Eirana returned without the child, looking very tired. “I’m sorry. I apologize. You have to understand, she was so hurt by her father …”
Hilaira looked blankly at Eirana, who sank down on the opposite bench, clutching her shawl around her shoulders, although it was by no means cold. “Asteropus …” Eirana gazed blindly toward the Taygetos and swallowed.
To her horror, Hilaira saw the young bride blink back tears at the mere mention of her first husband. Hilaira didn’t like this. She loved Leonidas like a brother, and any slight to him was a slight to her. “And what of Leonidas?” she asked, more sharply than she intended.
Eirana looked back at her as if bewildered by the question. “He is so good! He has done everything he can for us. He has been patient with Cleitagora, too—but she—she—doesn’t trust men. Not even my father. I don’t know …” Her voice and gaze drifted away again. Hilaira could not understand the other woman. She seemed depressed, as if all she cared about was her daughter—when she had a husband anyone could be jealous of and an estate that no one but the kings themselves could match.
“I’m sure Cleitagora will grow out of whatever ails her,” Hilaira declared firmly.
“You think so?” Eirana asked anxiously.
“Of course! If she sees how happy you are with Leonidas.”
“Yes, yes. I suppose you’re right,” Eirana admitted, sounding unconvinced. “I believe I may already be with child,” she added, with a quick glance at Hilaira.
“Congratulations! That is wonderful news! Have you told Leonidas?”
“No, no. I am not truly certain.”
“But still, you must be very excited,” Hilaira insisted. “You may be carrying an Agiad prince!”
“Yes. Maybe. Not that it matters. Cleombrotus’ boy Pausanias is very healthy, and I only had a daughter last time. I might disappoint him.”
“You know Leonidas isn’t the kind of man to scorn a daughter. And you can be sure he’ll be with you if he can, when the time comes; he even came out to my father’s kleros to sit with Alkander when Thersander was on his way.” Hilaira laughed at the memory. Her parents had told her afterward that the two friends had drunk a whole amphora of wine in their hours of waiting through the night and—as they got drunker and drunker—had engaged in various childish contests that only they seemed to understand and appreciate.
“How is Thersander?” Eirana finally thought to ask. “And you, too, are expecting again, aren’t you?”
Hilaira was happy to talk about her son and her condition, so the two women found common ground at last; the morning drifted away until Hilaira decided it was time for her to start back to the city. She collected Thersander and her housekeeper from the kitchen and headed back for Sparta.
They found a nice knoll for a picnic, and as they settled down with their cheese and bread, the housekeeper shook her head and remarked, “It’s not good, mistress.”
“What do you mean?”
“What Laodice told me.”
“What?” Hilaira asked, alarmed.
“That young woman, Leonidas’ wife—she means no harm, but she has bad spirits.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hilaira scoffed, but the hair at the back of her neck stood up. The old helot woman had put into words something she, too, had sensed.
“You know,” the helot continued, unperturbed by her mistress’ words, “Laodice and her family have lived on that kleros six years now with nothing but good fortune. They have had good harvests, and their livestock has been healthy and productive—no locusts or cattle sickness the past six years, no floods or drought. They are good, hard-working people, and the spirits clearly have nothing against them. But since that woman has moved in, the dead have returned.”
Despite the sun overhead, Hilaira was chilled through. “What are you talking about?”
“That woman, she sees fire in her sleep. Fire and people dying! She wakes up screaming every night when Leonidas isn’t there—and he can’t come all that often. Not at night. He usually comes afternoons, and his wife hides her nightmares from him. But it has to be the souls of the dead, the ones who were killed there in the fire that destroyed the house six Olympiads ago.”
Hilaira stared at her housekeeper in horror. Why would the spirits resent Eirana and not Pelopidas and his family? She and Alkander had spent their wedding night in the ruins, too—and it had been a night full of romance and passion, fragrance and starlit skies, without a hint of horror from beyond the grave. It made no sense.
