The fishermen reached them first but were afraid to intervene. Instead they formed a circle, shouting at the boys to let their colleague go, ridiculing them for fighting three to one. Percalus had collapsed on to the sand sobbing.
The eirene finally came up, a little winded from running, and ordered the three boys to let go of their victim and explain themselves.
By this point, they had clearly got the upper hand but were tired, winded, and not reluctant to end it. They got up, and the young fisherman at once staggered away, grabbing on to his colleagues for support. They closed around him at once, forming a front against the Spartiates, their stance and expressions openly hostile.
Wiping the blood dripping from his nose with the back of his arm, Prokles answered for all three of them. “That Messenian helot spat at Alkander’s sister.”
The eirene glanced at the little heap of misery sobbing on the sand; his eyes took in the maiden’s unquestionable misery—and her charms. He frowned. “What the hell is your sister doing here, Alkander?”
“She’s helping f-f-friends with their ch-ch-children, sir.”
It wasn’t unheard of—and of course everyone knew that Alkander was a mothake. The eirene left it there. He turned his attention to the fishermen. With a gesture he ordered them to separate and expose their comrade. There was only a moment of hesitation, and then they resentfully obeyed. The fisherman was not really hurt. His lips and nose were bleeding, and his eyes were watering to flush the sand out. He was still breathing hard. “Do you deny that?” the eirene demanded of him.
“The bitch lied to me!” he spat out furiously, his eyes filled with hatred.
The eirene punched him hard in the gut, and the fisherman doubled over in pain. “Don’t you ever refer to a Spartiate maiden as a bitch again—at least not in hearing of any of us!” the eirene warned. Then he turned his back on the fishermen, who at once started to withdraw, pulling their still doubled-up colleague with them.
The eirene turned his attention to the maiden. He went down on his heels beside her. “Are you all right?” he asked solicitously.
Percalus just covered her face with her hands and cried more intensely.
“Come, let’s get into the shade and I’ll fetch you some cool water.”
The three younger boys could only watch as their superior helped Percalus to her feet, guided her back toward a fallen palm, and then indeed went to fetch water for her. While he was gone, Alkander asked his sister in outrage and shock, “Have you been seeing that Messenian?”
“He—he’s—we—you don’t understand!” she concluded, starting to cry again.
Silly goose, Leonidas thought; but it really wasn’t his business.
She started sobbing out, “It isn’t easy to be all alone here. I don’t have any friends. The perioikoi treat me like a servant, and I have no time off. Today, this is the first free time I’ve been given in three years! Otherwise I have to steal it when I get sent on errands. What good would it have done me, saying my dad was Spartiate? No one would have believed me. Polybios was nice to me. He brought fish from his catch just for me. Otherwise I only get leftovers. He was nice to me,” she insisted feebly at the end, noting that her brother was no longer looking reproachful—just sad.
It was getting very close to noon, and Percalus would have to return to her duties and the boys to muster. Leonidas and Prokles shifted uneasily, glancing over in the direction of the fountain where the eirene was fetching water.
“You told him you were a helot?” Alkander asked.
“Not exactly. He—he just assumed it. The Messenian helots are different from our own. They aren’t peasants, really. They come from good, Doric stock. Polybios’ grandfather was captain of a Messenian ship during the war—”
“Don’t talk like you sympathise with them!” Alkander warned, scandalized and frightened by his sister’s tone.
“But it’s true!”
“How do you know? He was just talking you up! Trying to impress you! You can’t know if he was lying!”
“He says he can show me the wreck of his grandfather’s ship. It’s right out there!” She pointed toward the bay.
“There may be a wreck there, but it doesn’t prove it was his grandfather’s—or rather that his grandfather commanded more than an oar on it!” Alkander was getting angry, Leonidas suspected from fear. After all, his own position was precarious enough without his sister openly sympathising with the enemy at their backs. Fortunately the eirene was returning now, a goatskin of water over his shoulder and a mug in his hand.
