‘That is not possible. They would rather die. If they were afraid of death, they would have surrendered long ago.’
‘Than I have nothing more to say to you. Prepare to die in combat.’ He yanked the spear from the olive tree and turned to rejoin his men.
‘Wait, if you hold your father’s memory dear!’ shouted Kleidemos. At those words, the king spun around.
‘Listen to me,’ said Kleidemos. ‘Because what I am about to tell you may seem incredible, but I swear on the gods of Hades that it is the truth.’
‘Speak!’ said the king.
‘This war would have been avoided, had it been for your father. Before he died at the Thermopylae, he sent a message to the ephors and the elders asking them to recognize the dignity of the Helots and grant their liberty, as he had seen them die in battle alongside the equals. To recognize them as sons of the same land – a land where he wanted the two peoples to live together in peace. The message also demanded restoration of the good name of King Cleomenes, your uncle, whom the ephors had poisoned slowly, driving him to madness and death.’ Pleistarchus removed his crested helmet; his face was drawn. ‘But the message, which was to be brought to Sparta on the king’s orders by Brithos, son of Aristarkhos, Kleomenid, and Aghias, son of Antimakhos, was stolen by the krypteia and replaced with a blank scroll. And so the two warriors carrying it to Sparta were disgraced and preferred death to dishonour.’
‘How can I believe you?’ said the king.
‘I was at the Thermopylae. I returned with Brithos and Aghias and I saw the message stolen,’ replied Kleidemos, removing his helmet. ‘For I am Kleidemos, brother of Brithos, son of Aristarkhos. The Helots call me Talos the Wolf.’
‘And I should believe the words of a traitor?’ Pleistarchus said harshly.
‘I am no traitor. When I learned who I really was, I decided to serve the city whose laws had condemned me to be abandoned as a child to the beasts of the forest. I – whom Sparta had destined either to die or to live as a servant – fought in the front line at Plataea. I commanded a battalion of equals for four years, and I have been holding your army in check for three years. Do you know when I chose to return to the people who saved my life and raised me? When I learned that the government of Sparta had deliberately tried to exterminate my family by plotting to send father and sons together into a military expedition that they knew had no hope of succeeding. When I learned that Sparta had betrayed the last will of a great king, valorous and wise: your father, Leonidas. And when I learned that Sparta had massacred men, Helots, seeking asylum in a sacred place—’
‘Stop! I won’t listen to you!’ interrupted Pleistarchus.
‘You can walk away, if you like,’ Kleidemos persevered, ‘but the truth will pursue you. It will give you no peace. Try to forget my words, and give the order to attack Ithome, but if one day you want to understand the futility of all this slaughter, read the message carved into the tomb of my mother, Ismene, who died of a broken heart between my arms. Dig among the ruins of the house of the Kleomenids and in an iron casket next to the altar, you will find the true words of the king, your father!’
Pleistarchus stood for a few moments as if stunned. Then he put his helmet back on and walked slowly towards his horse. Kleidemos returned to his city; on its bastions a multitude of warriors, of women, of old men with eyes full of anguish, watched him ascend wearily, bent over, as if the splendid bronze of his armour had turned to lead.
*
King Pleistarchus slept fitfully, starting awake and pondering the words he had heard. Many in Sparta had interpreted the earthquake as a sign of the gods’ wrath at the sacrilege of Cape Taenarum. The terrible story of the Kleomenids, the atrocious death of Pausanias for which the oracle of Delphi had demanded reparation . . . the city’s elders had long been tormented by these events. And now Sparta, the invincible, unable to put down the rebellion of a handful of servants: was this another sign from the gods?
And his father’s message? Was it truly possible that two valiant warriors had brought a blank message from the Thermopylae? It made no sense. Was the real message indeed buried under the ruins of the Kleomenid house? Those people behind the walls of Ithome . . . they would soon be without food, and yet they were ready to continue their fight.