But there could be no question that Eirana was not happy as a bride ought to be. Something was not right, and Hilaira couldn’t shake the feeling that Eirana would not make Leonidas happy as he deserved.
Chapter 14
A Map of the World
It was not often that King Cleomenes sent for Nikostratos, so he responded quickly—but warily. He hoped the interview had nothing to do with a recent argument between Chilonis and her daughter-in-law, Queen Gyrtias, because the last thing he wanted was to get involved in women’s affairs. On the other hand, Nikostratos reflected as he made his way to the Agiad palace, it would be worse if Cleomenes wanted an accounting of the state treasury in private. Such a request would suggest that Cleomenes was planning something again. Cleomenes was bored and fractious and clearly looking for a new adventure—if not domestically, then abroad.
Nikostratos mounted the half-dozen steps onto the broad porch of the palace, and the meleirenes on duty came to attention out of respect for his office and age. Inside the two-story entry chamber, Nikostratos was directed by the household steward to one of the back courtyards, where he found Cleomenes stripped down and engaged in a wrestling match with his personal trainer. Personal trainers were common in the rest of Greece but were generally superfluous in Sparta, where the agoge provided instruction to youth. As the heir apparent, however, Cleomenes had never attended the agoge, and he had been accorded personal trainers by his father throughout his youth. The man wrestling with him now was only a half-decade older than he, a foreigner from Halicarnassus and a good instructor. Nikostratos stood in the shade of the surrounding peristyle and watched until the match was finished.
Cleomenes won, and got up grinning, dusting the sand from his knees. “I’ll be right with you,” he called to Nikostratos and went over to the fountain, which spouted water from bronze lions’ heads into a large marble basin on the far wall. He plunged his hands into the basin and splashed water onto his face and over his shoulders; and then, on second thought, in an easy, fluid motion, he swung his legs up and over the rim to drop into the water. He submerged completely and came up, wiping the water away from his face with his hands. While still seated in the fountain, he squeezed the water methodically from his long braids, starting at the top of his head. When he reached the back of his head, he grasped the braids together and wrung them out like a washerwoman does clothes. Finished with this, he swung himself out of the fountain. A helot was waiting with a towel, and as he dried himself he gestured for Nikostratos to come over to him. He was still smiling, apparently in a good mood—which only made Nikostratos more nervous. Cleomenes was altogether too moody for his liking.
“Have you heard?” Cleomenes asked (stupidly in Nikostratos’ opinion, as there were always many rumors floating about the city, making it impossible to know which one the king was referring to). As if reading his thoughts, Cleomenes added: “A ship escorted by two triremes dropped anchor at Limera yesterday, with none other aboard than that tyrant-turned-liberator Aristagoras, son of Molpagoras of Miletos himself.”
“And what does he want?” Nikostratos asked in alarm. The last thing Sparta needed was for this volatile and cagey Ionian politician to come seeking asylum; but since the man had recently had a falling-out with his Persian “allies,” this was the first thing that came to Nikostratos’ mind.
Cleomenes laughed. “That was what I wanted to ask you! All I know is that he told the port captain he was on his way to see me—me, note—not the eph
ors or the Council or Demaratus. What do you think of that?”
Nikostratos spread his himation so he could sit comfortably on one of the marble benches around the courtyard, propping both hands on his walking stick between his knees, while Cleomenes started oiling himself down. “There was a time, you know,” Nikostratos started—in a narrative tone designed to give himself time to think—“when Miletos was torn by civil war, much as Lacedaemon was in our Time of Troubles. Lacking a wise man in their midst such as Lycurgus, they chose arbitration from outside. These arbiters traveled around and looked for estates that were well tended and prospering despite the civil strife, on the premise that men who had kept their farms in good order would be good at government. But they found very few such estates, and so they found very few men whom they thought fit to govern. The best of these was a certain Histiaeus. So a council was set up with Histiaeus at its head. Unfortunately, Histiaeus is being held in a golden cage in Susa by the Persian King Darius, and Aristagoras, who is his nephew, rules in his stead.”
