Gorgo stared at her grandmother in horror. Cleomenes had taken knives to himself before, and once he’d tried to tear his skin off with his fingernails. His boasts about imitating Darius and flaying “insubordinate” Spartans alive echoed in her skull. Instinctively, she knew he was capable of this. But then she remembered. “But he was in the stocks …. His hands were bound ….”
“He was not in the stocks. They brought him here for the night, but you are right, his hands were bound. According to Brotus, he used threats to convince one of the helots to bring him a kitchen knife.”
“But the staff knows how dangerous he is―” Suddenly Gorgo understood what the staff had been babbling about.
“They know how dangerous he can be―and so does Brotus,” Chilonis whispered. She could see the understanding widen Gorgo’s eyes. Chilonis dropped her voice further. In fact, she did not speak the words at all, not even in a whisper. Instead, she mouthed them precisely and clearly. “Go―home. Get―Pleistarchos―to safety. Send―word―and this―” she pressed Cleomenes’ ring, the ring of the Agiads, into Gorgo’s hand, “to―Leonidas. Now!”
For a moment Gorgo felt so weak she thought she was going to faint. This was the nightmare scenario Leonidas had always warned her about. Her father was dead. Brotus needed to eliminate Pleistarchos to clear the way to the throne―and Leonidas was a hundred miles away with every citizen of the active army!
Laodice, who had not been in Laconia when Cleomenes’ father died, was worried about conforming to the letter of the law with respect to honoring a Spartan king at his death. “We must all wear mourning for ten days after the funeral, and a male and a female member of each household must attend the funeral and keen loudly. Does it have to be the head of the household and his wife? Or do you think Polychares and Melissa could go?” she asked her husband anxiously, thinking she didn’t have time to go to a funeral. There was bound to be an endless stream of visitors coming to pay their respects to Gorgo, and she needed to have snacks for them. Or should they slaughter a calf?
“The funeral will not be until tomorrow at the earliest,” Pelopidas declared practically. “And meanwhile, we’ve got chores to do. Polychares,” he signaled to his eldest son, suggesting by his look that they had lingered too long with the women already, “it is time to get to work.”
“We’re going to have to dye some old things black so we can cover the door and have enough to wear. Where are the girls?” Melissa demanded irritably, getting to her feet and going to the kitchen window. “They ought to set up a vat for dyeing in the back yard.” She peered out, searching for her errant daughters.
“Pelopidas!” Laodice stopped her husband as he was going out the door. “We must slaughter a calf, or at least a kid.”
“Did the mistress order it?”
“No, but we can’t expect her to think of everything herself at a time like this. She just saw her husband off to war, and now her father is dead.”
“I don’t think we should slaughter anything without the mistress’ express permission―”
“Agiatis!” his daughter-in-law cut him off as she called urgently out the window. “Come down this instant!” Turning to Chryse, Melissa ordered, “Run outside and get Agiatis out of that tree before she does herself harm. You shouldn’t let her play with your boys!”
Before Chryse could protest that she could hardly stop it, her mother added, “And bring some fresh fennel and mint from the garden for dinner.”
Chryse slipped out the back door and hastened to the orchard. Her oldest boy, six-year-old Pelops, and Leonidas’ four-year-old daughter Agiatis were clambering about on an apple tree, while her youngest son Kinadon complained about being left behind. His elder brother scoffed, “Even girls can do it!”
The sun-warmed tiles of the terrace felt good under her bare feet, but between the trees of the orchard the soil was dry and littered with sharp little stones. She moved more slowly, but called, “Pelops, Agiatis! Come down at once!”
“Watch me!” Agiatis responded and let go of the branch over her head altogether. She started to fall backwards, and Chryse’s heart missed a beat. A second later Agiatis giggled delightedly as she hung upside down by her knees, her hair reaching for the earth in a bright cascade. Chryse crossed the distance in four long strides, unceremoniously grabbed her master’s daughter, and pulled her down off the branch, ignoring her howls of protest and pain as the little girl scraped the back of her calves on the bark. “If you don’t do as you’re told, I will tell your father you were a bad girl when he gets back. He will make you stand naked with your face to the wall and take a cane to your saucy backside!” Chryse threatened, with enough conviction to make Agiatis uncertain.
