‘Come on, Brithos, grab her! Hey, don’t let her get away, you slow-moving oaf!’
‘Get over here, yourselves, then. This little savage runs like a hare and scratches like a cat!’
Talos sensed immediately what was happening. He shot out of the forest and burst, running, into the field where several horses were grazing next to a stream. Their masters, all young Spartans, had encircled Antinea who was now at their centre, terrified, her clothing ripped and her hair dishevelled. Goaded on by his companions, the youth named Brithos circled close around the girl as she drew back, clutching her torn clothes to her breast.
‘Hey, Brithos, let’s see if you can tame this little filly, too!’ shouted a boy with reddish hair and freckles, with a vulgar laugh.
‘Leave her alone!’ bellowed Talos, hurling himself into the centre of the circle, moving close to the trembling girl who clutched at his side.
‘What have you done, Talos?’ she sobbed. ‘They’ll kill you.’
‘Friends,’ shouted Brithos, recovering from the shock of the sudden apparition, ‘the goddess Artemis has shown us her favour today by sending us not only a fawn, but also this goat!’
Talos felt his blood boil in his veins and pound at his temples. He grasped his cornel staff with two hands, standing firmly on both legs.
‘Oh, but he’s dangerous,’ sneered another. ‘He has a stick! Let’s be careful not to get hurt or we won’t be able to take part in the initiation.’
‘So, who’s going to take care of him?’ asked a third boy.
‘I will,’ shouted the boy with the red hair advancing behind Talos, who reeled around to face him.
‘Oh, but he’s lame!’ yelled another. ‘It doesn’t count, Aghias, too easy!’
‘That’s all right,’ said the red-haired youth, continuing his advance towards Talos. ‘I’ll take him bare-handed.’
The Spartan flung the javelin he held in his right hand to the ground and lunged forward. Talos dodged him and pivoted on the staff which he had planted forcefully in the ground. He tripped his adversary and drove his heel into the back of the young Spartan’s neck, knocking him senseless. Talos immediately returned to his guard, gripping his staff in both hands.
An astonished silence fell among the group. The boy they called Brithos, their leader apparently, turned livid with anger. ‘That’s enough!’ he shouted. ‘Duels are for warriors. Let us squash this miserable louse and get out of here. I’m tired of these games.’
They rushed upon Talos as a group, veering to avoid the staff that he wielded in the air with deadly precision. Two of the Spartans fell, struck directly on their sternums, twisting in pain and vomiting. The others were upon him, wildly clubbing him with the shafts of their javelins. Talos struggled furiously, howling like a wild beast, trying in vain to break free as his adversaries rained down kicks and punches onto his stomach and back. They nailed his shoulders to the ground, and one of the boys drove his knee into Talos’ chest.
‘Move over!’ commanded Brithos. The other boys scrambled aside, panting heavily. Brithos raised his javelin to deliver the mortal blow. Talos, shaken by tremors, stared up at him, his swollen eyes full of tears. Brithos faltered, and in that moment Antinea, who had been paralysed with terror, threw herself with a cry onto Talos’ body, covering it with her own. Brithos, furious in his rage, stood a moment as if transfixed. He stared stupidly at the girl’s back, which was shaking with sobs. Slowly, the youth lowered the javelin.
‘Pick up those idiots,’ he said to the other boys, pointing to his two battered companions still on the ground, ‘and let’s get out of here.’
The boys reached their horses and took off towards Sparta. Brithos was thinking of that gaze that had caused him to falter. These eyes . . . he’d seen them before, staring at him, but he didn’t remember where, or when. He remembered, without knowing why.
*
It seemed to Talos that he was waking from a deep sleep. Sluggish limbs were racked with piercing cramps. A sweet, warm touch, the throbbing body of Antinea, awakened life in his shivering skin. Slowly, his swollen eyes opened. He saw the girl’s face soiled with his own blood, lined with tears, as Antinea caressed him, quietly sobbing. Her small rough hands moved through his matted hair.
‘Talos, you’re alive,’ she managed to say, as if she couldn’t believe her own words.
‘Looks like it,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘But I don’t know for how much longer. They massacred me, those bastards.’
