Spartan (36 page)

‘What about you, mother? Can you understand me?’

‘The gods willed that I should bear no children,’ she replied, raising her white head, ‘but you are my son . . . you are my son . . .’ Her grey eyes filled with
tears.

The short winter’s day was already drawing to a close and the shadow of the mountain descended on the house of the Kleomenids like a giant’s paw. It stretched out over the plain,
over the cottages, over the icy waters of the Eurotas. It crept among the white houses of Sparta, the invincible, until it swallowed up the acropolis and the proud walls of the House of Bronze.

*

The
krypteia
officer inspected his squad in the moonlight: fifty men on horseback, lightly armed for quick, decisive action. All the Helot chiefs, representing the people
of the mountain and the people of the plains, were meeting at an abandoned mill near the Taenarum promontory. He expected to find among them the man he had tortured and deprived of an eye in the
underground chambers of the Council House. Their orders were to exterminate the whole lot; they were said to be preparing a revolt. Not one of them would survive, so that the Helots would realize
once and for all that there was no hope of breaking free. Their bondage was destined to last forever.

Giving the signal, he set out at a gallop along the dark streets of Cynosura, followed by the squad of horsemen, and led them to the road for Amyclae. It was nearly midnight when he stopped his
men at the foot of the hill on which the abandoned mill stood. The operation was proceeding smoothly; the moon was hidden from sight and his men had succeeded in stealing up in the darkness. They
would be able to encircle the building without being seen. But when he gave the signal to dismount, a dog began to bark, then another, until the whole area echoed with furious barking. The Helots
had their sheepdogs with them and they were sounding the alarm. The horses balked, pawing the ground and whinnying, and their riders, taken by surprise, could do little to hold them in check.

‘Let them go!’ shouted the officer. ‘We’ll round them up later. Forward, now, don’t let them get away!’

In the meantime the Helots, forewarned, had fled the building in the opposite direction, seeking refuge in the darkness, but the place they had chosen was deserted and barren, a windswept rocky
clearing on the sea. Just a short distance away, at the very tip of the promontory, rose the temple of Poseidon Enosigeus; the god of the sea was called upon to protect mariners as they rounded
Cape Taenarum, crowned by sharp cliffs. The fugitives rushed to seek haven in the sacred enclosure, but escape was futile: the
krypteia
agents entered and swiftly surrounded the landing in
front of the sanctuary colonnade.

The Helots backed towards the altar and there they remained, like supplicants, entrusting their lives to the protection of the god. The Spartans hesitated and turned towards their officer but he
drew his sword and ordered them to charge. The warriors lunged at the unarmed victims and slaughtered them. Their swords descended implacably, sinking without mercy into that tangle of bodies,
cleaving their bones, rending their naked chests. Their blood streamed and drenched the sacred stone of the altar. The temple colonnade rang with desperate cries and curses which mixed with the
frenzied barking of the dogs and the whinnying of the horses as they ran terrified through the night.

The officer had entered the temple and came out with two lit torches, to illuminate the landing. The scene before him was so atrocious that, although he was inured to the sight of blood, he felt
his stomach heave. In the dark-ness,his men had struck not with the precision of warriors, but with the brutality of butchers.

He turned away from the bloodbath and ordered his men to withdraw. The temple esplanade was plunged back into silence. The two torches, abandoned on the ground, sputtered and gave off a
tremulous glow.

A black shape appeared then in the bloody halo. The dying flames lit a bearded face, jaw tight, bullish brow deeply creased. Beneath his forehead a single eye stared, casting sinister flashes
like a smouldering ember.

That night on the mountain the wolves howled and howled and the people of Taygetus were puzzled, because it was not yet mating season. But the old men were awakened by that mournful choir and
felt their hearts turn to ice. They knew that a calamity had befallen their people and they wept bitter tears in the darkness.

A
LESOS RETURNED, DEVASTATED,
to warn his master of the massacre perpetrated by the Spartans at Taenarum but couldn’t find him: Kleidemos had left
before dawn, headed for Messenia. The bay horse, the one he’d brought with him from Asia, was missing from the stable. By that time, Kleidemos had passed Sellasia, crossed the northern spurs
of Mount Taygetus and was on his way down the mountain’s western side to take the road to the village of Thouria.

