‘Brithos’ sacrifice saved the lives of thousands of his comrades, young men like yourself whose mothers would have had to mourn for the rest of their days. You’ll tell me that he was unjustly disgraced by those same comrades just one year ago, that they pushed him to the verge of suicide. But he vindicated himself and his name will be celebrated for centuries – a name that you inherited with his last breath of life. Brithos now wanders in the reign of shadows and his spirit will find no peace until you have accepted the legacy of sacrifice and honour carved on the Kleomenid shield. You have a great crossroads before you: one road leads to a quiet life, tranquil, but insignificant; the other will lead you to a difficult, turbulent existence, but offers you the heritage of a race of heroes. Only you can choose. No one can assist you. The gods have led you here, to where you are now. Your destiny is marked and I don’t believe that you will turn back.’
Pausanias fell silent. He then touched his sword to the shield hanging from the tent post. Several women came in, bringing water with them. They undressed the young man and washed him, as others prepared a bed. Kleidemos let them massage his aching limbs and accepted a cup of warm broth. Then he lay down and fell into a deep sleep.
The king took a last long look at the boy and smiled to himself. He called one of the guards. ‘No one shall enter this tent or disturb the sleep of this man until I have returned,’ he ordered. ‘If he should awaken on his own, let him go where he likes. But follow him, without being seen, and keep me informed of his whereabouts.’
The guard took up his post. Shortly thereafter the king exited the tent, fully armed. He leapt on his horse and galloped towards the Persian camp, followed by a group from the royal guard. His troops had been garrisoning the camp since the night before. The allied army commanders awaited him in the tent of the former Persian general.
‘Friends!’ exclaimed King Pausanias, raising a cup. ‘My friends, let us drink to Zeus our King and Hercules our Leader! They have granted us victory over the barbarians. I salute the concord of all Greeks that has made this day so great and so memorable!’
A chorus of acclamations greeted his words, as the servants passed to fill the quickly emptied cups. But Pausanias had not finished. ‘My fellow officers,’ he began again, ‘allow me to say that these barbarians are truly mad! They already possess all these marvellous things, and yet they have suffered such great pains and taken on such a long journey to fight over our wretched black broth!’
The guests laughed in appreciation and gave start to the banquet which lasted all that night. But that was the day that Pausanias was struck by the splendour of Persian riches and luxury and began to be dissatisfied with the frugality of Sparta.
13
HOMECOMING
THE CLOUDS PASSED SLOWLY across the sky, urged on by a light breeze. They sailed over the disc of the sun, hiding it as it sank towards the horizon and cast long shadows on the plain. Kleidemos saw the peak of Mount Taygetus burst into golden flame. He’d been away for so long. He could almost hear the dogs barking, the bleating of the sheep as they entered their fold on the high pasture. He thought of the tomb of Kritolaos, the wisest of men, covered with oak leaves. He saw himself as a child again, sitting on the banks of the Eurotas with his flock, little Krios happily wagging his tail. And the woman whom he had always thought his mother; he imagined her sitting at the threshold of her little cottage on the mountain, sad and alone, spinning wool with her callused fingers, staring at the horizon with her tiny, grey, hope-filled eyes.
The path that led up the mountain was just a few steps away when Kleidemos stopped, leaning on his spear. A horseman raced by at a gallop, raising a cloud of dust and disappearing as suddenly as he had come.
The wind was still, but big black clouds had now piled into an enormous mass in the middle of the sky. They seemed to throb slowly, a living thing. Kleidemos was gazing up at them when a lightning bolt flickered for an instant in the belly of the gigantic mass, which seemed to shudder. Then, as he watched, the cloud mass broke free of its form, stretching, twisting, writhing, to form a shape there in the sky. A clear, unmistakable shape: the shape of a dragon.
Kleidemos heard the voice of Kritolaos in his mind, echoing words pronounced one distant night: ‘The gods send signs to men, sometimes . . .’
