“Don’t you want to consult with your king first?”
“I don’t have to. King Arcesilas told me to give you anything you asked for.”
We were going to Libya.
Dorieus was delighted by how many of our people came forward willing to join his expedition. That was until the ephors limited us to three hundred Spartan volunteers, with preference going to the men who owed my father patronage. The ephors said to let too many of our spearmen go would weaken the mora.
The best among the Equals to join us was the hero Othryades. Dorieus was glad to have Anaxandridas’ old champion and immediately made him one of his captains. With us also went over four thousand perioicoi. Most were from a village in the Thyreatis called Anthana. They were constantly raided by Argos and their last head man had been flayed alive by Cleomenes for entreating with the Argives, so they had little desire to stay in the Peloponnese. We also took five thousand helots, most of them from Messenia and considered potential trouble-makers by our spy network called the krypteia.
The Cyrenicans were good to their word and sent a fleet of a hundred ships to pick us up at Sparta’s port at Gythion. First we sailed to Thera, then Crete, then Apollonia. Then with King Arcesilas we sailed to the Cinyps Wadi. On first view, the Lacedaemonians were quite excited. It truly did look like a tropical paradise. Clear water. Tall palm trees. White sandy beaches. Quite a departure from the rocky coast of the Peloponnese. It was easy to understand why some thought the Garden of the Hesperides was somewhere in Libya. With its strange, humped camels that can go for a week in the desert without water, the place had a fairy tale quality about it.
Beside the wadi was a small mound called the Hill of Graces. It was there Dorieus placed our colony. At first Cinyps looked more like a military camp of tents than even a village. Before the men built houses, they dug a moat, filled it with wooden spikes and built a defensive palisade. The perioicoi built small boats, began fishing, and setting up smithies to keep our hoplites equipped and ready. The beach bustled with loading and unloading ships from the Pentapolis. The helots watched over our flocks and herds and were put to work irrigating and planting the land.
While the colony slowly took shape, Dorieus and his three hundred Spartiates plied the trade they were trained for: war. Working as the Pentapolis’ mercenaries, my father and his men began to level the enemy outposts that dotted the Libyan coastline to our west, between the wadi and the Phoenician stronghold at Oea. In return for Dorieus’ services, our allies kept us well supplied with food, iron and lumber.
Although I missed Gorgo, the crickets and the green valley of Laconia, the one thing that made Libya bearable was the absence of my cousin Pausanias. My father’s twin brothers came, but Kleombrotus left his wife Alcathus and his two sons home in Pitane.
I made new friends. The best of them was a boy my age named Battus from a native tribe called the Nasamone. Battus’ people were nomads that spent their winters in the interior collecting wild dates and their summers along the coast near the Cinyps Wadi with their cattle and goats. He was distinctive among his people for his height and was among the few boys my own age I ever met that was taller than I.
We first met down along the beach, where Battus was fishing with a net. I wordlessly helped him draw in his catch and we immediately became friends. Together we fished and had great fun catching ray-finned pilchards and sometimes large bluefins. He showed me which palms bore edible fruits and which were poisonous, how to make honey from the flowers of the acacia tree and the best places to hunt. Together we tracked ostriches, wild pigs and antelope, Battus with his bow and me with my javelins. He taught me that even though someone might look entirely different, they can still have honor and integrity.
At first the Nasamones seemed strange to me. They lived in portable barrows made out of asphodel shrubs woven together with rushes. They buried their dead sitting up, and took great care to make sure that when one of their people died, they expired in a sitting position. They also collected locusts, left them to dry in the sun, then ground them into a powder and mixed it with their milk.
Battus knew a smattering of the Ionian tongue and slowly taught me the language of the Nasamones, Berber and the Macae. The Macae were the Nasamones hereditary enemies. They lived to the west and were allied with the Phoenicians at Oea. While the Nasamones shaved the backs of their heads and let the hair in the front grow long, the Macae did the opposite; shaving the front of their heads and letting it grow long in the back.