He rode the whole day, descending from the saddle now and then to stretch his legs and warm up a little by walking. The sky was overcast and the wind pushed huge grey clouds towards the Gulf of
Messenia. The landscape before him was fractured into many small valleys separated by hilly crests sometimes covered with forest, sometimes barren, with rocky outcrops. Every now and then he would
run into a shepherd whom he could ask about the road and exchange a few words with. Their dialect was very similar to the one spoken by the Helots on Mount Taygetus.

He sat in the shelter of a rock to eat a piece of bread with some dried figs while his horse grazed on a little yellowed grass, then started off again in a westerly direction. Towards evening
the sky grew dark, threatening rain, and he began to look for a refuge for the night. At the centre of a clearing, near a little stream, he saw a modest wooden cabin with a fence, certainly the
abode of a Helot shepherd. He turned the horse in that direction. As he approached, a dog started to bark. He dismounted and waited at the edge of the courtyard, certain that someone would come
out. Smoke spiralled from the chimney, a sign that its occupants had just returned from their daily labour. The door opened and an elderly but robust man appeared, dressed in a long grey woollen
chiton, peering intently into the night.

Kleidemos moved forward, saying, ‘Greetings, my friend. My name is Kleidemos. I’m a stranger and nightfall has surprised me here. I fear it may rain. I need lodging for myself and a
shelter with some hay for my horse.’

‘You’re right,’ said the man. ‘It will certainly rain, or perhaps even snow tonight. Come in, stranger.’ Kleidemos held out his hand and noticed the man’s
eyes falling to his spear.

‘Where are you from?’ asked the man, preceding him into the house.

‘Megara. I’m directed towards Thouria, to buy some wool.’

The man had him sit down. ‘I don’t have much to offer you,’ he said, ‘but if you would like to share my dinner, I would be pleased.’

‘I will gladly have dinner with you,’ replied Kleidemos. ‘But I have something in my knapsack as well,’ he said, taking out some bread, olives and cheese and putting them
on the table.

‘Fine,’ said the man. ‘Make yourself comfortable and warm yourself by the fire. I’ll go to take care of your horse; he must be tired and hungry as well.’

Kleidemos looked around: the cabin was very humble; the only furnishings were a table and a couple of stools. Some tools stood in the corner: a hoe, a rake and a sack with some barley. On a
wooden plate on the table were some roots seasoned with vinegar and a little salt, a couple of eggs and a clay jar filled with water. His host must be very poor. He could hear him bustling about in
the hayloft for a while, then the door opened again and he came in, rubbing his hands.

‘I was right,’ he said. ‘It’s starting to snow. I’d best add some wood to the fire.’ He took a bundle of twigs and threw them into the hearth. A big crackling
fire began to spread a little warmth in the room. There was no lamp; this shepherd obviously couldn’t afford to burn oil, if he didn’t even use a little to season his food.

They began to eat; Kleidemos took some roots, to honour the man’s hospitality, and offered the food he had, which the man seemed to appreciate greatly.

‘May I know your name?’ asked Kleidemos.

‘I’m Basias,’ replied the man. ‘Please forgive me for not speaking up myself. You see, no one ever comes this way, and I’m not accustomed to receiving
guests.’

‘Aren’t you afraid, living here all alone?’ asked Kleidemos.

‘Of what? There’s nothing for thieves to take. The flock belongs to my master, who is Spartan, and no one dares steal from the Spartans. Tell me about yourself: you have a horse and
a spear; you must be a rich man.’

‘Does it seem strange to you that a merchant travels armed with a spear? Well, let me tell you that my spear and my horse bought me my daily bread for a long time. I fought for years as a
mercenary in Asia until one day I injured my leg falling from the saddle and I decided to retire and earn my living running a small business.’

‘Isn’t it too early in the season,’ asked Basias, ‘to be buying wool? The sheep won’t be sheared for a couple of months, maybe even three if the weather stays so
bad.’

‘That’s true,’ replied Kleidemos, ‘but I thought that by arriving early I could ensure myself a better price. There’s also a man I need to see . . . a farmer by the
name of Pelias. Do you know him at all?’

The man raised his face from his plate, eyeing his guest with a certain surprise. ‘Pelias? I do know a Helot peasant who lives about one day’s journey from here.’