Antinea ran to the stream, and soaked a corner of her chiton in the cool water. She crouched next to Talos and wiped his disfigured face, his tumid mouth and eyes.
‘Can you stand up,’ she begged, ‘or should I call my father?’
‘No, don’t,’ he answered. ‘I’m all bruised, but I think I’m still in one piece. Help me, that’s good. Hand me my staff.’
The girl gave him the staff and Talos used it to brace himself. His left arm around Antinea’s shoulders, he lifted himself to his feet, painfully stretching his limbs. They started out slowly, stopping often to rest, and reached Pelias’ farm when the sun was still high. Alerted by the barking of his dog, Antinea’s father stepped out into the courtyard. Shaken by the scene before his eyes, he ran towards them.
‘In the name of the gods, what has happened?’ cried the old man. ‘What have they done to you?’
‘Father, help me, quickly,’ gasped the girl, weeping. ‘Talos defended me from some Spartan boys. It’s a miracle he’s alive.’
They laid him out on a bed, covering him with a woollen blanket. The violent fever brought on by the ferocious beating racked his trembling body with convulsions.
‘Please,’ he begged in a feeble voice, ‘don’t let my family know about this. It would kill them.’
‘Stay calm, my boy,’ Pelias reassured him. ‘I’ll send word that you’ll be staying with us for a few days to help me prepare the feast and gather the hay. As soon as you’re better, you’ll be able to invent some story. You’ll say that you fell into some crevasse.’
‘Yes, all right,’ murmured Talos, his eyelids dropping.
Pelias watched the boy with tear-filled eyes, then turned towards his daughter, whose gaze still betrayed the fear she felt. ‘Go put on another dress,’ he said. ‘There’s not much left of the one you have on. Then come back here and don’t leave his side for an instant. I must go into town to our master’s now. The feast will take place in two days and I’ve still got quite a lot to do.’ He disappeared, closing the door behind him and leaving the house in darkness.
Talos, exhausted, had fallen into a deep sleep. He moaned weakly, turning in his bed. Every small movement made Antinea start, and she moved closer to Talos to better see his face in the dim light. She then returned to one of the benches, and sat there with her hands folded in her lap. When Pelias returned it was almost dark.
‘How is he?’ he asked in a low voice, entering.
‘Better, I think. He’s sleeping peacefully and his fever seems lower. But just look at how swollen he is!’ replied the girl. Pelias opened the window a crack, and a little of the glow of dusk entered the room. His face tightened in sadness as he saw Talos’ distended features, the boy’s chest covered in bruises, his skinned and bloodied arms. The old man’s hands tightened into fists. ‘Damn them,’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘Damn them! And to think that they’re the offspring of the most noble families of the city: Brithos, son of Aristarkhos; Aghias, son of Antimakhos; Philarkhos, son of Leukhippos . . .’
‘How did you find out their names?’ asked Antinea, shocked.
‘From our friends who serve in their families. Some of those damnable bastards came back in bad shape and the truth has leaked out, even if they did try to make the others believe that it was some accident that happened during their military drills. That boy Talos, he hit hard! Even though he was alone! It’s strange, I never would have believed it; he is strong, but how could he have knocked those young warriors to the ground? All those boys do is train an
d wrestle and fence all day.’
‘I don’t know, father. It was amazing. You should have seen how he used that staff,’ said the girl, indicating the cornel crook leaning against a corner of the room. ‘He swung it around so incredibly fast, and with so much strength! If they hadn’t all jumped on him together, they couldn’t have beaten him like they did.’
Pelias was very thoughtful for a moment, staring at the shiny cornel rod, then he gripped it with his hands. ‘Old Kritolaos,’ he murmured, ‘no one else . . .’
‘What did you say?’ asked the girl.
‘Nothing, nothing my daughter. I was only talking to myself.’ He put the staff back in its place, then sat down next to the bed where Talos lay sleeping. ‘Now the boy is in real danger, though. They could kill him at any time.’
‘No!’ cried out Antinea.
