Leonidas of Sparta: A Boy of the Agoge
Copyright © 2010 Helena P. Schrader. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.
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International Standard Book Number: 978-1-60494-474-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010930441
SPARTA
Late 6th Century BC
Cast of Characters
(Those marked with * are historical figures)
The Agiads
King Anaxandridas*
Taygete, his first wife
Chilonis, his second wife
Cleomenes*, his firstborn son, by Chilonis
Dorieus*, his secondborn son, by Taygete
Leonidas*, his thirdborn son, by Taygete, twin to Cleombrotus
Cleombrotus*, his thirdborn son, by Taygete, twin to Leonidas
Gyrtias, Cleomenes’ wife
Agis, eldest son of Cleomenes
Gorgo,* daughter of Cleomenes
Dido, nurse to Leonidas
Polyxo, nurse to Cleombrotus
Thes Eurypontids
King Ariston*
Demaratus,* his son and heir
Leotychidas,* cousin of Demaratus, next in line to the throne
Percalus, wife to Demaratus
In the Agoge
Gitiades, Leonidas’ first eirene
Ephorus, elected herd leader
Prokles, son of Eurybiades, herd member
Alkander, son of Charmos, herd member
Timon, herd member
Other Spartans
Hilaira, Prokles’ sister
Philippos, Prokles’ father
Lysandridas, Prokles’ grandfather
Leonis, Prokles’ grandmother
Lathria, Timon’s sister
Euryleon, youth in Leonidas’ unit
Eirana, daughter of Kyranios
Kyranios, divisional commander
Nikostratos, Spartan treasurer
Contents
Introduction and Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Historical Note
INTRODUCTION AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS IS LEGENDARY. His last days have inspired great works of art and popular enthusiasm. The stand of “the 300” at Thermopylae has been harnessed to a hundred modern causes pitting East against West, and Leonidas with his 300 Spartans have come to symbolize what is good and noble in war: self-sacrifice for the sake of one’s country and family. But who was Leonidas? And what was he before he became the incarnation of Freedom fighting Tyranny?
Herodotus gives us some tantalizing tidbits—the story of his father’s forced second marriage, the tensions between his elder brothers, the precociousness of his wife. But he is silent on many key points, from the date of Leonidas’ birth to his role in Sparta prior to becoming king. Only one thing about his early life do we know for certain: because he was not the heir apparent to the Agiad throne, he would have been subjected to the full Spartan agoge. Knowing that, knowing how he ended, and building on fascinating insights into his personality provided by the few sayings attributed to him, I have created a young Leonidas.
Nothing in this novel contradicts known facts about Leonsidas—not even the late date of his birth. It is true that most historians prefer to think he was born “shortly” after Dorieus, as Herodotus says; but the fact that he personally led the Spartan advance guard to Thermopylae and fought in the front line for three days of fierce fighting, supports my thesis that he was not already an old man at the time of the battle. The fact that his son was still quite young at the time of his death is another undeniable historical fact that supports the postulated later birth date of Leonidas. I have made Leonidas roughly eight years younger than most historians postulate and from ten to fifteen years older than most popular portrayals of him in art and film.
That said, the novel is quite candidly fiction.
The second book in the series, A Peerless Peer, describes Leonidas’ life as an ordinary citizen and his marriage to his niece, Gorgo. The final book in the series, A Heroic King, depicts the events leading to Leonidas’ reign and follows him to his death at Thermopylae.
PROLOGUE
AS SOON AS IT BECAME EVIDENT that the Gods wanted a human sacrifice, Leonidas knew it would be he. The priest appointed by his co-monarch Leotychidas, delivered the Delphic Oracle, reading in his deep, resonant voice:
Hear your fate, O dwellers in Sparta of the wide spaces,
Either your famed, great town must be sacked by Perseus’ sons,
Or, if that be not, the whole of Lacedaemon
Shall mourn the death of a king of the house of Herakles.
For not the strength of lions or of bulls shall hold him,
Strength against strength; for he has the power of Zeus,
And will not be checked till one of these two he has consumed.
And every single man in the Council chamber turned to look at Leonidas. No one looked at Leotychidas, who was no less sparta’s king and no less a descendent of Herakles. They looked at Leonidas.
Delphi was rarely as unambiguous as in this oracle, and the cynical part of Leonidas’ brain wondered just what it had cost Leotychidas to extract this message. Of course he’d taken a chance. He couldn’t have been 100% certain thats everyone would look to Leonidas. But his gamble had paid off. The Council was unanimous in expecting Leonidas to dutifully play the role of the sacrificial lamb.
He supposed he ought to be honoured. Since the sons of Herakles had come to Laconia and set up their capital on the banks of the Eurotas, no Spartan king had left his body on a field of battle. For sixteen generations, Sparta’s kings had ruled over a city-state that consolidated its rule first in Laconia, then conquered Messenia, established its pre-eminence throughout the Peloponnese, and was now the acknowledged leader of all freedom-loving Hellenes. Only the cowards, those who had paid tribute to the Persian emperor, did not acknowledge Sparta’s primacy. Even the richest and most populous of Hellas’ cities, mighty Athens, acceded to Sparta the right to lead in this desperate coalition against the Persian invaders.
