A Boy of the Agoge

by Helena P. Schrader

  “I heard Lysandridas is ill.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m just borrowing this to take him home. I’ll have it back before dinner.”

  “I’m not worried about the damn chariot,” she retorted with a touch of irritation. “Why don’t you bring Lysandridas here? I’ll send for the surgeon at once. If it’s his heart, the time it takes to get him to his kleros could kill him.”

  “He asked me to take him home, ma’am.”

  “Come on, then.” She climbed into the chariot and took the reins herself, leaving Leonidas no choice but to step up beside her and tell her where to go.

  The crowd seemed larger than ever by the time they got back, but they promptly made way for the chariot. One of the younger boys stepped out and took the horses without being asked, so that Leonidas and Chilonis could both go to the old man. “Lysandridas, let me take you to the Agiad palace and have the surgeon come to you there.”

  “No. I want to die at home.”

  “Who says you’re dying? Come—”

  “NO.”

  Chilonis glanced at Leonidas, and he tried: “Father, if you just lie down for a bit. Take something to ease the pain—”

  “I want to go home. Leonis—” That was his wife.

  “I’ll send someone for her at once,” Chilonis assured him.

  “No. Take me home.”

  Chilonis surrendered with a gesture of helplessness to Leonidas, and backed away. At once Leonidas bent to lift the old man into his arms. Lysandridas had been small and slight of stature all his life, an ideal jockey and charioteer, but Leonidas was still thankful that a youthful perioikoi came to his assistance. Together they lifted Lysandridas and carried him to the back of the chariot. They wanted to lie him down, but Lysandridas insisted on sitting up with his back against the front of the chariot. Clutching his knees to him, he laid his face on his knees and closed his eyes.

  Carefully Leonidas stepped up beside him and took the reins. Hilaira sat on the floor of the chariot behind him. Carefully Leonidas backed the horses, turned, and set off, picking up a trot as soon as they had left the city behind them.

  Leonidas had to concentrate on driving the unfamiliar team. They were hot horses, racers really, and they at once sensed that their driver was a stranger and somewhat unsure of himself. They fretted, one even bucked several times, and the further they drove out of the city, the more they wanted to bolt. That made for a rough ride, and Leonidas was grateful for Hilaira, who held her grandfather in her arms. “Please don’t die, grandpa,” she pleaded with him. “Please.” She was openly weeping, but Leonidas didn’t think the less of her for that. He couldn’t imagine a world without Lysandridas in it—or, rather, he didn’t want to imagine it.

  The helots saw the chariot from the lower pasture, and Leonidas shouted out to them what had happened. A boy cut across the paddocks and up the stairs from the stables so that by the time they arrived at the house, Lysandridas’ wife and daughter-in-law were waiting to receive him. By this time the pain seemed to have eased somewhat, and Lysandridas managed, with the help of Leonidas and his wife, to stagger to a couch in the andron. Within minutes pillows and blankets had been brought. Leonis had removed her husband’s belt and convinced him to lie down. She was now very much in charge, giving orders to everyone, and demanding of Leonidas the location of Prokles. Leonidas assured her that Alkander was bringing him, while one of the helots was sent for Philippos, who was helping repair the fencing on the upper paddocks.

  Leonidas started to feel superfluous and wondered if he should take the chariot back, but he hated to leave for fear that Lysandridas would die while he was away. Philippos arrived, dressed only in a dirty chiton and dripping sweat. He went in to his father at once, and Leonidas sat on the back terrace with Hilaira, who couldn’t seem to stop crying, although she did it silently. She simply sat there with the tears running down her face, and with the corner of her himation she wiped at her eyes and nose. Philippos came out and asked after his son.

  “Alkander went for him, sir.”

  “Is he far away?”

  “Amyclae, sir,” Leonidas lied. Prokles’ parents would be furious if they learned Prokles was seeing another perioikoi girl.

  “Would you go in to my father then? He was asking for you, too.”

