Spartan (39 page)

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!

T
HRONGS OF
H
ELOTS 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 was 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?’

‘The
krypteia
. I had agreed to meet Pausanias when he returned from Asia, and the ephors wanted to know what we’d said to each other. They tortured me, would have killed me,
but I never talked. They were finally convinced that I knew nothing and let me go, probably with the intent of sowing their spies all over the mountain to follow my every movement. I’ve had
to stay hidden for a long time, but the time has come to make them pay, once and for all.’

‘I’ve just come from Messenia,’ said Kleidemos. ‘I saw Antinea and Pelias.’

‘I know. I brought your mother back up to the mountain.’

‘I’ve heard that the Helots attacked the city today.’

‘True, but they were driven back. They would not listen and moved too soon, putting everything at risk. There were terrible losses – many died and a great number were wounded. They
need someone to guide them . . .’ Karas lifted his forehead and his eye flashed in the reflection of the flames. ‘The time has come for you to choose your road, Talos. The gods have
manifested their will.’ He spoke with emphasis:

‘The gods have devastated this land with an earthquake . . . this is the sign.’

Kleidemos closed his eyes. There was no doubt about the identity of the one-eyed man Kritolaos had spoken of on his deathbed – it was Karas: Karas who was back here, with him, after so
many years. And now, it seemed like just a few days since he’d left him. He saw him on the field of Plataea, in the glimmering dusk, murmuring the words of the Pythia Perialla, and adding,
‘
Remember these words, Talos, son of Sparta and son of your people, the day that you shall see me again.
’

‘You are right, Karas,’ he said. ‘The gods have sent me the sign that I’d been waiting for, for years, and yet I still feel uncertain. Divided. I lied to you just now;
it’s not true that I’ve just come from Messenia. I arrived yesterday. Today I saw the Helots descend from the mountain.’ Karas stared, suddenly scowling. ‘But I
couldn’t move. I wanted to run, to take up my arms, but I just stood there, watching, trembling, tearing out my hair. I did nothing. I could not take up the sword of my father and my brother
and use it against the city for which they gave their lives. And there’s something else I have to tell you: my mother, Ismene, is buried just a short distance from this house. There’s
an inscription on the tomb which seems like a message; it says: “
Ismene, daughter of Eutidemus, bride of Aristarkhos the Dragon, unhappy mother of two valorous sons. The gods begrudged her
the precious gift of the Lion of Sparta.
” I’m certain that the last phrase was added on later, and I’ve been trying to find out who did it and why.

‘Karas, if I’m to make the greatest decision of my life, if it is true that the gods have sent me a sign with this earthquake, if I must take up arms once again and face my destiny
head on, I can’t leave any unsolved mysteries behind me. I want no remorse, no regrets: everything must be clear. No man can walk his path with confidence unless his soul is serene. I know
what you want from me and I know that if Kritolaos were still alive he would want the same thing. It will seem strange indeed to you that I’m searching for the significance of an inscription
carved on a tomb while the Helots are rising up to redeem their liberty – an entire people putting their very existence at stake.’

‘No, I do not find it strange,’ replied Karas, with an enigmatic expression. ‘Continue.’

‘You know that I escorted my brother Brithos and his friend Aghias from the Thermopylae to Sparta, as commanded by Leonidas. They were to bring a message to the ephors and the elders, but
no one ever discovered what it said. I have even heard that the scroll was blank, that not a word was written on it. You know well how Aghias ended up and what would have happened to Brithos had I
not stopped him. And Brithos met his death nonetheless at Plataea, waging war against the Persians single handed.’

He had got up and was pacing up and down the atrium, then went to the door and looked towards Sparta. Few lamps were lit and their glow was faint, but campfires blazed all around the city:
Sparta’s warriors were on alert. He closed the door and returned to the hearth.

‘I’m convinced that whoever added those words to Ismene’s tomb knew the true content of Leonidas’ message. What else could the Lion of Sparta’s gift refer to?
Leonidas wanted to save Brithos . . . and perhaps me, as well. Leonidas must have known. My father had always been close to him, and to King Cleomenes before him.’ A distant roar was heard,
like thunder, and it shook the house already damaged by the earthquake. Karas looked at the ceiling beams without moving.