A Heroic King

by Helena P. Schrader

  “Athens!” Demophilus spat out in disgust. “Marathon has gone to their heads! They drove Miltiades to his grave, did you know? They refused to recognize his preeminent role at Marathon, and then put him on trial for not capturing Paros. He was not only found guilty, he was fined so heavily in punishment that he would have died in poverty had he not first died from his wounds! Now they are at war with Aegina, raiding the coastline and seizing ships on the high seas―all without even sending heralds to declare war first. Athens told us bluntly that they have no interest in our ‘petty’ problems. They told us to ‘come to terms with reality and submit to Thebes!’” The mere memory of his reception in Athens made Demophilus shake with indignation.

  “I was distressed to hear what had happened to Miltiades,” Leonidas answered solemnly, adding, “and I am equally sorry to hear Athens will not aid Thespiae as they did Plataea.”

  “Sparta is our last hope! Our best hope. The mere mention of a Spartan alliance would make Thebes stop these acts of aggression! You need not actually come north,” Demophilus pleaded.

  Leonidas frowned. “I’m not so sure. Besides, it makes no difference whether or not the treaty is nominal―the proposal will find no majority in the Council or Assembly. You may think from watching the Gymnopaedia that Sparta’s kings are still as powerful as in the age of Menelaos, but that is not the case. Our role is largely ceremonial―until the army crosses out of Lacedaemon. And, believe me, getting the Council, ephors, and Assembly to agree to a Spartan army leaving Lacedaemon is almost as difficult as getting Poseidon to stop shaking the earth. Let’s look for other solutions.” Leonidas’ tone was so earnest and yet friendly that Demophilus did not have time to feel the full weight of his disappointment.

  “You said you had five hundred citizens capable of bearing arms?” Leonidas asked.

  “More,” Demophilus corrected him. “Since the abduction of the maidens, many men of lesser means have come to me saying they want to fight. The abducted bride was betrothed to a stone mason, and he and all the masons are furious with the inaction of ‘the rich.’ Other craftsmen have rallied to me as well. But I must be honest with you, Leonidas: many of the prominent citizens, particularly the old men, are afraid of Thebes. They say we cannot win and that it is better to come to some arrangement. The poorer citizens fear that they will be the losers in any ‘arrangement.’ They fear the rich will look after their own interests and leave them with heavier taxes and fewer freedoms. I could field a thousand men eager to fight Thebes, but most of them have no panoply. And even the other rich men who would like to defend our freedom have no training or experience in war.”

  “How many men willing to defend their freedom have panoply?” Leonidas asked.

  “Three hundred eighty-eight.”

  “How many hoplites can Thebes field?” The question, to Demophilus’ amazement, came from Gorgo.

  “More than ten times that,” her husband answered before Demophilus had recovered from his surprise. “But numbers are not important. You are not about to declare war on Thebes, and Thebes has no need to declare war on you―because they can get what they want without it. What you need is not a hoplite army that can face down the full force of Thebes on a battlefield, but troops capable of standing up to individual acts of Theban aggression. You need to teach Thebes respect for your independence.”

  “Yes! Exactly!” Demophilus was excited that Leonidas both grasped the situation and spoke as if it were possible. “Could you teach us how to do that?” he asked, torn between hope and disbelief.

  Leonidas looked at Gorgo.

  “You don’t need the approval of the Council or Assembly to take the Guard to Thespiae and train volunteers,” Gorgo answered his look.

  Demophilus looked from one to the other.

  Leonidas nodded. “My wife is right. If you have young men willing to learn the art of war, then I am prepared to take Spartiates to Thespiae to train them. But your young men must be willing to learn from us. It takes a lifetime to make a Spartiate hoplite; you cannot expect to turn farmers or masons into hoplites overnight. And it will not happen without very hard work.”

  “You will find Thespians exceptional pupils, King Leonidas!” Demophilus assured him with a rush of inner excitement. His imagination was on fire already. It was much more honorable to defend their own freedom than to depend on the promises of others.

