Leonidas stared at Phormio. He could not imagine any circumstance in which he would sell Agiatis or Pleistarchos. He would literally sell himself first. “What are you saying?”
“Desperation leads to discontent, and discontent can lead to revolt.”
Leonidas shook his head, not because he disagreed but because he thought the problem insoluble. “Our economy depends on helot labor. We can’t free the Messenians and retain our position in the world.”
“Who said anything about freeing Messenia? The point is not to take wholesale measures, but to provide other legitimate routes for impoverished helots to get ahead in the world―to make money or to emigrate.”
“They can do that now, can’t they?”
“Emigrate? No, helots are not allowed to set foot outside of Lacedaemon except in the company or in the service of their masters.”
“They can certainly make money! Last I heard, my helot Pantes had built himself a ten-room house with two atriums, and his little boys run about dressed much better than the boys of the agoge!”
“Which, of course, is not saying much, but you are only making my point for me, my lord. Pantes is very successful and has far too great a stake in Lacedaemon to want anything to change. That comes from you letting him set up his own shop. But there are many Spartiates who deny their helots that right. Many Spartiates insist that their helots not only remain in Lacedaemon, as the law requires, but on the estate to which they were born. These Spartiates stifle initiative and foster discontent, because too many helots on one estate leads inevitably to impoverishment, rivalries, jealousy―and all the while we perioikoi are suffering from a profound labor shortage.”
“Ah,” Leonidas observed, raising his mug to Phormio. “Now we are at the crux of the matter.”
“My lord,” Phormio stated diffidently, “I am here in my capacity as spokesman of the Council of Forty.” This was the governing body of the perioikoi community, made up of representatives from the most important perioikoi towns. “Of course I represent perioikoi interests.”
“Of course,” Leonidas agreed with a smile. “Go on.”
“My lord, without the perioikoi, Lacedaemon would be an agricultural society dependent on imports for everything from the weapons and armor your army needs to the marble facings on your temples. Perioikoi turn Lacedaemon’s forests into furniture and ships. Perioikoi quarries produce the paving stones for your roads and public buildings. Perioikoi―”
Leonidas held up his hand. “I know all that, Phormio. Get to the point.”
“We’re only 20 per cent of the population, and everywhere I go I hear the same story: we could expand production, if only we had more workers. Recently I was in a pottery factory where the owner was so desperate he had hired some women! They were sitting right there in his workshop―only segregated from the men by a flimsy cloth curtain.”
Leonidas nodded. “I understand. Was there anything else you were burning to convey?”
“Yes, I wanted to talk to you about taxation.”
“Taxation?”
“Yes. Lacedaemonian laws are not always designed to encourage manufacturing and trade. The right way to go about it is to tax profit, not production. Taxing a man for what he produces, rather than what he sells, only encourages him to produce less.”
“The kings do not set taxes; the Assembly does.”
“I understand, but the Council makes recommendations, and the kings chair the Council. And then there is the issue of ships.”
“Again?”
“Now that you control the entire Agiad fortune―except Brotus’ share, of course―how many more keels do you plan to lay down?”
Eukomos looked shocked, but Leonidas laughed and remarked, “You just told me you don’t have enough men to man your factories. How can you man ships?”
“That’s different. Going to sea―”
A servant was in the doorway again. “My lord, your wife asks you to see this man. He came to the back and would have gone away again, but she says you will want to see him.”
Leonidas looked curiously past the servant to the man behind him. The untidy flaming-red hair of the burly artisan gave him away; it was Arion the bronze worker. Leonidas signaled at once for the man to enter. Arion was carrying a large krater in his arms. The bronze vessel was so heavy that the artisan was red-faced from carrying it up the stairs. He was also clearly embarrassed to be facing the king himself. In the past, Phormio had communicated between them. Phormio beamed and gestured vigorously for the Thespian craftsman to come deeper into the room.