“Don’t talk like that to the eirene, will you?” Alkander urged his sister, dropping his voice earnestly.
They stepped back a little to let the eirene through to Percalus and he casually remarked, “You boys better get back down the beach for muster. You wouldn’t want to be late.”
“No, sir,” they agreed obediently, and departed at once. Alkander looked back anxiously once, but his sister seemed to be accepting the water with appropriate gratitude and modesty.
At first the three boys walked in silence, but then Prokles broke the silence. “You never told us your sister was a prize filly, Alkander. She’d rival even Cleomenes’ queen! You better find a way to bring her back to Sparta.”
______
1 I have chosen to use a familiar measure of distance to make distances meaningful to the modern reader. The Spartan army is known to have covered the distance from Sparta to Athens in less than three days, which is a distance of roughly 120 miles.
CHAPTER 8
Age 16
PERCALUS WASN’T THE ONLY TROUBLE WITH girls that Leonidas and his friends had by the time they reached 16. After consulting their elders, it had been arranged for Percalus to return to Laconia and live with Lysandridas’ neighbour Cleitagora. Cleitagora, who had taken in Koiris on that fateful stormy night three years earlier, was a widow with two unmarried sons on active service. She had agreed to teach Percalus her future duties as a Spartiate wife and to “introduce” her to society. Percalus was clearly pleased with the arrangement, although Leonidas and Alkander were both somewhat uncomfortable with it; Leonidas because everyone seemed to assume that he would provide a dowry for Percalus, and Alkander because he found the attention his sister attracted embarrassing. She couldn’t go anywhere without young men taking notice of her. Percalus loved the attention and openly encouraged it—in her modest, mincing way.
Meanwhile, however, they had discovered their own interest in the opposite sex, albeit to differing degrees. As so often in other situations, Prokles was the most forward, actively seeking out opportunities to watch the girls of the older cohorts at sports. The fact that Hilaira was still winning every race she entered provided a good excuse for them to hang about the racecourse when the girls competed, but Prokles took little interest in Hilaira herself. In fact, he took no interest in any girl in particular, just “girls” generally.
Alkander had the opposite problem. He was as beautiful in the same golden way as his sister, and it was the girls who took an inordinate interest in him. Whenever Prokles led them over to loiter around girls’ events, Alkander would become the object of repeated efforts, by maidens both bold and shy, to attract his attention. No matter how indifferent Alkander acted, the girls persisted. For some his shyness constituted a challenge, and for others it increased his attractiveness. One lithe, dark beauty, Eirana, who was an outstanding rider, openly snubbed Prokles but had only smiles for Alkander.
Leonidas found himself frustrated that his friends were so “obsessed” with girls and less interested in riding about the countryside with him. Once or twice he left them to their “girl watching” and went off on his own—but that wasn’t really much fun either, so he ended back with them although he was mostly bored. Until, that is, they found themselves watching some girls wrestling.
On the whole the quality of girls’ wrestling was far beneath their own and not really worth watching, but a crowd had been attracted this particular afterno
on by a maiden who quite simply defeated every opponent she faced with ease and elegance.
“Who is she?” Prokles inquired, looking automatically to Alkander. Alkander seemed to know all the girls’ names.
“Don’t you recognise her? That’s Lathria, Timon’s sister.”
“Timon?” Prokles asked, disbelieving. Timon had long been Alkander’s most merciless tormentor, and still treated him with disdain, long after most of the unit had accepted him. Timon increasingly challenged Ephorus, too, calling his decisions “stupid” or simply ignoring his directives contemptuously. Since they no longer “ran” as a unit, Ephorus’ role as leader was more a matter of courtesy anyway, but Timon was the least courteous young man Leonidas knew. What aroused Prokles’ disbelief now, however, was that Timon was a stocky, rather unattractive youth, whereas his sister was as tall as they were, albeit heavyset and not particularly pretty.
