A Boy of the Agoge

by Helena P. Schrader

  “Mantiklos, son of Isthmios. I heard you were looking for a squire,” he announced as he came to a halt just a couple of feet in front of Leonidas, using the antiquated term of “squire” for the personal attendant position Leonidas had advertised.

  “Maybe. Come out in the fresh air where we can talk.” Leonidas did not intend to have this conversation in front of everyone in the tavern, all of whom were staring at them. He turned and stepped back out into the street.

  Of course, the street was hardly the ideal place for a conversation, either, and Leonidas’ stomach was grumbling. He made a snap decision. This was going to take too long for him to get to the gymnasium before he had to collect his unit at the ball field, so he suggested instead, “Let’s get something to eat in the agora.” He set off in that direction with the young stranger keeping pace beside him. Without pausing, he asked as he went, “How did you hear I was looking for a squire?”

  Mantiklos shrugged, “Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Everyone?” Leonidas challenged.

  Mantiklos shrugged again. “On your estate at Koroni.”

  “Koroni?”

  “Near Asine.”

  That was in Messenia. So the porter was right, and Mantiklos was Messenian. Leonidas didn’t think he wanted a Messenian squire. A squire had to be someone a man could trust with his life and his secrets, and he had been raised to view the Messenians with great suspicion. Indeed, he wondered if it was even legal for Mantiklos to be here. After all, Messenian helots weren’t supposed to set foot outside of Messenia—or was that Lacedaemon? Leonidas wasn’t quite sure, because although he had learned the laws about Messenian helots in the agoge, they were very complicated, and Leonidas hadn’t paid more attention than was necessary to get him through the exams.

  Lost in his own thoughts, he did not speak again until they reached the agora, where Leonidas went over to the stall selling meat pies that he had patronized since he was seven. The old man smiled and greeted him, as he always did. “Ah, my best patron! What will it be today? Lamb, beef, or chicken?”

  “Lamb,” Leonidas answered; and then as an afterthought, he turned to his companion while the pie-man started to wrap his pie in a square of burlap. “Hungry?”

  Mantiklos shook his head sharply, but the look on his face as he gazed at the steaming hot pies belied him. Leonidas told the pie-man “two” and paid for both. He took the pies and went to sit on the steps of the Temple to the Twins. “Beware of my bitch,” he warned the visitor as he handed him a pie; “she’ll steal it right out of your hand if you don’t watch her.” She was indeed standing expectantly beside him, wagging her tail in anticipation.

  Mantiklos gave her a wary look, but she was concentrating her attention on her master. Mantiklos bit into the pie, and in seconds it was gone. The dog didn’t have a chance. Leonidas was gazing at Mantiklos, only two bites into his own pie. “You were hungry,” he observed.

  Mantiklos looked down and mumbled something, wiping the crumbs away with the back of his hand as he did so.

  “So why do you want a lousy job like ‘squire’ to a Spartan hoplite?”

  Mantiklos looked up sharply. “Why do you call it a lousy job?”

  “Because it is, and no one else seems to want it. You have to live in barracks as long as I do—which is another ten years. When we go out on manoeuvres or campaign, you’ll have to accompany me, marching and sleeping in the cold and rain or the blistering heat. You get nothing but army food and will sleep in the open—”

  “Isn’t that what you have to do?” Mantiklos challenged.

  “Of course, but—”

  “Do you think I’m not up to it? Just because I haven’t gone through your agoge? You’re wrong! I walked all the way here in four days. And I can use a bow and a slingshot.” He brushed his himation aside to reveal the latter weapon. “I would be a hoplite, too, if it were allowed, but the laws deny us the dignity of men! So, no, I have not trained like you, but I have the blood of warriors in my veins,” he told Leonidas hotly. “As much as you do! I, too, have the blood of kings, Messenian kings, of the great Aristomenes himself—”

  “This isn’t the place to brag about it,” Leonidas remarked dryly, with a nod towards the monument honouring the eirenes who had died defending the children of the agoge slaughtered by Aristomenes 150 years earlier.

  Mantiklos caught himself and held his breath. He looked towards the monument, but could not see from here what it said—assuming he could read, which was unlikely. When he looked back at Leonidas, however, his eyes held a mixture of fear and confusion and defiance. “I just want you to understand that I am as good as you are; but if you don’t want my services, then I guess I’ll go somewhere else!” Mantiklos got to his feet so rapidly that Leonidas’ bitch, who had settled down with her head on her master’s lap, jumped up in alarm.

  Mantiklos hauled his rucksack on to his shoulder and started down the stairs in a rush.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t want your services. At least, I’d first like to see what you can do with that slingshot.”

  Mantiklos stopped, looked back at Leonidas, set down his rucksack, removed his slingshot, and then opened his purse and removed a pellet. Leonidas noticed that his purse was otherwise empty. Either he had a second purse, or he had no money whatsoever. He looked around and then pointed to some pigeons on the far side of the agora, pecking at something that had fallen amidst the cracks of the paving stones. “I’ll kill one of those.”