He could not imagine that at that very moment two priests from the House of Bronze were returning from Delphi, where they had been sent by the assembly of elders to query the god about the war that Sparta was conducting against Ithome. Nor could Kleidemos imagine it; having gathered the chiefs of his people, he was planning a desperate sortie, perhaps the only way his people could avoid the long agony of starvation: a night-time attack on the Spartan lines. Perhaps, if the gods assisted them, victory could still be theirs.
At the same time the priests, having returned to Sparta, related the verdict of the god of Delphi to the elders and the ephors:
‘Free the supplicants
of Zeus Ithometa’
There could be no doubt about the meaning of this prophecy, and the elders bowed their heads in deference to their gods. The Athenians had already declared their willingness to provide a homeland for the Helots of Ithome, and the ephors dispatched a messenger to Attica to make the necessary arrangements. In a day they would have their answer.
When the messenger departed at the first light of dawn, the crescent moon was paling over Mount Taygetus. It was the last quarter before the new moon: that night Kleidemos would launch the attack. His men were greatly proven by their hunger; their only hope lay in the darkness and the aid of the gods.
When the moment came, he assembled them in the centre of the city and divided them into two columns. One, which he was to lead personally, would sow confusion in the enemy camp. The other, stronger and more numerous, was led by Karas: their task was to break out in a compact formation towards the rampart and provide cover for the fleeing population. If the attack met with success, the two contingents would take turns in fighting off the enemy at the rear guard, until the column of refugees had reached Arcadia. The last of the booty carried off from the battlefield of Plataea fifteen years earlier would serve to buy food during their journey.
‘If we manage to reach the sea,’ concluded Kleidemos, ‘perhaps we can take ships and establish a new homeland beyond the sea, where no one will ever reduce us to slavery again. Karas has told me that in the land of Sicily stands a great city founded by Messenians who fled there many many years ago. Perhaps they will take us in when they learn that we are their brothers and have suffered their same fate.’ He looked at his men in the torchlight; their faces were tired, hollowed out by fatigue and hunger. Could they manage to beat the most powerful army of all Greece? Their souls were ready, but could their limbs withstand that final, immense effort?
He got to his feet, donning his helmet and taking up his sword. He was a fearful sight in that shining armour.
‘We are fighting for our lives and our liberty,’ he said. ‘They will not stop us. Now put out your torches and follow me.’ He headed towards the gate and the warriors lined up in silence behind him, passing between two silent wings of old men, of women, of young boys.
The mountain was completely enveloped in darkness; a few sparse clouds obscured the dim light of the stars. They descended along the trail that led to the valley until they were nearly at the first Spartan outposts. Kleidemos, hiding behind a rock, could see a couple of sentries sitting next to a campfire. He was reminded of the tactics of the Thracians when he was commanding the fourth battalion of equals: they would light huge fires, so as to illuminate a wide tract of land, but their sentries would hang back in the shadows so as not to be seen. He beckoned to a group of archers and pointed out their target. ‘They must fall without a cry!’ he said, and gave the signal. The archers let fly all at once and the two sentries collapsed, pierced through by a swarm of arrows.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘we can get right up to the camp without anyone sounding the alarm. When I give the signal, attack with e
verything you’ve got: cut the tent ropes so that they fall in on the men sleeping inside and yell at the top of your lungs; they must think that there are thousands of us. Set fire to everything you can, free the horses, destroy their provisions, but don’t ever isolate yourselves; stay in groups, company by company. When you have crossed the camp and destroyed it, head towards the rampart at the bottom of the valley, as we’ve established. The archers will remain behind in the dark and strike by the light of the fires. May the gods assist you.’