“It’s a gift, my lord,” Arion explained, setting the krater down inside the door and stepping back from it so the others could see.
Leonidas stood to get a better look at it. As with everything from Arion’s workshop, this was a product of superb craftsmanship. Two upright lions with curling tails formed the handles, their faces turned sideways. Around the long neck, a hoplite, with his helmet tipped back to expose his face, drove a four-horse chariot, while Kastorian hounds chased boars around the base. On the broad body of the krater a lion attacked a boar. The animals were so lifelike, they looked as if they would move at any moment. Leonidas glanced at the burly artist, who stood tongue-tied near the door, as if ready to flee. “This is beautiful!” Leonidas assured him.
“Thank you, my lord,” the man managed. Then his pride in his work overcame his natural diffidence, and he leaned forward to point out the details. “This tall horse represents the big gray you like to ride, and these are the twin dogs that you hunt with, and this, of course, represents you killing the boar in Corinth.”
“You made this specially for me?” Leonidas was touched.
“Of course, my lord!”
“But how could you know I would become king?”
“I didn’t, my lord,” Arion replied a little sheepishly. “I made one for your brother as well.”
“Hopefully it didn’t show Herakles killing the lion!” Leonidas quipped, harvesting laughter from Phormio, but Arion didn’t get the joke.
“No, no. I chose boxers as the motif.”
“Very good. Have some wine. Meander, fetch more cups and more wine and water.”
Meander again withdrew, while Arion shifted from one foot to the other, stammering. “I just wanted to deliver this to you, my lord. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“I understand, but I have a question for you.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Can you find enough workers for your factory?”
“Good heavens, no! I could do far more work if I could find some more skilled craftsmen. I’ve thought of going home to Thespiae to see if I could recruit more workers, but the news from home is not good,” he added, looking sorry. “There have been more clashes with Thebes, and some families have lost their land entirely.” He fell silent, apparently thinking of his home city.
Leonidas waited a moment and then suggested, “Why don’t you go home? I will pay the expenses of your trip―provided you promise to come back to Lacedaemon.”
The artisan looked up again sharply. “I can pay my own way!”
“I meant no offense.”
“Of course not, my lord. I―I will think about it. Now if you will excuse me…”
“Don’t you want to wait for your wine?”
“No, thank you, my lord. Just―just remember Thespiae in your prayers. Now that you are chief priest to Zeus Lacedaemon, I’m sure your prayers will be more powerful.”
“I will remember you and Thespiae in my prayers.”
The man backed out of the library. They could hear his footsteps on the stairs, but also someone in the courtyard saying, “The king is in the library with the royal steward and the Chairman of the Forty.”
Phormio got to his feet, remarking, “It is going to be like this all day, my lord. We’ll have time to talk later―at least, I hope we will. Eukomos.” He nodded farewell to his fellow steward, while the latter started to roll the papyrus sheets together. The information
on them was not for everyone’s eyes, and if Leonidas was going to receive one guest after another, even craftsmen, then the scrolls needed to be put away.
Leonidas’ thoughts had drifted to the priesthood of Zeus. He felt utterly unprepared for it. He did not understand the mysteries of divination and felt uncomfortable with the duties of a priest. Not that his brother had ever taken it overly seriously, he reflected―but he was not his brother.
A figure darkened the door, and Leonidas stood up automatically without even thinking about it. It was Epidydes.
“Sit down, my lord,” Epidydes ordered.
“When you do,” Leonidas answered, indicating the chair Phormio had vacated. “Can I get you―”
“No. Sit down. I wish to speak to you alone.”
Eukomos bowed deeply and withdrew silently, his scrolls of confidential information under his arm.
The library was still. A breeze blew the long gauze curtains in along one wall and out along the other. From somewhere came the sound of women laughing. Ah, Gorgo, Leonidas thought with a rush of affection; she had everyone laughing already.
“Leonidas,” Epidydes began, looking at him hard. “I hope I have not done you a disservice.”