He turned, leaving the trail that led up the mountain behind him, his heart swollen with sadness. He continued on down the dusty road as if pushed by some invisible force, until he found himself standing in front of the home of the Kleomenids, guarded by majestic oaks. The faint light of a lamp which filtered from under a window was the only sign of life in the big, austere house.
Kleidemos stopped, expecting to hear Melas barking, but no sound disturbed the utter silence. He started towards the centre of the courtyard but pulled back instantly, horrified: the hound lay on the family altar, his throat cut. His white fangs were bared in a horrible grimace. The animal had been sacrificed to the shade of Brithos, and his fierce soul was now roaming the paths of Hades in search of his master.
Kleidemos walked to the doorway, from which a black veil hung. He laid his hand there and the heavy door opened, creaking. He saw the great atrium, faintly illuminated. Sitting on a stool at its centre was a woman dressed in black, her hands clasped in her lap. She looked up at him with blazing eyes, while her still body seemed stiffened by death itself. Kleidemos froze on the threshold as if turned to stone by this apparition. He couldn’t take a step. The woman got to her feet, swaying, and moved towards him. She stretched out pale hands. ‘I’ve been waiting so long,’ she said in a whisper. ‘My son, it’s taken you so long to come back to me . . .’
Kleidemos regarded her in silence.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘you don’t know how to answer, but you recognize me, don’t you?’ Her arms dropped to her sides.
‘I’m your mother. Ismene, bride of Aristarkhos, mother of Brithos . . .’
She turned her bewildered eyes to the sacred images of the Kleomenid heroes, blinded by dark strips of cloth. ‘Dead . . . they’re all dead. And you were dead, too, Kleidemos.’ The boy trembled as Ismene lifted her hand to touch his face. ‘But you’ve come back to your home, now,’ she said, pointing at the open door. ‘Twenty-two years . . . twenty-two years have passed since I saw you for the last time at that very threshold, in your father’s arms.’
‘My father?’ murmured Kleidemos vacantly. ‘My father abandoned me to the wolves.’
Ismene fell to her knees. ‘No, no! No, my son, your father entrusted you . . . to the mercy of the gods. He sacrificed all of the lambs of his flock so that the gods would take pity. His anguish had no rest, his torture no end. He had to choke back his tears. And when the pain was too much for him, he fled from this house, wrapped in his cloak. He fled to the wood . . . to the mountain . . .’
Kleidemos looked towards the wall, where he saw a grey wool cape with a hood hanging from a nail. He shuddered. In his mind’s eye he could see that hooded man . . . up at the high spring, on a windy afternoon: his father! Ismene’s broken voice brought him to his senses. ‘He offered his own life to the shades of his ancestors so that you might be spared. Oh son . . . my son . . . none of us can ever disobey the laws of the city, and none of us knows any other way. Only this everlasting pain. Incessant pain, awaiting only death. And everlasting tears.’
Ismene moaned, hiding her face in her hands. Her curved back shook and her soft crying cut him like a blade in the deep silence of the house, moved him like a lullaby. Kleidemos felt a hot wave encompass his heart, melting away the numbness that had overcome him. He bent over her, took off her veil and laid his hand on her grey head, caressing her hair softly. Ismene raised her red eyes to his face.
‘Mother,’ he said with a tired smile, ‘mother, I’m back.’
Ismene grasped his arms, pulling herself laboriously to her feet. She gave him a long look of incredulous love.
‘Mother . . . it’s me. I’m back.’
Ismene clutched him to herse
lf, whispering incomprehensible words into his ear. Kleidemos held her close and he could feel his mother’s heart beating against his chest, stronger and wilder, like that of a sparrow that a boy squeezes too tightly in his hand. Her heart beat fast and then suddenly weakened until it stopped beating entirely. Ismene collapsed, lifeless, in her son’s arms.
Kleidemos looked at her without believing. He lifted her and held her to his chest, walking towards the threshold. Legs planted wide, he raised her still body to the sky. A dull lament escaped him, a confused whimper which became shrill and harsh until it exploded into a cry which rose, full of horror and despair, up to the cold distant stars. He howled like an animal being ripped apart by a pack of ferocious wolves and his howl flew over the fields, over the city rooftops, to the banks of the Eurotas, reverberating on the harsh slopes of Mount Taygetus. It dashed against the rocks and was lost in a thousand echoes, over the sea.
14
LAHGAL
KING PAUSANIAS UNROLLED a map onto the table. He weighed down the edges and raised his eyes towards Kleidemos, who was sitting opposite him. ‘Come closer,’ he said. ‘I have to show you something.’ The youth stood and leaned over the table. ‘Look,’ said the king, pointing at a jagged line on the right of the map. ‘This is Asia – the land of the rising sun. Or rather, this is the coast of Asia that faces our country. It then extends to the east for tens of thousands of stadia, all the way to the river Ocean. But no one has ever been there, except for the men of the Great King, and we know very little about those distant lands. What you see here,’ he continued, indicating little red circles along the coastline, ‘are the Asian cities inhabited by the Greeks: Aeolians, Ionians and Dorians. Each one of them is larger, more populous and richer than Sparta. Our victories at Plataea and Mycale have liberated them from the dominion of the barbarians for now, but we cannot rule out another invasion. The Great King has never contacted us or admitted his defeat in any way: do you realize what that means?’
‘That the war isn’t over, and that hostilities could start up again at any moment.’
‘That’s right. Don’t forget that the Great King is still demanding that all of Hellas recognize his sovereignty. He has understood that he cannot dominate the Asian Greeks without controlling those of us on the continent. When he makes another move, it will be to bring his army back to this land. So we must absolutely establish outposts in Asia to keep a watchful eye on the movements of his armies. The barbarians are best fought in Asia, not at the doors to our own homes. The ephors and the elders have decided that I should depart with a squad of Peloponnesians to occupy the island of Cyprus. Afterwards, I am to install a garrison at Byzantium, the city that controls the Hellespont strait. This is it, here.’ He pointed his finger at the map. ‘This narrow waterway separates Asia from Europe.’
Kleidemos could not understand how it was possible to draw the land and sea on a piece of sheepskin, and how such a drawing could help one to journey towards one place or return to one’s point of departure. ‘Tell me,’ he asked timidly, ‘is Mount Taygetus shown in this drawing?’
‘Certainly,’ replied the king, smiling. ‘Look, your mountain is right here, and this is Sparta, our city.’
‘But are there other lands past the borders of this drawing?’
‘Yes, very many: towards the north and towards the south, towards the east and towards the setting sun. They are all surrounded by the river Ocean, whose waters cannot be navigated by any ship built by man. And no one knows what is beyond the river Ocean.’
‘Have the ephors and elders decided on the moment of departure?’
‘The ships will set sail with the new moon, and I want you with me when we leave. I will command the allied fleet which will take possession of the island of Cyprus. It is a very beautiful land and we must gain control of it; the Persian fleet must no longer have any base in our sea. Why do I think you should accompany me? Because you must forget the events of your past and begin a new life. You’ll see new lands, beautiful cities, things you’ve never even dreamed of. Your servants will take care of your home while you are away.’
‘My home?’ murmured Kleidemos. ‘I no longer know where my home is. I no longer know anything. At night I dream of my past life and when I wake I don’t recognize anything around me.’
Pausanias rolled up the map again and put it away. He approached Kleidemos. ‘I understand how you feel. Few men have had a destiny like yours, and even fewer have had to deal with trials so difficult. But now the first part of your life has ended. You can take the time that remains to you in your own hands and build a new life – with the help of the gods, and of the men who know your strength and your resolve. Life does not hand out only suffering and misfortunes; joy and pleasure can yet be yours. The gods have tested your heart sufficiently; they have certainly reserved a great future for you, and I believe in you as well, Kleidemos, son of Aristarkhos.’
*
The allied squad, equipped with almost two hundred warships, sailed into the waters of Cyprus one morning at the beginning of the summer. Kleidemos had never seen anything like it. Gone were the stomach cramps and the nausea that had gripped him on their journey from Gytheum to Cythera. The wind filled the sails of the great vessels drawn up in a column, their bronze rostra slicing into the sea, which foamed up around the brightly coloured figureheads.
A blue standard flew on Pausanias’ flagship as he began his approach. The oars dipped into the sea and the fleet started to press portside along the southern coast of the island. The head squad moored in the early afternoon, under a splendid sun, without encountering any resistance; the Great King’s forces had already withdrawn. The Phoenician ships from Tyre and Sidon had returned to their own ports, apparently biding their time. Pausanias took quarter in a beautiful house in the city of Salamis, attended to by a number of servants.
Kleidemos spent his time at the training grounds and gymnasiums of the city, learning combat technique from his instructors. Wearing hoplite armour took some practice; its weight seemed suffocating. One day, as he was drying off after a bath, a boy with a mass of black curls approached him. ‘Are you Spartan, sir?’ he asked curiously.
‘Yes, I am. And who are you?’
‘My name is Lahgal. I’m Syrian. My master owns this bathhouse and he bought me at the market of Ugarit. That’s a beautiful city: have you ever been there?’
‘No,’ answered Kleidemos, smiling, ‘I haven’t. It’s the first time I’ve ever left my homeland, and my first voyage by sea.’
‘Do you mean to say that you don’t even know this island?’
‘No, I don’t; I’ve never been outside Salamis.’
‘But then you haven’t seen anything, sir! This island is marvellous. The best oil is produced here, and the most inebriating wine. Pomegranates grow here, and the sweet dates that grow on the palms will be ripe at the end of the summer. The goddess of love, whom you Greeks call Aphrodite, was born in these waters. We Syrians call her Astarte.’
‘I see that you’ve come to love this land. Don’t you miss your home?’
‘Oh no, sir,’ said the boy, shrugging, ‘I was brought here when I was very small. I must not have cost much, but my master made a good deal. I run errands for him and clean the baths. I make sure that the girls do not rob from him when they go to market, or prostitute themselves behind his back to put the money in their own pockets. He gives me a lot of freedom. I can come and go as I please after I’ve done my work.’
‘Well,’ continued Kleidemos, amused, ‘would you like to show me this island that you say is so beautiful? Do you think your master would allow you to take me around?’
‘To tell you the truth, sir,’ said the boy, a bit perplexed, ‘my master says he doesn’t do good business with you Spartans. No one wants your ugly iron coins. The Athenians are much better; they pay with pretty silver coins with an owl on them. They drink much more and like to have fun with both the boys and the girls. But I like you even if you are Spartan. If my mas
ter doesn’t need me, I’ll be waiting for you here, in front of the door, tomorrow morning when the cock crows. Do you have a horse?’
‘No, Lahgal, I’m sorry. But maybe I can take one of the porters’ asses; I don’t think they need them now that we’re stationed here.’
‘All right,’ said the boy. ‘I would have preferred a horse, but an ass will do. Goodbye!’
The following morning as the sun was rising they were already travelling down the coastal road that led to the city of Paphos, where the temple of Aphrodite stood. The road wound through the hillside studded with olive trees and little white houses, descending every now and then towards the sea. The air was redolent with pine resin and salt water, and the green fields were dotted with white and yellow flowers graced with fluttering butterflies, now that the sun was drying the dew from their wings.
Kleidemos felt light-hearted, riding along on his ass with his young friend sitting in front of him.
‘You haven’t told me your name,’ observed Lahgal.
‘It will seem strange to you,’ replied Kleidemos smiling, ‘but it’s not easy for me to answer that question.’
‘You’re teasing me,’ objected the boy. ‘Even little children can say their names.’
‘Well, Lahgal,’ explained Kleidemos, ‘the fact is that I have two names because I have two families, yet I have no father and the mother who remains to me is not my real mother, who died . . . a couple of months ago in my home, which I had never seen. Or rather, which I lived in for several months when I could neither understand nor remember.’ Lahgal turned around to look at him, utterly confused.
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