by P. K. Lentz
Then Demosthenes had taken a wife. Again there was jealousy, but with Thalassia's help she stifled it and found Laonome a welcome addition to her life. The child Laonome carried was a source of eager anticipation.
Then, chaos: Spartans overrunning Athens, an attempt at flight, she and Laonome taken prisoner for no other reason than that they were dear to a man who had caused Sparta difficulty.
To make Demosthenes yield, Laonome had been slaughtered before her husband's eyes, and Eurydike, having failed to give her life in exchange for that more valuable one, had gone to a new master.
Now she dwelt in that master's house in Sparta, a place where slaves were slaves.
Styphon was not cruel, but neither did he care one bit about her.
His wife did, and Eurydike had to count herself lucky for that, even if she did not return the affection, nor enjoy serving in a woman's bed. But because there was no other choice, she helped Hippolyta to think what she wanted to think, see what she wanted to see. It made life easier.
Andrea made life easier, too. They had been fast friends in Athens and remained so here. Now Andrea spent most of her time with the blood-chilling pale bitch who was called Eris, but surely could not in truth be that goddess.
Alkibiades was in Sparta, too. He had fucked everything in Athens, including her, on numerous occasions, and she was fond of him, but being near him, it turned out, only made Eurydike feel more sick with loss.
Life in Sparta thus was not as terrible as it might have been... but on balance it was not worth living.
Partly responsible for that was a vanishing hope, held for a while, that Demosthenes was coming for her. That he cared. Maybe he was dead. How much longer could she wait, she had wondered for a time, before finally accepting that this was how life was to be now. There was no going back.
The old feeling returned that life and death were one and the same. If faced with the choice between them again, she suspected, she would not choose life, as she had before.
One day, the choice came. Six young Equals crossed her path, surrounding her and insisting that she fuck them all then and there. She made her choice quickly to fight. She was already Hippolyta's whore; she would not be all of Sparta's.
If they killed her, they killed her.
She had no chance, of course. Once they had subdued her, and beaten her, done what they wished, and left her on the roadside, she wanted to call them back to finish the job. Instead she blacked out, and when she awoke, they were gone. And so she just silently wished for no one to find her, that she might be left to die there in that spot, in peace.
But she had been found and taken back to that house which was no home where she persisted in hoping that her injuries were enough to kill her, that she might only linger for a few days and then succumb.
Days passed. Denial could not last. Against her wishes, she survived. Eventually, she resumed her duties, sullenly, speaking rarely and only when obedience required, to give curt answers to questions or commands. She was dead within, if not without.
She identified to Andrea, at the girl's insistence, four of the six perpetrators of the assault. The faces of the last two Eurydike felt herself unlikely ever to recall, to the extent she even wished to, for her visions of the assault were primarily ones of grass and dirt and the bottoms of sandals and the freckled backs of her own forearms as she raised them to defend her face.
But Andrea said she could learn for herself the identities of the final two. All six were to meet with fatal accidents in the coming year, but that was not to say that one or two, before succumbing to misfortune, could not be interrogated...
Hippolyta kissed her slave's face often and treated her tenderly, begging her to respond to her affections. It was all Eurydike could do not to pounce on the conceited bitch, choke the life and baseless vanity from her. Such a course would surely see a slave condemned to death, and for that reason she did not rule it out. When she did again make the choice to die, that might be the way.
One thing held her back. A persistent, silver thread of hope in her heart which even now refused to be cut.
The hope that he might still come for her. Her time here had only felt like an eternity. In fact, it had been but a season, give or take. Demosthenes might still come.
The darker part of her heart, the knife-wielding part which had as yet failed to sever the last thread of brightness, said no. Never. He had chosen Thalassia. She was more important to him, that false friend. She was no sister, but a selfish, scheming bitch, just like the blond one. Thalassia had caused all of this, wrecked her world and left her here in misery. Thalassia had twisted Demosthenes' mind and taken him away, and he was hers now, ruled by her, wherever he was, persuaded not to risk his life for the piece of Thracian meat that had drawn his baths and warmed his bed for a while.
As Eurydike resumed her slave duties, blank-eyed, she felt these things as though they were truth, yet still, despite herself, she hoped. The silver thread held fast, and at its end, above an abyss, hung her faint desire to live.
Some number of numbing days after the attack, Eurydike was bearing water from the spring up the hill to Styphon's house when Andrea ran to her. The girl, who was only half a friend now, spending most of her time with Eris, took one of the two water pots and addressed Eurydike in a way that suggested she believed what she had to say was of some importance, a prospect Eurydike found doubtful in the extreme.
“There is something you must see,” Andrea said.
Eurydike, as was her habit since her failure to die, said nothing. They reached the house and poured the water into its cistern. Hippolyta was away. She had duties of her own, managing Helots in the fields of Styphon's holding.
“Come with me,” Andrea said.
Again, Eurydike said nothing. Andrea was a citizen and therefore to be obeyed, and so Eurydike followed her in silence to the public space which passed for the center of Sparta. It was a feeble joke compared to the smallest of marketplaces of Athens, just as the acropolis behind it was a crude imitation of the marble-crowned grandeur of its Athenian counterpart. Andrea led her there, past lines of busy Helots whose faces did not betray, as Eurydike's did, the crushing weight of their burdens, perhaps because they had been born into them. They passed Spartiate children tumbling together in the dust or swinging sticks in violent games.
