Spartan

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘The krypteia. I had agreed to meet Pausanias when he returned from Asia, and the ephors wanted to know what we’d said to each other. They tortured me, would have killed me, but I never talked. They were finally convinced that I knew nothing and let me go, probably with the intent of sowing their spies all over the mountain to follow my every movement. I’ve had to stay hidden for a long time, but the time has come to make them pay, once and for all.’

  ‘I’ve just come from Messenia,’ said Kleidemos. ‘I saw Antinea and Pelias.’

  ‘I know. I brought your mother back up to the mountain.’

  ‘I’ve heard that the Helots attacked the city today.’

  ‘True, but they were driven back. They would not listen and moved too soon, putting everything at risk. There were terrible losses – many died and a great number were wounded. They need someone to guide them . . .’ Karas lifted his forehead and his eye flashed in the reflection of the flames. ‘The time has come for you to choose your road, Talos. The gods have manifested their will.’ He spoke with emphasis:

  ‘He turns his back to the people of bronze

  when Enosigeus shakes Pelops’ land.’

  ‘The gods have devastated this land with an earthquake . . . this is the sign.’

  Kleidemos closed his eyes. There was no doubt about the identity of the one-eyed man Kritolaos had spoken of on his deathbed – it was Karas: Karas who was back here, with him, after so many years. And now, it seemed like just a few days since he’d left him. He saw him on the field of Plataea, in the glimmering dusk, murmuring the words of the Pythia Perialla, and adding, ‘Remember these words, Talos, son of Sparta and son of your people, the day that you shall see me again.’

  ‘You are right, Karas,’ he said. ‘The gods have sent me the sign that I’d been waiting for, for years, and yet I still feel uncertain. Divided. I lied to you just now; it’s not true that I’ve just come from Messenia. I arrived yesterday. Today I saw the Helots descend from the mountain.’ Karas stared, suddenly scowling. ‘But I couldn’t move. I wanted to run, to take up my arms, but I just stood there, watching, trembling, tearing out my hair. I did nothing. I could not take up the sword of my father and my brother and use it against the city for which they gave their lives. And there’s something else I have to tell you: my mother, Ismene, is buried just a short distance from this house. There’s an inscription on the tomb which seems like a message; it says: “Ismene, daughter of Eutidemus, bride of Aristarkhos the Dragon, unhappy mother of two valorous sons. The gods begrudged her the precious gift of the Lion of Sparta.” I’m certain that the last phrase was added on later, and I’ve been trying to find out who did it and why.

  ‘Karas, if I’m to make the greatest decision of my life, if it is true that the gods have sent me a sign with this earthquake, if I must take up arms once again and face my destiny head on, I can’t leave any unsolved mysteries behind me. I want no remorse, no regrets: everything must be clear. No man can walk his path with confidence unless his soul is serene. I know what you want from me and I know that if Kritolaos were still alive he would want the same thing. It will seem strange indeed to you that I’m searching for the significance of an inscription carved on a tomb while the Helots are rising up to redeem their liberty – an entire people putting their very existence at stake.’

  ‘No, I do not find it strange,’ replied Karas, with an enigmatic expression. ‘Continue.’

  ‘You know that I escorted my brother Brithos and his friend Aghias from the Thermopylae to Sparta, as commanded by Leonidas. They were to bring a message to the ephors and the elders, but no one ever discovered what it said. I have even heard that the scroll was blank, that not a word was written on it. You know well how Aghias ended up and what would have happened to Brithos had I not stopped him. And Brithos met his death nonetheless at Plataea, waging war against the Persians single handed.’

  He had got up and was pacing up and down the atrium, then went to the door and looked towards Sparta. Few lamps were lit and their glow was faint, but campfires blazed all around the city: Sparta’s warriors were on alert. He closed the door and returned to the hearth.

  ‘I’m convinced that whoever added those words to Ismene’s tomb knew the true content of Leonidas’ message. What else could the Lion of Sparta’s gift refer to? Leonidas wanted to save Brithos . . . and perhaps me, as well. Leonidas must have known. My father had always been close to him, and to King Cleomenes before him.’ A distant roar was heard, like thunder, and it shook the house already damaged by the earthquake. Karas looked at the ceiling beams without moving.

