The old man’s gaze searched for the light of the sun that entered through the shutters: like distant music the chirping of the cicadas was carried on the glaring light. Talos touched his chilly hands and leaned his head upon the old man’s chest. ‘Don’t go away, grandfather . . . don’t go,’ he implored with a broken voice. ‘How will Talos, the cripple, be able to—’
‘No,’ protested the dying man, ‘no . . . Talos the Wolf . . . the sword . . . of the king.’
Talos felt Kritolaos’ heart stop. He saw him give up his life on the humble bed, the white head resting on its side, eyes fixed on nothingness. Talos passed a hand over his forehead, closing his eyelids, and then stood up in the centre of the silent room.
Even the chirping of the cicadas had stopped in the still air and only the dull buzzing of the flies could be heard: the flies, companions of Thanatos.
He left the room, slowly pushing aside the straw mat. His mother had collapsed, weeping, into a corner. He turned to the shepherds, to the men of the mountain:
‘Kritolaos is dead,’ he said. ‘Let us pay homage to Kritolaos!’
The dark foreheads of those men were lowered in silence. A huge bearded man advanced towards Talos, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘May Kritolaos be honoured!’ he said.
Then, turning to the others: ‘And honour to Talos the Wolf!’
Talos met his mother’s gaze. Her grey eyes, drained of tears, were full of sorrow and surprise.
*
‘He must die!’ shouted Aghias angrily. ‘What that bastard has done is intolerable. And I cannot understand why you insist on covering for him. If it weren’t for you, we’d have finished him off already.’
‘Aghias is right,’ intervened Philarkhos. ‘We have to get rid of him, and soon. Above all, because he could be dangerous.’
Brithos sat in silence, besieged by his companions. Suddenly he rose to his feet. ‘Dangerous?’ he asked in a voice heavy with irony. ‘A lame Helot? Warriors of Sparta, are you certain that you aren’t losing your minds? Flapping around like a flock of frightened geese because a crippled shepherd caned you, ruining the fun you had planned with a peasant girl stinking of the stable and of cow dung!’
‘Don’t joke about this,’ interrupted Philarkhos, livid with rage. ‘You know very well what our law says. If we allowed those bastards to rebel against us, we’d have a revolt on our hands in no time. The Helots are a continuous peril for Sparta, and you are aware of that. Didn’t you see how he used that staff? Someone must have taught him some military technique. There’s something very strange about this whole thing.’
‘What an imagination you have, Philarkhos!’ Brithos shot back. ‘All shepherds know how to use a staff; they have to defend their flocks from wolves and chase foxes out of the chicken house. Even if what you say were true, that the cripple has been supposedly trained by someone, that’s even more reason not to kill him. Listen to me now,’ he added, leaning a hand on the shoulder of his angry companion, ‘and you too, Aghias, and all of you, friends, use your brains if you can. If it’s true that there is something suspicious in the way that shepherd handles his staff, some kind of military training behind it, if I understand you right, we certainly won’t solve any mysteries by killing him. Dead people, as we all know, don’t talk, do they?’
The others fell silent, dominated, as usual, by the personality of the son of Aristarkhos.
‘The day of our initiation,’ he continued, sitting down again in the circle of his companions, ‘we proved that we were among the strongest young men of Sparta. Now we are also members of the krypteia, which means that our superiors believe that we are capable of using our minds, and not only our fists. This story is something that I’ll take care of, but in my own way. Can you say that you’ve ever seen me tremble, or back away from any type of challenge? During all this time that we’ve been training together, you’ve seen me do much more than pin to the ground a lame Helot bastard armed only with a stick.
‘On the other hand, if we notify our superiors and inform them of our intention to eliminate that shepherd, we’ll have to give some explanation, won’t we? Because he’s probably at the service of one of the families of our city. Do you think that it would be cause for honour, you wolves of Sparta, that a Helot cripple made you taste dirt using only a shepherd’s crook?’
The boys lowered their gazes to the ground.