  CHAPTER 13

  WARRIORS FOR THE WORKING DAY

  OLIANTUS HAD NOT WANTED TO COME with Leonidas on the training expedition to Thespiae. Leonidas might like seeing new places and visiting other cities, but Oliantus was content to stay at home looking after his own affairs. He was forty-three and he had three sons, the eldest of whom was almost eighteen. But, as so often in the past, Leonidas had proved irresistible; Oliantus always caved in when Leonidas said: “But I need you, Oli! No one else is as good as you.”

  Oliantus didn’t flatter himself that other people valued him the way Leonidas did. On the contrary, most people didn’t take any particular note of him at all. And it was that which made him so vulnerable to Leonidas’ appeals.

  Now he found himself stranded in a little hilltop town on the edge of the Boiotian plain, sweltering under a blistering sun hotter (Oliantus swore) than two suns in Lacedaemon. There were plagues of flies here as well, because in contrast to Sparta with its wide avenues and sprawling suburbs, here the dwellings, workshops, and public buildings were all piled up on top of one another inside the perimeter walls. Nor was there a broad river like the Eurotas sweeping through the city, flushing out the refuse and cleansing the air. Instead, everything just stagnated under the merciless heat.

  Oliantus sighed and longed for home, but he did not delude himself that Leonidas was going anytime soon. He knew Leonidas too well, and Leonidas was fascinated by the challenge of training Thespiae’s eager but amateur soldiers. Oliantus suspected Leonidas was also secretly enjoying the fact that he was thumbing his nose at both Athens and Thebes at the same time. A Spartan alliance might have been a provocation he was unwilling to risk, but the presence of a company of Spartan guardsmen led by a ruling king was a political statement nevertheless: Lacedaemon was taking an interest in Boiotian affairs.

  Otherwise, things were not going well. On the first day the troops had mustered, almost half had no hoplons. Some had shown up with kitchen knives in self-made sheaths, and half the “spears” had been crooked, cracked, or just too damn short. Even Leonidas had been unable to disguise his chagrin. “We can’t train men to use arms they don’t have,” he’d told Demophilus in an exasperated voice, and the Thespian aristocrat had made embarrassed promises to find arms for those who couldn’t afford them.

  Ever since, Demophilus had been trying to persuade his fellow aristocrats to finance arms and armor for the poor, but he had not been entirely successful. The money was trickling in, to be sure, but as the man tasked with actually purchasing the required equipment, Oliantus knew just how far they were from their goal.

  Meanwhile, Leonidas and his guardsmen attempted to teach the Thespians the basics of marching and maneuvering. It wasn’t until they tried to teach the eager but seemingly left-footed Thespians how to form up, reverse direction, and shorten and extend their lines that the Spartiates realized just how difficult it all was. They had learned step by step over decades, but the Thespians needed to learn all at once. The result had been sheer chaos, robbing even Leonidas of his patience.

  Oliantus sighed and scratched his scraggly beard, wondering if they were on a fool’s errand. Not that his opinion mattered….

  A knock on the door jerked him from his thoughts, and a moment later the door frame was filled by the broad, stocky figure of Dithyrambus. The man was a mason, and it had been the abduction of his bride and another maiden some four months ago that had brought the anger of Thespiae’s working-class citizens to the boiling point. Dithyrambus and the other masons had gone to the city council demanding action. Instead, nothing but weak protests had been sent to The
bes, which (as expected) yielded absolutely nothing. Dithyrambus and his friends were convinced that the old men―the “aristos,” as the tradesmen called them derisively―were too timid to do anything, and saw in Demophilus the only rich man with backbone. Dithyrambus and the others were prepared to follow Demophilus almost anywhere, and no one had worked harder to learn from the Spartans than Dithyrambus.

  Dithyrambus appeared to have come from some exertion―whether from the drill fields or his labor, Oliantus did not know. He was gleaming with sweat, and his fair hair was drenched with it. He had twisted a rag into a cord and tied it around his head below the hairline to catch as much sweat as possible, and still sweat glistened on his cheeks and dripped from his chin. “Sir?” he addressed Oliantus. “Can you spare me a minute, please?”