They went to the platform where speeches were given, announcements made and, on occasion, some prominent criminal or prisoner of little interest to a Thracian expatriate was publicly executed by some means or another. Eurydike had passed the platform often enough. Just to one side of it, three thick posts rose up from the earth, about eight feet tall. She knew the purpose of the posts, for she had walked by them while men (and once a woman) were chained to them to be left until their deaths from starvation or exposure. Although the stauros was also used to execute criminals in Athens, there she had not had occasion to witness it.
Sparta possessed more stakes than just these three, but most were in less well-traveled places where the odors of suffering and death could pose no nuisance. These three particular posts in the meeting place were reserved for victims of special note, ones whose humiliation and slow deaths were causes for civic pride. A day prior, and for a few days before that, Eurydike had walked past and seen affixed to the stauros an Athenian unknown to her but identified by a placard which she had managed, if barely, to read, sounding out the letters in her head.
She was a poor student, but Thalassia and Andrea, whatever their other flaws, had been good teachers.
The name on the placard had been Thrasybulus.
This day, until they reached the execution site, with its Spartiate guard in full panoply, and Andrea pointed in the direction of the posts, Eurydike had had no inkling that this was the girl's intended destination. Following Andrea's arm and black-eyed gaze, Eurydike saw some other unfortunate, not Thrasybulus, currently dying on display. He was fastened to the posts by wrists above his head, as well as his chest, both ankles, and neck—
but not with rope, as was typical. Instead this man was bound with heavy iron chains. He wore a ragged chiton, and the greasy locks of his untrimmed hair fell down and obscured the features of his hung head. The hair was brown. No—a lighter shade, but heavily grimed.
It was hair she would know anywhere. She had washed it half a thousand times. His limbs, too, resembled the ones that she had bathed, even if they were harder and darker now.
Even as her eyes caught the first letter on the placard, a delta, her breath halted and the fire of recognition blazed a path from eyes to heart.
As if sensing the attention, the chained man raised his head and looked straight at her.
There were those kind, brown doe-eyes which had saved her from the mines. In them there appeared affection and pleasure, and Demosthenes smiled, just barely, as much as one condemned to death was able. It was a smile devoid of hope, as if only to say: I am glad to see you one last time before I die.
As she laid eyes upon the very face she had longed to see, that silver thread of hope in her heart abruptly snapped.
Demosthenes could not save her, for he was a prisoner himself, alone and far from home, surrounded by enemies and helpless.
He shook his head at her, warning her away, but such warning was unneeded. She took no step in his direction, felt no such urge.
“We can help him,” Andrea whispered in her ear.
Keeping her customary silence, Eurydike turned her back and left the square.
* * *
9. Deliverance
Styphon had been instructed to remain in Athens, alone, until new orders came, standing at the preener's shoulder to show the city that he had Sparta's full backing.
Days came and went with no messenger from Sparta.
It was hard to tell whether Alkibiades even needed his support. Within a matter of days, with no heads cracked (aside from those of the rebels), he seemed to be comfortably in charge of the ruling council and thus the city. No one needed to be told to listen to him; they wanted to.
Before long, Styphon found himself the recipient of an invitation.
“If you are still in the city in a month,” the tyrant prattled, “and I hope you will be, you must attend my wedding to Myrinne. Since you Equals don't have weddings, it will be a novel experience for you.”
Styphon began to pray harder that new orders would come.
Just a day later, they were answered. He was to trek to Corinth, there to take command of a new enomoty of thirty-five hoplites.
Hoplites, the orders said. Not Equals. Strange. It could not mean Corinthians, surely, for allied cities commanded their own contributions in battle.
Brief reflection brought an answer. Helots.
Years prior, at Amphipolis, a force of Helots granted freedom in exchange for their service had taken part in that battle. By all accounts, it had not been due to any fault in their skill or bravery that they had suffered defeat by Demosthenes; on the contrary, they had stood fast and been loyal unto death, acquitting themselves well. Arming and training them had been Brasidas's idea then, and since the defeat of Athens and the growth of his influence, he had spoken of repeating and expanding the experiment, and even of phasing out Helotry altogether in favor of importing slaves from conquered foreign lands.
According to Eris, who knew the future, it was a formula that worked. Not only that, Sparta could shed its omnipresent fear of a Helot rebellion.
Naupaktans were ex-Helots themselves, of the same Messenian stock, and so perhaps Brasidas saw value in testing his idea again there. If freed Helots proved themselves of value in a battle against their own cousins, then they could be trusted on any battlefield. It would be unlike Brasidas, too, to miss the perverse symmetry of pitting ex-slaves against one another: one group fighting to keep freedom already achieved, the other to earn it.
The posting as a commander of Helots fell somewhere between compliment and insult, but in the sense that Styphon was still alive and considered of any use at all by Brasidas, it scarcely mattered which. It meant a swift exit from Athens, and that was enough. It was thus with joy in his breast (and possibly in his black eyes) that he went, after having packed all his gear and supplies for the cross-country hike, to inform Alkibiades.
