PARTA
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“Sire?” asks Autocrates, an Ephor sitting across the table. “Do you have any thoughts on the matter?”
King Archidamus sits at a table in the meeting room of the Gerousia, the gathering place of the city legislature, surrounded by the Ephori, the five man council responsible for day-to-day governance of Sparta. His whiskers turned white ages ago, long before he had fought his last battle and he appears much older than his seventy years. Beneath his tunic is a body vandalized by scars, cuts, bruises and welts acquired over decades of leading men into battle. Yet despite his injuries the king’s body is spry and his mind remains sharp, even when his attention is held captive for hours on end by the Ephori and the obligations of his office.
He strokes his chin contemplatively and shakes his head.
“Good,” Autocrates says, “that leaves us with only one final matter on the agenda.”
“That would be the Crypteia,” Sthenelaidas growls. The other Ephori fidget nervously in their seats, expecting the worse. Though not a man of exceptional physical stature, Sthenelaidas casts an intimidating shadow over the others. He’s the eldest of the Ephori, the most prickly personality and, most problematically, the most politically cunning of any of the men seated at the table. Sthenelaidas’ reputation is as a man who gets his way eventually, even if it means slowly and methodically grinding his opposition into submission. Even his principle ally, Aristeus, visibly braces himself for a bureaucratic slog. “I recommend we declare war on the helots immediately after the Gymnopadeia.”
“This is a discussion that can wait until next week,” suggests Echemenes, a plump man of almost sixty years still blessed with a shock of white hair. “We don’t want the festivities to last until dawn as they did last year.” The King and Ephori groan at the memory of the previous year’s interminable festivities.
Sthenelaidas, however, is not given to the fit of nostalgia. “Do you think they would start the festival without us?” he asks Echemenes.
“Of course, not!” Echemenes replies.
“Though they are certainly welcome to do so!” interjects Daiochos, an Ephor known for moderating his otherwise blunt opinions with humor to make them more palatable. The room briefly trembles with laughter.
“I only wish to see the Gymnopadeia end at a reasonable hour,” appends Echemenes.
“Then grant me just a few moments to give the Ephori something to consider before our next meeting,” Sthenelaidas asks.
King Archidamus and the Ephori all glance at Echemenes, tacitly giving him their approval to make the decision on his own. It’s an inherently risky proposition: Sthenelaidas has a reputation for rapidly changing men’s opinions through the sheer force of his will alone, but Echemenes determines that the king and rest of the Ephori are just as anxious to leave as he and sees little danger in extending the meeting by a few minutes. “Very well, Sthenelaidas: you have the floor,” Echemenes says.
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All Spartan citizens are professional soldiers, and just like members of any other trade they spend their days honing their craft training and drilling and perfecting their skills. It’s a way of life that leaves little time to pursue other interests, even those essential to the basic maintanence of human life: there are no farmers, no bakers, and no carpenters in Sparta. Only soldiers.
Nevertheless, every city needs farmers and bakers and carpenters, even Sparta. Since ancient times the solution to this shortage of labor have been the helots, a slave class of peasants scattered throughout the Peloponnesian countryside principally responsible for supporting the city. The helots are not unlike other slaves in Greece: they possess no legal protections and are considered the property of their masters; in this case, the city of Sparta. Their lives are cruel, repetitious and typically short.
But in one respect the helots were considerably different from other slaves: they maintained a unique point of leverage against their masters in that their numbers were vastly superior to those of the legal Spartan citizens to whom they serve.
The city of Sparta proper, where most of the 10,000 Spartans reside, is located in the Euratos River valley and alone cities in Greece has no walls. One explanation for this peculiarity is that the valley and adjacent slopes of Mount Taygetus provide the city with a series of natural defenses against invasion. (The more frequently shared reason, however, is that Spartan shields and spears serve as the city’s walls—a concept which should demonstrate that the Lacedaemonians were as gifted in the art of propaganda as they were in the art of combat.) Consequently, the city sprawled across the countryside throughout most of the Peloponnesian peninsula, its limits never really being defined concretely. This was home to well over 100,000 helots.
In other words, Lacedaemonia was a region in a state of perpetual occupation and under constant threat of rebellion. It was a living condition unthinkable anywhere else in the known world, but one relished in Sparta as a way to keep the city’s warriors vigilant and disciplined.
The Spartans use a variety of measures to prevent insurrections and keep the population pacified. Helots are banned from keeping or training with weapons. Large gatherings are prohibited, save only during religious festivals. Men work long hours, every day of the week and are left with little desire or energy to revolt. The only compensation helots ever receive for a day’s labor is a nightly serving of alcohol large enough to make them forget about any grievances. Even young boys still training in the agoge are sent out to steal helot food and spy on their movements from time to time.
The harshest strategy Spartans use to keep the helots in line is the Crypteia. Since the helots are considered property of the state, killing one is considered a crime against the city. Nevertheless, every autumn, after the Gymnopadeia, the Ephori declare war on the helots and send the most promising graduating students of the agoge out into the fields under the cover of night with orders to kill. Completing the mission is a prerequisite for consideration to every political and military leadership position in Sparta. Those who fail are flogged mercilessly in the agora. The Ephori’s declaration is little more than a legal distinction immunizing each young Spartan from charges of murder.
The Crypteia serves two distinct purposes. The first is to harden young Spartan soldiers for a lifetime of combat. If a young man is willing to kill for his city, then he will also be willing to die for it. The second was to create the illusion among the helots that they were constantly being watched and the possibility that any agitation against their masters would be met with immediate retribution.
As a safeguard against rebellion, the Crypteia had worked for hundreds of years. The last slave revolt had been thirty years earlier, and only after an earthquake leveled most of Sparta. By Sthenelaidas judgment, a revolt was due.
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“I’ve been receiving reports from patrols and hunting parties who have found evidence of large helot meetings in the woods to the north,” Sthenelaidas informs the king and Ephori.
“This is the first I’ve heard of any such gatherings,” Autocrates admits.
“That’s because they never use the same place twice,” Sthenelaidas continues. “These rendezvous points have become easier to find as they’ve become more numerous and larger.”
“Larger?” Daiochos asks.
“Yes, larger,” Sthenelaidas confirms. “They also appear to be developing a crude form of organization and leadership structure.”
King Archidamus leans back into his chair and strokes the whiskers of his beard. “Is this why you want to begin the Crypteia so early this year, Sthenelaidas?”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Are you not worried about how such a move will be interpreted by the Athenians?” asks Archidamus
“The thought had occurred to me, your majesty, yes; but I believe Sparta’s internal security is a higher priority.”
“What does everyone else think?” the king asks.
“It’s possible to mitigate any negative
reaction abroad,” Aristeus begins, “especially if our ambassadors are in positions to respond quickly to any inquiries…”
The Ephori continue to comment and ask questions, but Archidamus does not listen. The king looks across the table at the Sthenelaidas attentively nodding his head to the rhythms of each speaker. Archidamus has known him long enough to detect he is concealing an ulterior motive.
The doors to the Gerousia chamber open quietly. Agis slips through them and enters the room with polite nods to each of the Ephors before resting a hand on his father’s shoulder. Archidamus looks up and smiles at the sight of the prince. Agis finds an unoccupied chair resting against the wall and moves it right next to the king before whispering into his father’s ear: “Another late meeting?”
“Why should this one be any different?” Archidamus whispers back.
“What are you discussing today?”
“When to declare war on the helots,” the king replies. “Sthenelaidas wants to do it soon.”
“And is he wrong? I don’t see anything wrong with doing so.”
“That may not be the point.”
“How so?”
“I’ll explain la—”
“Is there something you’d like to share, your highness?” Sthenelaidas asks from across the table.
Archidamus smirks at the condescending tone used by the Ephor. “My son was just telling me that he agrees with you.”
“I always thought he was a smart boy,” Sthenelaidas replies to light laughter from the others in the room.
“Well, he must know more about the matter than I do, in any event,” says Archidamus, “because I’m afraid we will have to wait for at least another month before beginning the Crypteia.”
“And why is that?” asks Daiochos.
“The omens say this winter will be long and harsh,” says Archidamus.
“We can always buy more grain from Egypt,” notes Aristeus.
“Not if war starts before the spring,” the king objects. “The first thing the Athenian navy will do is take control of the trade routes.”
“There’s no question she’ll own the Aegean, your majesty, but in the waters south of Crete?” Sthenelaidas objects.
“They’ll move their fleets the instant Pericles hears of hunger in Sparta,” predicts Echemenes.
“Then we’ll go to Sicily for our grain,” Sthenelaidas suggests. “The Athenians will be stretched too thin to control both the Aegean and the Ionian Seas.”
“Gentlemen,” the kings interjects calmly as the discussion’s volume begins to increase.
“Have you been to Piraeus lately?” Daiochos asks Sthenelaidas. “The shipyards fill with workers before dawn and remain open well after dusk.”
“Gentlemen,” the king tries again, this time with a hint of reprimand to his voice.
“Daiochos is right,” Autocrates says. “The Athenians just might be foolish enough to try to hold both seas—”
“And if there’s any navy capable of doing so it would be—” interrupts Echemenes, only to be himself cut short by the king.
“Gentlemen!” Archidamus yells, finally winning the silence and attention of the Ephori. “This is clearly a discussion that deserves more time than we have tonight. I suggest we all retire to the Gymnopadeia, consider the matter at our own leisure and then return to the matter first thing next week. Does anyone object?”
The entire table turns their heads to Sthenelaidas. He smirks, closes his eyes and shakes his head begrudgingly.
“Then we are adjourned,” Autocrates declares, rising from his seat.
Archidamus nods to the rest of the Ephori and leaves the chamber with Agis by his side. Daiochos, Autocrates and Echemenes follow not far behind, already deep into a discussion regarding the merits of a proposed purchase of a dozen wagons from neighboring Mycenae. Aristeus and Sthenelaidas, however, remain seated in their chairs and do not show any sign of leaving.
When the Gerousia falls completely silent, Aristeus shakes his head. “That did not go well,” he says.
“No, it did not,” Sthenelaidas replies, rising from the table and walking over to a window where he sees Archidamus and Agis walking down the street.
“He doesn’t want to go to war.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Perhaps we can convince him through Agis?” Aristeus suggests. “He seemed to side with you during the meeting.”
“Only because his father hadn’t given the prince his opinion first,” Sthenelaidas says through a condescending chuckle. “No, that boy is a fortress of misguided filial piety.”
“Then Archidamus will need a push.”
“He will,” Sthenelaidas agrees as he steps away from the window and walks back to the table. “And I think I know just how to give it to him.”
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Seven hundred years earlier, four brothers, each the great-great-grandsons of the great hero Heracles, commanded an invasion of the Peloponnesus against Tisamenus, the last Archaean king of the peninsula. Upon victory, the brothers agreed to divide the Peloponnesus into four parts only to learn that one of the brothers, Aristodemus, was killed in battle. The brothers gave Aristodemus’ twin sons Sparta. Not knowing which boy should rule the city the twins’ mother consulted the Oracle at Delphi, who declared that both sons should be made kings. Those twin boys would sire Sparta’s two royal dynasties: the Agaids and the Eurypontids.
By the time of the Persian invasion, Spartan kings had ceded much of their political power to a number of democratically elected bodies, including the Ephori; but retained command of the Spartan military. When the army marched to war, one king led the Spartans abroad while the other remained at home. Most soldiers served under both kings during the course of their service and the competition to win the soldiers’ loyalty was often fierce was usually won by the older or more experienced commander.
Archidamus ascended to the Eurypontid throne when he was just twenty years old after his grandfather, Leotychidas, was exiled after being bribed to spare the lives of a prominent family in Thessaly who had collaborated with the Persian invaders. He was young, had no one to trust and was mortified of failure.
But the king learned quickly, largely thanks to a succession of avaricious, yet incompetent, occupiers of the Agiad throne. The first of these was Pausanias, who conspired to betray Sparta to the Persians and was eventually forced to starve to death after being walled inside a temple. His treachery was so brazen and poorly orchestrated that most cities in Greece flocked to Athens in search of post-invasion leadership, a set-back for Spartan influence in the region that lasted nearly a decade. Pausanias was good for very little, but learning from and competing with him made Archidamus a more astute student of politics and better king.
Agis will not have the luxury of a similar foil when he becomes king. His royal education comes from his father alone. To be sure, this has always been a more optimal arrangement in the king’s eyes, but as Archidamus enters the twilight of his life he naturally worries about who will continue the job, especially since the most difficult lessons have yet to be taught.
By nearly all accounts, opinions and measures the prince is a popular, genuine, strong and courageous young man. Were he destined for any other occupation he would surely secure for himself a happy and prosperous life; yet because he will someday be king each of those qualities that fathers strive so hard to instill in their sons also become liabilities. Politics is little more than building, maintenance and management of relationships. Agis has proven to be quite adept at creating and keeping friends, but he has yet to learn how to coldly sacrifice them, when self-preservation trumps the greater good and why fear is frequently a better strategy than love—lessons no father should have to teach their son, but which every king must teach their successors if they want them to succeed or, in many cases, simply to survive because the greatest threats to a king’s reign and life do not come from abroad, but from within.
The king knows that these lessons will
fundamentally change his relationship with his son. He knows that he will be training his son to distrust everyone Agis has ever loved and ever will love, including himself; but it’s for the prince’s own good. Ever since the current Agiad king, Pleistoanax, was ostracized for bribery fifteen years earlier, the only king in Sparta has been Agis’ father—and this is about to change.
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Archidamus and Agis walk down the street between the Gerousia and the agora in silence, the king’s head bowed and holding his hands behind his back. “You know we’ll be at war soon, son,” Archidamus finally says.
“I do, father, yes,” Agis responds.
“This one will be different,” the king muses. “I’ll be here for it’s beginning, but I won’t be on this Earth to see its end.”
“Father, don’t be—”
“And I’ll one of the lucky ones, son. There will be thousands of men who will be born and will die knowing nothing in their short lives but this war.”
“Then I’ll pray to the gods they are all Spartans,” Agis says stoically.
Archidamus looks to the prince with a smile, pats Agis on the shoulder and leans in closer to his ear. “When the war does begin, every man in Sparta will have an opinion how it should be conducted. It won’t just be the Ephori or the Gerousia—everyone will tell us where to send soldiers, which cities to ally ourselves with, when to stop for meals during a march and on and on and on. Most such advice you can ignore, some you will have to pretend to consider; but there are a few men’s words you will have to take seriously, even if you disagree with them.”
“You’re talking about Sthenelaidas, aren’t you?” the prince asks.
“I am.”
“So he was right about holding the Crypteia early this year?”
“Not necessarily, though I may back him in the end.”
“But what’s the point of supporting him if he’s wrong?”
“Sthenelaidas believes that Athenian spies are living among the helots and training them to fight so that when the war does start they will rebel against us. If Sthenelaidas is correct, then we will be telling the Athenians we are aware of their presence among in the Peloponnesus by holding the Crypteia early this year. They might become more eager to start the war before their influence with the helots is broken.”
“Is he correct?”
“The only evidence he has are the remains of a few campfires in caves, and that hardly qualifies as proof.”
“So he’s wrong?”
“The gods help us if he is,” Archidamus says somberly. “The helots are organizing, that much we know for a fact. The only question is if they are doing so alone or with help from abroad. The Athenians will help them only so far and so long as they are useful to them, but if the helots are organizing themselves we will have a committed enemy in our midst for some time to come.”
Agis continues to walk down the street in silence, visibly trying to absorb the weight of his father’s words.
“Sthenelaidas is shrewder than the other Ephors, Agis. As soon as he feels that I am of no use to him he will find someone who will be. You will have to give way to men like him on insignificant issues to remind them that you are useful to them. This will allow you to deny them on much more important matters without them abandoning you entirely.”
The prince turns to his father with a confused expression on his face. “But you the king, father! None of the Ephori are going to abandon you,” Agis says.
“My spies in Argos tell me Sthenelaidas has met with Pleistoanax several times in the last few months. The only possible reason he would do so is to help arrange a return to Sparta.” Archidamus sighs. “It’s been fifteen years since I’ve spoken to the man, Agis. That’s fifteen years he’s probably spent laying on soft lounges in Argos, growing fat from his hosts’ feasts, passing the days with wine and whores. He’ll be weak. He’ll have forgotten to be a Spartan. Pleistoanax won’t be back for the sake of the city.”
“What will he be back for?” Agis asks.
“Himself. He’ll be back for power,” Archidamus says scornfully. “Do you remember why he was exiled in the first place?”
The prince shakes his head.
“He took a bribe from Pericles, and any man who takes a bribe once is likely to do it again. We can not allow Pleistoanax to return to the Agiad throne. His mere presence in Sparta diminishes my power, and eventually yours, in this city.”
“But the law says—”
Archidamus stops walking, places both hands on his son’s shoulders and looks Agis directly in the eyes. “I know what they law says. I also know what it’s like to command men when another king spends his every waking hour lurking in the shadows trying to undermine my authority. There’s no need for two kings of Sparta any longer, Agis, and we have a brief window of opportunity to consolidate the power of both dynasties into one. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Agis nods, but his wide eyes suggest otherwise.
“You must never cede power to another man, Agis. If you do, others will swarm you and strip you of the rest like vultures peel putrid flesh from corpses. It doesn’t matter how you came about power in the first place. No ones care if you earned it or inherited it, but people will care if you lose it.” The king removes his hands from his son’s shoulders and continues walking to the agora. “The sooner this war begins, the sooner Pleistoanax is likely to return,” Archidamus says, “and we have to do everything in our power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
School of Athens Page 6