  ‘I think I can help you,’ he said. ‘And if what I believe is true, you will be able to guide the Helots against Sparta, without remorse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Think about it,’ continued Karas. ‘If it is true that the scroll was blank, as I too have heard, it’s clear that the original message was replaced with another.’ Kleidemos shuddered, thinking of that night on the gulf, of the shadow slipping furtively into their camp, bending over Brithos and then vanishing. ‘And if that is the case, only the krypteia could have managed such a trick. And the krypteia must have reported to the ephors. Now, one of them, Episthenes, was a friend to King Pausanias, and was privy to his plans. It may have been him; he may have carved that phrase on your mother’s tomb so you would see it and seek the truth. The earthquake has sown many victims among the Spartans, and if Episthenes has died, he has certainly carried the secret to his tomb. But if he’s alive . . . you know where he lives. I will accompany you.’

  ‘No, it’s too dangerous. I’ll go alone. This very night.’ He opened the door and looked up at the sky. ‘There are still a couple of hours of darkness before the dawn,’ he said. ‘They will suffice.’

  ‘I wish this weren’t necessary, my boy,’ said Karas, getting up and following him to the threshold.

  ‘As do I. But I cannot act otherwise. The thought has been tormenting me for days, since my return road brought me to . . . the ruins of Ithome.’

  ‘You’ve been to the dead city? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I saw it standing before me, suddenly, as the sun was setting and I knew I had to enter those walls. Go now, Karas, and stay on your guard.’

  ‘Be on your guard as well. And when you find your answer, you know where to look for me.’

  ‘At the cabin near the high spring.’

  ‘No,’ replied Karas. ‘You will find me at the entrance to the underground chamber, near the clearing of the holm oaks. The time has come for the sword of King Aristodemus to be taken from under the earth. His people shall be delivered.’ He wrapped himself in his cloak and left, as Kleidemos followed him with his eyes. A few steps, and he was nothing more than one of the many shadows in the night.

  *

  Kleidemos took the grey hooded cape from the wall and went out beyond the courtyard in the direction of the city. He reached the Eurotas and descended into its gravelly banks so as to escape the notice of the guards patrolling the countryside around Sparta. He approached the House of Bronze, slipping among the crumbling houses of the Mesoa district, still wrapped in darkness. The city seemed deserted; the aftershocks had scattered any survivors far from the precarious structures. Certain areas of the city were dimly lit, here and there, by fires that had been kept burning in the public squares and the agora. Kleidemos slunk along the walls trying to get his bearings as best he could. The pitch darkness protected him but also made it very difficult to recognize the sites around him. He would often find his path blocked by rubble and be forced to turn back and search for another way through.

  All at once, he made out a little shrine with an image of Artemis and he realized that the entrance to the Council House square was just a couple of blocks away. As he had feared, the square was being guarded by a group of soldiers sitting on the ground around a fire. Kleidemos stayed flush to the portico wall which stretched along the building’s south side; slipping from one column to another, he succe
eded in avoiding the illuminated area without bring seen. He soon found himself in front of the house of ephor Episthenes; it was half in ruins. He drew up to the shattered door and placed his ear against it but heard nothing. He plucked up his courage and entered. Most of the roof had fallen in and the floor was full of beams and debris, but part of the ceiling had been propped up to make the house inhabitable and a lamp burned before an image of Hermes – Episthenes must have survived the quake and was perhaps still living there. Footsteps sounded in the road – the hobnailed boots of hoplite soldiers: two of them, maybe three.

  He slipped into a corner, hoping that they would continue past the door but they stopped right at the threshold. He heard the men exchanging a few words, after which they resumed their marching; they must be a patrol squad. He leaned forward to make sure they’d passed, and saw a man with an oil lamp in hand entering the atrium and closing the door behind him. When he turned and the lamp light illuminated his face, he recognized him: it was Episthenes, dressed in a ragged chiton. His fatigue was evident in his face. He took a stool and sat down, setting his lamp on the floor.

