Had he taken some drink from the fountain at Hippokrenê on Helikon that had smoothed his wrinkles and put muscle where his fat used to hang, and made him talk as if were a lord? Surely he was no Odysseus whom Athena made young and strong in moments of crisis. The voice of Pythagoras had taught Nêto to scoff at these child stories of the Olympians. But she thought she would soon see hooves as well on this new Gorgos, who might have been a foul offshoot of Pan all along. Then this fresher, taller helot stood erect and blared out in a stronger voice and a better way of speaking. His Doric seemed purer now and with all trace of Helikon twang gone.
“By the gods, I wish this day we were on the other side of that battle line. You see, my Nêto, I was a slave up here only by name, not by heart—not like you and Chiôn, who found your proper station as the property of Mêlon. In Sparta I was free—only to see my freedom end when reduced to a slave on Helikon. All this is the logic from the would-be liberators of serfs. Slavery is good if you and those servile like you obey their betters, bad only to the degree that a natural lord like Gorgos sometimes trips on the battlefield and finds himself reduced to your lot. But in Sparta they know all that and so keep down the Messenians as the serfs they are, and make free those like me who soon prove that they were born to the wrong parents. Perhaps Sparta needs me as her men run out and her serfs increase. Watch below—the king steps forward. Now the music starts, Nêto. The most beautiful sounds to ears of men. Come here—akouete. Hear the Spartan pipes with me.”
So this slave-turned-philosopher dropped all pretense and raised his voice in delight at the sight of thousands of Sparta’s best below. A mania was in him at the sight of Spartans after twenty years and more. Nêto hoped those below might hear his loud treason, his high traitor talk, as if the dirty helot farmhand could have spoken like a Spartan lord all along. He went on without fear. “The killing begins as the sun warms. It peeps through the clouds, peeps through to show its face, Nêto. Look, sassy helot, at Spartans in their pride. Look at me. Look what Spartan men can do. Their fine steps, their shields chest-high, not a crest, not a spear tip out of order. That is the real eunomia, the real law. Tough and hard. It gives obedience and order. Not your freedom. They’ve had their late-morning wine. Hot they are for battle. Hot and ready, all up with the desire for warcraft—with their erôs polemou.” Then this new Gorgos turned directly to face Nêto and at twenty feet distant beckoned with his right hand, as he hummed and danced to a Spartan war tune. “Come nearer, woman. Sit next to your Gorgos as we watch our men from our Peloponnesos, our shared birthplace. You too may come to see the power of Sparta and how we can help the winners take care of their children, we two who still speak with the Messenian accent. Your Gorgikos will tell you a long story of Spartan lore. Sit here. Learn of the Spartan way. Let me sing the Spartan poets, Alkman especially, to his Nêtikon, or some more Tyrtaios.”
The maddened Gorgos had moved downhill and left Nêto back near the wagon, so intent was he on getting an even better view of the great slaughter below. He hiked down to yet another hillock of scrub cedars and tamarisks, wanting to get far closer to the battle than even the rise below the camp. From his early years with Brasidas, he had a sharp eye for terrain and the pulse of fighting. The son of Mêlon had ridden right out at the head of a column of cavalry, the first of the Boiotians to hit the Spartan horse. In a moment, the reckless Lophis at the point had been swallowed in dust and horseflesh. But before Lophis was lost to the mob, Gorgos determined that he had been knocked off and disappeared into the melee—unhorsed but perhaps alive.
“Don’t wait. Save our master,” a voice yelled at him from his rear. It was Nêto again, who had crept down with blade in hand. In her own wildness, she too had thoughts, but of killing Gorgos, cutting his throat from the rear. She believed in her visions at night that Gorgos could still, even at his age, even if the Spartans lost today, do great evil; and she thought some far better than he might live if he bled first. Nêto was worried too that he saw the false in her, that the more she had forgotten the distant helots of Messenia, the more she made up stories about them, the less she sounded like one, the more she tried to. But upon observing the cavalry charge below, she decided that she needed Gorgos to save her master’s son, and put away her knife.
Gorgos barked back, “Leave woman. You deserted our farm. Go. It’s man-killing here. In the raw. Look. Your Lophis fallen. Slaughtered. Or will be.”
Nêto replied, “He is your master, too, or have you forgotten who saved you so often from the lash of Mêlon? If you won’t go down, I’ll go. Lophis is buried in men, not yet deep in dirt. No Spartan can beat him in the one-on-one, not our Lophis. The phalanx is on them now. If we can get down there, if he survives the trample, we can save him from the locusts that will strip and kill him on the field. If your mania leaves you, the two of us can drag him to the wagons.”