‘One day’s journey?’ repeated Kleidemos. ‘That could be him. If the bad weather continues perhaps I could ask him to lodge me tomorrow night . . . I can pay.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Basias, fingering his beard and gathering the crumbs from the table, ‘I think you’d do well. You’ll find his farm on this same road tomorrow, after
dusk I would say. Your horse won’t be able to cover much ground in the snow. If you don’t lose your way, you should arrive a couple of hours after sunset. Tell him that Basias the
shepherd sends you, and that you have been my guest: he will be happy to accommodate you. But give him something if you can – he’s very poor.’

‘Does he live alone like you do?’

‘No, he has a daughter living with him, if I remember well. But he has fallen upon very hard times . . . do help him if you can.’ He put more wood on the fire, then went out again to
fetch some straw for his guest to lie on.

‘I have nothing else,’ he said, spreading the straw around on the floor. ‘You’ll have to put up with this poor bed.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Kleidemos. ‘I was a soldier and have often slept on the bare ground. This straw is nice and dry, I’ll sleep very well here. But where
will you go?’

‘In the shed, with the sheep.’

‘Oh no, I won’t take your place. I’ll sleep in the shed.’

‘No, it’s not that; there’s room for both of us here. I’d rather sleep in the shed because I’m afraid the wolves will be out tonight.’

‘If that’s how it is,’ nodded Kleidemos. ‘But wake me if you do hear the wolves; with my spear I can come to your aid.’

‘Thank you, my guest,’ said Basias. ‘I will certainly do so. May you have a restful night.’

‘And a good night to you, as well,’ replied Kleidemos. He accompanied Basias to the door and saw that the snow had covered everything and was still falling in big flakes. Its faint
glow delimited the courtyard and the wooden shed with its straw roof where the animals were sheltered. Basias walked to the shed, leaving deep footprints in the snowy mantle. He opened the door,
was greeted by lowing and bleating and closed it right behind him.

Kleidemos stayed outside to watch the snow falling. It reminded him of those long winters in Thrace, the infinite sadness of that solitude, the long marches through the snow, wearing an icy
shell of armour. Raids in sleeping villages, women’s screams, fire, mud, blood . . . Now the snow fell softly, blanketing the world in a white veil that seemed like a sign of peace; it seemed
to be falling inside him as well, soothing the deep wounds, extinguishing the cries, the panic, the fear . . . all white . . .

All he could hear from the shed was low bleating: surely the little lambs huddled against their mother’s fleece were dreaming of flowered fields. The great ram with his curved horns lifted
his steaming nostrils in the stable, searching for the acrid odour of their predator: the wolf.

Kleidemos pulled his cloak tightly around him and was about to go back in when the soft sound of breaking twigs made him turn on the threshold. He scanned the darkness before him: nothing, he
must have imagined it. But all at once two yellow eyes blinked and a huge wolf moved forward, a male with a silvery coat. He thought of putting his hand to his spear but did nothing as he looked
deep into those glittering eyes. The beast came closer, stopping just a few steps away. He lifted his snout as if to sniff him and dropped his tail to the snow, then turned and disappeared in a
whirl of white flakes. But the dog had not barked, nor had the animals in the shed shown signs of fright . . .

Kleidemos closed the door behind him. He lay down next to the fire, watching the flames flicker blue amidst the embers slightly veiled by ash. He added another couple of pieces of wood and
stretched out, pulling his cloak over him. The warmth began to spread through his tired limbs and his eyes closed. As sleep was about to take him, he heard a prolonged howl and then another, longer
and more distant. But the dog was still sleeping outside, curled up under the overhanging roof, and the lambs slept huddled into their mother’s fleece and the great ram of the curved horns .
. . slept.

*

He was awakened by a chill in the middle of the night: the fire had gone out and the wind was whistling through the numerous fissures in the walls. He blew on the embers and
added twigs until the flame was revived. As he was about to fall asleep again, he heard the shed door squeak and the dog whimpering softly, as if someone he recognized had arrived. He opened the
door a crack and saw a couple of men wrapped in dark cloaks entering the shed. He stole out of the cabin without making a sound and approached the wall facing the house. Through the split wooden
beams he could see inside the shed, dimly lit by a smoky torch.