Spartan

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘By Hercules! These legs aren’t doing too well but we certainly have strength in our hands, don’t we? That’s it, that’s it: grip tight, little one! Never let what is yours slip from your hands, and no one will be able to take it away from you.’

  From the cracks in the door penetrated the rays of a dying sun. They touched upon the old man’s white locks and cast golden reflections of amber and alabaster on the little one’s skin, and on the poor, smoke-blackened furnishings of the cottage. Kritolaos, sitting on a bench, took the baby on his knee and began eating the simple meal his daughter had prepared. The bleating of the sheep reached his ears from the pen. And from the edge of the clearing, he heard the deep sigh of the forest, the consuming hymn of the nightingale. It was the hour of the long shadows, when the gods dispel the pain in men’s hearts and send them purple clouds that bring the soothing calm of sleep.

  But down there, on the plain, the noble house of the Kleomenids had already been swallowed up by the cold shadow of the tremendous mountain. From the wooded peaks of the sullen giant, anguish and pain descended upon the valley. In their marital bed Aristarkhos’ proud wife stared with glassy eyes at the ceiling beams. In her heart the wolves of Taygetus howled, her ears resounded with the sharp grating of their steel jaws, and their yellow eyes lit up the darkness. Neither the strong arms nor the broad chest of her husband could console her, nor would the tears come to wash the bitter pain from her heart.

  *

  Limping on his bad leg, Talos urged the flock along the flowered banks of the Eurotas river, his crook held tightly in his left hand. A light wind sent waves through the sea of poppies around him, and the sharp odours of rosemary and mint spread through the air. The boy, soaked with sweat, paused to refresh himself with the river water. The sheep were oppressed by the heat as well, and lay down under an elm whose sunburned branches provided a little shade. The dog curled up near the shepherd boy, wagging his tail and softly yelping. The boy turned to pat his matted fur, clotted with oats and lupins. Krios nudged closer to his young master and licked his misshapen foot as if it were a painful wound.

  The boy watched the little dog with deep calm eyes, occasionally ruffling the thick fur on its back. His gaze became suddenly troubled as he turned towards the distant city. The acropolis, scorched by the sun, rose from the plain like a disquieting ghost trembling in the sultry air, thick with the deafening screech of the cicadas.

  Talos drew a reed flute, a gift from Kritolaos, from the pack strapped across his shoulders. He began to play: a fresh, light melody spread among the field poppies, mixing with the gurgling of the river and the song of the skylarks. Dozens of them flew about him, rising dazzled towards the flaming sun and plunging down as if thunderstruck to the stubble and the yellowed grasses. The voice of the flute became suddenly muffled like that of a spring gushing in the darkness of a cave in the deep womb of the earth.

  The soul of the little shepherd vibrated intensely to the primitive music of his instrument. Occasionally he laid down his flute and looked out in the direction of the dusty road that came from the north, as if waiting for somebody.

  ‘I saw the shepherds from the highlands yesterday,’ the old man had said. ‘They say that the warriors are returning and with them many of our men who served in the army as porters and muleteers.’ Talos wanted to see them; for the first time he had brought his flock down from the mountains to the plain so as to see the Spartan warriors he had heard described with so much anger, with disgust, with admiration . . . and with terror.

  Krios suddenly lifted his snout to sniff out the still air, and growled.

  ‘Who’s there, Krios?’ asked the young shepherd, suddenly springing to his feet at the edge of the river. ‘Good boy, quiet now, there’s nothing wrong,’ he said, trying to calm the animal. The boy strained his ears, and after a while seemed to hear a far-off sound; a sound of flutes like his own but very different, joined by a deep rhythmic noise like distant thunder. Soon after, Talos distinctly heard the rumble of a multitude of footsteps treading the ground, reminding him of the time the Messenian shepherds had passed with their herds of oxen. Suddenly from behind the hill on his left he saw them appear. It was them: the warriors!