As the two helots looked out, they saw that Lophis’s charge had sent the Spartans reeling. His horsemen had stunned their hoplite advance. Before the reds had recovered, the Theban phalanx was upon them, killing all those who had not been trampled by their own horse. The Theban left wing seemed as one iron hammer, its head battering and flattening a sheet of bronze. Suddenly Gorgos cowered a bit. “Fire burns Spartans and enflames the king.” The two had no hint that they in fact were watching the acme of Epaminondas himself and the Sacred Band under Pelopidas—in concert with the furious onslaught of Chiôn. After their cavalry charge, the Theban hoplites on the left had rammed obliquely into the Spartans. They tore apart the slow Spartan march, as if order and music meant nothing to the mass of farmers who split that red line in two. Then the defeated Spartan horsemen galloped back into the ranks and only fouled the king’s reply.
Nêto could see that almost immediately a lochos or so of Thebans, maybe six hundred, were well inside the Spartan ranks and were burning their way through to within a few paces of the king himself. For a moment only she stopped begging Gorgos to rescue Lophis. Instead she yelled to the sky, “Chiôn’s swell”—to oidma Chionos—and it would be named just that for the big slave who first cut the Boiotians’ way in. From here above, it looked as if the entire right wing of the Spartan line was like some pitiful mole caught in the jaws of a huge fanged hound, being shaken and torn apart, as the forest of spears was thinned out, ten or twelve at a time.
The two helots above the battle had not forgotten Lophis. But for just a blink the scene below stunned even Nêto. It would have scattered the wits of any Hellene who saw the death throes of the Spartan army. When the Theban mass went left and plowed through the Spartans, the allies of Peloponnesos on the left wing fled to the hills of Kithairon. For all the Boiotians’ fear the night before, the grand battle of Leuktra ended up just as Epaminondas and Ainias of Stymphalos had always foreseen—a Spartan king with his head in a Boiotian noose and his Peloponnesian friends happy enough to see it. Then Nêto, who likewise had predicted this end of the Spartans at Leuktra from the livers and lungs of the sacrificial animals, turned to Gorgos. “Lophis lives. My—our—Mêlon is near, near him somewhere. You foul gorgon, go down there; wherever the killing is hottest, his spear will be there. Our Chiôn, too. This is a great day for the Malgidai and the farmers of Helikon. Go down. Your new friends have lost. This is your final chance to prove yourself and get back to Helikon without your head in a noose. Lophis was good, or so you used to swear.”
Gorgos nodded, for Lophis as a boy had ridden atop his shoulders in the high-trellised vineyard, spanking his back and calling the old slave his centaur. And when grown, he had cut off the flank of the goat and the tongue of the bull to take out to the shed of Gorgos and make sure the helot had his good share of meat from the sacrifices. But the head of Gorgos was now downcast, as the sound of the Spartan pipes faded and end of the king’s army was growing clear. Gone for now were his wild visions of his old masters marching into Thebes, perhaps with Gorgos as new retainer, maybe even the new Lord Kuniskos, Spartan harmost of Thespiai. Instead he muttered to N�
�to, now back in his simple helot voice of Helikon, “Our kin, our Dorians, all in Hades. Dead. Go back to the ox. Go home as you were ordered. Else I take lash to you. But for the sake of the good Lophis, I hike down to find our master. I will carry him to Helikon, just as I did the dead Malgis. Our Sturax comes with me. He will find the scent of his Lophis. Yes, give me the dog of Lophis. Wait for us at the camp of Epaminondas.” For all his talk of Spartans, Gorgos would plunge into the din to find his master’s son. He at least believed that he would do so also for Mêlon, for all his Spartan boasting, still the loyal slave of the Malgidai.
Nêto went for the wagon, confident that mania had passed and Gorgos was at least divided between his Spartans and Thebans, and so would get down to the battlefield to find Lophis. But first she turned to watch the path of the helot down the hill. She clenched her blade as she grimaced, determined to ensure he descended to the battlefield to Lophis. Then without a word, Gorgos quickly hiked down to the battle, out of sight beneath the crest of the hill.
The entire plain below was thick with the dusty haze of the Dog Star days. A light drizzle up on the mountains had long ago stopped. The late-summer ground coughed up its dust under thousands of heavy feet. For all the swirling dirt, Nêto grasped better the true picture of the battlefield below, as the hordes of the Peloponnesian allies were beginning to throw down their gear and flee to the hills beneath Kithairon. Their dust trail wafted hundreds of feet up into sky. Perhaps Lophis had risen to his feet after all. He might have made his way through the advancing hoplites to find a new mount.
