Spartan (43 page)

Antinea said nothing but she was consumed by unrelenting sadness. She lay her head on Kleidemos’ chest and listened to the beating of his heart.

‘Fate kept us apart for many years,’ he began again. ‘When I saw you going off on your ass that day so long ago, I wept bitterly because I was sure I would never see you again.
And yet I found you, after laying my life on the line hundreds of times in distant lands. We must continue to hope, Antinea, and trust that we shall see each other again. Sometimes the gods allow
us no comfort, but there’s a force deep down inside of us that won’t let hope die. It’s the force that brought me back to you from the lands of far-off Asia, from the solitude of
savage Thrace. I will always be with you, Antinea, and with our little one, but don’t let me be the only one believing and hoping. If you are certain of seeing me again, we will be reunited
one day, free to live in serenity until we have grown old and have seen our children’s children growing up strong around us like young olive trees. At the height of the storm we forget that
the sun exists and we fear that darkness will dominate the world. But the sun continues to shine above the black clouds and sooner or later its rays force their way through, bringing us light and
life.’

Antinea was still, embracing him tightly. She tried to open her heart to his words and to hold back the burning tears that rose into her eyes.

The first night of the new moon, Karas had the two women and the little boy climb onto a cart so he could take them far away from Ithome. Kleidemos watched them going off, holding his arms high
above his head like he had that long-ago day on the plain. He felt solace that they were going to a safe place, shielded from danger. And yet he felt death in his heart at separating from those he
loved better than life itself. The people of Ithome watched him, standing at the northern gate of the city, so full of sadness and of hope. They too wanted the son of Talos the Wolf to be saved.
And they knew that a chief, in the supreme moment, must be alone.

The siege began that spring. It was led at the beginning by two high commanders and four battalion commanders. King Pleistarchus would arrive later, after the celebration of Artemis Orthia; he
would be presiding over the feast, along with King Archidamus. In Sparta the ephors had sought at length to discover who was commanding the Helots; when the first accounts arrived from Messenia of
a mysterious warrior wearing a suit of armour the likes of which had never been seen before, they attempted to track him down but were unsuccessful. The man was reported to be lame, and some named
Kleidemos, the son of Aristarkhos, but he had been missing since the time of the earthquake and was presumed dead. No certain evidence was ever found, and although ephor Episthenes sensed the
truth, he said nothing. None of the Spartan warriors had ever seen his features, because Kleidemos always fought wearing the helmet that covered most of his face.

Karas carried out his mission successfully. He did not return immediately to Ithome, but stopped in Arcadia to gather news. When he finally came back, just in time before the siege closed in on
the city, he related all he had learned to Kleidemos. The Athenians had been deeply impressed by the Helots’ strenuous resistance and they were pressuring Sparta to free them once and for
all. No one knew what the Spartans thought of this proposal. When King Pleistarchus finally arrived at the camp, Kleidemos tried to arrange an encounter, but to no avail. One day he saw the king
passing on horseback down the trail that led up from the valley, inspecting the fortifications of the besieged city. He wrote a brief message and tied it to an arrow. Pointing his horn bow towards
the sky, he calculated the trajectory, and let fly. The dart shot off with a whistle, followed its long course and stuck into the ground just a few steps from the king’s horse.

Pleistarchus dismounted and hurriedly picked up the arrow, scanning the message. He looked up towards the city: the bastions were completely empty, but on the very top of one of the towers he
saw an immobile warrior covered in gleaming armour who seemed to be looking at him. The king returned his stare, then gestured for his escort to leave. He weighed his spear in his hand and then
hurled it with great strength; it stuck into the trunk of a dried olive tree that stood halfway between where he stood and the city walls. The warrior vanished from the tower and shortly thereafter
one of the city gates opened. He reappeared on the side of the mountain, planted his spear into the ground, and advanced slowly on foot towards the olive tree. Under the eyes of his bodyguards, the
king walked towards the tree as well. The warrior raised his hand in salute and the king scrutinized him for some time without speaking. He was disturbed at the sight of that strange armour, and
his gaze sought to penetrate behind the visor crowned with wolf fangs. The eyes blinking in the narrow slot of the gilded bronze sallet were certainly not those of a slave, son and grandson of
slaves.