  Leonidas jumped up, flattered and frightened both. He had never been with a dying man before—unless you counted his own father. The women were still with Lysandridas. His wife sat on the couch and held his hand. His daughter-in-law was on the couch opposite, her hands in her lap, apparently awaiting instructions.

  Lysandridas lay with his eyes closed. He looked ghastly white, and all the old-age flecks on his face, neck, and scalp stood out as they never did when he was up and about. In fact, it was only now that Leonidas noticed how very old he looked. He tried to calculate how old Lysandridas must be, but he wasn’t really sure how old he had been when he’d won the chariot race at the 55th Olympics. He had been a citizen, so at least 21, and probably older. That made him close to 73 now, Leonidas reckoned.

  “You asked for me, father?” Leonidas asked hesitantly, standing beside the couch and looking down at the old man.

  Lysandridas did not open his eyes, but he lifted his other hand, and Leonidas took it. The old man clasped his hand around it. His hand was icy cold, and the scars from the quarries stood out amidst the dark, purple veins. When he spoke, he spoke slowly with many pauses for breath. “Leonidas, stand by... Prokles. He’s too... rebellious. I... understand him. Sparta can be... cruel. It... requires... much of us. But it gives us... much in return. If he had seen... a little more... of the world...” It was too much for him to finish the thought, so he squeezed Leonidas’ hand.

  Fearing he had been dismissed, Leonidas hastened to say, “Father, I owe my life to you. I would have been a slave and—”

  The old man was shaking his head. “Shhh. You do my son... and the entire city... an injustice. They would... have come for you... without my frantic urgings. We have... too few citizens to let... others steal... our children. Let us... waste no more breath... on that. More important: you must know... that you are a youth... of unusual... potential. I know... you will never be... king, but you can be... a peerless Peer—if... you keep to your... present course.”

  Leonidas was frowning. He didn’t understand what Lysandridas was talking about. He didn’t think he had ever done anything but just follow the rules and try to get along with everyone. He was not even truly exceptional at anything—not like Dorieus and Brotus. If he just continued doing what he had been doing, he would continue to be a mediocre Peer of no particular interest to anyone. It seemed rude to argue with a man on his deathbed, however, so Leonidas held his tongue and promised instead, “I’ll try, sir.”

  “I know. As for Alkander—”

  They were interrupted by the loud arrival of Prokles. Prokles came crashing into the andron breathlessly, looking genuinely shaken. His mother admonished him to be more respectful, but Prokles ignored her as he fell on to his knees beside his grandfather, pushing Leonidas aside.

  Leonidas hesitated because Lysandridas had been interrupted, but now he was clasping Prokles’ hand and seemed very anxious to speak to him. Leonidas decided it was time for him to withdraw. He nodded to the two women and slipped out, returning to the large back terrace on which he had spent the happiest moments of his life. He remembered that very first evening when he had been allowed to join this family: the starry night, the sound of Leonis playing the lyre, and Lysandridas’ raspy voice telling an enthralled eight-year-old audience about his adventures. Leonidas felt the tears in his eyes and blinked them back, and at the same time heard someone crying behind him.

  He turned around and saw that Hilaira had finally given in completely to her own tears and started sobbing. She was curled up in Alkander’s arms and crying on to his chest. It made sense that Alkander was here, since he had fetched Prokles. The fact that he would be holding Hilaira in his arms like that was less self-e
vident. They had been like sister and brother for seven years, but this wasn’t a “brotherly” hug—or so Leonidas thought. He met his friend’s eyes, and they dared him to protest. That said it all.

  Lysandridas was buried, as he had requested, beside his father and mother below the orchard. The crowd that came was nothing like that which gathered for the burial of kings; it was devoid of ritual and histrionics and motivated by real respect, if not grief. And it was large. Leonidas was astonished by how many men and women walked the seven miles from the city or even further to be there. The entire Council was there, many of the city officials, all other living Olympic victors, and the local horse-breeding community including King Demaratus with Percalus. Leonidas was impressed, too, by the perioikoi and helots. They came not because Lysandridas had been an Olympic victor and councilman, but because he had been a good neighbour and a fair master. That was a tribute, too, Leonidas thought, remembering the way the staff had abandoned his mother in her hour of greatest need.