  “Of course.” Oliantus was happy for the interruption. Being good at organization and numbers did not make him enjoy the tedium of bookkeeping. He indicated the somewhat rickety bench opposite his table.

  Dithyrambus dropped down on the bench, causing it to creak in protest, but the mason ignored the furniture. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, breathing heavily. He clenched his hands into fists, then stretched his fingers, before forming fists again in an unconscious nervous gesture. “Sir, I hope you won’t find this impertinent,” the big man stammered, “but, but, you seemed the most approachable of the Spartans….”

  Oliantus smiled faintly and nodded. Yes, an ugly, aging logistician must indeed seem less intimidating than the hardened guardsmen in their prime, much less the Spartan king.

  “You see, we know your king is very disappointed in us….”

  Oliantus was torn between the instinct to comfort and his personal code of honesty. He opted for compromise. “A little, yes, but no doubt we expected too much.”

  Dithyrambus dropped his head in his hands and seemed to want to crush it between his powerful fists.

  “There’s no need for despair,” Oliantus assured him. “It just takes time. Meanwhile we’ve collected enough money to arm almost a hundred poor men.”

  Dithyrambus shook his head without daring to look at Oliantus. “You don’t understand, sir. It’s―it’s―I―you see―I need your help!” He lifted his head to look straight at straight at Oliantus. “I know what your king will say!” he burst out angrily. “I know he will say it is foolish and not worth his time. A woman soiled and hardly better than a whore! I know. Even Demophilus only shook his head and said how sorry he was. But, but, you have to understand! It’s not because she was to be my bride. I could never marry her after what’s happened. It’s not that. But she was my mother’s sister’s only child. We grew up together! If she had been a boy―I mean if a boy had been abducted―who would hesitate to try to get him back?” The mason stopped to look at Oliantus expectantly.

  “But we don’t know where they are―the abducted women, I mean,” Oliantus pointed out.

  “Oh! Didn’t you hear? A traveling knife grinder! He was in Thebes yesterday. He overheard men talking about a Thespian captive in a tavern. I’m sure it’s my cousin!”

  “Talk in taverns is rarely good evidence of anything,” Oliantus pointed out cautiously.

  “This was!” Dithyrambus insisted. “The men were quarreling, and so their voices grew louder and louder. A working man was demanding more money from a young aristocrat for the upkeep of the ‘Thespian bitches.’ When the young man brushed him off, he threatened to go to the young man’s father. That got the young man very agitated, and after insulting the working man for extortion and calling him many names, he promised more money. The first man said he’d heard that before, and wanted his money now. The young man promised to bring it the next time he visited. The poor man said he’d give him three more days, but after that he’d tell the young man’s father and start renting out the girls to make some money off them. So we have to move fast! Today or tomorrow!”

  “The story sounds reasonably credible,” Oliantus admitted, although still dubious, “and suggests that at least the girls are still alive, but we don’t know where.”

  “But we do! The knife grinder knew what happened to me, and as soon as the men had left the tavern he asked the landlord about them. The landlord said the old man was a miller with a windmill outside of Thebes. In fact, it’s between Thebes and Thespiae. It all makes sense, you see. The Thebans abducted the girls from the Valley of the Muses and only dragged them as far as this mill. Then, to disguise their misdeeds from their elders, they left the girls there. When we demanded the return of the girls, the Theban magistrates denied all responsibility, you see, because they honestly knew nothing about the abductions!”

  This, too, sounded plausible enough to Oliantus, but he still wasn’t entirely convinced. “But for four months? You think they could keep two captive girls quiet and hidden for four whole months?”

  “Apparently,” the mason answered with a shrug of his massive shoulders, while continuing to stare expectantly at Oliantus.

  “What is it you want us to do?” Oliantus asked cautiously, scratching pensively at the thin hairs under his chin.

  “To help us attack the mill and take the girls back!” Dithyrambus declared, clenching and releasing his fists faster than before. “Please! I thought our cavalry could do it, but Demophilus said he would not risk it. He said it would be too provocative. He said the Thebans would declare war on us, and that we cannot win a war. He said he was very, very sorry, but it was too late to help the girls. They are lost to us, he said, and we must focus on learning how to defend ourselves so it never happens again to other girls. But it wasn’t his cousin who was abducted ….” Dithyrambus fell silent, his eyes boring into Oliantus.