Kleidemos found himself, for the first time, face to face with the king. He had seen him a few times in Sparta, but always at a distance. He was an attractive young man, just a little over
twenty, muscular and dark-skinned, his long wavy hair touching the edge of his cuirass. His shield bore a carved sparrowhawk, symbol of the Agiads, the dynasty of his father, great Leonidas.

‘Who are you?’ demanded the king.

‘Is my name important?’ came the reply.

‘No, it is not. But your shield bears the wolf’s head of the King of Messenia—’

‘The man standing before you wears the armour of Aristodemus and thus has authority over the people of Ithome.’

Pleistarchus seemed surprised. ‘What do you want from me?’ he asked.

‘I know that you are the valorous, worthy son of a great father. For this reason, I believe that you respect the courage of this people, who have resisted for three years in their battle
for liberty. This war has lasted too long; too much blood has been spilt in vain. Allow these people to live in peace on the land of their ancestors. If you withdraw your warriors, you will have
nothing to fear from us. We are ready to vow to a pact of peace that we will never recede from.’

‘I have no power to offer you a peace pact, even if I desired to do so,’ said Pleistarchus. ‘If you want to save these people, persuade them to return to the fields they have
abandoned. If you truly have authority over them, convince them and I give you my word as king that they will not be harmed.’

‘That is not possible. They would rather die. If they were afraid of death, they would have surrendered long ago.’

‘Than I have nothing more to say to you. Prepare to die in combat.’ He yanked the spear from the olive tree and turned to rejoin his men.

‘Wait, if you hold your father’s memory dear!’ shouted Kleidemos. At those words, the king spun around.

‘Listen to me,’ said Kleidemos. ‘Because what I am about to tell you may seem incredible, but I swear on the gods of Hades that it is the truth.’

‘Speak!’ said the king.

‘This war would have been avoided, had it been for your father. Before he died at the Thermopylae, he sent a message to the ephors and the elders asking them to recognize the dignity of
the Helots and grant their liberty, as he had seen them die in battle alongside the equals. To recognize them as sons of the same land – a land where he wanted the two peoples to live
together in peace. The message also demanded restoration of the good name of King Cleomenes, your uncle, whom the ephors had poisoned slowly, driving him to madness and death.’ Pleistarchus
removed his crested helmet; his face was drawn. ‘But the message, which was to be brought to Sparta on the king’s orders by Brithos, son of Aristarkhos, Kleomenid, and Aghias, son of
Antimakhos, was stolen by the
krypteia
and replaced with a blank scroll. And so the two warriors carrying it to Sparta were disgraced and preferred death to dishonour.’

‘How can I believe you?’ said the king.

‘I was at the Thermopylae. I returned with Brithos and Aghias and I saw the message stolen,’ replied Kleidemos, removing his helmet. ‘For I am Kleidemos, brother of Brithos,
son of Aristarkhos. The Helots call me Talos the Wolf.’

‘And I should believe the words of a traitor?’ Pleistarchus said harshly.

‘I am no traitor. When I learned who I really was, I decided to serve the city whose laws had condemned me to be abandoned as a child to the beasts of the forest. I – whom Sparta had
destined either to die or to live as a servant – fought in the front line at Plataea. I commanded a battalion of equals for four years, and I have been holding your army in check for three
years. Do you know when I chose to return to the people who saved my life and raised me? When I learned that the government of Sparta had deliberately tried to exterminate my family by plotting to
send father and sons together into a military expedition that they knew had no hope of succeeding. When I learned that Sparta had betrayed the last will of a great king, valorous and wise: your
father, Leonidas. And when I learned that Sparta had massacred men, Helots, seeking asylum in a sacred place—’

‘Stop! I won’t listen to you!’ interrupted Pleistarchus.

‘You can walk away, if you like,’ Kleidemos persevered, ‘but the truth will pursue you. It will give you no peace. Try to forget my words, and give the order to attack Ithome,
but if one day you want to understand the futility of all this slaughter, read the message carved into the tomb of my mother, Ismene, who died of a broken heart between my arms. Dig among the ruins
of the house of the Kleomenids and in an iron casket next to the altar, you will find the true words of the king, your father!’