  Leonidas nodded and waited. He’d heard enough empty bragging when growing up to take no one at their word in something like this. But a moment later, there was one less pigeon pecking at the cracks of the agora. Leonidas sat up straighter. “Do you know anything about horses and dogs?”

  “Koroni is one of the best stud farms in all of Lacedaemon—and so the world,” Mantiklos answered. Eukomos had said much the same thing. Leonidas needed at least two horses, and now that Philippos was so unfriendly...

  “Give me a day to think about it,” Leonidas said aloud to Mantiklos. “Wait for me at the Golden Fleece tomorrow, at noon or thereabouts.”

  Mantiklos nodded, his expression unreadable; and Leonidas set off to get some advice on the legality and advisability of employing a Messenian.

  Leonidas found Nikostratos first, who assured him that it was perfectly legal to employ anyone he liked—slave or freeman, helot or perioikoi, Messenian or Laconian or Athenian, for that matter. Whether it was wise to give a Messenian so much opportunity to slip a knife in his heart was another matter.

  “But surely they aren’t all murderers,” Leonidas protested.

  “By no means, but it only takes one. And why is this young man so keen to serve an Agiad prince?”

  Leonidas shrugged. “He seemed to think it was more honourable than farming.”

  “Honourable?”

  “Dignified.”

  “Leonidas, I think you should be very cautious, but I would not rule it out altogether. In fact, there might even be real advantages to you.” Nikostratos leaned back in his low chair and brought his fingers together. Leonidas, who had been standing, sank on to a bench to listen.

  “Messenia is the source of our wealth, and so the base of our power. Without the taxes and resources we draw out of Messenia, we could not maintain the army we do—much less toy with building a fleet, as Cleomenes and now Demaratus are both keen to do. In other cities, each citizen is responsible for providing his own panoply, horses, servants, even supplies. Athens’ entire fleet is financed from private resources! Wealthy citizens are ‘asked’ to grant to the city the costs of building a trireme, or they build them directly and turn them over to the city in a grand gesture of generosity. We are the only city-state in Hellas that uses state resources to outfit our armed forces with a minimum standard and provides the entire logistical support for our fighting forces at public expense.

  “Because the city assumes the costs for the army, we can ensure a minimum quality of equipment and wea
pons, which is not an insignificant factor in our successes on the battlefield. We are generally the best-outfitted, best-fed army in the field; because while individuals among our enemies may have better weapons or armour, the poorer elements may have nothing but makeshift or ancient kit—a factor that seriously undermines their confidence and so their steadfastness in the line. It’s all very well for young men to think they defeat their enemies by virtue of their superior courage, but old men can’t afford to delude themselves with such rubbish. Every city has brave men, but if you don’t give them the tools or the training they need, they will rapidly lose heart.

  “All of which is a very roundabout way of saying that the Spartan army would not be the feared machine it is, if we didn’t have Messenian resources to spend on maintaining it.

  “The problem is that Messenia isn’t secure. For whatever reasons—and believe me, the reasons are debated and debated and debated—the Messenians (or at least a substantial portion of them) have not accepted their subject status. They still long for their independence, and so they are always looking for opportunities to stab us in the back. We can never risk taking the whole army far away, for fear the Messenians will revolt if we do. We cannot risk denuding our garrisons here, for the same reason. So despite having a large standing army, we are restricted in our ability to deploy it far from its base.

  “All the cities and tyrants that come to us for support look objectively at our disproportionately large army and the fact that it is idle, and assume that we can send it anywhere in the world. They assume we must be waiting only for the opportunity or the offer, gilded with sufficient incentive. They don’t understand that we cannot send our army anywhere at all without being afraid.

  “Imagine, then, what the advantages of a secure rear would be for Spartan influence in the world! If we did not fear a Messenian revolt every time we turn our backs, then we could deploy our army anywhere we liked, anytime we liked. We could afford to engage in several campaigns at once. We could keep our young men busy, their skills honed and their minds open, while supporting—and so securing—friendly governments throughout the civilized world.

  “No doubt you are wondering what all this high politics has to do with whether you hire a Messenian helot to clean your kit and care for your horses. Well, it has to do with getting to know Messenians better. Because our laws require that every citizen eat in a mess in Sparta each night and be ready for muster within 24 hours, we do not live on our Messenian estates, and we tend to leave the business of managing them to perioikoi—or even Laconian helots. The Messenians have remained strangers to us. Yet nothing would increase our security and potential for power projection more than a thorough understanding of Messenians. If we could really understand how they think and why, maybe we could adjust our policies in such a manner as to win their loyalty, just as we gained the loyalty of the Laconian helots and perioikoi.”

  “So you think it would be a good thing if I hired this Mantiklos?”

  “Only if you are certain he does not intend to slit your throat the first time he is alone with you on a hunting trip.”

  “How can I be sure of that?”

  Nikostratos shrugged. “You can’t, really, but try to find out more about him.”

  So Leonidas sought out Eukomos again. The steward’s first reaction was that he had heard something about the youth, but couldn’t remember what. When he checked the records of Koroni, however, there was no Isthmios or Mantiklos on the estate records. In short, he was not who he said he was, and under the circumstances the steward felt the young Messenian ought to be arrested at once.