“What is the point you are trying to make?” Cleomenes urged his stepfather impatiently.
“Well, first, that the Miletans have accepted a very restricted oligarchy, indeed a quasi-tyranny, in which Aristagoras rules more by default than by right. Second, that this same Aristagoras first made friends with the Persians and urged them to help him meddle in Naxian affairs; but when that expedition came to naught, he fell out with the Persians and is now said to be fomenting rebellion among the subject cities of Ionia.”
“So I’ve heard. But why would Aristagoras want to see me—and not Demaratus or the Council and ephors?”
“Well, without ever having met the man, I suspect it is because you were so interested in interfering in Athenian affairs in the past, while Demaratus and the ephors stopped you. Aristagoras no doubt sees you as the one powerful Spartan who might be receptive to the idea of a foreign adventure—which is not necessarily a compliment,” Nikostratos hastened to point out.
Cleomenes frowned at him, but did not contradict him. “Our young men are spoiling for a fight.”
“That is why Lycurgus very wisely created a Council composed exclusively of men over the age of sixty—and the kings—to check the hotheaded tendencies of our young men in Assembly,” Nikostratos shot back.
Cleomenes laughed, but then added more seriously, “The Council cannot stop me from asking for volunteers.”
Nikostratos cocked his head. “Our constitution is a sacred text, Cleomenes. It was sanctioned by Apollo himself, and it cannot be altered at the whim of any king. But since it is not written down, but rather memorized and passed on from generation to generation, there is no one alive today who remembers all its clauses. We tend to know only those parts of it that we use daily. However, there are some very old men in the Council who might unexpectedly remember something from our constitution that does prohibit kings from taking citizens too far away from Lacedaemon without the consent of the ephors—whether or not they are volunteers.”
Aristagoras impatiently paced the deck of the large freighter while the anchor was wound in. Although his ship still lay in the shadow of the massive rock island that hovered just offshore, the sun had broken over the horizon, and its long rays stretched over the sea beyond the bow to spill onto the village on the shore. This early light was still reddish, and it turned the whitewashed buildings a gentle pink. It was a pretty sight, this coastal village snuggled along the edge of the sea with limestone hills rising sharply behind it. On the narrow plane between the steep rocky slopes and the sea, the land had been cultivated, producing a rich green plane of orchards and barley in the ear. The whitewashed houses had red tile roofs and blue shutters, and the fishing boats, drawn up on the shore for the night, were brightly painted, with eyes on their bows and red, blue, or yellow gunnels.
But for all its charm, Aristagoras had eyes only for one thing: a spot of coppery light on the shore that burned so steadily it was like the light of a beacon in the darkness, although it was visible now in full daylight. He gestured to the seaman manning the stern spring. “What is that light?”
The man squinted as he followed Aristagoras’ pointed finger, but he shook his head and shrugged. “Never seen it here before, my lord,” he answered.
The anchor was manhandled inboard, and the small foresail set to maneuver the vessel alongside the only quay. Amidships, several slaves were wrestling with an awkward wooden box almost three feet by four feet and a foot deep. They were bringing it out of the hold so it could be taken ashore, along with the many other chests containing Aristagoras’ clothes, toiletries, gifts, and traveling gear. An elderly man pulled himself up with difficulty from the main deck to the afterdeck and came to stand beside Aristagoras.
Aristagoras frowned at him. “Tell me again what I am doing here. This village wouldn’t merit a mark on the map of Ionia! The Persians would not even notice it was here! We have been kept waiting two days already, and for what? Corinth has a larger fleet and Athens more wealth!”
The old man nodded. “It is not that long ago that Lacedaemon ruled the Aegean. Besides, Ionia does not lack fleets or money. It lacks hoplites.”
“Didn’t you tell me there were only eight thousand Spartans? Corinth has almost three times that number of citizens, and Athens more than five.”
“But many of Athens’ and Corinth’s citizens are men too poor to pay for hoplon and helmet. All eight thousand Spartans are, or were, hoplites.”
“How is that?”
“Because of the land reform carried out forty Olympiads ago, which gave each Spartan citizen sufficient land to support a hoplite and his family. If a man cannot maintain himself and his equipment, he loses his citizenship. Only age releases him from his duty.”
Aristagoras cast the old man a skeptical frown; but they were now moving steadily closer to the shore, and his attention was still riveted on the curious spot of light. It was starting to disintegrate into a line of lights, and he saw it was a phalanx of troops drawn up eight across and four deep. The hoplons and helmets were catching the morning sunlight, suggesting a high-degree burnishing; yet more impressive, the only things that moved in the whole formation were the black horsehair crests, which quivered in the breeze off the sea. The soldiers themselves were as immobile as if they had been turned to stone. Aristagoras had never before seen such a disciplined troop of men. He glanced back at his companion and the latter smiled with satisfaction, noting: “You have been honored, my lord. Those are Spartiate hoplites—full citizens, not perioikoi auxiliaries.”
At the quay they were met by the port captain, a burly man with a gray-streaked beard. He gestured immediately to the troops drawn up beside the quay on the beach, saying in a low, gruff voice, “Your escort has arrived, sir.” Then, pointing in the opposite direction, he indicated several wagons and a chariot that had also been made ready for the guest. Aristagoras nodded, gave instructions to one of his men to see to loading their luggage, and started toward the escort. He was followed by his uncle and two bodyguards.
Up to now, the helmets of the escort had been shoved back, their spears sloped—resting on the men’s shoulders—and the shields leaned against the men’s knees. At an order, the men pulled their helmets down over their faces, took their shields on their arms, and brought their spears upright. A man separated himself from the rest and came forward to meet Aristagoras. He alone still had his helmet shoved back to reveal his face and kept his spear slanted backward. Although from his behavior Aristagoras assumed he was the commanding officer of the escort, nothing about either his panoply or his clothing suggested any particular status—unless you considered the fact that his helmet crest had a tuft of white horsehair at the front, before turning black like the rest. Aristagoras next noticed that every aspis was identical. Rather than having an individual or family device on the face of their shields, these men all carried an aspis with a lambda on it. And all men wore their armor over red chitons.
“Welcome to Lacedaemon,
sir,” the officer greeted him. “King Cleomenes sent us to escort you to Sparta. Do you care to inspect the troops?”
Aristagoras considered this man, the first Spartiate he had ever met face to face. He was young and handsome in a rugged, healthy way, with brown hair and hazel eyes. He was tall, but so was Aristagoras, so they stood eye to eye. Aristagoras nodded in answer. He was eager for a closer look at the wares he had come to buy.
He started down the first rank with the officer at his heels. At this range he could see that the men had individual breastplates and helmets, some of which were older, others more decorated. Likewise, although all chitons were dyed red, they were in fact individually made, so they were of different lengths, cloth, and cut; and many had white, black, blue, or yellow patterns or borders. Without being able to see faces, it was impossible to know the ages of the men; but Aristagoras was impressed that the ranks were well organized so that men of roughly the same height stood shoulder to shoulder, thereby ensuring the best possible shield protection. And they still stood perfectly still.
“A nice touch, the lambda—but how do you tell your men apart?” Aristagoras asked the officer pacing him.
In answer, the officer started introducing his men by name.
“Ah, but you know the order they are in now,” Aristagoras remarked. “In battle it would be different.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t know the order they are in once the melee starts.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Have you never been to war?” Aristagoras asked, irritated. “The confusion is quite indescribable.”
“No doubt you are more experienced than I, sir, but I have not yet seen a Spartan line scramble.”
A Peerless Peer Page 32