Even as they spoke, Lathria defeated her final opponent with the same ease with which she had dismissed the others. Far from tired, she dusted herself off with evident contentment and then declined the linen towel her trainer offered her. Turning instead to address the crowd of youths, she challenged instead: “I bet I can beat any of you, too!”
“Lathria!” the trainer, a widow, hissed in shocked disapproval.
“I can!” Lathria declared, with a scowl to her trainer. And then she reached up to rebind her long strands of dark, curly hair, a gesture that drew the eyes of the entire audience to her naked breasts. These were still rather small, plump and round rather than pointed, but they were definitely there. Thus although she had a rather squarish face, her dark brows met over her nose, and there were even little dark hairs on her upper lip, she had put her youthful audience into a state of turmoil. Some of the older youths hissed and turned away, expressing in this way their disapproval of such unseemly boldness and hubris.
This only provoked her. “What’s the matter with you?” she called after them. “Afraid to fight a girl? Afraid you’ll lose, aren’t you?” she laughed. “I knew I could beat any of you, but I didn’t think it would be this easy!” She dropped her hands to her hips and smiled at the youths remaining. “All a bunch of lily-livered cowards!”
“Don’t let her get away with that!” Prokles hissed in Leonidas’ ear.
Leonidas looked at Prokles in horror.
“You’ve got to put her in her place!” Prokles insisted.
“Why me?”
“You’re the best wrestler here,” Prokles countered.
Leonidas glanced around, and Prokles was right. He could beat any of the others here.
Meanwhile, the others took up Prokles’ cause. “Go on, Leonidas! Teach her a lesson!”
“This is ridiculous,” Leonidas protested. “Everyone knows I can beat her.”
“I don’t know it, Little Leo!” Lathria teased, using the adjective that Leonidas hated—and had not heard in years. “Prove it!” she challenged again.
Prokles was literally pulling Leonidas’ himation off his back and unbuckling his belt in preparation of removing the chiton.
“This is silly!” Leonidas protested one last time, but it was pointless. The whole crowd of youths, about nine of them altogether from both his own and the 15-year-old cohort, were all pushing him into the ring.
The next thing he knew, Lathria had him in her grip and was trying to throw him to the ground. It was the most disorienting sensation he had yet experienced. On the one hand she was strong and lithe, but on the other he could clearly feel her nipples crushed against his naked chest, and the response of his body was so distracting that she had tossed him on to the sand before he could come to himself.
The shouts of outrage from the spectators brought him back to himself. He sprang up and in a fit of determination that blotted out all acknowledgement of her sex, he caught her in a grip with his shoulder in her crotch and flung her down before she knew what hit her. There was a cheer of approval.
Lathria, evidently surprised, jumped up rapidly and fought back by trying to trip him. They danced around one another for a bit and then Leonidas, determined to get this over with, lunged again, unbalanced her, and after a short struggle forced her down. The crowd cheered again.
Now Lathria was angry. She lashed out more viciously than ever before, but Leonidas was used to violent fights and he deftly got her under control, twisting her arm behind her back and forcing her down on to her knees. She was panting and gasping from effort now, and Leonidas again became conscious of the fact that he was fighting a girl. He let her go and backed off. The crowd groaned and shouted insults at him.
Lathria scrambled back to her feet and spun about on him. Her face was flushed and her eyes flashing. She came for him again, with her favourite “bear-hug” grip, but Leonidas was ready for it now. He gripped her back so hard that she started to struggle to get free even before he started to pull her down with him. Slowly but surely, he forced her down on to the sand. First her buttocks touched, and then he kept pushing her over until her shoulders too were crushed into the sand. He had won.
The youths around him cheered, but Leonidas was lying with his body pressed up against Lathria’s. Her face was just inches away. And she was smiling at him triumphantly.
Leonidas jumped up and angrily grabbed his chiton from Prokles. He pulled it on as fast as possible, ashamed of the response of his body and anxious to hide it. Declaring loudly, “That was silly,” he jogged away, heading for the cooling waters of the Eurotas.