  “I will talk to Leonidas,” Oliantus promised.

  Dithyrambus reared up in protest, “Do you have to? Is there no way you can help us without going to him?” Then, giving Oliantus no chance to answer, he cried out, “The king will never understand!” In despair the mason pressed his head with his hands again and muttered, “A disgraced basket weaver’s daughter. Why would a king, a son of Herakles, care about the likes of that?”

  “Let me talk to him,” Oliantus insisted calmly.

  “Couldn’t you at least give us the arms you’ve collected?” Dithyrambus asked plaintively, looking up and gazing at Oliantus with burning eyes. “I have two score men prepared to go with me―if only we had arms.”

  “I will bring you an answer within the hour. Where can I find you?”

  The Thespians were very nervous: Dithyrambus because the day was almost over and time was wasting, and the others because they had never done anything like this before. Now, with the sun close to the horizon, Oliantus was issuing arms and armor, while the Lacedaemonian helots helped the inexperienced Thespians equip themselves. Oliantus overheard a helot patiently explain, “Not so tight; you need room to breathe,” while another man tried on the third pair of greaves, still not satisfied.

  Dithyrambus, meanwhile, kept glancing at the horizon. “The sun will be down in less than two hours!” he complained. “We have only three hours of daylight and over an hour’s walk. Couldn’t we do all this adjusting and fitting later?”

  “No.” The answer came unexpectedly from Leonidas, who had just come around the corner into the little square. He was accompanied by Dienekes, Maron, and six other guardsmen in battle kit and accompanied by their attendants. The latter were wearing open-faced pilos helmets and carrying slingshots, bows, or javelins, an indication that they came in their capacity as light auxiliaries rather than as mere servants to their heavy-infantry masters.

  When they realized the Spartan king was among them, the Thespians first froze and then tried to come to attention as they had been taught. The effect was quite comic in their half-dressed state, and Oliantus had to suppress a laugh. He caught Dienekes looking toward the heavens as if praying for patience. Meanwhile, several of the Thespians cast furtive and admonishing glances at Dithyrambus, because he had not warned them to expect the Spartan
king. But no one was more dumbfounded than Dithyrambus himself. He licked his lips nervously and looked at Oliantus, feeling betrayed.

  “Relax,” Leonidas ordered. “We won’t depart until after dark. We’ll stage well short of the mill and send scouts forward.” As he spoke he indicated the Spartan attendants, resting his hand on Meander’s shoulder. “I asked you to assemble now so we can get in a couple hours of drill with your new panoply by daylight before setting out.”

  “We’re going to conduct this raid in the dark?” one of the Thespians asked, incredulous.

  “Yes, that’s when the Thebans least expect us, and surprise makes a good ally.”

  “Are―are you―coming with us, my lord?” Dithyrambus asked Leonidas, amazed.

  “Of course,” Leonidas responded. Then, in answer to the incredulous looks of the Thespians, he added, “It’s my first opportunity to see how you fight.”

  Meander was more nervous than he let on. He had served Leonidas for a dozen years, and in that time Leonidas had given him many opportunities to develop his fighting skills. Although Meander was barred by his status from standing in the line of battle as he wished, he’d nevertheless taken part in annual maneuvers as a skirmisher, and he was good with a bow and could throw a javelin as well as most. Furthermore, he had attended Leonidas at the Battle of Sepeia. He’d taken part in the subsequent campaign in the Argolid, and more recently he’d marched with Leonidas to Marathon and had seen the aftermath of battle there. Most relevant for tonight’s mission, however, he was familiar with the essence of reconnaissance and was comfortable moving about in the dark, something the Thespians evidently found difficult.

  But even if Meander had regularly practiced reconnaissance of this kind on maneuvers, lives had never been at stake before, and the task of going forward to the windmill to reconnoiter alone was daunting. For a few seconds Meander even found himself wishing Leonidas had chosen someone else, but then he kicked himself mentally.