  It was by then dusk and nearly dinner time, however. Leonidas had to hasten back to collect his unit at the ball field and join them for dinner. It was the next day after drill before he could give a further thought to Mantiklos—or whoever he was. By then Mantiklos had already been arrested. He had been picked up by the watch for sleeping in a temple after curfew, and by the time Leonidas could slip away from his duties, the young man was in the stocks.

  The stocks were located on Eunomia square, before the courthouse. There was also a temple to Athena and a monument to Lycurgus on this square. By the time Leonidas arrived, there was a large crowd of little boys and youths gathered around to mock the Messenian. Taunting anyone unfortunate enough to be put in the stocks was a fairly routine entertainment for the boys and youths of the agoge. When they were “little boys”, with time on their hands, Leonidas and his friends had frequently dropped by to see if there was anything “interesting” in the stocks. He understood that for the boys of the agoge, a Messenian of uncertain origin was first-class amusement. But there were also unspoken rules about how far anyone was allowed to go in harassing the victims.

  Since the person in the stocks might even be a Spartiate (one who violated certain laws), it was generally inadvisable to be too offensive. A Spartiate would find it all too easy to take his revenge on the boys who tormented him after his release. And even with helots (perioikoi were always turned over to their own magistrates and never punished publicly in Sparta), certain rules applied—first and foremost, that no one was allowed to do any physical harm to the victim. It was strictly forbidden to throw rocks or stones, for example, much less draw blood with arrows, javelins, or spears. Likewise, while it was not uncommon for the boys of the agoge to throw waste material (rotten eggs or spoiled vegetables) at the victim, it was a well-established rule that the tormentors had to keep their distance and could not poke, prod, or otherwise have physical contact with the offender undergoing punishment.

  When Leonidas arrived in the square, however, he saw something he had never seen before. While the crowd of boys hung back as usual to about ten feet away from the stocks, a slender boy, who looked about seven but had to be younger because he was not shaved or in the chiton of the agoge, was standing very close to Mantiklos and very deliberately poking him in sensitive areas in an openly malicious manner.

  “Stop that!” Leonidas ordered in a loud, clear voice.

  The little boy spun about in surprise, while the rest of the crowd of boys fell expectantly silent. Leonidas registered that the tormentor of Mantiklos was his nephew Agis. Although he was already seven, indeed nearly eight, as heir to the throne, he was exempt from the agoge. Agis, meanwhile, had recovered from his surprise and he stuck out his tongue and declared: “You can’t stop me! I’m not in the agoge! I’m an Agiad Prince!”

  “So am I,” Leonidas told him; and before his nephew knew what was happening, Leonidas had hold of him and had slapped him hard twice. “Don’t you ever demean the Agiads again by setting a bad example to your peers.”

  Agis was staring at Leonidas in utter disbelief, his mouth literally open. It occurred to Leonidas that he might very well never have been hit before—a suspicion confirmed by the fact that Agis next broke into tears, and would have run away if Leonidas hadn’t still had hold of him. Leonidas yanked him back and pulled his arms behind his back so he could hold his wrists together. Agis was struggling furiously and screaming: “Let go of me! Let me go! Get your hands off me!”

  His screams brought his parents, who had apparently been in the courthouse. The queen appeared first, and at the sight of her, Leonidas released Agis. The boy ran crying to his mother’s arms, accompanied by the hoots and catcalls of the agoge boys, still clustered around and watching avidly.

  Cleomenes, who had followed his wife out of the courthouse, came to confront Leonidas. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Defending the honour of our House, which your son debased by his behaviour.”

  “Well, don’t. It’s not your place.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Did you never wonder why my brother Dorieus had such a strong following?”

  “Your brother Dorieus was a madman—the product of incest, just like you!”

  “He had a large following because he lived by our laws and proved he was the equal of his peers.”

  “
I am a king, not a Peer.”

  “Only for as long as you uphold our laws.”

  “What are you? A prince or a revolutionary?”

  “Have you forgotten your mother’s heritage?”

  “Thank you, Leonidas.” The voice was that of Chilonis herself. She put her hand on her son’s arm, and to him she said simply, “It is time to go. Your son and you have made enough enemies for the moment.”

  Cleomenes turned on her furiously, but he did not rebuke her in public. He let her lead him away behind a still sobbing Agis, who was being comforted by his mother.

  Leonidas watched them depart for a moment, uncomfortable with what had just transpired so publicly. He started when Eukomos addressed him. “I knew the name was familiar. Mantiklos is from the royal estate beside Koroni. We know nothing derogatory about him; and his father, Isthmios, has a record of long, honest service. He is a younger son, and your brother has no objection to you taking him into service. If that’s what you want.”

  Leonidas had completely forgotten about Mantiklos, and he twisted around to consider the young man sagging miserably in the stocks. It was clear to him that he had been caught sleeping in a temple simply because he could not afford the price of lodgings; and Leonidas had a guilty conscience, because he had known Mantiklos had no cash when he’d said he wanted a day to think about employing him. Besides, he needed an attendant, and who was to say a slave he bought in Tegea would be more loyal than this young man who had gone to so much trouble to apply for the job? “If I take him on, will they release him?”