From this lookout, Nêto saw the Boiotian allied right wing stop its pursuit of the panicked Peloponnesians—also just as Epaminondas had ordered. Then these allied Boiotians below turned to their left, to help the advancing Thebans under Epaminondas surround and annihilate the final Spartan stand. The few alive of the vaunted Spartan royal wing were surrounded and trapped. No farmer, she sensed, wished to miss out on the bloodletting of a Spartan king. She didn’t either. “Oh, One God of us all, look.” Nêto turned to the dumb ox at her side. “They are broken. So ends Sparta. Here, right here, is the end of Sparta.” Now on the road downward Nêto climbed into the wagon, hitting Aias with a switch. She would drive the creaky wagon around the gentle slope of the hillside to find Lophis below and perhaps reach Mêlon and Chiôn as well. But as Nêto reached the trail that led to the camp of Epaminondas, a stream of rustics swarmed ahead of her, all unhinged in their bloodlust. Hundreds of Boiotians—wives, men, archers, horsemen, armed or not—were calling out in unison, “On to Sparta, on to Sparta.” Then a new chorus rose of “O Epaminondas. Crush the head of the snake.”
Another madness had taken hold as the mob of onlookers scrambled over the mess of the battlefield. Hundreds of the widows of Boiotia were on their knees, tearing off the jewelry of the dead Spartans, indeed fighting one another for their red tunics and clasps. Nêto thought from the bench of the wagon that the battle was over and won. All that had once been ridiculed was now accepted as dogma: “Like wheat stalks these Spartans—and mowed down by the scythes of our Pythagoras.”
CHAPTER 9
The King of Sparta
Leuktra had ceased to be an ôthismos aspidôn, a push of shield against shield, since most of the enemy who were not trapped here were either dead or running. The Boiotians were battering with their shields the few stumbling Spartans who were left. Some fell and were stabbed by oncoming ranks, a few tried to join the shrinking circle around Kleombrotos. “Their king is trapped. Drag them away,” rippled out through the Boiotian ranks. Always they were answered with a chorus from the mob rushing forward, “On to Sparta. On to the Peloponnesos.”
For a moment only, both sides of the battlefield paused at the sight of the surrounded Spartan king and his huge Kleonymos barring the way forward. The king’s man was swinging fiercely with spear and shield as he hit Thebans foolish enough to charge alone such a man. A skilled bowman from Phokis tried to bring him down from a distance. His missiles bounced off Kleonymos’s shield and hit more of his own than of Sparta.
Four or five Spartan guardsmen rushed in behind Kleonymos. All raised shields to block the way to the king. In some places Spartans in the ring were nearly back-to-back. A tiny but solid mass was moving backward and for now was unbreakable. Maybe three hundred, maybe four were alive and had not fled, still killing all the Thebans who bounced off their spears. But this last circle was tightening, ever smaller, as it was pounded on all sides. Where was their Lichas? Where his son Antikrates?
It mattered little. Neither of those two talkers, Kleonymos swore to himself, had ever deserved their honor, their timê—not over himself, the best son of Sphodrias. Kleonymos turned and aimed his spear once more at Mêlon. He would spike this apple and finish off the faker for good if he dared to come on again. But a hoplite on his right blocked the Spartan’s lunge. In the blur of bodies, Mêlon, as he would recall in the months to come, was pushed aside by one of his own, and so was not hit again by his attacker Kleonymos. Instead the Spartan pressed forward past him, eager to spear this new bigger target. Only later would Mêlon learn that Kleonymos would have stabbed his thigh, had he not been struck down almost at once by Chiôn—his Chiôn along with at least three retainers of Epaminondas. All their spears hit Kleonymos in the neck and groin. This legend of Sparta had gone down three times already at Leuktra—but always had regained his feet. This time the blows were mortal. The son joined the father Sphodrias in the dirt at the feet of their king.
As Kleonymos tottered, the melee cleared for a bit. Mêlon stared directly at the face of King Kleombrotos. The tall king was not more than five cubits distant. For a blink, he was alone. The royal had the look of a young man—far younger than Mêlon had imagined—even in these glimpses through the nose guard and bronze on his faceplate. This Kleombrotos had not wanted to be king, though the honors and the big house on the acropolis were good enough. His brother Agesilaos had fallen sick at Olynthos. So by accident the lot of the Agiad royal house had fallen to him, the lesser sibling. He was no leader in battle. The partner Eurypontid king, crippled Agesilaos of the lesser line, had shunned him as womanly. Now in his ninth year of kingship, Kleombrotos right here at Leuktra would crush the Boiotians and restore the honor to his Agiads. Or so the reluctant king had thought.