To lead meant to set an example, and for twelve years Sparta had set an example of defiance to the Persians. But defiance was mere bravado and bluster unless it was backed by the willingness to sacrifice life itself. Cities whose citizens are not prepared to die for their freedom deserved slavery. Leonidas did not doubt that the majority of Sparta’s citizens—and their wives—would prefer to die than surrender their freedom. And what was a Spartan king other than a leading citizen? What good was a Spartan king unwilling to make the ultimate sacrifice for the sake of his city?
If the Gods would spare Lacedaemon from sack and slavery at the cheap price of his own life, then so be it.
“All right, then,” Leonidas agreed. “But let’s not make it a futile sacrifice. Any defence on land that does not simultaneously prevent the Persian fleet from simply bypassing our position and landing troops in our rear is worthless. We have to fight north of the Isthmus, or we will lose Athens and her fleet. Since Tempe proved untenable, the next best position is Thermopylae, with the fleet at Artemision.”
“You can’t take a full call-up that far north! I
t would denude the city! What if the Athenians fail us and Persian fleet breaks through or outmanoeuvres them?” Leotychidas (who fancied himself an expert in naval affairs) protested.
“And there’s Argos to consider. They’re only waiting for the chance to strike. Argos and Achaea,” Orthryades added.
“Especially if the Allies go north with you. Without Tegea to worry about, Argos and Achaea are sure to fall upon us,” Talthybius agreed.
“It’s at least a five or six days’ march to Thermopylae! If you take the whole army that far north, it could never come back in an emergency. At least from the Isthmus we could be home in two days if we’re needed here,” Alcidas added.
“Who said anything about a full call-up?” Leonidas snapped back. “I’ll hold Thermopylae with the Guard alone, if you want me to.”
“No hubris, brother. We can spare you more than that,” Leoty-chidas retorted flippantly.
“Two thousand hoplites,” Leonidas countered, adding up in his mind what the Allies were likely to bring. He thought he could count on their old Peloponnesian allies for at least 3,000 troops and the newer allies, those whose homes were directly threatened, for about that again. 8,000 heavies ought to be enough to hold the pass at Thermopylae almost indefinitely.
“Of course.” There was a general murmur of assent and the nodding of many grey heads around the Council chamber.
“Well then. You don’t need me here any more. I’ll get on with the business of our defence.” Leonidas stood, and something strange happened. The ephor Technarchos came to his feet. Traditionally the ephors did not rise in the presence of the kings. They represented the Assembly, and to symbolise the equality between the kings and the Peers, they showed no deference to the monarchs. But Technarchos stood, and after only a moment’s hesitation the other four ephors followed his lead, and then every member of the Council, ending with a somewhat disoriented Leotychidas, also got to his feet. Leonidas acknowledged the gesture with a nod of his head, and continued out of the Council chamber into the blinding light of a hot summer day.
The Council House was located directly on the agora and opposite the Ephorate. It was fronted by a broad, double colonnade and raised a half-dozen feet above the paving stones of the square. Leonidas paused in the shade of the colonnade, grateful for a light breeze that ran its fingers through his hair and fluttered the short sleeves and skirt of his chiton where it was not encased in airtight leather and bronze. The sun was high, almost directly overhead, and most of the merchants had closed up their stalls for a midday break. The helots from the surrounding countryside were packing their wagons and hitching up their mules to return home.
Leonidas let his gaze sweep around the marketplace, mentally caressing each familiar landmark in a prelude to farewell. The statues to Apollo and Artemis marked the boundaries of the “dancing floor” where he, like every other Spartan youth, had in his time danced in honour of the Gods. There were the two ancient and (after seeing Athens) rather dowdy temples to the Market Zeus and Market Athena. Far more impressive was the temple that housed bones stolen from Tegea just fifteen Olympiads ago and allegedly belonging to Orestes. This was an impressive modern temple completely encircled by a colonnade in the Ionian fashion, but Leonidas’ eye fell on the older sanctuary to the Fates beside it.
Was it fate or intrigue that had brought him to this juncture? And would his death really prevent this somewhat haphazard and amorphous—but fiercely beloved—city from being sacked and turned to ashes? Could he with his death really ensure that the acrid smoke of burning crops did not smear the air above the Eurotas? It hardly seemed credible.
Leonidas descended the steps from the Council House and made his way over the hot paving stones toward the tree-lined “Going Away” street that led northwards out of the city. At this time of day, the shutters on shops and houses were closed against the heat of the sun, offering rather grim exteriors. Spartan tradition and custom did not encourage the painting or decoration of houses. As a result, unlike other cities, the facades here were not brightly painted, but simply whitewashed. Nor were the door frames elaborately carved and decorated; they were made simply of tarred beams. Even the roofs here lacked the decorative tiles that in the wealthier cities of Hellas were increasingly used not just on temples but on private homes as well.