Pelops meanwhile decided it was time to beat a fast retreat. He jumped down from the tree and ran as fast he could in the direction of the river Eurotas.
Chryse took Agiatis firmly by the hand and suggested, “Come help me pick fennel and mint for dinner.”
Agiatis, who had been looking over her shoulder at her disappearing playmate, looked up curiously at Chryse and consented with a single nod. Chryse led her around to the far side of the house with four-year-old Kinadon trailing them.
The kitchen garden was neatly enclosed in a low limestone wall to keep out straying animals. Here beans, peas, asparagus, leeks, onions, cabbage, cucumber, fennel, coriander, cumin, sesame, mint, oregano, parsley, thyme, and rosemary were raised in neatly cultivated rows and harvested as they ripened.
Chryse turned to Agiatis. “Can you find the fennel?” she asked.
Agiatis bit her lower lip as she surveyed the plants stretching out before her, and then started wandering down a lane looking intently, but Chryse’s own attention was distracted by horsemen galloping along the road beyond the adjoining pasture.
Chryse had been born on a horse farm in Messenia and spent the first years of her life there. Even after coming here with her parents as a child, she was familiar with horses because Leonidas had a large stable. The approaching horses were galloping like racehorses, which was crazy on a hot day like this―unless they were bringing news. Chryse’s heart froze in her chest. The army! Her lover and the father of her two sons had marched north with the army. If the army had engaged the Persians, who was to know if he were still alive?
But messages were usually sent by runner―and if by rider, then not by men in armor like these two men.
Worse! The riders now plunged down off the road and rode full tilt toward the outer pasture wall. Chryse could only gape as the horses lifted up their front feet and sprang over the fence without breaking stride. To Chryse’s amazement, the riders were still with them as they landed on the far side and charged diagonally across Leonidas’ pasture, scattering the grazing mares, heading straight for Chryse.
A new fear paralyzed Chryse. Two years ago four men had set upon Temenos, nearly killing him. They had threatened to rape her until she bled and to kill her “putrid” sons. With Temenos and Leonidas away with the army, Chryse was suddenly afraid these men had come to carry out their threat.
Chryse looked desperately for a place to hide, but the thundering hooves were coming closer by the second. In a panic, she turned to run back to the house, but already one of the horses was beside her. “Where’s your mistress?” a voice demanded as the horse was hauled to a sudden stop, reared up, and sidled in agitation. Sweat dripped from its belly and foam splattered from its mouth as it flung its head around.
Chryse glanced up in wide-eyed terror, only to recognize not one of her assailants but Eurytus, one of her rescuers. “Your mistress,” the youth repeated. “We need to speak to Lady Gorgo.”
“But she went to the palace this morning. Her father died in the night, and she went to help her mother with the corpse,” Chryse stammered out.
“Where’s Leonidas’ son?” the young man’s companion asked, pulling up beside him. It was Aristodemos, the younger brother of Leonidas’ attendant, Meander, and the other rescuer on the day Temenos was assa
ulted.
“Pleistarchos is upstairs in the main house sleeping. He―” Chryse started.
“You’ve got to hide him!”
“Hide him?” Chryse asked, uncomprehending.
Fortunately the riders had drawn the attention of Chryse’s father. Pelopidas arrived at a run from the stables, calling out to the two meleirenes, “Is the young master in danger?”
“My father, Lysimachos, is an ephor, and I overheard him give orders to seize Pleistarchos,” Eurytus explained. “Members of the Guard will be here any minute!” He looked anxiously over his shoulder.
Leonidas had warned Pelopidas from the day Pleistarchos was born that Brotus wanted his son dead. Leonidas had told Pelopidas that the time might come when the boy’s life depended on him.
Pelopidas did not hesitate now. “Go fetch Pleistarchos,” he ordered his daughter. “Wrap him up and take water and bread from the kitchen!”
