command the allied fleet which will take possession of the island of Cyprus. It is a very beautiful
land and we must gain control of it; the Persian fleet must no longer have any base in our sea. Why do I think you should accompany me? Because you must forget the events of your past and begin a
new life. You’ll see new lands, beautiful cities, things you’ve never even dreamed of. Your servants will take care of your home while you are away.’

‘My home?’ murmured Kleidemos. ‘I no longer know where my home is. I no longer know anything. At night I dream of my past life and when I wake I don’t recognize anything
around me.’

Pausanias rolled up the map again and put it away. He approached Kleidemos. ‘I understand how you feel. Few men have had a destiny like yours, and even fewer have had to deal with trials
so difficult. But now the first part of your life has ended. You can take the time that remains to you in your own hands and build a new life – with the help of the gods, and of the men who
know your strength and your resolve. Life does not hand out only suffering and misfortunes; joy and pleasure can yet be yours. The gods have tested your heart sufficiently; they have certainly
reserved a great future for you, and I believe in you as well, Kleidemos, son of Aristarkhos.’

*

The allied squad, equipped with almost two hundred warships, sailed into the waters of Cyprus one morning at the beginning of the summer. Kleidemos had never seen anything like
it. Gone were the stomach cramps and the nausea that had gripped him on their journey from Gytheum to Cythera. The wind filled the sails of the great vessels drawn up in a column, their bronze
rostra slicing into the sea, which foamed up around the brightly coloured figureheads.

A blue standard flew on Pausanias’ flagship as he began his approach. The oars dipped into the sea and the fleet started to press portside along the southern coast of the island. The head
squad moored in the early afternoon, under a splendid sun, without encountering any resistance; the Great King’s forces had already withdrawn. The Phoenician ships from Tyre and Sidon had
returned to their own ports, apparently biding their time. Pausanias took quarter in a beautiful house in the city of Salamis, attended to by a number of servants.

Kleidemos spent his time at the training grounds and gymnasiums of the city, learning combat technique from his instructors. Wearing hoplite armour took some practice; its weight seemed
suffocating. One day, as he was drying off after a bath, a boy with a mass of black curls approached him. ‘Are you Spartan, sir?’ he asked curiously.

‘Yes, I am. And who are you?’

‘My name is Lahgal. I’m Syrian. My master owns this bathhouse and he bought me at the market of Ugarit. That’s a beautiful city: have you ever been there?’

‘No,’ answered Kleidemos, smiling, ‘I haven’t. It’s the first time I’ve ever left my homeland, and my first voyage by sea.’

‘Do you mean to say that you don’t even know this island?’

‘No, I don’t; I’ve never been outside Salamis.’

‘But then you haven’t seen anything, sir! This island is marvellous. The best oil is produced here, and the most inebriating wine. Pomegranates grow here, and the sweet dates that
grow on the palms will be ripe at the end of the summer. The goddess of love, whom you Greeks call Aphrodite, was born in these waters. We Syrians call her Astarte.’

‘I see that you’ve come to love this land. Don’t you miss your home?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ said the boy, shrugging, ‘I was brought here when I was very small. I must not have cost much, but my master made a good deal. I run errands for him and clean the
baths. I make sure that the girls do not rob from him when they go to market, or prostitute themselves behind his back to put the money in their own pockets. He gives me a lot of freedom. I can
come and go as I please after I’ve done my work.’

‘Well,’ continued Kleidemos, amused, ‘would you like to show me this island that you say is so beautiful? Do you think your master would allow you to take me around?’

‘To tell you the truth, sir,’ said the boy, a bit perplexed, ‘my master says he doesn’t do good business with you Spartans. No one wants your ugly iron coins. The
Athenians are much better; they pay with pretty silver coins with an owl on them. They drink much more and like to have fun with both the boys and the girls. But I like you even if you are Spartan.
If my master doesn’t need me, I’ll be waiting for you here, in front of the door, tomorrow morning when the cock crows. Do you have a horse?’

‘No, Lahgal, I’m sorry. But maybe I can take one of the porters’ asses; I don’t think they need them now that we’re stationed here.’

‘All right,’ said the boy. ‘I would have preferred a horse, but an ass will do. Goodbye!’

The following morning as the sun was rising they were already travelling down the coastal road that led to the city of Paphos, where the temple of Aphrodite stood. The road wound through the
hillside studded with olive trees and little white houses, descending every now and then towards the sea. The air was redolent with pine resin and salt water, and the green fields were dotted with
white and yellow flowers graced with fluttering butterflies, now that the sun was drying the dew from their wings.

Kleidemos felt light-hearted, riding along on his ass with his young friend sitting in front of him.

‘You haven’t told me your name,’ observed Lahgal.

‘It will seem strange to you,’ replied Kleidemos smiling, ‘but it’s not easy for me to answer that question.’

‘You’re teasing me,’ objected the boy. ‘Even little children can say their names.’

‘Well, Lahgal,’ explained Kleidemos, ‘the fact is that I have two names because I have two families, yet I have no father and the mother who remains to me is not my real
mother, who died . . . a couple of months ago in my home, which I had never seen. Or rather, which I lived in for several months when I could neither understand nor remember.’ Lahgal turned
around to look at him, utterly confused.

‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’ he asked with a smile. ‘And yet everything I’ve told you is absolutely true.’ Lahgal’s expression went from
bewilderment to something deeper, more intense. He turned forward to face the dusty road.

‘Perhaps . . .’ he said after a brief silence, ‘perhaps you’re different . . . different from the other men who live on this earth.’