  The speeches stressed that Lysandridas had seen both the heights of success in his Olympic victories and the depths of failure in humiliating defeat, capture, and slavery. They spoke of how he had been “decisive” in bringing down the Tegean tyrant Onomastros, and how his wisdom in Council had only increased with age. That left Leonidas wishing he had paid more attention to the old man and wishing he had asked him many more questions. Only from the eulogies did Leonidas register that Lysandridas had been a protégé of the great Chilon himself. Only after Lysandridas was dead did Leonidas start to grasp what a resource he had lived beside—and never truly tapped into. He had loved and respected Lysandridas from that first holiday at his kleros, but he had not truly appreciated just how exceptional Lysandridas had been. And now it was too late. He would never again be able to benefit from Lysandridas’ advice or his wit or his experience. That was a depressing realisation, and Leonidas promised himself not to let it happen again. Meanwhile he would try to live up to Lysandridas’ hopes for him, to be a “peerless Peer” when he came of age—even if he didn’t have the faintest idea of what that really was or how he was to attain it.

  CHAPTER 11

  Eirene

  “NEVER AGAIN IN YOUR LIVES—NOT EVEN if you should one day rise to senior command in the army—will you have as much power as you have this coming year.” The Paidonomos addressed the new class of eirenes in the agoge auditorium. This square room sank downwards from the doorways in a series of steps on three sides towards the speaker’s podium in the middle of the smallish square floor 20-some feet below. The only lighting came from some windows along the back wall, and so it was a rather dim room and—like everything in the agoge—virtually unfurnished. The youths sat on the worn marble seats, but the atmosphere in the chamber was charged with energy.

  They hardly needed the reminder from the Paidonomos about the prerogatives of their new status. They were all wearing sandals just to make a point (although the footgear was uncomfortable and caused blisters for most of them) and they luxuriated in the soft wool used for their standard-issue chitons and the real warmth of their black himations. They were looking forward to growing out their hair, and to being freed from cooking, cleaning, learning, keeping watch, and—best of all—drill. For the next year, rather than learning and drilling, they were entrusted with the welfare of a unit of younger boys.

  The Paidonomos was only stating the obvious when he continued: “You all remember eirenes that you particularly respected—and eirenes that you disliked, even disdained. Those memories last a lifetime. Your behaviour now will not be forgotten like your own misdeeds as children, but will indelibly leave an impression upon the boys or youths entrusted to you. They will be your subordinates—or possibly superiors—in the army one day, your peers in Assembly, or officials of the city. You will face the boys and youths you have control over this coming year again and again throughout your life, and you will always be remembered for how you treated them in this critical year—no matter what other deeds you may perform or what fame you may obtain.”

  The youths were bored. They knew all that. On Leonidas’ right, Prokles was rolling his eyes and muttering “yak, yak, yak”. Other youths were gazing pointedly at the ceiling or using sign language to one another. (Many boys developed their own private sign language during their years at the agoge, because it was so practical at times like this when they could get in trouble for speaking.) They all wanted the Paidonomos to get on with things—that is, get to the assignments.

  “Nor should you forget,” the Paidonomos droned on, “that the entire citizen body will be watching you. Every citizen will be alert for any indication that you have misused the privileges granted or—far more serious—abused your power over your charges. If you prove irresponsible as eirenes, you can be assured you will never hold a command in the army, much less an elected office. Never forget that. We are watching your every move.”

  “So what else is new!” Prokles groaned. “Sometimes I wish I’d been born anywhere but here!”

  Leonidas looked over at his friend and frowned. He wanted to ask him if he would really have preferred to be a perfumed Persian wearing make-up and silks, but he was not prepared to talk while the Paidonomos was speaking. Prokles might ridicule him for being so “stupidly obedient”; but Leonidas was obedient not out of stupidity or fear, but out of respect for a system that had made Sparta the most respected city in Greece.