‘Without counting the fact,’ continued Brithos relentlessly, ‘that when you’ve gone and killed him you’ll never know whether you are able to get the better of a broken shepherd. What I mean is, fighting him on equal terms!’
‘Brithos is right,’ said one of the youths. Then, turning to him, ‘All right, Brithos, but what do we do next?’
‘That’s it, Euritos, help me to convince these stone heads!’ He thought a moment, and then went on. ‘Listen, friends,’ he said, softening the tone of his voice, ‘I’ll handle this with the help of two or three of you, no more. We’ll make that bastard understand that he should never even dream of rebelling, and we’ll make him wish that he never thought of playing the hero. We’ll take care of him once and for all.’
Aghias stood up. ‘As you wish, Brithos. The reasons that make you want to save the Helot’s life are more than good enough for me. I do have the feeling, though, that there’s another reason that only you know, and that you’re not telling.’ He threw on his cloak and slammed the door behind him.
‘Yes, maybe there is another reason,’ murmured Brithos to himself. ‘But you are wrong, Aghias, if you think I know what it is.’
*
Two months had passed since that night, two terrible months in which Talos was prostrate with the death of Kritolaos, his mother’s wordless grief, his own solemn thoughts of his grandfather’s legacy. The days passed, and sometimes the nights, in dark musings. The responsibility that Kritolaos had invested in him was great; he could tell from the changed way in which the mountain people treated him.
Day after day they came and he felt in them a strange hope, a faith of sorts surging up about him. The men of Taygetus now spoke to him as one of their own: they made him understand their suffering, their impotent rage, their fear. But what did they expect from him? How much did they really know about what Kritolaos had revealed to him?
Besides, thoughts of what had happened down on the plain still haunted him: he had challenged the young Spartans. He could not delude himself into believing that the story had finished there. He feared for his mother, for Pelias, for Antinea; he had seen her, fleetingly, one night at the farmhouse on the road to Amyclae. Talos longed for those days he had spent as a simple shepherd without worries or fears, those long winter nights passed listening to the magnificent stories of Kritolaos, those times when only the seasons – passing slowly and regularly one into another – marked the changes in his serene life. Times which seemed impossibly remote to him now.
One day, at dusk, a peasant from the plains arrived at their cottage. Pelias had sent him. He had come to warn Talos to keep on his guard; strange activity had been noticed at the edge of the forest, and that night the moon would be covered by clouds.
Talos thanked his informer but he didn’t give much weight to the matter; Pelias often worried over nothing. Normal manoeuvres of some division in training, or regular military drills could have alarmed him. Talos was wrong.
They arrived at the clearing in the middle of the night: four of them, wrapped in dark cloaks, armed only with javelins and daggers, their faces covered by Corinthian helmets.
Talos was rudely awakened by Krios’ furious barking. He hurriedly drew aside the window covering, just in time to hear a desperate yelping and then a final gasp for breath.
A pale ray of the moon pierced the thick clouds for a moment and Talos could make out four shadows at the edge of the courtyard. Near the sheep pen, a huge Molossian hound was ripping the lifeless body of little Krios to pieces. Talos ran to the inside room and found his mother near the hearth, dishevelled and paralysed wi
th terror, trying to light a lamp. The door was abruptly unhinged by a savage kick, and four men broke into the cottage, pointing their javelins at his chest.
Talos knew that his time had come. ‘Don’t hurt her!’ he said, shielding his mother. ‘I’ll go with you.’
They dragged him outside, wrenching him away from the weeping woman who clung to his waist. Two of them held his arms while another struck him ferociously with the shaft of his javelin on his knees, his chest, his stomach.
The fourth opened the pen, and the frightened sheep ran forth, bleating wildly.
‘Look!’ he shouted with a voice that echoed ominously in the bronze helmet. And to the waiting dog: ‘Now, Melas!’
The black monster rushed into the fold like a fury. He massacred the terrified animals, tore his teeth through the ram’s hocks, devoured the lambs with his frightful jaws. When the earth was covered with their corpses, the man called back the beast whose mouth was foaming with blood.