‘No, my young friend, I’m not. I’m a person just like you, for whom the gods have reserved a strange destiny. If you like I’ll tell you my story.’ Lahgal nodded.
‘Well, long ago, before you were even born, a child was born in a noble home of Sparta. His parents called him Kleidemos. But they soon realized that he was lame, and the father carried him
away one night and abandoned him on the mountainside. This was the law of Sparta: no male child who was deformed, and so could not become a warrior, was allowed to live. But this child was found by
an old shepherd, a Helot who brought his master’s flock to pasture on the slopes of Mount Taygetus. He saved the child and his daughter raised him as her own. He named the boy Talos, and
that’s what the Helots called him.

‘The child grew and learned to wrestle and to use a bow and arrow. He called the woman who raised him “mother” and the old shepherd, “grandfather”. He also learned
to force his crippled foot to support the weight of his body and to move with dexterity.

‘This boy had a brother, a little older than him, raised to be a Spartan warrior. One day they met, and they fought without ever knowing that they were brothers. Talos was nearly
killed—’

‘Why did you fight your brother?’ interrupted Lahgal. ‘You are Talos, aren’t you?’

‘Because my brother and his companions had attacked a girl who was my friend, the daughter of a peasant who lived on the plain. From that day on, he hated me. One day he came to finish me
off, or so I thought. He let his ferocious hound slaughter all my sheep, and my own little dog. But it didn’t end there . . . War broke out, you see, between the cities of Greece and the
Great King of Persia.

‘We Helots were brought to the city to be chosen as the warriors’ attendants, and my brother chose me. I accompanied him to the Thermopylae, and I saw my father there as well –
the father who had abandoned me as a child. I did not know who he was, but he knew . . . I think. I remember the way he looked at me; there seemed to be infinite pain burning within him, held in
check by the power of his will. My father was a great warrior, the cousin of King Cleomenes and King Leonidas. He perished with the other warriors of Sparta, butchered all on the rocks of the
pass.’

Kleidemos fell silent and only the scuttling of the ass’s hooves could be heard on the stony path. A farmer who was scything the grass in a nearby field raised his head to wipe away the
sweat and waved at them with his wide-brimmed hat. Some storks who had been poking around for insects in the cut grass took flight, disappearing behind a hill.

‘I’ve heard tell of the three hundred heroes of the Thermopylae.’ Lahgal said suddenly. ‘I heard a funeral lament that was written for them by a great poet who lives on
the island.’

‘Did the dirge mention that two of those warriors were saved?’

‘No, I thought they all died.’

‘That’s not what happened. Two of them were spared, and I accompanied them to Sparta on orders from the king. One of them was my brother Brithos. They had a message to deliver to the
elders, but no one was ever to know what it said. It was rumoured that they had lied or sought to escape, and no one in their city would have anything to do with them. They were branded as cowards
and traitors. One of them hanged himself in his own home. The other, my brother, tried to kill himself one night on the mountain, but I’d been watching him, and managed to stop him. I brought
him back to my mountain cabin and convinced him to vindicate himself by fighting a solitary war against the Persians.

‘I arranged to have the armour of our father taken from his home and Brithos wore it that autumn, winter and spring, fighting in Phocis, Locris and Boeotia. I was with him, fighting at his
side. We hid in the wood, sleeping in mountain caves. By day we would take Persian detachments by surprise, attack isolated groups requisitioning food and forage. My brother was a fury: he killed
more than two hundred Persian officers and soldiers, while I covered him with my bow and arrow.’

The sun was high and the day was hot. The road led down to a little clearing where a shimmering plane tree stood. The ass trotted towards the shade, attracted by the cool green grass. Kleidemos
let him go and, as he grazed, sat in the shadow of the huge tree with Lahgal. The waves of the nearby sea lapped the beach, wetting a myriad of brightly coloured pebbles that glittered like gems in
the sunshine.

‘You never knew you were brothers?’ asked Lahgal, his back still turned to Kleidemos.

‘No,’ he replied, watching the swirling sea. ‘Only Brithos’ eyes looked like mine. He was the image of our father. Taller than me and more muscular; wearing that heavy
armour had made him very powerful. When he stripped to wash himself in the river he looked like Hercules. I resemble my mother.’

‘Didn’t that give it away?’ asked Lahgal, surprised.

‘No, it didn’t, because I looked like a servant and he looked like a nobleman. Servitude accustoms you to keeping your head down. It takes the light out of your eyes, it makes you
similar to the animals you spend your time with—’ He stopped; Lahgal had turned around and was looking at him sadly. Kleidemos shifted to face him as well, as though he had felt the
weight of his stare. ‘Did I say something that has made you feel bad? I have . . . I can see that.’

The boy lowered his head, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

‘You mustn’t feel sorry for me, Lahgal,’ continued Kleidemos. ‘I was happy as a servant, there with my grandfather on the mountain, with my dog, my lambs and now . . . I
have lost my family, my people. I wear the shield and the armour of the Kleomenids, one of the most noble families of Sparta, but I no longer know who I am. I regret leaving, but I can’t turn
back, and I see nothing before me. Brithos died at Plataea: he redeemed his honour but he lost his life. It was King Pausanias – the man who has occupied this island – who gave me my
brother’s weapons and told me my real name: Kleidemos. I went back to the house where I was born and there I met the woman who gave birth to me: my mother Ismene. If I live to be a thousand,
I shall never forget that night. My heart was as hard as a stone at the thought that she had had the courage to abandon her son to the wolves of the mountain. I was relishing the idea of torturing
her, of making her suffer – the proud bride of Aristarkhos. But the creature I found before me was shattered, her face furrowed by tears. Her mind . . . vacillating at the threshold of
madness.