He raised his arm and gave the signal: his men opened into a fan formation and ran forwards shouting. They were upon the outposts in no time. They lunged at the guards, overwhelming them, while the Spartan warriors, jolted awake in the dead of night, were scrambling to take up their weapons and head outside, where they met with the raiders, who were everywhere by then. In the darkness, hand-to-hand combat rose to a furious pitch and in the reddish light of the flames the scene was frightening to behold. Shouts, excited orders, curses, the whinnying of horses and tangles of bloodied bodies all about. But Kleidemos’ men soon found themselves on open ground, and they realized that the bulk of the camp was about a hundred feet over. King Pleistarchus must have changed the set-up in the last hours, fearing just such a sortie. These were only the light infantry.
When the Helots began to run across the clearing, the trumpets had already sounded the alarm and Pleistarchus’ hoplites were forming their ranks. Attacking under such conditions in the open field would have been sheer madness, and Kleidemos ordered all his men to run directly to the rampart, in the hope that Karas would have already occupied it. The battle resumed, while the Helots tried to make an orderly retreat. The archers managed to hold off Pleistarchus’ phalanx momentarily as they were forced to advance slowly over the uneven ground so as not to break rank.
At dawn, the Spartan army was lined up before the rampart where all of the Helots who had been able to reach the position had regrouped. Behind them, the entire population of Ithome, defended by a handful of armed men, was walking westwards. Pleistarchus advanced on his horse, ready to command the attack that would wipe out the enemy. There would be no surprises now; they were utterly exhausted and no longer protected by the walls of their city. He raised his spear as the rays of the sun tried to pierce the clouds, but before he could lower it, a horseman burst into the space between the phalanx and the rampart.
‘O King,’ he said, jumping to the ground in front of Pleistarchus. ‘My King, a message from the ephors and the elders.’
‘I’ll read it later,’ replied the king, raising his spear once again.
‘No!’ insisted the messenger, holding out a scroll. ‘You must read it immediately.’
Pleistarchus took off his helmet as the two armies faced off in silence, and read:
The ephors and the elders of Sparta, to King Pleistarchus, son of Leonidas, hail!
The calamities suffered in our city, and our fear of the wrath of the gods, have impelled us to ask for a response from the oracle of Delphi. These were the oracle’s words:
‘Free the supplicants
of Zeus Ithometa’
Accordingly, O King, allow the inhabitants of the city to go free, and put an end to this war. This is the will of the gods. The Athenians have offered them a place to live, if they wish to follow the delegates from this city who accompany the bearer of this message. May your valour, and your faith in the laws of our land, be honoured.
The king raised his astonished eyes to find two Athenian officers before him who had just caught up with the messenger.
‘O King,’ said one of the two, ‘for quite some time we have been demanding that the ephors and the elders end this war which has brought nothing but blood and disaster; when they asked us to take these people in, we willingly agreed. Allow us then to lead them out of this land and accept the greetings and the regards of the Athenians who still honour the memory of your father.’
‘If it has been decided thus, then thus shall it be done,’ replied the king. He called an officer. ‘Give the order to retreat. We will be going back to Laconia this very day.’
The Spartan soldiers were stunned at the orders of the king, and began to wheel and return to their camp under the incredulous eyes of the Helots, who could not fathom what was happening. The two Athenians spurred on their horses and rode up to the rampart.
‘Men of Ithome!’ shouted the officer who had spoken to the king. ‘Your city is lost, but the god of Delphi has willed that a new homeland be given you. Thanks to the piety of your sovereigns, Archidamus, son of Zeuxidamus, and Pleistarchus, son of Leonidas, and to the generosity of the Athenians who have sent us to guide you there, men of Ithome, you are free!’ A confused murmur rose little by little as those closest to the Athenians repeated what they had heard to the others.
‘You are free!’ cried out the Athenian officer again. The murmur grew then until it exploded into an unrestrainable shout. The Helots embraced each other like men gone mad. Some fell to their knees, arms raised towards the sky and eyes filled with tears, others ran among the ranks screaming, still others had already taken off to bring the news to the refugees marching under the protection of Karas’ men.