Pleistarchus stood for a few moments as if stunned. Then he put his helmet back on and walked slowly towards his horse. Kleidemos returned to his city; on its bastions a multitude of warriors,
of women, of old men with eyes full of anguish, watched him ascend wearily, bent over, as if the splendid bronze of his armour had turned to lead.

*

King Pleistarchus slept fitfully, starting awake and pondering the words he had heard. Many in Sparta had interpreted the earthquake as a sign of the gods’ wrath at the
sacrilege of Cape Taenarum. The terrible story of the Kleomenids, the atrocious death of Pausanias for which the oracle of Delphi had demanded reparation . . . the city’s elders had long been
tormented by these events. And now Sparta, the invincible, unable to put down the rebellion of a handful of servants: was this another sign from the gods?

And his father’s message? Was it truly possible that two valiant warriors had brought a blank message from the Thermopylae? It made no sense. Was the real message indeed buried under the
ruins of the Kleomenid house? Those people behind the walls of Ithome . . . they would soon be without food, and yet they were ready to continue their fight.

He could not imagine that at that very moment two priests from the House of Bronze were returning from Delphi, where they had been sent by the assembly of elders to query the god about the war
that Sparta was conducting against Ithome. Nor could Kleidemos imagine it; having gathered the chiefs of his people, he was planning a desperate sortie, perhaps the only way his people could avoid
the long agony of starvation: a night-time attack on the Spartan lines. Perhaps, if the gods assisted them, victory could still be theirs.

At the same time the priests, having returned to Sparta, related the verdict of the god of Delphi to the elders and the ephors:

There could be no doubt about the meaning of this prophecy, and the elders bowed their heads in deference to their gods. The Athenians had already declared their willingness to provide a
homeland for the Helots of Ithome, and the ephors dispatched a messenger to Attica to make the necessary arrangements. In a day they would have their answer.

When the messenger departed at the first light of dawn, the crescent moon was paling over Mount Taygetus. It was the last quarter before the new moon: that night Kleidemos would launch the
attack. His men were greatly proven by their hunger; their only hope lay in the darkness and the aid of the gods.

When the moment came, he assembled them in the centre of the city and divided them into two columns. One, which he was to lead personally, would sow confusion in the enemy camp. The other,
stronger and more numerous, was led by Karas: their task was to break out in a compact formation towards the rampart and provide cover for the fleeing population. If the attack met with success,
the two contingents would take turns in fighting off the enemy at the rear guard, until the column of refugees had reached Arcadia. The last of the booty carried off from the battlefield of Plataea
fifteen years earlier would serve to buy food during their journey.

‘If we manage to reach the sea,’ concluded Kleidemos, ‘perhaps we can take ships and establish a new homeland beyond the sea, where no one will ever reduce us to slavery again.
Karas has told me that in the land of Sicily stands a great city founded by Messenians who fled there many many years ago. Perhaps they will take us in when they learn that we are their brothers
and have suffered their same fate.’ He looked at his men in the torchlight; their faces were tired, hollowed out by fatigue and hunger. Could they manage to beat the most powerful army of all
Greece? Their souls were ready, but could their limbs withstand that final, immense effort?

He got to his feet, donning his helmet and taking up his sword. He was a fearful sight in that shining armour.

‘We are fighting for our lives and our liberty,’ he said. ‘They will not stop us. Now put out your torches and follow me.’ He headed towards the gate and the warriors
lined up in silence behind him, passing between two silent wings of old men, of women, of young boys.

The mountain was completely enveloped in darkness; a few sparse clouds obscured the dim light of the stars. They descended along the trail that led to the valley until they were nearly at the
first Spartan outposts. Kleidemos, hiding behind a rock, could see a couple of sentries sitting next to a campfire. He was reminded of the tactics of the Thracians when he was commanding the fourth
battalion of equals: they would light huge fires, so as to illuminate a wide tract of land, but their sentries would hang back in the shadows so as not to be seen. He beckoned to a group of archers
and pointed out their target. ‘They must fall without a cry!’ he said, and gave the signal. The archers let fly all at once and the two sentries collapsed, pierced through by a swarm of
arrows.