  Kleidemos came out into the open and announced himself. ‘Hail, O Episthenes. May the gods protect you.’ The man was startled, and raised his lamp to the intruder’s face.

  ‘By Hercules, the son of Aristarkhos! We’d given you up for dead.’

  ‘The gods have spared me, as you see, but I have run terrible risks. Forgive me if I have entered your house in secret, but the reasons which have impelled me to make such an unusual visit are pressing, and serious.’

  Episthenes lowered his reddened eyes. ‘I was hoping you would come to visit me one day,’ he said, ‘but events have prostrated us, and we can no longer speak with serenity.’

  ‘There’s a phrase,’ said Kleidemos, ‘carved on the tomb of my mother. I think you can explain it to me.’

  ‘You have a quick mind, as I thought, but I’m afraid that what I have to tell you no longer has much meaning. I had those words carved in the name of justice, hoping that when you returned home you would wonder about their meaning and seek out the truth. I was too old and too tired to do any more than that. But now . . . nothing is important any more. The city has been struck by the wrath of the gods in punishment for our terrible deeds.’

  ‘I do not know to what you are alluding, Episthenes. You know the secrets of this city. But you cannot imagine how important it is for me to know the truth about myself and my family. And I must learn the truth now, before the dawn of this day breaks.’

  The ephor stood with difficulty, and drew very close. ‘You knew Pausanias’ plans, didn’t you?’ Kleidemos remained silent. ‘You can speak freely, no one is listening to us and the man you see before you tried to save the king from death – unsuccessfully, as you know.’

  ‘It is as you say.’

  ‘And you would have helped him to achieve them?’

  ‘I would have, yes. But why are you asking me this? Pausanias is dead and my hopes with him. The only thing which has kept me tied to this city is the memory of my parents and my brother Brithos. I want to know if there is any reason why I should remain bound to Sparta.

  ‘Episthenes, I served this city for ten years, I killed people I did not even know for her. My parents were forced to abide by her cruel laws and to abandon me. My mother died of grief; my father and my brother died in combat. I need to know what mystery lies beneath this whole horrible story. I know that custom has it that all the men of a given family are never sent into combat together: why was this law broken for my father and my brother Brithos . . . and for me as well? Because I’m sure that you knew who Talos the cripple really was.’

  ‘You are right. But if I tell you what I know, I fear that your only desire will be revenge.’

  ‘You are mistaken, noble Episthenes. At this point, I feel pity for this city that the gods have cursed. I need to know, because I am tired of living in uncertainty and anguish. It is time for me to find my own road, once and for all.’ He neared the swinging door, looking through the cracks. ‘Dawn is not far off.’

  ‘That’s true,’ replied the ephor. ‘Sit down and listen.’

  He offered Kleidemos a stool and both men sat down.

  ‘For many years in this city, the kings and the ephors and elders have been at odds, and the battle for control has been merciless. It was the ephors who provoked the death of King Cleomenes, poisoning his foods with a drug that made him slowly go mad, day by day. Your father Aristarkhos and your brother Brithos were very close to the king and many believed that they may have suspected something. And so when Leonidas was sent to the Thermopylae, my colleagues arranged for both of them to leave with the king, naming Aristarkhos his aide-de-camp and making your brother one of the royal guard. It seemed an extraordinary honour rendered on the family; in truth, everyone knew that those men would never come back. The king must have realized all this, and before the last battle he sent a message to Sparta, through the two sons of Aristarkhos, adding another warrior to make sure they arrived.’

  ‘Do you mean that Leonidas knew that I was the brother of Brithos?’

  ‘We all knew. As you were returning across Thespiae, a krypteia spy noticed you, and he saw the scroll with the royal seal at Brithos’ neck. He imagined that it must have contained something important . . . something that perhaps should not reach the public domain. That man followed you on your entire journey and when you had set up camp at the gulf and had all fallen asleep, he saw his chance and stole the king’s message.’