‘Here, Melas! That’s enough. Let’s go!’ He gestured to one of his companions whose javelin shaft struck Talos’ sternum with such violence that the boy collapsed to the ground without a whimper.
His mother’s shrieks kept him conscious for a few more moments. He felt the weight of a boot pressed against his chest, and heard a voice: ‘Let’s hope this is enough for him. If he survives. Let’s get out of here, Brithos.’
Talos saw the Molossian above him, he felt its steaming breath, but then his eyes veiled over red and his mind sank slowly into a frozen silence.
An excruciating pain in his abdomen shocked Talos awake, and he opened his eyes to the darkness of night. He felt two strong arms lift him and gently deposit him on his pallet. By the oil lamp’s pale light, he made out a large bearded face leaning over him: the Herculean shepherd who had greeted him when he left Kritolaos’ deathbed two months earlier. Talos tried to say something, but could only force out a low lament.
‘I am Karas,’ said the bearded giant. ‘I came too late this time, but it won’t happen again. From now on, I will always be ready to protect you. No harm must befall you, not ever again.’
He uncovered the boy’s distended, painful stomach.
‘They tried to burst you open like a wineskin. Those damned rabid dogs. But their day will come . . .’
Talos turned his eyes to his mother who sat crushed in a corner, her hands in her lap, her eyes red and swollen.
‘They shut her up inside,’ murmured Karas, ‘so she wouldn’t be in their way. She thought you were dead when I brought you in here. She’s coming back to her senses now.’
Karas clenched his callused fists as if seeking a target for them, grinding teeth as white as wolves’ fangs. He turned towards the woman. ‘Prepare him something that will make him sleep. That’s all he needs now. He’ll make it through, don’t worry.’
The next day, Talos was awakened by the sunlight that entered from the half-open window shade. His mother entered with a steaming potion in a wooden bowl.
‘Drink this, son,’ she said, ‘before the pain in your stomach awakens again.’ She watched him lovingly as he drank.
‘Where is Karas?’ he asked, drying his mouth.
‘He’ll be here in a moment,’ answered the woman, lowering her moist eyes. ‘He’s in the sheep pen, gathering up the carrion of our slaughtered animals.’
In that moment Karas entered with a butcher’s knife, a bloody apron tied at his waist.
‘I’ve skinned the dead animals. There are at least a dozen, others will die soon from their wounds. But don’t fear, Talos, I’ll pass the word to the other shepherds of the mountain, and your flock will be replenished. You won’t have to suffer hunger because of the work of our masters.’
‘No, I don’t want that,’ protested Talos.
‘But this time misfortune has struck you harder than others. It is only right that we help each other in times of adversity. This is our law, you know that. But tell me, how did they kill those poor animals? Many of them seem to be half devoured.’
‘A dog, an enormous hound with huge jaws, as black as night,’ answered Talos.
‘Ah, the Laconian Molossian. A terrible beast; they say that three of them can slaughter a lion.’
Talos shivered, and the memory of Krios’ desperate howl rang in his ears.
‘My dog,’ he fixed the man with a questioning gaze, ‘is dead, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ answered the shepherd. ‘His throat was ripped open.’
Little Krios, companion of childish games, would never come with him again to pasture, nor would he greet him wagging his tail in the evenings. Talos felt a knot close his throat.
‘Bury him next to Kritolaos, please,’ he said to Karas, and hid his head between his hands.
6
PERIALLA
TALOS, SHUT UP INDOORS for long days recuperating from the Spartan attack, often fell to thinking about his situation, about the violent changes that had swept through his life in so short a time. With Kritolaos dead, the boy had inherited his moral authority over the people of Taygetus. And maybe not over them alone, as Karas, who had become Talos’ inseparable companion, had hinted to him.
Many things puzzled him. He knew very little about Karas: only that he had come from Messenia with his flock and had settled in a cabin near the high spring. He dwelled long and hard on the krypteia raid on his family; the men who took part in it had to have been the same ones that he had fought on the plain, defending Antinea. He was sure that he had heard one of them call out Brithos’ name. He had no doubts that Brithos was his greatest enemy, and yet for some reason the Spartan youth didn’t consider him dangerous enough to have him killed; he could have eliminated him a thousand times over, if he had wanted to, whatever Karas said.