  In the shimmering air, their outline was confused yet formidable. The sound that he’d heard came from a group of men who advanced at the head of the column playing pipes, accompanied by the rhythmic roll of drums and the metallic sound of kettledrums. It was a strange music, unchanging, haunting, made up of taut vibrant sounds that awoke an extraordinary longing in the boy, an uneasy excitement that made his heart beat crazily.

  The hoplites came behind them, foot soldiers with legs sheathed in bronze greaves, chests covered by armour, faces hidden by the sallets they wore on their heads, decorated with black and red crests. Their left arms carried great round shields adorned with fantastic animals, monsters that Talos recognized from Kritolaos’ stories.

  The column advanced with measured step, raising up dense clouds of dust that covered the crests and the banners and the warriors’ curved shoulders.

  When the first ones came close to him, Talos felt a sudden pulse of fear and an urge to flee, but a mysterious force from the depths of his heart nailed him to the spot.

  The first ones passed so close that he could have touched the spears that they leaned on as they walked, if he had just reached out a hand. He gazed into each face to see, to know, to understand what the shepherds had told him. He saw their staring eyes, stinging with sweat behind the grotesque masks of their helmets, blinded by the blazing sun; he saw their dust-covered beards, he smelled the acrid odour of their sweat . . . and their blood. Their shoulders and arms were bruised. Dark clots of blood stained their hands and sweaty thighs, and also the tips of their spears. They advanced, impervious to the flies that settled avidly on their tortured limbs. Awed, Talos stared at the fantastic figures who marched past him to the endless cadence of that strange music as it became increasingly distant, unreal, absurd, like a nightmare.

  The sensation of an unexpected, oppressive presence suddenly shook the boy and he wheeled around: a wide chest covered by a storied cuirass, two huge hairy arms as full of scars as a holm oak that a bear has used to sharpen its claws, a swarthy face framed by a raven beard, sprouting its first white bristles, a steel hand tight around the hilt of a long ashwood spear shaft. Two eyes as black as night that shone with the light of a powerful and tormented will: ‘Keep that dog back, boy. Do you want a spear to split apart his bones? The warriors are tired and their hearts are vexed. Call him off, his barking is annoying us all. And go away yourself, this is no place for you!’

  Talos drew back, dazed as if awakened from a dream. He called the dog and walked away, leaning on his staff to ease his limp. After a few steps, he paused and slowly turned his head; the warrior stood immobile behind him with an astonished expression. He stared at the boy in wild pain. His shining eyes fixed the boy’s deformed foot. Biting his lower lip, the warrior was shaken by a sudden tremor, his thighs of bronze were unsteady as reeds. It lasted but a moment; the man covered his face immediately with the great crested helmet, took up the shield emblazoned with the figure of a dragon, and joined the end of the column as it curved down the road.

  The tension that had gripped Talos suddenly abated and he felt a hot stream of tears rise from his heart. They filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks until they wet his bony chest. All at once he became aware of a tremulous calling from the path that led down the mountain: it was old Kritolaos, struggling along as fast as his old age and aching legs would let him.

  ‘Talos, my son!’ exclaimed the distressed old man, hugging the child, ‘Why did you do it, why did you come here? This is no place for you! You must never come here again, do you understand? You must promise me . . . never again!’

  The two of them turned back down the path as Krios rounded up the sheep, driving them towards the mountain. On the distant plain, the long column was entering the city: it seemed like a wounded serpent
hurrying to shelter.

  Stretched out on his straw bed, Talos couldn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t drive that intense, suffering gaze out of his mind . . . that hand that gripped the spear as if wanting to crush it. Who was the warrior with the dragon on his shield? Why had he looked at him in that way? That strange music that had awakened so much emotion in Talos’ heart continued to play in his mind. At last, the late hour closed his eyelids. The warrior’s eyes melted into darkness, the music became slower and then as sweet as a woman’s song, caressing his tired heart until sleep settled his head to rest.

  2

  THE BOW OF KRITOLAOS

  ‘LISTEN CAREFULLY, MY BOY,’ said the old man, considering young Talos with his clear, penetrating gaze. ‘You know well that a bird with a broken wing will never be able to fly again.’ Talos listened to him intently, sitting back on his heels on the ground next to Krios. ‘But a man is different. You are agile and quick, even though your foot is lame. But I want you to become stronger and surer in your movements, even more so than the other boys. The staff that you grasp in your hand will be like a third leg for you and I will teach you to use it. It will seem strange at first, and will take all the determination you’ve got to make it work, but that staff can do much more than just support you as you walk, as it has until now. You’ll learn to use it to pivot your body out in any direction, gripping onto it with one hand or both, as need be.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the way I walk, Kritolaos? Are you saying that I’m not quick enough for you? I can catch up with any sheep that wander away from the flock, and in the long marches to pasture, I hold up better than Krios, and he has four legs!’

  ‘I know, my boy, but you see, your body is becoming crooked, like a piece of green wood left out in the sun.’ Talos scowled. ‘If we let that happen, you’ll be more and more limited in the ways you can move, and when your bones have become stiff and inflexible, you won’t be able to depend on your strength any more.

  ‘Talos,’ continued the old man, ‘your foot was damaged when the midwife pulled you too forcefully from your mother’s womb. Your father, Hylas, was killed by a bear on the mountain, and I promised him before he closed his eyes that I would make a man of you. I’ve succeeded, certainly: your spirit is strong and your mind is quick, your heart generous, but I also want you to become very strong, and so agile that nothing will seem impossible to you.’

  The old man fell silent for a moment, eyes half closed as if searching for other words in his ancient heart. He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and slowly went on. ‘Talos, answer me honestly. Have you returned to the plain to see the warriors, even though I’ve forbidden you?’ The boy lowered his eyes, twisting a stalk between his fingers. ‘Yes, I know,’ continued the old man. ‘You have returned. I’d imagined as much, and I know why.’

  ‘If that’s so,’ interrupted the boy with a scowl, ‘tell me, grandfather, because I don’t.’

  ‘You’re fascinated by their force and by their power. Perhaps your heart is not that of a simple shepherd.’

  ‘Are you making fun of me, Kritolaos? What else can we be but servants and the shepherds of other people’s flocks?’

  ‘That’s not true!’ exclaimed the old man suddenly, and for a moment his eyes blazed with a fierce and noble light. A hand like the claw of an old lion gripped the boy’s wrist. Talos was amazed and perplexed. The old man slowly pulled away his hand, and lowered his eyes and his head – the gestures of one who has been forced to learn obedience. ‘No, it’s not true,’ he resumed in a more subdued tone. ‘Our people have not always been servants. There was a time when we dominated the mountains and the valleys as far as the western sea. We ruled the plains as far as Cape Taenarum, raising herds of fiery horses. Nestor and Antilochus, the lords of Pylos and Ithome, fought alongside Agamemnon under the walls of Troy. When the Dorians invaded these lands, our people fought with great valour before submitting. The blood of warriors flows through our veins: King Aristomenes and King Aristodemus—’

  ‘They’re dead!’ burst out the boy. ‘Dead! And all those warriors that you’re talking about with them.’ His face was distorted with anger, the veins on his neck bulged. ‘We are slaves, servants, and always will be. Understand, old man? Servants!’

  Kritolaos stared at him, saddened and surprised. ‘Servants,’ repeated Talos, confused, lowering the tone of his voice.

  Talos took the hand of the old man, who was silent and bewildered by the boy’s rage. ‘How many years ago,’ continued Talos in a softer voice, ‘tell me, how many years ago did the things you’re talking about happen? The glory of your kings is forgotten. I know what you’re thinking, I know my words are a surprise to you because I’ve always listened to your stories. They’re beautiful stories. But I’m not a little boy any more, and your dreams make my heart ache.’ A long silence fell between them, broken only by the bleating of the flock in the pen nearby.

  Suddenly the old man stood up, straining his ears intently.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Talos.

  ‘Do you hear them? Wolves! They howled like this the night that you— were born. But it’s not the mating season yet. Isn’t that strange?’

  ‘Oh, let them howl and let’s go inside. It’s raining, and nearly dark.’

  ‘No. Did you know, Talos, that the gods sometimes send signs to men? It’s time you knew. Take my cloak and a torch and follow me.’

  They started off towards the forest that loomed at the edge of the clearing. The old man chose a tortuous path amidst the trees, followed by the mute, pensive boy. After nearly an hour of this silent march, they reached the foot of a protruding cliff covered by a thick mantle of moss. At the base of the cliff was a pile of rocks which seemed to have tumbled down from the mountain.

  ‘Move those stones,’ ordered Kritolaos. ‘I don’t have the strength to do it myself.’

  Talos obeyed, curious and impatient to uncover the old man’s mystery. The rain had stopped and the wind had died down. The forest was immersed in silence. Talos worked energetically, but his task was not easy. The rain-soaked stones, covered with greenish, slimy moss, slipped through his hands, but the boy continued resolutely. By the light of the torch that the old man held, Talos caught sight of an opening underneath. He moved the last of the rocks away – they had been covering an underground passage! Peering into the darkness, the boy could make out irregular stairs covered with grey mould.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ said Kritolaos, nodding towards the entrance of the tunnel. ‘Help me,’ he added, ‘I don’t want to break my leg.’

  Talos started down first and reached up to help the old man, who leaned on the boy so as not to lose his footing. The two of them continued down the rough steps carved in the rock, and came to the opening of a small cave. The dripping ceiling was barely high enough for a man to stand up straight. The cave seemed empty at first, until Kritolaos, moving his torch, lit up one of the corners and revealed a great wooden chest reinforced with bronze plates. The old man lifted the latch and chipped away at the pitch sealing the lid with the point of his knife.

  ‘Open it,’ he ordered Talos, who had been watching him astonished.

  ‘What’s in the chest?’ asked the boy. ‘Some kind of treasure you’ve kept hidden?’

  ‘No, Talos, there are no riches here. Some things are far more precious than gold and silver. Open it, you’ll see.’

  The old man handed him the knife. The chest’s lid was well sealed, but Talos succeeded in forcing it. He shot Kritolaos a questioning look. The old man nodded; Talos struggled to remove the lid and leaned it back against the cavern wall. He shone the torch inside the chest.

  What Talos saw left him speechless: a splendid helmet of bronze crowned with wolf fangs set into the metal, a heavy bronze cuirass decorated with tin and silver, an amber-hilted sword enclosed in its sheath, embossed thigh-guards and greaves, and a great shield with the head of a wolf, all looking as though they’d just been forged.

  ‘It’s incredible,’ ga
sped Talos, not yet daring to reach out and touch. ‘But this is impossible! This chest has been closed up for who knows how long, but look at this armour: it’s perfect!’

  ‘Look closer, touch it,’ ordered the old man.

  The boy stretched out his hand to touch the resplendent weapons. ‘Grease!’ he murmured. ‘Covered with grease. Did you do it, grandfather?’

  ‘Yes, I, and others before me, for a very long while. That sack, too, was soaked in grease before being closed. Open it,’ Kritolaos said, pointing to a dark bundle that the boy, blinded by the armour, had not noticed. Talos worked excitedly to open the rigid, wrinkled sack, and drew out a huge bow, completely covered with a layer of ram’s fat.

  ‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Kritolaos. ‘It’s still in fine shape. It could strike again if guided by an expert hand.’ His eyes glittered. ‘By an expert hand,’ he repeated, turning to the boy with a sudden flash of tremendous determination in his eyes. ‘Your hand, Talos!’

  The old man’s lean and bony arm, mapped with blue veins, extended the immense bow towards the boy. Talos gazed at it as if hypnotized, not daring to touch it. ‘Take it, boy, it’s yours,’ Kritolaos urged.

  Talos took the amazing weapon into his hands. It was made of an animal’s horns, smooth and polished. The handgrip was wrapped in a thin sheath of silver embossed with a wolf’s head. The deep indentation on the right showed how many arrows had been shot from that weapon, with great force. Talos was pervaded by wild emotion, a thousand thoughts wheeling through his head. A strange essence seemed to emanate from that old bow and flow into his body, making him shake like a reed.