“You’ll see that he’s safe?” Eurytus asked anxiously.
“We will protect him with our lives!” Pelopidas replied.
“We’d better disappear! If your Dad finds out―” Aristodemos urged, looking over his shoulder.
“Yes, go!” Pelopidas urged; then he turned and ran for the kitchen to tell his wife what was happening.
Crius had settled into the running. He had reached the phase where as long as nothing unexpected happened, he could run indefinitely. His lungs and legs had found a rhythm that required no conscious will to keep going, while his brain wandered.
The events of the last days had been exciting. His parents were old worry-warts! They feared that Leonidas might get killed and never return. They feared that Leonidas’ enemies would find Pleistarchos and kill him. They even feared that harm might come to Gorgo. Typical helots! he thought with a touch of contempt.
Crius didn’t see things like that at all. When the men had come looking for Pleistarchos they found nothing, and just when they started to threaten and become violent, Lady Gorgo had arrived with Dienekes and an enomotia of guardsmen. Now his parents and Gorgo had protection day and night.
Meanwhile, he was on his way to take the news of King Cleomenes’ death to Leonidas. Lady Gorgo had confided all the details of how the old king had been found, and ordered him to tell Leonidas everything. Crius could read between the lines. Gorgo thought her father had been murdered, and the murderer was her uncle and Leonidas’ twin brother Cleombrotus, who was trying to take the throne away from little Pleistarchos. Crius found the whole situation thrilling―particularly his role in it.
He was confident that he would find Leonidas and deliver Cleomenes’ lapis lazuli ring as proof of the king’s death, and that Leonidas would return to put an end to Cleombrotus’ ambitions. But first Leonidas had to beat the Persians, so Crius’ main question was whether or not he’d get a chance to see the Persians. If he was lucky, the Spartan army would already have crossed the Isthmus, and he would have to go all the way to Marathon to catch up with Leonidas.
Crius pictured himself finding Leonidas in the Greek camp facing the Persians. Leonidas would nod and point to his unfinished business with the enemy, saying he could not return until the Persians had been sent back where they came from. Then, while Crius was still there, the Persians would attack and the Spartans would rush out to fight. Crius would see it all.
It didn’t occur to Crius that the Greeks might lose. He knew that theoretically it was possible, but he did not believe it. The Greeks would win, and he would see it all from some vantage point high on a hill overlooking the battlefield. Then he would run back to Sparta, and he would be the first to reach the city with news that the Greeks had won a great victory―and that Leonidas was on his way back with the army. He would bring the news to Gorgo―no, with news like that he would go directly to the ephors.
The sound of hooves behind him reached his ears and, delayed, his brain. By the time he registered there was a horseman behind him, the horse was not far away. Without slackening his pace, Crius moved to the side of the road to let the horse and rider pass. The hoofbeat altered from the three-quarter tack of a canter to the steady click-clack of a trot. The shadow of horse and rider fell over him. Crius just kept running.
The horse passed him and then swerved and stopped, cutting him off. Baffled, Crius stopped and looked up at the rider uncomprehendingly.
The face that grinned down at him was familiar and triumphant: it was Bulis, one of the four men who had tried to kill Temenos. “You!” the man exclaimed with obvious satisfaction as he recognized Crius. “You arrogant little asshole! You thought you could get away with thumbing your nose at us forever, didn’t you? You and your whore of a sister―sleeping with Spartiates and thinking she’s special. We’ll show her how special she is, one after another―just as soon as we take care of you!”
Crius had just a split second to register that the horseman was drawing his sword. He ducked and flung himself to the side in a single motion. But his body was numb from running for almost ten miles already, and the mounted man was a trained soldier. Crius succeeded only in prolonging his agony. Because he’d moved, the first thrust did not completely gut him. Instead it sliced between his ribs and penetrated partway into his rib cage. The ex-guardsman used his foot against the gushing wound in Crius’ side to brace himself as he yanked out his sword. Crius reeled and staggered away, trying to run. His assailant urged his mount forward, and this time rammed the sword between Crius’ shoulder blades with more force than before. The tip came clear out the other side below the rib cage. When his murderer again braced himself with his foot to remove the sword, Crius was pushed down onto his knees, spewing dark blood and other liquids from his mouth.