“Meaning?”
“It would have been so easy to say nothing.”
“Yes. I know.”
“But it was true. You were on your father’s right.”
“I know. I remember.”
“Then you have known you were the firstborn all along?” Epidydes was astonished. “All these decades? When others, including Brotus―”
Leonidas shook his head. “No, because, at the time, I didn’t know the significance of being on my father’s right. Like Brotus, I thought it was just chance. By the time I learned about the importance of standing on the right, I had other things to worry about. I never once thought back…. But you knew. You knew all along. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“A fair question. But at the time, it seemed unimportant which of you was the elder twin. You had two older brothers, and the struggle for the throne was between them. You and Brotus were just two little boys―boys of good family, but no more than that. Only after Dorieus was dead and Cleomenes went mad did it start to matter again, and by then I had forgotten all about that day. Make of this what you will, but it came to me like a vision. We had debated so long and so hard and all the arguments had been brought forward, everything had been said a hundred times―and still we were deadlocked, lamed by the belief that Brotus was the rightful heir but you would make the better king. I was prepared to let the Assembly decide―to see if the Assembly would find the old woman credible enough. And then, after we’d adjourned, I dozed a bit in the Council chamber while waiting until it was time to go to Assembly. Suddenly I had this image of you and your father coming toward me. It tore me from my sleep, and still the image was before my eyes. You, your father, and Brotus―and you were on your father’s right.”
“So the Council had not heard your testimony―until the Assembly.”
“Exactly.”
“And you wanted me to know that?”
“Yes, but that is not why I came.”
Leonidas just waited.
“I came because I am very tired. The duties of Paidonomos are too heavy for me. I wish to resign.”
“I can understand.”
“Good. I will announce my resignation tomorrow. Call for an election immediately and put Ephorus’ name forward.” He held up his hand to stop an expected protest from Leonidas. “I know Alkander is the better man. I have come to see that. And what he wants to do is right. It would make the agoge more what it was when I was growing up. But too many people remember his stutter and think of him as a ‘mothake.’ To put his name forward for Paidonomos would arouse instant opposition. Even if, out of respect for you, he were to win election, the men who look down on him would only make his job impossible. If you propose Ephorus, who is an Olympic victor, no one will object, not even Alcidas. Ephorus and Alkander can work together. Alkander will have his way, and Ephorus will get the credit. It is a solution they both can live with, and one that will be good for the boys. Use your current popularity to strike at once.”
Leonidas nodded.
“The agoge, Leonidas―the agoge is the most important institution in Sparta. We cannot afford to have it in the wrong hands. I was hesitant about Alkander’s reforms, but after seeing the damage Alcidas did, I know he is right. We need to redress the balance between intellectual and physical training in favor of intellectual training. We need thinking citizens, not automatons, and we need soldiers who can act independently without orders and take the initiative when opportunities arise―like a good hunter.” He paused and then resumed. “Do you know? I find myself thinking more and more often of your friend Prokles. Wondering if we could have done more to tame his rebelliousness without alienating him. His exile is over in two years. Do you think he will return?”
“No.”
Epidydes was surprised by Leonidas’ tone. “You are certain?”
“He told me so.”
“Then you have seen him since he was exiled?”
“He sailed with me to the Hellespont and back―as a marine.”
“I didn’t know.”
“He asked me not to tell anyone.”
“But when he hears you’re king…”
“It will make no difference. He is ashamed of what he has become. My being king will only make it harder for him to return.”
“I see.” Epidydes sighed and pulled himself to his feet. “I fear I may have done you a disservice, Leonidas, but I will sleep easier knowing that you―rather than your brother Brotus―are in that chair.” He indicated the swan-backed throne.
The last visitor of the day was Leotychidas. The Eurypontid king arrived in a state chariot escorted by an enomotia of guards. He waited in the cart while a herald was sent to inquire if the Agiad king would receive him.
