The Wandering King

by Stephen Bradford Marte

  On the fourth day, the king’s bones were placed in a black funeral urn painted with scenes from his life. Then the urn was interred in the Agiad royal burial ground in Pitane beside the shrine to Asclepius, god of healers. Afterwards funeral games were held in Anaxandridas’ honor. They included running, boxing, wrestling, the long jump, discus throw, even a chariot race, with olive wreathes as prizes for the winners. On the fifth day, there was a great feast. Everyone from Lacedaemonia was invited. All wore black and Spartiate, perioicoi and helot mingled and ate together peacefully. On the sixth day, the council declared a general amnesty to all criminals. On the seventh day, all debts to the king and the State were forgiven. During the next ten days no business transactions were permitted, nor were there any meetings of the city council. All continued to mourn in private.

  Through all of this, the agoge was closed so I did not encounter Pausanias. If I had, I was in such sad shape he would have whipped me easily. To listen to Gorgo, it was her prayers at Helen’s temple that kept me safe. Maybe she was right. While our lessons and chores were temporarily suspended, Pausanias hunted the crickets down one at a time and when he found them, he beat them, twisting their arms, forcing them to swear to follow him. The weak complied. The strong refused, splitting the herd in two.

  On the eighteenth day after my grandfather’s death, the ephors announced the name of the new king. When the ephors declared Cleomenes firstborn and therefore by law Anaxandridas’ successor, there was a great outcry among the people who thought my father should be king. In protest, some refused to attend the sacrifices, singing and dances held in Cleomenes’ honor. The same way the crickets had split, it seemed the entire city had fractured in two. When Dorieus petitioned the council for volunteers to build a new colony, permission was granted with very little discussion. Everyone realized that if Dorieus did not go, the country might erupt in civil war. The question on everyone’s lips was: where would Dorieus build his new city?

  A month after my grandfather’s death, an ambassador arrived who provided the answer.

  I was working in the Temple of Athena Bronzehouse alongside Callicrates, Alpheus, his brother Maron, and six others who remained loyal to me, while Pausanias and his followers worked on the other side of the temple. Among the crickets many chores was polishing the smoke-covered bronze murals that adorned the walls of the temple. I used a fleece cloth to rub at the raised image of my ancestor Heracles fighting the nine-headed Lernaean Hydra, bringing the tarnished metal to a bright shine. It was tedious work made all the more difficult by the many creases in the bronze.

  Suddenly Gorgo came running up the steps between the pillars and found me. “Have you heard?” she asked excitedly. When I shook my head negatively, she said, “King Arcesilas of Cyrene has sent an ambassador to your house. He is waiting there now. They are fetching your father from the gymnasium. From what my father says, they probably want him to build his colony in Libya.”

  “Libya?” I said gloomily. As far as I knew, Libya was at the edge of the world, the place where the titan Atlas held the world up on his shoulders.

  Gorgo sat and waited patiently outside on the steps under the shade of a bay tree till I finished, then started to annoy me by rushing me to my parents’ house where we sneaked upstairs to the balcony overlooking the megaron with its smoky hearth fire, a single cherry tree, and a collection of simple wooden furniture, that in the Spartan custom had all been handmade by my father.

  Gorgo and I lay on the wooden plank floor in the shadows, watching as my father’s closest companions arrived and sat on the benches around the fire. Off to one side stood a tall, thin man, with lank black hair wearing a long crimson red himaton draped over one of his forearms.

  “That’s him. The ambassador. His name is Histeaus,” Gorgo whispered. “Who are those men?”

  “Well, the worried looking one with the gray hair, that’s Thessalus. He was my father’s trainer when he was in agoge. The young one with all the muscles that walks like a rooster, that’s Celeas. My father coached him in the palestra. He won in the Nemean Games with the discus. The one as tall as my father standing by the hearth, that’s Paraebates. He’s a famous spearman, one of your father’s bodyguards in the Hippeis.” My father’s brothers, our uncles Leonidas and Kleombrotus needed no introduction.