‘Don’t you realize what he’s done? Not only has he dared to rebel, but he even managed to strike down some of the Spartans. They don’t need that much of a reason to kill a Helot. Fortunately, he hasn’t been recognized yet, but it won’t take them long to find out who he is. They saw that he was lame.’
Antinea twisted her hands, and anxiously watched Talos’ face. ‘We have to help him escape immediately, hide him somewhere!’
‘And where, my daughter? A fugitive Helot can’t get very far, and in any case, where could we possibly hide him? Any family who protected him would be exterminated as soon as the Spartans found them out.’
‘Then, there’s no hope?’
‘Calm down, daughter, we’ll find a solution. For the time being he’s safe. No one saw the two of you come here. At least, I hope not. And then, there is a thread of hope.’
‘What do you mean?’ blurted out Antinea.
‘You told me that Talos was on the ground, and that one of the boys had raised his javelin to run him through, isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘But he didn’t do it.’
‘That’s true, but I’d thrown myself on him then, I covered him with my body. The Spartans don’t kill women.’
‘I don’t think that’s it. If that boy with the javelin hesitated, there could have been a reason. A reason that escapes us at the moment, but one that was good enough to stay his hand. In any case, if he had wanted, he would have had his companions drag you off, and he could have easily killed Talos. So if he didn’t do it, it was of his own will. And if he didn’t kill him in that moment, when he must have been foaming with anger, it’s improbable that he would kill later in cold blood.’
‘But what about the others?’
‘From your description, the boy must have been Brithos, the son of noble Aristarkhos, the last offspring of the Kleomenids. If he doesn’t want it done, you can be sure that the others won’t do anything. For now, in any case, we have time. Everyone in the city is busy preparing the initiation ceremony for the new warriors, which will be taking place the day after tomorrow at the temple of Artemis Orthia.’
Old Pelias drew near to Talos, observing his face more closely. He touched the boy’s hair. ‘Poor boy,’ he murmured. ‘Courageous as a lion. He doesn’t deserve to die; not even twenty years old yet!’ He turned to his daughter: ‘Go, prepare something to eat, so there’ll be something when he wakes up.’
Antinea suddenly remembered that she hadn’t eaten all day, and went to prepare a modest dinner. She called her father when it was ready, but the old man seemingly had to force himself to eat. They went to bed early, drained by the day’s events.
On his bed, Talos was still deep in a slumber filled with frightening nightmares. His throat was parched and his temples pounded. He saw, in rapid succession, Brithos’ face lit up in anger, the sinister glimmer of the javelin tip suspended like a death sentence over his head, the faces of the others spinning around him in a frightening vortex. Their mocking laughter echoed louder and louder in his head. ‘It doesn’t count, Aghias, he’s lame! He’s lame! He’s lame!’ repeated the screaming voices, ten times, a hundred times, louder and louder.
Talos woke up, crying out with anguish in the middle of the night, his forehead dripping with sweat, his heart beating madly. Before him, softly illuminated by the moonlight, was Antinea. Her hair looked like silver, diffused like a light cloud around the soft oval of her face. Her short dress was a little girl’s gown that didn’t reach her knees. She placed the lamp that she was holding on a bench and sat on the edge of the bed. Talos, caught between sleeping and waking, couldn’t seem to come to his senses. Antinea reached her small rough hand up to his forehead and began slowly to dry his sweat with the edge of the woollen cover, in silence.
Talos watched her with a trembling heart, but that cool hand, on his chest now, seemed to call him back from his nightmare. Antinea’s face became slowly clearer in the near darkness. Her eyes – full of anxiety and infinite sweetness – caressed his saddened spirit, his shaken mind. He saw her face come closer, slowly, he felt her hair brush his chest like a warm wave, her lips rested on his thirsty mouth. No longer was the odour of blood filling his nostrils. Talos, the cripple, smelled the sweet scent of hay, of ripe grain, of wildflowers and dreamed in his heart of Antinea’s golden skin, the perfume of her breast . . . for the first time.
*
As the cocks’ cries spread over the countryside, Antinea left the stable carrying a heavy jug of fresh milk.