His 'dear friend,' by now the fully entrenched ruler of Athens, embraced him, kissed his cheeks and swore that their paths would cross again. As he left without looking back, Styphon prayed the opposite.
Hard winds whipped off of the sea as he followed the coast to Corinth. They penetrated the crimson cloak wrapped around him and the chlamys of undyed wool draped over it, but the cold failed to dent Styphon's mood. Not only did he have native discipline to call upon to fight the elements, there was also an excitement not felt since he was a younger man. Before Pylos. Before Thalassia and Eris. Before imprisonment and disgrace in Athens and his return to favor under Brasidas and then Agis.
Before being caught up in plots and assassinations.
This was where he wanted to be. Simply following orders, doing the duty to which he had been born, looking forward to battle without wondering whether he was being used. He even had a wife again back home, sending warm thoughts from afar and awaiting his return.
Maybe it would not last, but for now at least, he felt like a soldier again, not a pawn or a schemer or anyone's dog.
If he was to be given command of Helots, he would do his best to be sure it was those Helots who won the coming battle. Firstly because those were his orders, and secondly, because victory in battle served the interests, clearly and unequivocally, of all Spartans—not just those of one man, and certainly not those of a she-daimon.
On the road to Corinth, Styphon decided there would be no more schemes. No more deviation from the straight and true path of obedience. No more credence given to whispers in his ear from witches or kings. No more independent action taken on behalf of self or family. What best served self and family was whatever best served Sparta.
By the gods, he would be, as he once had been, a faithful servant of his city.
Such a pledge, he knew, was easier to make than to keep. But he would try. That was all that any man, even a Spartan Equal, could do.
* * *
10. Bright Eyes
The first hours on the stauros were endless. At first, Demosthenes' mind swam with thoughts; he could not stop them coming, and with them came feeling of rage and regret and longing and despair. Tears came, and he could not wipe them away, just as he could do nothing about the itching and pains and aches that came and went on every part of his flesh. His skull pounded for lack of water.
Before the end of the first day, it was only oblivion for which he longed. Thought ended, and he made of himself an animal: a gelding in its stall, an ox in its stockade, a donkey hobbled by the roadside, only staring with eyes that betrayed no glimmer of interest in what the future held.
Time became a single moment which never ended, nothing separating one hour from the next, and he hung, increasingly in pain, with eyes either shut or open; it hardly mattered which. Night came, and he slept and woke, slept and woke a hundred times.
The sky brightened, and the smell of baking bread set his skull to pounding harder.
He opened his eyes and found before them a face he well knew.
He managed a smile that cracked dry lips. Once, yesterday, an Equal had given him water, just enough to ensure he lived until Brasidas returned.
“Bright eyes...” Demosthenes croaked. His old name for her, in Athens.
Once, her green eyes had been bright. But no longer. Neither did her speckled face show even a trace of a smile, sad or otherwise. His own smile quickly faded as Eurydike stared—blankly, dully.
“Andrea asked me to help her free you,” she said. Her voice was as dull as her eyes. “I told her I would not. You never came for me. I waited for you. When I heard you were alive, I knew you would come. Or send her. But you never did. Neither of you. You were kind to me, but I know now that I was to you just what I am here. Noth
ing. An object to be discarded when it ceases to be of use. Or amusing, as I was to you.
“And so even though Andrea is the one person in the world whose affection for me is true, I told her no. Even though my life has no value, I will not risk it for you, as you refused to risk yours to help me. When I saw you here, I realized why it was I still clung to hope that I would see you again. Not so you could save me, but to do this.”
Pursing her lips tightly, Eurydike spat. Small, warm droplets peppered Demosthenes face.
“If she were here, know that Laonome would do the same.”
Turning, she shambled away, past the red-cloaked Spartiate sentries and into the square, where she vanished among the citizens and slaves freshly risen from their beds to greet a new dawn.
* * *
11. The second battle of Naupaktos - (i) The army of revenge
On reporting in Corinth, Styphon began immediately to drill with the thirty-five Helots whom he was to command. They were not as capable as Spartiates bred from birth for battle, but they were motivated, disciplined, and readily trainable. Anyway, they did not have to be good enough to stand against Equals, only other Greeks. At the end of three days with them, Styphon was convinced they could.
A total of a hundred and forty-four helot soldiers were present in Corinth awaiting the attack on Naupaktos. So were twice as many Equals, who treated their Helot counterparts with just slightly more contempt than would be shown toward fresh, untested Equals abroad on their first deployment.
More than they spoke of the Helots, Styphon's fellow citizens spoke of some new weapon which was to be employed against Naupaktos. None knew what it was, only that it was exceptionally dangerous. Most figured it was some new siege engine, while others guessed, half-joking, that tigers (or maybe goats) had been trained for war and fitted with iron jaws, armored hides, and scythes for tails. All knew it was surely the work of Eris, who was also the focus of other news from Sparta which reached Styphon's ears in Corinth: the witch had entered Sparta with Demosthenes in tow as her prisoner.