  Once the men had assembled, Dorieus nodded to King Arcesilas’ ambassador to begin.

  Histeaus was not a very impressive man to look at. He did not appear like a warrior. His face appeared too gaunt. Every time I glanced at him, his expression seemed to change. From happy to somber, from intelligent to idiotic, from determined to fearful. It was when he opened his mouth, and he began to gesture and move his hands about like a bard, that it became evident why King Arcesilas had sent him.

  Like most politicians, Histeaus spoke for a long time. He opened by describing the founding of Cyrene in Libya. Gorgo told me later she’d heard the story before, but it was all new to me. Four generations ago, Sparta’s only island colony of Thera, had built Cyrene at a place Histeaus described as a tropical paradise, where fresh water, rich soil, copper, and game were all plentiful. Cyrene had been built several stadia inland in a lush valley by the Jebel Akhdar plateau. The city grew so quickly, the Cyrenicans built a port on the coast called Apollonia. When people heard how wealthy the Cyrenicans were becoming, additional colonists poured in, building Teucheira and Euesperides on the coast and Barca inland. Together, the five cities became known as the Pentapolis.

  “Your ancestor Heracles visited Libya,” Histeaus said. “He went there to complete his eleventh labor, to pluck a golden apple from the Garden of the Hesperides. Admittedly we have yet to find trees that produce apples made of gold, but we have found something just as rare and just as valuable: silphium, the plant that miracles are made of. The local Nasamone natives call it ‘quourina.’ The Berbers call it ‘shahaat.’ We call it is a gift from Apollo. When my ancestors first came to Libya they found it growing wild along the coast. It looks like parsley, so they used it as a food spice. Then they found when their cattle grazed upon silphium it made their flesh more tender. Today, it has more uses than a belt knife. People everywhere around the Aegean use it to treat coughs, sore throats, fevers, stomach aches and even warts. All of which has made silphium worth its weight in silver.”

  Histeaus went on and on, claiming the black earth around Cyrene contained the richest farmland in the world. “The weather and the soil are so perfect,” he said, “we are able to raise crops ten months out of twelve, giving us three harvests a year. On top of that, it is a hunter’s paradise. You’ll find creatures in Libya the likes of which you have never seen before. Ostriches, antelope, crocodiles—each of which has a distinct flavor unlike anything you have ever tasted. Wild boar are plentiful, as are lions and the spotted leopard.”

  He described strange creatures called camels and elephants, and once he had the group of men dazzled, Histeaus concluded by saying, “King Arcesilas bids me to invite you and the Spartans to build your new colony in Libya. We will transport you there with our ships. We will provide food and supplies for your people. And, we will help you build your city. Lumber for houses. Stone for walls. Workers to irrigate your fields. We will give everything you need, if you just come. What say you?”

  “Where would we place this city?” Dorieus asked.

  At that point Histeaus produced a large, rolled up papyrus map that he spread out upon a table. The men gathered around, making it impossible for Gorgo or I to see what they were pointing at.

  “We have scouted out the perfect place for you,” the ambassador said. “The Cinyps Wadi. I’ve seen it myself. It is more beautiful than anything you can imagine. A lush oasis in the middle of a barren desert. Beautiful emerald green water. Incredible white beaches. Land so fertile your people will never go hungry. And so much game, the animals practically leap onto your spear.”

  “Where is Cyrene?” Dorieus asked.

  Histeaus pointed out the Peloponnese, Crete
, Cyrene, and then jabbed his finger at a dip in the Libyan coast. “The wadi is here. A two-day sail west of the Pentapolis.”

  “Where are the Carthaginians?” asked Thessalus. He was the oldest among my father’s closest companions and the most cautious.

  “Carthage is here,” Histeaus said pointing at the map, “a five day’s sail west of you. The Phoenicians do have a fortress here, at Oea, only a day’s sail to your west.”