The hardest thing about being around Battus was the smell. Spartans have an aversion to bathing too much. They think it makes the skin soft. But they do believe in keeping clean by coating their bodies with oil, and then scraping it away with a wooden strigil. But the Nasamones never bathed. Ever. They were the dirtiest people I have ever encountered. Giving them an unusual odor. A cross between stale cheese and dung. Battus told me the Nasamones believed that if they bathed, their herds and flocks would no longer recognize or follow them. Over time, like anything, I got used to my friend’s heavy scent and used it to find him when he was sleeping in the bush.
Battus was the son of their tribe’s head man Chafik, and as I learned, battus in their tongue meant quite simply ‘king.’ When we both realized we were the sons of our people’s leader it strengthened our bond and made us brothers.
One of the things I admired about Battus was that he was always making something. Fletching fresh arrows for his bow. Stretching an ostrich skin across a new shield frame. Stringing crocodile teeth together for a necklace.
Not long after we met he presented me with a small ivory figurine that he had carved into the shape of a man with a ram’s head. “This is Amun. The Egyptians call him Ammon-Ra.” To the Nasamone he was the father of the gods, god of truth, maker of men and animals, and lord over all things. “Keep him close. Pray to him. And he will watch over you.”
In exchange, I gave Battus a small clay-fired image of Heracles that I carried in my belt pouch. I had made it when I was a young pais in the agoge. Before the annual festival of Artemis Orthia each boy made a small totem out of mud in the image of his patron god or hero. All of the crickets made one and would carry it, rub it for luck and pray to it throughout their lives. They were fired in a potter’s kiln and left overnight on the altar of Artemis Orthia to imbue them with their power. It had been in my pouch for years. Happy with the gift, Battus took my tiny statuette, drilled a hole in Heracles’ lion head, poked a string through the hole and wore it as a necklace.
When Battus and I were sixteen summers old, one morning we met west of the wadi at a clear water spring where the Lacedaemonians sometimes swam. We’d decided to venture west of Cinyps as we’d heard the men say a large wild boar had been spotted there. It was reported to be a huge beast with large tusks that we had dreams of putting into a new helmet. We knew that if we could hunt the beast down we would win great honor.
Up until recently all of the land west of the Cinyps had been ruled by the Macae. The Nasamones dared not set foot there unless in force.
We figured that had all changed now. During the last four years the Spartans had attacked, sacked and burned all of the Macae settlements several day’s march to the west of the wadi. They were little more than small fishing villages. My father hit them at dawn when they were still waking and put their wooden huts to the torch before they had the dirt from their eyes. To his credit, Dorieus did not slaughter the Macae or sell the women and children into slavery. He used the shieldwall to drive the people out of their homes toward the Phoenician walled fortress at Oea.
Dorieus, Thessalus and their captains planned to fill the walled Phoenician city with refugees. That way, when they laid siege to Oea the Phoenicians would run through their food faster, making it easier to starve them out.
As Battus and I walked in the shade made by the palms along the beach we took up our usual argument. He patted the sheepskin quiver of arrows dangling from his hip. In his left hand he held a longbow made from a zorca, a
Libyan antelope known for the length of its horns. Battus was extremely proud of his bow—he’d killed the zorca himself and made the bow as well, which was strung with a length of cow gut.
“A true warrior fights hand to hand with his enemy,” I said jabbing an imaginary foe with my two javelins.
“Only crazy Hellenes fight that way. The wise warrior drops his enemy with a well placed arrow. Before the man ever gets close.”
“It takes no courage to kill from afar. You’ve got to get right up into your opponent’s face. That’s bravery.”
“You Spartans. You think you are so tough. Take away your bronze shields, your iron helmets and the metal cages you wear around your chest and just how brave would you be?”
I carried a javelin in each hand, and like Battus was naked but for a loincloth. Although my skin was not as dark as his, four years in the sun had bronzed my skin a deeper brown than it had ever been in Lacedaemonia. And, as there was no paidonómos in Libya to shave my head every few days, my blonde hair had grown long, almost as long as Battus’ black bangs, which he tied back behind his neck to dangle down his broad black back.
I was about to reply to his last jibe, when I spotted something ahead. We were nearing a rocky promontory that reached out into the sea and had provided a harbor for one of the Macae villages Dorieus had burnt to the ground.
“Look,” I said dropping down low.
Battus joined me. “Ships.”
Dorian ships would stop at the wadi, so we had a feeling that whoever they were, they wouldn’t be friendly.
“Phoenician?” I asked.
“Probably.”
They could be scouting the wadi, something Dorieus would want to know about. “Let’s sneak closer. See if we can count their numbers.”
Battus nodded and led the way into the trees. Although we argued about our weapons, I admired his woodcraft. In the agoge we are taught to go without torches at night and often forced to scrounge and steal food, so I’d always considered us masters of stealth, but from a lifetime spent traveling Libya’s tropical jungles, deserts and rocky interior Battus knew how to move as silent as a shadow through the bushes and trees.
We spotted and easily avoided the single picket leaning with his spear against a palm outside the burned out Macae village. Creeping back toward the beach, kneeling behind a bush with giant leaves that Battus called ‘elephant ears,’ we spied three triremes and half a dozen merchant galleys pulled up upon the beach. Each rested with their bows still in the water, and their sterns on wooden rollers that would enable the crews to push them quickly into the sea in the event of an attack.
“Two of the warships are Phoenician,” Battus whispered. “I don’t know about the third. I don’t recognize the goddess on the bow.”
As was our custom, we’d left Cinyps before dawn and we’d been walking for an hour, so the sailors and soldiers on the beach were just stirring from their tents, stoking their cook fires and making their morning meal.
Dorian and Ionian sailors slept on the beach under the stars when they traveled. Not in tents. We both looked in wonder at a giant hide covered structure in the center of the camp that looked as big as King Arcesilas’ palace in Cyrene.
Not including the oarsmen, we estimated the Phoenician force consisted of about sixty fighting men. Easy prey for the Spartans.
“Let’s go back,” I said.
We’d only gone forty paces when we nearly tripped over Battus’ little brother Orydes. As he was wont to do, he’d followed us from the wadi.
Battus was incensed. Not making a sound, we retreated away from the Phoenician camp and their lone sentry. Once we were out of earshot Battus began berating his brother. “You’re going to get us killed. Get home!”
“Wait,” I said. “Orydes. Go to my father. Tell him what we saw here. And we can continue on our hunt.”
Battus looked at me uncertainly. “He could run into the Macae.”
“I didn’t see any coming here,” the young boy said, “and you two were talking so loud, if there were any Macae still around, they would have heard you.”
“We can circle around their camp,” I coaxed. “The glen where Celeas saw the boar is close.”
“We could run into Phoenicians.”
“They’re still eating breakfast. We give it until the sun touches the tops of the trees. If we don’t kill the boar by then, we turn back.”
Battus nodded. “All right. Agreed. Orydes. Go find Lord Dorieus. You know what to tell him. They’re at the old Qaryat village. Now run.”
We swung wide around the place where the Phoenicians were camped and continued west, this time moving among the trees so we couldn’t be spotted by enemy scouts. Aware there were Phoenicians about we kept a close watch as we walked.
“Look at this,” Battus said kneeling. He was an excellent tracker and usually the one that picked up the spore of our quarry.
“Boar print?”
“No. Human.”
“Phoenician? Macae?”
“I’m good, but not that good. It’s small. Maybe a child or a girl.”
We’d only continued on a couple of additional paces when Battus stopped again. “Uh-oh. Come look.”
I knelt down beside him. “It looks like a cat print.”
“Yes,” he said placing his fingers inside the print. It was bigger than his hand. “A very big cat. A leopard or a lion.” He felt the dirt. “The prints are fresh. Look how close they are to the human prints. They are stalking them.”
The fact that a giant cat was about to make breakfast of a Phoenician or Macae did not bother us. What spurred us to begin running west was the thought of hunting a lion.