Leonidas went to the ancient throne room with its heavy columns and fading frescoes. He waited, standing in front of his throne, instinctively avoiding a situation where he had to either stand for the other king or insult him by remaining seated.
Leotychidas was dressed in glittering purple. His long chiton had a foot-high border of woven gold. His himation was striped with gold. His sandals were studded with pearls. Mentally, Leonidas noted that if he started dressing like this, he’d soon consume the hoard of precious objects left him by his brother.
“My dear brother,” Leotychidas opened.
Leotychidas had brought no one with him into the palace, and Leonidas’ servants had discreetly withdrawn from sight―though, he suspected, not from hearing. “Dear brother,” Leonidas answered without feeling, and indicated the visitors’ couch.
Leotychidas reclined on it. Refreshments were already waiting beside the couch on a table with slender silver feet on tiny wheels. Leonidas gestured for Leotychidas to help himself.
Leotychidas looked over the offering of nuts, dried fruits, white rolls, cheese balls, slices of sausages, and grapes, and picked at this or that as if he had nothing better to do. Leonidas waited.
“Talkative, aren’t you?” Leotychidas commented.
“You requested this interview.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Leotychidas looked up and met his eyes.
“Why?”
Leotychidas shrugged. “I was very annoyed with you for giving Percalus to Demaratus, you know.”
“I didn’t. Alkander did.”
Leotychidas dismissed the answer with an irritated wave of his hand. “You could have stopped him.”
“Demaratus was a ruling king. Besides, he took Percalus without awaiting formalities.”
“Well, in retrospect, good riddance. She was barren.”
“Oh? I thought Demaratus was sterile.”
“One or the other,” Leotychidas dismissed his hated rival. “Probably both,” he added maliciously.
Leonidas waited. He was sure Leotyc
hidas had not come here to discuss the woman he hadn’t married or the man he had deposed.
“I didn’t bribe the oracle, you know,” Leotychidas snapped. “Your brother did that.”
Leonidas had never doubted that, and this morning he’d seen the evidence in the accounts. He nodded.
“I am the rightful Eurypontid king,” Leotychidas insisted.
“Maybe.”
“Why do you prefer Demaratus?” Leotychidas demanded, sounding petulant.
Leonidas sighed, sorry that Demaratus had burned his bridges and made it impossible for Sparta to ever take him back. “It is irrelevant now.”
“We could work together, you know,” Leotychidas pointed out, in a tone that was almost pleading.
Leonidas stared at him. This man had first worked with Cleomenes to bring down Demaratus, then with Brotus to bring down Cleomenes, and recently had done all he could to stop Leonidas himself from becoming king. As king, Leotychidas had consistently discredited himself, most recently by transferring a group of Aeginan hostages, who had surrendered in good faith to his safekeeping, to the Athenians. This act of betrayal had so outraged Sparta’s citizens that Leotychidas had been condemned by the Assembly. He was venal, corrupt, self-serving, sly rather than intelligent, and very likely a usurper. “Work together on what?” Leonidas asked. “What on earth do we have in common?”
“All right,” Leotychidas conceded with a shrug, “not together, but we don’t have to be enemies, do we?”
“Then don’t get in my way!” Leonidas warned. By the time he could get away from his syssitia, it was very late. The syssitia had been brought the carcass of the sacrificial bull offered to Apollo to mark the occasion of the ascension of a king. The head cook, his sons, and two assistants had spent the entire afternoon carving it up and preparing a huge feast with contributions from all the syssitia members, right down to Maron, their newest and youngest member. Maron’s estates were in bad shape and he had little extra, but he had harvested by hand from his mother’s orchard the first of the ripening pears. A little sour still, they had been cooked in milk and honey and then sprinkled with powdered nutmeg. There were many other contributions as well, from wine to wheat bread, and the mood among his mess-mates was so high that Leonidas didn’t have the heart to call an end to the meal until it was very late.
A Heroic King Page 28