Sixteen was also the age at which the boys of the agoge underwent another ritual, the floggings at the Feast of Artemis Orthia. This ancient sanctuary on the banks of the Eurotas had, according to legend, once been the site of an uneven battle between the early Dorians and the native peoples. The sons of Herakles were worshiping at the shrine and had brought offerings to the goddess when they were attacked by the barbarians. Unarmed as they were, they had only been able to defend themselves with the reeds they tore up from the riverbank. Armed with these canes alone, they had beaten off the attack.
To commemorate this distant victory, it had become tradition for a ritualised battle to take place between the 16-year-olds and the 17-year-olds. The 17-year-olds represented Sparta’s ancestors by “defending” the temple with canes against an assault by the 16-year-olds. The assault of the 16-year-olds had been transformed at some unknown date in the past into an act of theft, symbolising the sacrilege of the ancient attackers. The matrons of Sparta made hundreds of small, round cheeses that they laid on the altar of Artemis as an offering. The 16-year-olds, representing the impious barbarians, then tried to steal as many of these cheeses from the goddess as possible in the face of the defenders.
The 16-year-olds were allowed no weapons and no armour. Naked, they had to run a gauntlet of 17-year-olds armed with the vicious canes used for all Spartan floggings. The youths were safe from blows only while inside the temple or outside the perimeter at the tables where they delivered their cheeses. The eirenes kept count of how many cheeses each member of their particular unit retrieved from the temple, and the honour of the day went to the 16-year-old who managed to bring out the largest number of cheeses. The honour was considered great, and for the rest of his life the winner was referred to as a Victor of Artemis Orthia. Between Olympiads, the Spartans kept track of the years by the names of the victors at Artemis Orthia.
Dorieus, of course, had been the victor in his class eleven years ago. He was inordinately proud of the fact, and frequently referred to it when trying to drum up support for his latest adventure: a colony on Sicily. Leonidas knew that many people would expect him or Brotus to follow his brother’s example, so it did not surprise him when, on the eve of the festival, Brotus sought Leonidas out.
The twins’ paths crossed regularly. They were on the drill fields at the same time, and often worked out in the palaestra or visited the baths simultaneously. They sang together in chorus. They even competed against one another in some sports, particularly in ball games
or at broad-jumping, discus, and archery. For the most part they treated each other as they would any other member of the age-cohort. Only rarely did they talk as brothers—usually when there was news about Dorieus or Cleomenes.
Now, on the eve of Artemis Orthia, Brotus turned up at Leonidas’ barracks and insisted that he come outside. Once they were alone in the dark alley, Brotus announced, “Leo, I intend to win the honours tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Leonidas agreed readily. Prokles, Alkander, and he had long ago agreed that three to four cheeses—which meant running the gauntlet in and out a corresponding number of times—was enough to satisfy honour. Prokles felt that anyone who would want to get himself “beaten bloody” for the sake of being able to boast about such a ridiculous achievement the rest of his life was “an idiot”. Prokles claimed that his grandfather said the rest of the Greek world laughed at Spartan youth for being so “stupid”. Throughout the rest of the world, the whole ritual was seen as an example of the “blind obedience” of Spartan youths. Foreigners snickered at the stupidity of youths willing to endure such a ridiculous amount of abuse just for the entertainment of the whole city, and they made even more unkind comments about what sort of city would find amusement in watching their youths get thrashed by canes—although the number of foreigners who came to watch the ritual was increasing every year.
Leonidas had to admit that he had rather enjoyed watching the spectacle in other years, and presumed he’d find it entertaining in the future. It wasn’t really about watching boys get beaten—it was a fast-paced, exciting, rough-and-tumble contest where the winner was always one of the underdogs—one of the naked boys taking the punishment. But Prokles had been so adamant about how stupid the whole thing was that Leonidas had not dared voice his own opinion. In Prokles’ words, “Oxen are more intelligent than to want to win a whipping contest!”
A Boy of the Agoge Page 16