4. The Land of the Lotus Eaters
Without warning
as a wind in the mountains
assaults an oak,
love shook my breast.
Sappho, fragment 14
We hadn’t gone far when we heard a roar followed by a high pitched scream, the kind that sent shivers up my spine.
“Come on! They’re on the beach!” Battus yelled. As we sprinted through the palms toward the shore Battus was already notching an arrow in his horn bow. We burst through the elephant ears to see a female lion chasing a strangely clad girl across the white sand. She was attempting to get into the water ahead of the beast, hoping it wouldn’t follow her there—but it was debatable who would reach the surf first, the lion or the girl.
Battus let fly his first arrow, but we were on the run, and he missed.
“Try not to hit the girl,” I cried running across the soft sand. She was young, about our age and oddly dressed, wearing a purple blouse and pants made of a fabric I’d never seen before, that fluttered around her body as she ran, showing a woman’s breasts and hips. As she wore purple, I thought she must be Phoenician. In our tongue the word phoenicia meant ‘purple’ after the famous dye they made from a shellfish found on their coasts. She also wore a strange cap on her head and wisp of material beneath her eyes covering her face.
The girl was fast, running for her life, but the snarling beast was faster. When it was only three arm lengths from her I judged myself close enough to try a javelin throw. As I did Battus stopped in his tracks and drew his bow again. As I ran I could hear his string twang and a stone-tipped arrow with its white ostrich feathers zip by as I let loose my first missile.
Battus’ arrow flew true and struck the lion in the rear flank, while my javelin passed over its head. Although not fatal, at least the arrow diverted the beast’s attention. It had been just about to pounce, when instead it spun around to face us. The girl splashed into the water and made a graceful dive into the waves, disappearing for a few moments beneath the sea.
The lioness roared in pain and rage. Battus let loose again. Another hit. This one in the beast’s shoulder. Causing it to charge. I considered throwing my remaining javelin, but if I did, I’d be defenseless except for my knife. So instead, I braced myself, placing the butt of my weapon against the ground, and prepar
ed to meet the large cat’s attack. As I crouched there I heard Battus’ bow thump again. A miss. With a blood curdling roar the beast sprang into the air at me its jaws wide open. Another arrow flew by. This one a hit. Right in the chest. The lioness crashed down on me with such force—my javelin pierced its heart, but its weight splintered the ash shaft. The heavy beast landed right on top of me knocking me backwards. I felt its fetid breath on my face, but it must have been its last. Crawling out from beneath the giant cat I quickly drew my knife, but it was already dead.
“Are you all right?”
There were five red scratches across my chest from one of the lion’s claws. “I’m fine. Nice shooting.” Three arrows stuck from the tawny fur, along with the barb of my javelin.
“Nice work with your spear. I’m not sure which of us killed the beast. My last arrow or your javelin.” The importance of which would determine which one of us got to keep our kill. Sporting a lion skin among the Libyans would win great kudos.
“We can share it,” I said and my friend nodded in agreement.
Looking up from the dead cat, across the beach, I watched the girl come out of the water. She reminded me of the stories bards sing of how the goddess of love Aphrodite first rose up from the foamy sea, dripping wet and riding on a seashell. The girl had lost her veil and the thin material of her blouse and pants stuck to her body as if she was naked. I swallowed. Battus’ dark face turned the color of a boiled crab. We had each seen plenty of naked females before. They often swam in the springs of the wadi and in Lacedaemonia the girls in the agoge danced in the festivals naked or with one breast dangling free. But this black-haired girl was different. Her full breasts and hips swayed as she walked, making me look at women in an all new light. With every step closer she grew in perfection. Her exotic face, mahogany colored eyes, high cheekbones and clean, white smile all had me hypnotized.
In the past I’d paid girls little attention. Lacedaemonian girls were extremely bossy. Nor did they make good companions like Battus for things like hunting or wrestling. But this girl was different.
The Wandering King Page 7
