Spartan

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  The officer approached the prisoner and brought him to his senses by throwing a bucket of cold water over his head. He walked towards the brazier. Karas’ vision was still foggy. As it cleared, terror exploded within him, ripping open his soul: a scorching iron, burning with white light, loomed just a palm’s breadth from his face. He could feel the heat.

  ‘Now you’ll talk,’ said the officer calmly, grabbing him by the hair.

  Karas tensed his muscles in a futile and desperate attempt to get away, but paralysing cramps racked his body, already pushed beyond every human limit. He sat very still, calling up all his reserves of energy, like a wounded boar facing a pack of dogs, bloody and weary, backed up against a tree trunk waiting for the hunter’s spear to tear through his throat.

  ‘Talk!’ said the officer, pushing the poker even closer. Karas blew blood out of his nose. ‘I know . . . nothing,’ he roared, his mouth foaming. The officer gripped him tighter and plunged the burning iron into his left eye.

  Karas’ scream exploded in the dungeons and charged through the walls of the Council House, a long, atrocious bellow that filled the square, startling the two hoplites leaning drowsily against their spears.

  Not long thereafter the krypteia officer left the Council House and, without returning the guards’ salute, crossed the deserted square and walked off into the night. He had done his job conscientiously, following the orders he had received. And he was convinced that that poor devil down in the dungeons knew nothing, nothing at all. A wretched shepherd could not be so obstinate or so strong. He had made him believe that he would have blinded both eyes, and yet he hadn’t said a word. There was nothing but sheer terror in the man’s single, swollen eye before he had collapsed, senseless. He had unchained him before leaving, and left open the door to an underground passage that came up outside the city. His men had been ordered to wait there and follow him. Ephor Mnesikles was right. If that man was still alive – and didn’t have the good sense to flee as far away as he could – and if he had actually plotted with Pausanias, he would be devoured by hate and his hate would give him away. Everything would become clear eventually. He was glad to finally return to his quarters and rest after such a tiring day.

  Karas began to regain consciousness, roused by the cold wind that was blowing in from the open door. The immense pain in his left socket reminded him of the cruel mutilation he had suffered. The utter night around him made him believe for a moment that he was completely blind. He burst into tears; it was all over, he only hoped that death would come quickly now. But the shadows began to clear and he realized that he could make out the edges of the objects around him. He saw the chains hanging from the wall: he had been freed! He blundered to his feet and looked around, noticing the open door. He walked down the murky passage at length, stumbling, recoiling at the contact with the horrid creatures that lived in those dark recesses. A gust of fresh air hit his face at last, and from the mouth of the tunnel he could see the stars of Orion, shimmering in the opalescent sky. Dawn was not far off. He crept out and made his way across the deserted fields until he reached the banks of the Eurotas.

  He knelt and washed out the bloody socket, gasping at the stabbing pain caused by the cold water. The moon was beginning to pale when the wounded cyclops rose to his feet, panting with agony and rage, and raised his fists against the city glowing whitely in the false light of dawn. He walked towards Taygetus. The great mountain was still enveloped in darkness. It welcomed him and hid him within its impenetrable forests.

  *

  Pausanias no longer had any justification for remaining in the Troad and thus convinced himself that his only option was to return to Sparta, where the ephors surely still had no evidence against him. But what the ephors had sought in vain to learn from Karas was about to be offered to them by a person they didn’t even know existed.

  They had imagined that Pausanias would attempt to put himself in contact with Karas through the Helots working in the king’s home. They’d already wooed these servants over to their side with a mix of promises and threats. They were also keeping Kleidemos under constant surveillance.

  Pausanias was well aware of the situation and felt like a lion in a cage. Shunned by all, he could contact none of the people he thought he could count on. Nor could he risk meeting Kleidemos, whom he knew was surrounded by krypteia spies. He resigned himself to submitting to the ephors and elders, biding his time until the situation was favourable again.