  At last the Paidonomos was handed “the list”, and he started reading off the assignments. The eirenes were assigned on the basis of an overall assessment of their leadership abilities and placed on the list from best to worst. They were then assigned units in order starting with the 18-year-olds, until the last (read: worst) eirene was assigned to the last class of seven-year-olds.

  Leonidas noted stoically that his twin was the second name read from the list, followed by Ephorus; but when his own name came shortly afterwards he was so taken aback, he looked around and then asked the others for confirmation. “Did he say me? For the 18-year-olds?”

  The others nodded and hushed him silent. They were listening intently, anxious not to miss their own names. Leonidas was stunned. He had expected to fall somewhere in the middle, like he usually did. He had mentally prepared himself for a class of 13- or at best 14-year-olds. He’d even given some thought to how he’d help prepare the little boys for their “fox time”. And suddenly he was faced with the rather terrifying prospect of youths almost his own age and inherently, almost biologically, inclined to challenge their eirene.

  Prokles’ name fell where Leonidas had expected to be; he was assigned a class of 14-year-olds. Alkander, naturally, was near the end, but—as he noted happily—not at the very bottom. He was given 9-year-olds. “They’ll be fun,” Leonidas assured him almost enviously, as the session ended and they dispersed to meet with the mastigophoroi responsible for their particular age-cohort.

  As they stepped on or over the seats on their way towards the doors, Leonidas was struck hard by the fact that for the first time in 13 years, he and his friends were not going to be spending their days and nights together. They would have different barracks and different schedules. Even now, they barely had time for a hasty goodbye before they had to go different ways.

  Leonidas reported to a short, round young man by the name of Technarchos. He was an Olympic discus thrower and had been a drill sergeant during his ten years on active service, which had just ended. He was bull-headed, gruff-voiced, and stronger than anyone Leonidas had ever seen. He called the nine eirenes entrusted with units of 18-year-olds to order with a single sharp clap of his hands.

  “All right, you’re all feeling tickled pink for being in this selection, right? Well, you shouldn’t be. You should be cursing the Gods for playing such a rotten trick on you. By the time a week is over, you are all going to be wishing you had some sweet, timid little seven-year-olds. You fools drew the short straw, and rather than having a nice leisurely year, while your adoring boys wait on you hand and f
oot, you’re going to be busting your butts trying to stay one step ahead of your impudent charges. Worse: you’re going to be drilling with them and marching with them, and you’re going to get up before them and go to bed after them, and your armour had—by all the Gods—better be in better condition and cleaner than any one of your charges’ arms and armour or you are going to have hell to pay. Believe me, you are going to get less sleep and be sorer and wearier than you have ever been in your lives before. I could almost feel sorry for you, if I wasn’t enjoying this so much.”

  Leonidas believed him, and he really did wish he was not here. Leonidas had never had command authority over anyone before. He had never been elected leader of anything. And he had never expected to be entrusted with command or leadership in the future, either. He didn’t feel up to this task.

  The worst thing, Leonidas reflected, was knowing that no method worked equally well with all youth. Leonidas had observed that his brother Brotus, for example, thrived on provocation, and seemed to love being taunted or even ridiculed. For such youths, the more you sneered at them, the wilder they became to prove you wrong—and it was a game that some instructors and pupils understood and enjoyed equally well. Other youths, however, were completely demotivated by such tactics. It made them sullen and resentful—as Leonidas knew he felt himself. He had noticed, too, that many youths thrived on competition, giving their best only if they were challenged or dared. Other youths seemed to function only in a group, as part of a herd, and were able to give their best only if they saw it as part of a collective activity. And then there were loners like Prokles, who hated group pressure and rebelled against any overt efforts to make them do anything just for the sake of conformity. Last but not least, there were youths like Alkander, who lost every competition and soon gave up and stopped trying. The more you made fun of and humiliated weaker boys like Alkander, the less they were capable of doing. They needed encouragement, not bullying or competition. In short, it seemed impossible to handle everyone in the best way—to bring out the best in each—without seeming unjust.