Bulis tried to ride over Crius, but his horse refused, rearing up and pivoting away; so Bulis jumped down. He went over to where the young helot lay bleeding and kicked him in the side. A twitch and groan revealed that Crius wasn’t dead yet. Bulis reached down, wrapped the fingers of his left hand in Crius’ hair, and yanked the young man’s blood-soaked upper body off the ground. With a single stroke of his sword, he hacked off his head. As the head came free, he used the momentum to fling it as far from the road as possible. It landed in the scrub-brush-covered field and rolled against the foot of a gorse bush. Then he kicked the body off the road, wiped the blood off his sword with a rag from his pouch, and tossed the rag into the gorse bushes before remounting and riding back to Sparta.
Euryleon rose to get more wine for the men collected in his andron. He took the pottery pitcher with him and stepped out into the paved courtyard of his house. Here he paused to look up at the clear night sky. The stars were bright overhead, the constellations easily identifiable because the moon had not yet risen. More than a hundred miles north of here, Leonidas might also be looking at the same sky, the same stars, Euryleon thought, and he poured the last remnants of wine out onto the earth with a prayer to Kastor to bring Leonidas home―in time.
The men behind him in his cozy andron, with the mosaic floor and frescoed walls, were all Leonidas’ friends. They were collected here to work out how best to ensure that Brotus did not steal the Agiad throne in his absence. For the others this was largely about what was good for Sparta―at least it was for Kyranios, Nikostratos, and Dienekes. For Euryleon, however, much more was at stake. For him, the danger from Brotus was personal.
When Euryleon had been a child, he had fallen ill with a fever that left him partially blind and asthmatic. Because of his poor eyesight he was useless with bow and javelin, moved only uncertainly at night, and generally lost confidence in his own body. His shortness of breath meant he was bad at running, jumping, and indeed every sport. Sometimes he even had trouble on marches or during drill. At first the other boys made fun of him, but over time he had carved out his own place in the herd. Since he could not hunt, he stayed in the camp, kept the fire going, and gradually became a good cook. He had a good singing voice and an ear for melody. More unusually, he could imitate accents and inflections with uncanny accur
acy. Noting how this delighted his fellows, he cultivated this skill, and soon he had become a gifted storyteller who could keep his audience breathless with anticipation―or move even callow youths to tears.
He had been progressing steadily toward citizenship in his own unorthodox way when, in his eighteenth year, Brotus became his eirene. Brotus did not value any of his skills. Brotus not only ridiculed him, he started to systematically torture him by demanding that he do things he could not do. Because he failed, he was punished. When he dropped his shield on the way back from drill, he was made to clean everyone’s equipment. When he tripped during a march, he was forced to crawl the remainder of the distance, with Brotus himself standing over him to make sure he didn’t cheat. The punishments seemed to get worse with each incident until, because he spilled wine on Brotus when serving him, he was forced to lie on his back while Brotus urinated on him. At first the others protested Brotus’ treatment of their fellow herd member, but Brotus soon silenced them with his fists. By the time it came to the urinating incident, they had not said a word, as if they didn’t care. That had hurt most of all. But that night, after Brotus had gone to sleep, the others threw a himation over Brotus’ head, dragged him out to the barrack latrines, and beat him brutally before rolling him into the filth.
The next day Brotus had reported this unprecedented insubordination and demanded that all his charges―since he had not seen or heard who had actually committed the outrage―be flogged “until they whimpered like newborn kittens.” Technarchos, the school official in charge of the eirenes at the time, responded by saying no eirene had ever before provoked such collective rebellion. He noted further that the unit did not have a reputation as difficult. He suspended Brotus from his position and personally took temporary command.
That had not been a pleasant week, but better than under Brotus. Technarchos had been an enomotarch in the army. He pushed them to their limits, but without the vindictive streak so characteristic of Brotus.
A Heroic King Page 22