  One morning before dawn, ephor Mnesikles heard a knock at his door. He opened it and found a young dark-skinned foreigner with a hood hiding most of his face. He asked to speak with him.

  ‘My name is Argheilos,’ he said. ‘I was in the service of King Pausanias at Byzantium. I have things to tell you that you will find very interesting.’

  ‘Come in,’ invited the ephor, closing the door immediately behind him. The young man sat down and took off his hooded cloak. He was definitely a foreigner, Asian perhaps.

  ‘Your name is Greek,’ he observed. ‘But you seem a foreigner to me.’

  ‘I am,’ replied the young man. ‘My true name is Lahgal, and I am Syrian. I served King Pausanias faithfully for years, but now I am here to denounce him. I am no spy, trust my words, but a man who seeks revenge for a monstrous injustice. In exchange for my loyalty, the king attempted to have me murdered, so that his scheming with the Great King would go unknown.’

  ‘What you say is extremely serious,’ said the ephor. ‘Do you realize that you are accusing a Spartan king of betrayal? Careful: if you cannot prove your accusations, you risk your life.’

  ‘I can prove what I’ve said, whenever you like,’ replied Lahgal.

  ‘Then the truth must come to light as soon as possible. Tell me what you know: you will not regret having helped us to put a stop to such infamous betrayal.’

  Lahgal told everything that he had seen and surmised during the years he lived with Pausanias. He told of the journey to Kelainai as well, portraying Kleidemos in a way that absolved him of blame.

  ‘You know Kleidemos, Kleomenid, very well, then,’ observed the ephor. ‘We are aware that Pausanias esteemed him greatly and entrusted him with important missions.’

  ‘I do know him,’ said Lahgal. ‘I brought him the king’s instructions personally when he was commanding the Thracian battalion. I can assure you that he knew nothing of Pausanias’ betrayal. The king had ordered him to go with me to Kelainai to study the location of Persian garrisons in the interior, on the pretext of supposedly preparing a military expedition which would chase the Persians beyond the Halys river. Only I knew the mission’s true purpose: to report to Satrap Artabazus that Pausanias was ready to march against Sparta, and that he needed money and men. Kleidemos was given a message that I was a spy; when his mission was completed and he didn’t need me any longer as an interpreter, he was to kill me. I managed to read the message unknown to him while he was sleeping and I escaped.’

  ‘Well,’ the ephor said, ‘what you must know is that as a foreigner you may not testify against one of the caste of the equals, nor against a king. Pausanias is both, although his regency is about to draw to a close: Prince Pleistarchus is about to reach puberty. Pausanias must be persuaded to unfold his plans in the presence of Spartan citizens who can testify against him.

  ‘This is my plan: first you must let Pausanias know that you are here and want to meet with him. I’m sure he will agree to it. There is an old abandoned building on the Taenarum promontory; it is there you will go. You must get him to talk so that several witnesses who are hiding behind a false wall can hear him. We’ll worry about the rest. Now go. It is not opportune for you to be seen here. Try to remain hidden and not to attract undue attention. You will be rewarded for this service, but as you know the equals cannot handle money. I cannot pay you now, but I will find a way. Do you prefer Athenian or Euboean silver . . . or coins from Cyzicus?’

  ‘I’m not doing this for a reward,’ replied Lahgal. ‘I won’t take your money.�
� He stood up, covered his face and walked out.

  Three days later Pausanias found a message in his house, although none of his servants could say how it had got there. What the message said filled him with dread: Lahgal was alive! Kleidemos had lied to him or worse, betrayed him. He thought of fleeing, but realized that it would be like admitting his guilt. And who would provide a haven for a fugitive stripped of all power? It was better to face the situation. If it was truly Lahgal who had written the message, and certain phrases left no doubt in his mind, perhaps he could convince him to keep quiet. Or at least find out who else knew. He decided to meet him at the appointed place. He knew it well: an old observation tower in ruins nearly at the tip of the promontory. A barren, desolate, wind-swept place.

  He entered through a ramshackle door and heard a voice he recognized very well ringing out in the gloom. ‘They say that no one ever comes back from the Underworld, don’t they Pausanias? And yet here I am. Come in, come in, don’t just stand there.’

  ‘Listen—’ began the king.

  ‘No. You listen,’ interrupted the young man, emerging from the shadows, ‘I’m stronger than you are now.’ Pausanias’ hand fell, perhaps inadvertently, to the hilt of his sword.

  ‘You fool!’ said Lahgal. ‘Do you think I am so imprudent that I have taken no precautions if you should try to kill me a second time?’

  Pausanias let his arm drop and lowered his head. ‘I’m listening,’ he said resignedly.

  ‘I’ve asked you to come here so I can know for what offence you condemned me to death. If having served you loyally, irreproachably, having cured you when you were ill, followed you like your own shadow, endured your lust—’

  ‘I thought you loved me,’ Pausanias said plaintively.

  Lahgal laughed scornfully. ‘Have you fallen so low? Come now, you know there can be no love between one who commands and one who serves – only violence: inflicted and suffered. So don’t think you can try to play with my feelings for you; they never even existed. I pledged my complete dedication in exchange for the promise of my freedom. An honest exchange, man to man.’

  ‘I was sincere when I promised to free you, and I would have done so.’

  ‘Of course,’ snarled Lahgal. ‘Exactly what you thought you had accomplished: freeing me from every worry while ridding yourself of me forever!’

  ‘Don’t make jest of me,’ interrupted the king with sadness in his voice. ‘And please listen, I can explain . . . if you promise you will reflect on my words and not let yourself be dominated by rancour and anger. If you called me here, you must be willing to listen to me.’

  ‘Talk, then,’ replied the young man coldly.

  ‘I will. But first I want to know why Kleidemos deceived me.’

  ‘Your spirit must be truly vile,’ said Lahgal, ‘if you see betrayal where none exists. Kleidemos carried out your orders faithfully, all of them . . . except one. I read your scroll while he was sleeping and I fled. Not because I feared that he would really murder me; Kleidemos is a good man. But because I didn’t want to make him struggle with his conscience. That’s not what I came here to talk about, Pausanias; I want to hear other things from you.’

  Pausanias was greatly relieved by his answer. All was not lost; he could still manage to convince Lahgal. He began again, not knowing that in that very moment, he was pronouncing his own death sentence. ‘I did not want you dead, Lahgal, I swear it. The Persians forced me to accept this condition. I couldn’t withhold my assent at that point; they would have become suspicious and all my plans would have gone up in smoke. I couldn’t risk them considering me an enemy. The lives of thousands of people were at stake. But you must believe me, it was against my will, and with unspeakable bitterness, that I forced myself to write that order.

  ‘Perhaps you were merely putting up with me all those years we lived together, Lahgal, thinking only of obtaining your freedom. But I loved you, and you cannot deny the sincerity of my affection. Tell me, my young friend, did I ever hurt you? Didn’t I help you in every way I could? Didn’t I make you part of my life, my plans, my dreams? You certainly deluded me by letting me believe that you loved me as well.’

  Lahgal looked at that broken man, practically at the mercy of his enemies now. The hero of Plataea! The Panhellenic leader, reduced to a shadow of his former self. The tone of his words seemed sincere and Lahgal felt moved by pity, but the desire for revenge had pushed him so far that he could no longer turn back. It was all over now. And so he replied using words of guile and Pausanias left, sorry for ever having ordered his death.

  The king returned to Sparta towards evening, wondering how he could get in touch with Kleidemos. Absorbed in his thoughts, at first he didn’t notice the five ephors in front of the Amyclae Gate, surrounded by about twenty armed men. As he drew closer, he realized they were waiting for him. Ephor Episthenes, who stood behind the others, made a gesture and Pausanias realized that this was the end. He spurred on his horse in an attempt to escape, but the spear hurled by one of the warriors hit the animal in its side. The horse fell heavily to the ground with its rider, and Pausanias rolled in the dust. He swiftly got to his feet and began to run, his pursuers close on his heels. He was near the acropolis; he looked around, bewildered, for someone who would offer him shelter. All the glances he met were hostile or indifferent, and the doors were bolted against him. He sought refuge in the House of Bronze: no one would dare profane that holy place. He closed himself in, panting, and went to crouch in a corner.

  The ephors, powerless to enter and arrest him, had all the doors walled up and removed the roof. And there the king remained, for days and days, parched with thirst under the flaming rays of the sun and tormented by hunger. His enemies watched with indifferent eyes, perched on the bare beams of the roof, awaiting his death. His shouting and cursing could be heard long into the night. Then nothing.

  The ephors realized that the holy place would be profaned nonetheless if he died there, so they decided to open the doors and carry him out while he was still alive. They dragged him into the outer courtyard. Trembling with fever, his glassy eyes rolled around horror-filled in hollow sockets.

  Thrown into the dust, Pausanias tried to raise his fleshless arm to curse them all, but his strength abandoned him and he fell on his back, gasping his last breath.

  Such was the agony and death of he who had vanquished the army of the Great King at Plataea.

  18

  THE SACRILEGE

  THE ASSEMBLED EPHORS AND elders decided at first that the corpse of Pausanias would be thrown into the Keadas torrent, as was customary for traitors, but ephor Episthenes, who had secretly remained the king’s friend, argued that although Pausanias had disobeyed the orders of the city and was guilty of plotting with the enemy, outside of Sparta he still enjoyed great fame among the Hellenes as the man who had liberated Greece from the barbarians. His death was punishment enough, and his mortal remains must be conceded the dignity of a proper burial. The ephor’s proposal seemed a wise one, and so Pausanias was buried with his arms at the very place where he had breathed his last.

  But the spectre of Pausanias continued to disturb many a night in Sparta nonetheless. Some insisted that his terrifying screams could still be heard in the House of Bronze late at night, and others claimed that just after dusk on the seventh day of every month, a hollow metallic noise could be heard coming from his tomb, as though he were striking its walls with his weapons. It was decided that the oracle in Delphi must be consulted, and the following response was given:

  A body was stolen

  from the goddess of the House of Bronze.

  To placate the ire of the deity

  two bodies must be rendered in exchange.

  Long was the discussion in the Council House to interpret this response. Some suggested sacrificing a couple of Helots; others argued that death must not be added to death, and that amends must be made in another form. In the end they decided to build two statues to be dedicated to the temple, and so th
e ephors and the elders imagined that they could appease the anger of the gods with two lifeless effigies forged by human hands.

  No one spoke any longer of these events, and their echo was extinguished because the mind of man is prone to forgetting, but it was written that the blood of the king would bring a curse upon the city.

  Lahgal vanished as he had appeared and nothing more was ever known about him. Kleidemos, unaware of the whole plot, prepared for the worst when he learned that Pausanias had been confined within the House of Bronze, but no one ever came looking for him, nor was he ever asked anything. His only encounter with the ephors remained his account of his conduct in Thrace, which was confirmed by the men of the fourth battalion who had since returned. The great prestige of his name protected him from humiliating inquisitions, and his word as a warrior was sufficient for the authorities. Nonetheless, the ephors had him watched, looking out for any sign of collusion or guilt. His close relationship with Pausanias and his time among the Helots perpetuated the suspicion and diffidence of the city, regardless of the irreproachable conduct of the son of Aristarkhos.

  The death of the king destroyed any residual hope in Kleidemos that the plan which Pausanias had proposed in Byzantium might be realized. It was no more than a dream, that had once given purpose to his life but had quickly dissipated, leaving a hollow place in his soul. It made him keenly aware that he could not escape his life: if he had managed to survive yet again, despite the mortal danger he had been in when Pausanias’ plans were discovered, he really must have a destiny to fulfil. He had no choice but to live his life as it was, while waiting for the situation to mature.