  “Your king is a clever man,” Leonidas said. “He wants to place us between himself and his enemies.”

  “The Phoenicians are sailors,” Histeaus scoffed. “Certainly no match for the Spartans on land.”

  As I listened I learned Phoenicia and Carthage were under the control of the Persian Empire that had also overrun Egypt. The entire coast of Libya all the way to the Pillars of Heracles in the west was under the control of Persia and her allies. All except for the swath of land around the five Dorian cities of the Pentapolis. That was the real reason King Arcesilas had sent to us. The Cyrenicans were afraid their rich land would be raped and pillaged and their people sold off into slavery by the Persians.

  Histeaus bowed gracefully, “If you were to bring your famed Spartan warriors to Libya it could change everything. A Phoenician outpost has popped up east of Oea. They are coming our way. Our informants tell us they are getting ready to build at the wadi next…”

  “How many hoplites can you and your allies put into the field?” Dorieus asked abruptly.

  “Counting all five cities of the Pentapolis: twenty-five thousand. Our Dorian allies in Thera, Sicily, Italy and Crete, can supply us with another twenty-five thousand men. And our native allies among the Nasamone, Asbystae and Garamante tribes can aid us with another ten thousand warriors.”

  “What about ships?”

  “We have over two hundred merchant ships that can be used as transports. Plus we have forty new triremes, with additional hulls being laid down as we speak.”

  “And the Persians?”

  “Persia is entirely landlocked. They have no warships.”

  “I may not know much, but I know Phoenicia and Carthage have large navies,” Thessalus said.

  “We estimate they have a hundred warships,” Histeaus said with a shrug. “But they are spread out from Ionia all the way to Iberia. At most we only see one or two of their warships at a time escorting their merchantmen along our coast.”

  Dorieus paced and swung his muscular arms, loosening them like he did before a wrestling match in the palestra. I watched as he cracked his neck, something he did when he was nervous. Finally he told Histeaus that he would give him an answer in the morning. With that, the ambassador left. After which the men sat around the hearth fire and discussed the proposal.

  Lying on the balcony for so long, I was getting restless. “I have chores to do,” I whispered.

  “Be quiet and listen,” Gorgo hissed. “This is important.”

  With my chin resting on the backs of my hands I listened, noting how Gorgo had scooted closer beside me so that our bodies touched. As she often did I could sense her little body trembling. It was a beautiful summer day and she was cold. I put an arm around her to warm her and she seemed to relax.

  “Three harvests a year,” came Paraebates’ deep cavernous voice from down below us in the megaron. “I like the sound of that. Food won’t be a problem when we are on campaign.” Food was always a problem in the Peloponnese. An entire crop could be wiped out by a torrential rain or an early frost making it difficult to provide rations for the army.

  “I wouldn’t mind going there,” Leonidas added, “just for the hunting. The way Histeaus described them, I would love to see one of those elephants. And lions. We haven’t seen one of the really big cats in the Taygetus or the Parnasus since the mountain lion cub father found when I was born.” The cub that had given him his name, Leonidas, ‘lion-like.’

  “We should have asked Histeaus about the lotus plant,” Celeas said. “Isn’t Libya supposed to be the place Odysseus and his men landed, and his crew wandered off, seduced by the lotus?”

  “Don’t let that worry you,” Leonidas said. “From what I’ve heard the lotus is actually a berry. And it makes the finest wine in the world.”

  “Fine enough to make Odysseus’ men forget their homes and families,” Thessalus said grimly. “We’ve all heard the story about how Heracles raided the Hesperides for their golden apples, but Histeaus forgot to mention that it was guarded by a dragon with one hundred heads. That describes Libya perfectly. Rich lands, lorded over by a hundred different enemies. I don’t trust this Histeaus. He’s a politician. Since when do politicians have any regard for the truth? I wouldn’t put it past him to inflate the strength of King Arcesilas’ forces and underestimate the danger from the Persians.”