Her father Pelias had already gone off towards the city. He was bringing the first fruits of the fields to his master’s house to decorate his table on the great feast day. Two large sackfuls hung from the saddle of his ass. The girl leaned backwards against the door to open it, entered the cottage and placed the jug on the ground. She filled a cup with steaming milk; it was time to wake Talos so that he could eat. She quietly entered the room where he slept. A ray of light brightened the room, revealing the straw pallet still stained with blood: empty! Antinea felt suddenly faint. Realizing that he couldn’t have got far, she rushed outside.
She ran towards the wood near the stream, but there was no trace of him. She turned towards the mountain, but decided immediately that Talos couldn’t have gone that way; he would never return to his family in that state. There was only one possible explanation: Talos must have gone to Sparta! The one place that both she and her father had forbidden him to go at any cost.
She returned wearily to the farm, weeping by the time she reached the door. She sat on a stool for a while in thought, then suddenly understood what she must do. Antinea stood up and put on a long cloak which fell from her head to the ground. She started off for the city with her quick step, noting the crowds that were gathering along the streets and in the squares.
Antinea’s intuition had not failed her: Talos had been roaming about on his unsteady legs for some time in the city, hooded to hide his face from the throngs filling the streets that led to the temple of Artemis Orthia. The great sacrifice and initiation ceremony for the new warriors was about to begin.
Many Perioeci – people of the middle caste: farmers and shopkeepers – had come with their families from the outlying fields, and there were also quite a few Helots. Some were certainly there in the service of their masters; others, attracted out of curiosity, had come to witness the cruel initiation rites. All at once, from the end of the square in front of the temple, a roll of drums could be heard along with the sound of pipes. A sound Talos remembered well – he had heard it for the first time when he descended the mountain to the banks of the Eurotas to watch the returning warriors.
The crowd opened to allow the court to pass. First came the priests wrapped in white robes, their heads bound with long woollen bands that fell to their shoulders. Next came the heralds and the temple servants. A short distance behind them followed the divisions of equals, warriors dressed in crimson cloaks and tunics covered with polished armour, their helmets crowned with high horsehair crests.
Talos, half hidden behind a column, felt a shiver run down his spine as he watched them march in perfect order with thei
r measured step. He saw himself as a boy, on the edge of that dusty road, before a warrior who fixed him with sorrowful eyes. The equals began to wheel, arranging their ranks into four rows all around the square. They stopped, still as statues, shield against shield, hands gripping long shining spears. At the end of the column came the royal guard with their scarlet crests rippling in the wind, their great shields decorated with the insignia of the city’s most illustrious families. On one of those shields, Talos saw a dragon with shining scales of copper. The boy’s heartbeat quickened; he tried in vain to search for the face of that warrior, hidden behind the helmet’s mask. Behind them, the two kings: Cleomenes on his black stallion and Leotychidas in the saddle of a Corinthian sorrel, their armour richly adorned and their great mantles falling to cover the hindquarters of their steeds. Finally came the supervisors of the barracks and, behind them, the youths who aspired to become eirenes, men and warriors who would defend the power and honour of their city.
Taking their places, the two kings signalled to the heralds, who sounded the trumpets for the beginning of the sacrifice. The steaming blood of the slaughtered animals dripped on the pavement and a pungent odour spread through the square as their entrails were placed to burn on the fires of the altar. The great moment had arrived: the doors of the temple were flung open. The five ephors emerged and went to take their places among the elders. The first of these raised his right hand, and the heralds called out the names of three young candidates: Kresilas, son of Eumenes; Kleandridas, son of Eupites; and Brithos, son of Aristarkhos.
Talos started; although physically exhausted, he felt a shock coursing through his limbs. He realized that he had come just for this. That boy Brithos, whom he had never seen before, had been about to kill him. Maybe he would kill him yet. Talos had to know the outcome of this test.
The priests pronounced the ritual formulas and the servants stepped forward to strip the boys of their clothing and hold their arms fast. The whipping began to the tune of the pipes. The spectators were struck silent. The boys stiffened at the first lashes, all of the muscles of their bodies contracting in a single, wrenching spasm. Then, exhausted, they abandoned themselves to the pain, shaking uncontrollably as each blow fell.
Spartan Page 6