Talos tried to make sense of the confusion in his mind . . . so many different impressions, contrasting emotions. Something had stopped Brithos’ hand, down there in the plain, the same something that had prevented him from letting Talos be massacred by his companions, or by that bloody beast that he’d brought with him that night. As much as Talos reflected, though, he could not understand why he had been spared. It was true that the Spartiates instinctively admired anyone who showed valour, but that was no explanation for the fact that he, a Helot rebel who dared to defend a woman and attack a Spartan, had been allowed to live.
Something still attracted him to the city of the Spartiates; the same thing that had tempted him into the plain as a young boy. From time to time, the image of the warrior with the dragon appeared in his mind. He knew, now, beyond the shadow of doubt, that the warrior was the father of his mortal enemy.
What warmed Talos’ heart when he felt most alone was his love for Antinea. He would dream of her coming to visit him, even while realizing that it would endanger her life.
Certain things, however, had become clear to him: he could not run away. He had a task to accomplish for his people, and he had made a promise to Kritolaos on his deathbed. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Antinea, either, and he realized that it was a thousand times better to risk death by remaining than to flee to some distant place, pursued and hunted like an animal, with no one to talk to, to lean on, to confide his fears in.
And then Antinea did come to him, early one morning, and silently entered his room. ‘Talos, my poor Talos,’ she said, embracing him tightly. A wave of heat rose to his head, and his heart began beating wildly. He held her close, and then, released her. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he lied. ‘You know that the forest is full of dangers, and so is the plain.’
‘No, you needn’t worry. No one has threatened me, and I’ve come with my father. We heard about what happened, and wanted to come to help you. I’ll stay here with you and take out the flock myself until you’re completely better. My father doesn’t need me much just now. In a month, when you’re stronger again, you can come and help us with the reaping, all right?’
‘Oh yes,’ answered Talos, embarrassed and moved at the same time, ‘of
course I’ll come.’ He faltered as if trying to find the right words to say. ‘Antinea,’ he went on, ‘I’ll be waiting impatiently for reaping time . . . so we can be together again.’ He watched her for a moment, feeling profoundly touched as her green eyes brightened. He took her hand. ‘Antinea . . . Antinea, why are we slaves? Why can’t I think of you without being afraid of what will happen to us?’
The girl covered his mouth with her hand. ‘Don’t talk that way, Talos, you are not a slave for me, nor am I a slave for you. For me you are a great warrior, the most valorous, the most generous of men. You are not a slave, Talos.’
‘I know,’ answered the boy, squeezing her hand more tightly. ‘I do know what you mean, Antinea, but I also know the fear that seizes me. I know the nightmares that wake me up in the middle of the night. My life is marked. And yet I don’t know where it will lead, because it’s not in my own hands. And if I tie your life to mine, I don’t know where it will end, or how . . . now do you understand me?’
‘Yes, I do,’ answered the girl, lowering her eyes. ‘And that’s why, sometimes, I wish that we’d never met.’
Antinea raised her tear-filled eyes to his face. ‘Talos, I’m only the daughter of Pelias the peasant . . . and I know that our people now look to you as the special one, the successor of Kritolaos—’
Talos sat up in his bed. ‘You’re right, Antinea, Kritolaos did prepare me to succeed him; he taught me everything he could, and he left me a difficult legacy. But I don’t know why, exactly. One day, maybe . . .’
‘Yes, Talos, perhaps that day will come. We cannot force the hand of destiny. The gods have something in mind for you, for our people, and one day you will know, when the moment comes. Now, we must go on living,’ she gazed at him intensely. ‘Now, we must live, and not ask for anything more.’
She leaned over him slowly, caressed his forehead, kissed him softly and lay her blonde head on his chest to listen to the beat of his heart, slow now, and as powerful as the drumbeat of the warriors.
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