  “What say you brother?” Dorieus asked Kleombrotus.

  As he often did, Pausanias’ father had been sitting back quietly listening. The brothers had rarely spoken since the Planistai, but since Cleomenes’ election to the Agiad throne all three had agreed to join forces.

  Kleombrotus shrugged and said in a soft whisper that lifted the short hairs at the back of my neck, “You all know me. I like killing people. If they happen to be Persians, so much the better. Building a colony in Libya, would be a great adventure. One worthy of you brother. While Cleomenes sits here getting fat, we’ll be overseas taking the fight to the enemy.”

  Celeas added, “Histeaus isn’t the first man to tell us Libya is a rich, tropical paradise. I like the idea of trying to find the Garden of the Hesperides. And I like the idea of standing up to the Persians, even if it’s just their stooges from Phoenicia.”

  According to what Gorgo told me, the Persians were creeping like a plague across the land. They came from the Far East, and besides adding Phoenicia, Carthage and Egypt to their vast empire, over the past several years they’d begun marching around the Aegean. They’d taken Lycia, Ionia and Phrygia before I was born. Current reports put their High King Darius and his mammoth army in Scythia.

  Dorieus put the question of whether or not to go to Libya to a vote, the results of which we could not hear. After which the men went off to their evening meal in the rows of wooden mess halls built west of the village of Mesoa.

  Once they were gone I slipped Gorgo back outside. My father would not like me allowing her inside our house, but I figured Cleomenes would learn all of these things in time anyway, so what did it matter? Plus I liked to hear what Gorgo thought about things. What we had just heard made my head hurt. I’d always thought my father would build a new city on the other side of the Taygetus or Parnassus Mountains. Some place close to Lacedaemonia. The thought of traveling to the land of the lotus eaters, to the very ends of the earth, away from everything and everyone I held dear was unnerving.

  “What do you think?” I asked her. “Will they go to Libya?”

  She looked at me somewhat sadly, “The real question is, should you go? No. You shouldn’t. You’ll only be killed. But you know your father. He cannot abide my father. He will go, and you will go with him.” As she said this, I noticed she was sniffling.

  “What is the matter? Are you getting sick?”

  “You are such a dope,” she said hitting me on the arm. Then she did a strange thing. She kissed me on the cheek and ran off to her father’s house.

  Although I usually slept in the rushes along the Eurotas with the crickets, that night I sneaked back inside my parents’ house wondering if Dorieus had made a decision. Instead I heard my parents arguing. Phile was angry.

  “You ask everyone’s opinion, but mine.” She said she felt the same way as Kleombrotus’s wife Alcathus. She didn’t want to leave our village. She was happy where we were. And Alcathus had already informed everyone that no matter what her husband did, she was staying in Pitane with her sons Pausanias and Nicomedes so they could finish the agoge.

  As he did at such times, my father lost his temper and stormed out of the house to sleep in the barracks with the
mates from his syssitia. I crept out of the shadows, making my mother jump.

  “You heard everything?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Does this mean we can stay? Like Pausanias?”

  “No. It doesn’t.” My mother was the only person in the world I loved without reservation. She was beautiful by any standards, with fair hair, unblemished skin, high cheekbones, green eyes and a gentle voice that had a way of soothing away all my fears. My mother drew me into her arms and hugged me, wetting my shaven head with her tears. “If your father sails to the ends of the earth, he wants us with him. He may seem like a hard man. But he does love you so.” Taking us with him was his way of showing it.

  In the morning Dorieus summoned Histeaus and said, “Tell your king that we will build our colony in Libya at the place you described—on one condition. And this is not negotiable. When it comes to war, he and his allies will follow Spartan command. If he is willing to accept that stipulation, we will come.”

  “It shall be as you wish,” Histeaus said with a wave of his hand.