In recent years, Leonidas had travelled extensively; he had been in Corinth, Athens, Thebes, and Thespeia. Leonidas knew that other Hellenes looked down on Sparta as little more than a rag-tag collection of villages. The very fact that there was no protective city wall was often used to suggest that Sparta was not a “proper” city at all. But to Leonidas, this very openness was much of Sparta’s charm. Unlike other cities, in Sparta there was no stark contrast between the wide, paved public streets and the cramped jumble of back alleys. Although Sparta’s paved streets were not monumentally wide, the back streets were hardly narrower. Because Sparta had no walls, it had room to expand. Rather than cramming houses closer and closer together, new houses were simply built on the fringe, stretching farther out into the broad plain around the city. And the houses behind their simple facades were spacious and well lit. Leonidas had been in homes of prominent citizens in other cities where the light of day hardly ever penetrated, but the houses he passed now had citrus, almond, and cypress trees reaching skywards over the walls—clear indications of the large, sunny courtyards and gardens that graced them.
He heard high-pitched voices behind him and the patter of feet. He glanced over his shoulder and stepped aside just in time to let a herd of little boys dash past him. They were barefoot, their heads shaved, and their chitons so ragged from constant wear that they seemed hardly to cover their nakedness. Their bodies were thin as only the bodies of fast-growing boys can be when they never got quite enough to eat. In other cities, the slaves dressed better, but nowhere did boys enjoy so much freedom and have so much say over their own lives.
Clearly two boys were contending for the lead and their fellows were chasing after them, shouting encouragement to their favourites. One of the boys noticed Leonidas before the others and abruptly tried to stop, causing his supporters to groan and curse and demand an explanation. But then the other boy also caught sight of Leonidas and tried to stop, too. Half the boys careened into one another, and one of the boys fell over in the confusion.
“Father!” the first boy called out respectfully. “Is it true? There is an oracle from Delphi about the Persians?”
They were all looking up at him now, their chests still heaving from the exertion of running, sweat glistening on their thin limbs, but their big eyes fixed on him alertly. Leonidas estimated that they were no more than nine or ten years old. They were certainly still at an age when half the day was theirs to play with and when they were not yet learning how to wield even wooden swords and wicker shields. They were so young, he thought, that they would undoubtedly be spared the sword if the Persians came. Instead they would be herded off into slavery—some of them would undoubtedly be castrated for service as eunuchs or sold as prostitutes in the markets of Asia. If his death could really save them from such a fate, he wished he could give it a thousand times!
“There is an oracle,” Leonidas confirmed, reluctant to share it with them.
“What does it say, father? Will our Allies fight, or will we have to fight the Persians alone?”
They unmanned him with that utter confidence in their own unshakeable defiance, and it took him a moment to answer. “It did not answer that particular question; but I am confident that our allies will stand by us, as we will be defending their freedom, too.”
“But to defend Athens, we’ll have to fight north of the Isthmus,” one of the boys protested. It was one of the boys who had been leading the informal race.
“Are you the pack leader?” Leonidas addressed the boy.
He nodded, and dutifully introduced himself: “Leonymos, son of Gylippus, father.”
“What would you rather, young Leonymos: to fight together with th
e Athenians, Boioteans, Thespians, and Plataeans north of the Isthmus—or to stand at the Isthmus with our Peloponnesian friends, while the Persians land ten times ten thousand men in the Gulf of Laconia and slaughter and burn their way up the valley of the Eurotas?”
Their eyes widened in astonishment. They had never thought of that.
“The Persians have a fleet—far greater than Athens or Corinth or Crete or all the Hellene cities together. They can carry more men than all the cities of the Peloponnese have together and land them anywhere they like. Without Athens and her fleet, we have no way to stop them.”
“But will the Athenians fight, father?” another boy asked anxiously.
“They fought—and won—at Marathon.”
“But will they fight under your command, father?”
How could even these little boys be so certain that the command was his? But there was no point questioning them on the point. They would have heard it from their fathers or older brothers, or the Peers in the syssitia where they served as mess boys. “There’s only one way of finding out, isn’t there? Now that’s enough, boys.” Leonidas cut the interrogation short. “Carry on.”
They gazed at him, clearly still full of questions (and not a little excited to have him all to themselves for once), but the order had been too explicit. So they nodded and thanked him and started off at a trot. Then someone shouted a challenge and they broke into a mad dash again, apparently for the bridge.
Leondidas followed them at a more decorous pace. On the bridge across the Eurotas he stopped and took a deep breath. The river itself was at its weakest this time of year—a meandering, shallow stream upon a broad bed of sand. But from here he had a good view of the broad basin of fertile land that formed the heart of Lacedaemon. Straight ahead to the south and as far as the eye could see was the broad, rich plain of the Eurotas valley. Sparta, and beyond it Amyclae, backed up against the west bank of the river. Near at hand were a number of bathhouses with long piers leading to the deepest part of the river, and there were a number of boys jumping off the ends of these with loud, happy squeals he could hear even from this distance. Farther downriver there were tanneries, factories, and sawmills built hard upon or into the river itself. But beyond the town the barley fields stretched into the hazy distance. It was enough, even without Messenia, to ensure that no one in Lacedaemon went hungry.
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