PARTA
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Lysander and Gyllipus crawl through the mud of a barren helot farm just south of Sparta clenching knives between their teeth. When they reach the crest of a small rolling hill Gyllipus looks down on the minor vale, nothing more than a slight depression big enough to contain only a pair of small farms, each with a candle flickering through the windows. Gyllipus spits out his dagger, turns to Lysander and whispers, “Could you not have chosen helots with drier fields?”
Lysander removes his knife from his mouth to answer: “These are the most secluded farms in Lacedaemon. Now take the one to the north while I take the one to the west.”
“How many men are inside the house?” Gyllipus asks.
“One, I think. He may have sons.”
“While your house is filled with women, I presume?”
“Not yet, my friend!” Lysander sneers. “Go, and when we meet again it will be as true Spartans!”
“The gods be with you!” Gyllipus says before disappearing into the darkness.
It’s only as Gyllipus sets foot on the farm of the helot he intends to murder that he suddenly regrets leaving the choice of targets up to Lysander. Gyllipus passed the decision off to his friend as a means of keeping his conscience clean of any guilt that might later trouble him, but the moment his sandals sink into the thick layer of mud at the edge of the farm it suddenly occurs to Gyllipus his own life is in just as much danger as his target’s. Once war is declared against the helots, the slaves are within their rights to protect themselves. His heart begins to race and his knees buckle under the weight of his trepidation. He pauses for a moment and recites a brief prayer to the gods before once again falling to his stomach, then making his approach to the farm house by slithering through a recently plowed seed row.
At the end of his crawl, Gyllipus rises from the seed row and finds himself within a spear’s throw from the front door of the farm house. He proceeds cautiously, taking care to tip toe around each errant stalk, twig and branch that could snap under his feet and reveal his approach. His breaths are short and measured, his chest so inflated that he can feel his heart in his throat. The door to the house is open and candle light pours into the world outside. Gyllipus removes the knife from his mouth and clasps it tightly in his right hand, the blade pointing to the ground. He creeps closer to the door, holds his breath and pauses for a moment to make sure he can strike unawares.
Then he hears the crying.
The sound disarms Gyllipus. He lets down his guard and comes close enough to the house to peer through a window and sees a family of four huddled around a table reciting the prayer for the dead. The scene is entirely foreign and yet strangely familiar to Gyllipus who is captivated by the stoic resolve the two young boys, each no older than twelve or thirteen, demonstrate before their grieving mother. A third child, a girl of about ten years, stands across the table from her mother and quietly lets tears fall from her eyes without lifting a finger to dry them and seems no less impressive.
Gyllipus steps back and retreats from the house until he bumps into a knee-high pile of kindling on which lays the body of the recently deceased. He kneels down, feels the body to make sure it’s cold, and then glances back into the house once more. Gyllipus silently offers the gods a prayer of forgiveness before he slices the ears off the dead body and withdraws into the woods adjacent to the farm.
Just as Gyllipus concludes his hunt, Lysander arrives at his destination. He walks across his helot’s farm field with a nonchalance that veers dangerously close to arrogance, almost as if he is looking for a fight. From roughly a league’s distance he can distinctly see the woman of the house emerge from the front door and call out into the darkness for her husband to return for the night. It’s Ismene, Timaea’s maid. Lysander kneels to the ground and waits for the farmer to reveal his location with his response. At the sound of the helot’s voice Lysander rises back to his feet and quietly follows the man’s lumbering steps back to the barn.
Lysander times his steps perfectly to fall to the earth at the precise moment the farmer’s feet do. His legs are longer and the angle he takes to cut off the farmer conceal him from the light emanating from the house, bringing him closer and closer to his victim with each step. From time to time the farmer stops to inspect his crops, giving Lysander the chance to close the distance between them.
Finally, Lysander is within striking distance, yet just far enough away to remain concealed in the night. He removes the knife from his mouth and methodically twirls it between his fingers. The farmer kneels down one last time to inspect the field beneath him. Lysander follows suit, only now he’s prepared to spring at the farmer from his crouch in hopes of ending him quickly. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and resolves to pounce on a count of three, just before he begins nodding to a slow, silent rhythm.
One.
Two.
“Dinner!” Ismene yells as she emerges once more from the farmhouse. “It’s not like you can see anything out there anyway!”
“Just a moment, dear,” the farmer replies.
Lysander leers at Ismene as she lingers in the doorway for the briefest of moments and suddenly finds the courage to finish the task at hand. She ducks back into house right as the farmer stands up from his crouch, but he’s only able to take a few steps before Lysander leaps at him from behind and slides his knife across his throat.
School of Athens Page 13