Again, where was his Lichas, the king now fretted, where was young Antikrates to save him? Traitors. Nothing in Kleombrotos had warranted royal rank other than birth and the unlooked-for fall of his elder brother. He was hardly the caliber of Agesilaos, the other king now sitting at home, who was glad when spears came his way, and—so the priestesses of Artemis had promised him—who would live on in his dotage to block Epaminondas from the acropolis of Sparta itself.
The rheuma polemou, the surge of war, gave Mêlon strength for a final burst, strength he had not known even in his youth. His spear was gone, his sword now in his right hand. He aimed his blade right over the edge of the king’s shield with all the power of his good farming arm. His royal victim was frozen—in faith perhaps that his wood of Mt. Taygetos would save him for a bit longer, or that Kleonymos would rise up a fourth time to his defense. Or that Lichas was not dead, but would come down from the air to lift him away.
Fool. Nothing of the sort followed. Mêlon’s thrust just cleared the top curved edge of the shield above the rivets. The sword’s point found Kleombrotos’s mouth. The tip entered between the cheek guards and beneath the bronze bridge over the nose. Mêlon’s arm rammed the blade a good way into the Spartan king’s head, snapping it back. Instinctively he raised his shield to prepare for the swarm of spears from the onrushing guard to follow. It came with no delay. Four or five blows knocked him back into shields of the Thebans to his rear. Too late. Mêlon had killed their king.
“King down. The king is down—Basileus epesen, peptôken hameteros basileus,” the guard called out. “Rally to us, men of Sparta, rally to us!” But there were few men of Sparta now to rally to anyone. Most of the guard wer
e dead or wounded. A few even of the boldest had backed away looking to flee. Now others were trying to draw out of the circle to re-form the army or to prepare some rearguard to save the body of Kleombrotos. Losing their dead king would be worse even than losing this battle. Spartan hoplites such as these could not see their wives or boys again, even if they returned alive to Lakonia, if they did not save the body of Kleombrotos. They would be forever forced to live as spat-upon beggars, the tresantes—the tremblers who had lost their courage and their war and their king and their state.
The dark goddess Mania took hold of Epaminondas, the father of the Spartans’ disaster, and goaded him on toward Kleombrotos. The Boiotian general was enthused with the divine as he now cut in on Mêlon’s left. Boiotians from every direction reached at an arm or a leg of Kleombrotos, who had fallen to one knee and was about to keel over. “To the Kadmeia with him. Drag this dog to Thebes,” they yelled. Chiôn was at the fore. He was dodging spear thrusts to his chest, trying to join his general and help drag Kleombrotos out. In the confusion, the patched armor of Ainias caught Mêlon’s eye. Proxenos also was with Epaminondas, as the best men of Boiotia swarmed the body.
But just then from the retreating Spartans a spear thrust flew right under Mêlon’s jaw. Swoosh. It slammed instead into Chiôn, squarely inside the left upper arm at the shoulder. The blow knocked him off his feet—Chiôn, who thought he had killed nine of the red-capes so far without receiving even a scrape. The slave shuddered and struggled to rise, for the hit had come from someone as strong as himself. For a moment those to his rear froze as the white flame that had blazed a path for them flickered and went out. Then their Chiôn got halfway up, tottered, and fell again, not far from the dead Kleombrotos.
Mêlon tried to make out the blurry figures in the jumbled mass of fighters. Here came a shadow out of the Spartan past, one of the breed left of the type that once had broken the Persian Mardonios at Plataia, and smashed the Argives at Mantineia. The Spartan was splashed with blood, his helmet long since torn off. He cared little whether he wore any armor or none. Bald on top with a forked beard, he looked like a besotted Satyr, but with blood, not wine, his drink. This was Lichas. And he now stalked from the shadows to the fore. He had ranged across the battlefield to find twenty Spartan hoplites in isolated pockets, rallying them to march over to the last stand of the Spartans and save their king. Two braids of his side hair were swinging wildly in the air. As his mouth opened there was not more than a tooth or two in his ugly head. Mêlon thought he was not grimacing—but smiling. Yes, this was Lichas of legend, who had killed his father at Koroneia and ruined his own leg.
The End of Sparta Page 12