When their enthusiasm finally calmed, they formed a long column behind the Athenian officers on horseback, heading down the road that led to the sea. At midday they had caught up with Karas’ group, weakened by their long march but filled with joy at the incredible news that the fast-riding couriers had already brought them.
When the head of the column reached the banks of the Pamisus, Karas gave orders to set up camp. He reported immediately to the Athenian officers. ‘I thank you,’ he said, drying his sweaty brow and holding out his hand, ‘in the name of this unhappy people who have been snatched from the jaws of death when hope no longer existed. Our leader will have told you what happened last night.’
The two officers looked at each other in surprise. ‘We have not met your leader, although we have heard tell of him and would be pleased to speak with him.’
Karas scowled, realizing that he had not seen Kleidemos since he had first launched the attack. He excused himself hurriedly and ran through the camp, asking all those he met if they had seen him, but he was soon convinced that Kleidemos was not among them. The warriors who had taken up position on the rampart assumed that he had reached the advance guard, while the advance guard was sure that he had remained behind. Karas assembled all the chiefs and gave them orders to follow the Athenians; he would go back and search for Kleidemos on the battleground. He found a horse and raced towards the trail they had just left, as the sun began to wane. He arrived at the foot of Ithome at dusk and jumped to the ground, allowing his horse to roam free.
The deserted field was sown with corpses: the Spartans had already left, taking their fallen with them. He began to search feverishly for his friend, overturning the bodies one by one, scrutinizing their disfigured faces. He was nowhere to be found. Out of his mind with grief, Karas climbed the slopes of the mountain as the sun still cast out a little bloody light. The silence was tomb-like, broken every so often by the screams of the crows who hungrily encircled their repast. On high, the open gates on Ithome’s black walls stared down at him like the eyes of a skull.
Karas paused to catch his breath on the mountainside, half dead with exertion. He looked down into the shadowy valley: it was completely deserted. He brought his hands to the side of his mouth and started to call with all the breath he had in him, but only distant echoes answered. He sank to the ground, his heart filled with despair. All energy had abandoned him and, as he thought sadly that he should return to the others, he noticed a faint flickering on his right, just tens of feet away. He rose to his feet to see better. They were eyes, shining in the night, the yellow eyes of a big grey wolf. The animal moved towards him, lifting his snout as if to sniff him, and then let out a long howl. He went off along the ridge of the mountain, stopping and turning around now and then.
Karas took heart and follow
ed him until the animal stopped at the great parched olive tree which seemed a creature in pain, claws raised beseechingly towards the sky. There the wolf vanished behind a rock. Karas ran towards the tree, causing masses of pebbles to roll and rattle onto the rocks below.
When he reached the tree, he was overcome by astonishment. There, on its gnarled roots, lay Kleidemos’ magnificent armour, shining and bloodied: the storied cuirass, the horn bow, the great shield, the amber-hilted sword and the helmet crowned with wolf fangs.
The giant fell to his knees weeping hot tears. He planted his fists in the dust and remained in that position, unmoving, until he heard the wolf’s howl echoing through the valley. He shook himself, collected the armour piece by piece and began to descend the slope. He reached the valley and the banks of the little stream where the people of Ithome had first drawn water upon their arrival from Laconia. In its limpid waters, he washed the cuirass, the sword and the shield. He called his horse and loaded the armour onto its back, covering it with his cloak. He began walking east, towards Mount Taygetus, to bring it whence it had come.
One day, when his people needed him, Talos the Wolf would wear it again.
Author’s Note
Spartan society – as described by the authors of the fifth century BC – is the most archaic, contradictory construct imaginable. They had not one but two kings, a fact that has been explained in a variety of ways, although a completely convincing hypothesis has never emerged. These two kings in theory held the maximum authority; in fact they were subject to the control of an executive body of five ephors (‘inspectors’). Any king who happened to have a strong personality tended to generate institutional conflict, both with his fellow king and with the other authorities, with consequences that were often devastating.
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