  ‘But then what did Brithos deliver to the ephors?’

  ‘A different scroll. A blank one. The spy, who today is an officer of the krypteia, falsified the royal seal but did not dare compose another message, because he did not know what to write, and he could not forge the king’s signature.’

  Kleidemos punched his knee in anger. ‘By Hercules! I saw the whole thing, but I was so overcome by weariness and fatigue that I thought I had dreamt it all . . . if only I had realized . . .’

  ‘It was I who opened the scroll in front of the assembled elders and I was shocked to see that it was blank. I did not know the truth then, nor did any of those present at the assembly. And so the rumour spread that Brithos and Aghias had plotted to escape death at the pass of the Thermopylae. It is even possible that this rumour was started by those who knew the truth and wanted Brithos out of the way, fearful that one day he might discover what had happened. And so Aghias hanged himself and your brother disappeared. We all thought he was dead, until news spread that in Phocis and Boeotia a warrior bearing the shield of the dragon was fighting against the Persians. Krypteia spies were dispatched everywhere to discover who this warrior really was. When Brithos appeared at Plataea and died in battle my colleagues were greatly relieved. Brithos could be celebrated as a hero and no one would ever probe into the story of the king’s message—’

  ‘But I was still in the picture,’ interrupted Kleidemos. ‘I was at the Thermopylae and I had returned with Brithos, accompanying him in all his exploits in Phocis and Boeotia.’

  ‘Pausanias took you away with him at my suggestion and so you remained safe and under surveillance for years. When Pausanias was killed . . .’ the ephor’s voice quavered and he pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders as if shaken by a sudden chill, ‘the ephors tried in every way possible to uncover whether you were involved in his plans, but your conduct was very prudent. They captured a Helot shepherd, a giant of a man with incredible strength, because they knew he was your friend and that he had met with Pausanias. They turned him over to the krypteia and he was brutally tortured. But he evidently never said a word because they let him go, planning perhaps to follow him and trace him back to you. But he must have been very prudent, as well. Perhaps he realized that his cabin was being watched, because he has never been seen since, not even yesterday, when the Helots attacked the city. No one has seen him.’

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ said Kleidemos. ‘It was he who told me to come here, co
nvinced that you might be able to answer my questions.’ The ephor fell silent and Kleidemos could hear a cock crowing: it would soon be dawn.

  ‘His intuition was correct,’ admitted Episthenes. ‘I saw the message of King Leonidas and I copied it before it was destroyed. I never had the courage to tell you of its contents, so I had those words carved on your mother’s tomb. If the blood of great Aristarkhos flows through your veins, I knew that one day you would seek out the truth, wherever it was hidden.’

  He stood and pointed at the statue of Hermes in its niche on the wall behind Kleidemos. ‘It’s there,’ he said. ‘Inside the statue.’

  Kleidemos lifted the figurine, his hands shaking. He turned it over and extracted a leather scroll.

  ‘Go now,’ said the ephor. ‘Flee; the sun is rising. May the gods accompany you.’ Kleidemos hid the scroll in the folds of his cloak and walked to the door. The road appeared to be deserted.

  ‘May the gods protect you, noble Episthenes,’ he said, turning back, ‘for they have cursed this city.’

  He pulled his cape tight and raised the hood as he walked swiftly down the road. He skirted the Council House square and penetrated into a maze of dark narrow little lanes in the Mesoa quarter until he had reached the Eurotas valley. He ran at breakneck speed alongside the river, sheltered by the bank, until he was close enough to his own home. A thick fog had risen, so that he was able to walk in the open without fear of being seen. He could see the tops of the cypress trees surrounding Ismene’s tomb in the distance, waving over the white blanket of fog, and he was able to direct himself with a sure step to the Kleomenid house. He entered, checked that the place was empty, and then closed the door behind him. The sun, just over the horizon, spread its faint milky light into the room. Kleidemos pulled out the leather scroll and unwound it with shaking hands. The words of King Leonidas appeared before his eyes, the words that the king had wanted to send his city in the anguish of his final hour, words that had remained secret for thirteen long years: