The helot boy led Nikostratos up the steps, through the colonnade of Doric columns, and past the meleirenes on duty at the door. No one dreamed of stopping them; even those who did not know Nikostratos on sight recognized the purple-trimmed white himation of a councilman. Furthermore, Nikostratos wore the himation over a long chiton with a border of lambdas, another symbol of his office. The energetic helot youth and the dignified Spartiate elder proceeded down a long corridor toward the high-ceilinged, breezy anteroom before the chamber of the commander.
Several other men were already waiting, perioikoi purveyors and contractors for the most part, but also one ranker. Nikostratos presumed the young soldier was here for disciplinary reasons, since he looked distinctly nervous as he paced the room. The boy led Nikostratos straight to the paneled and bronze-studded door that gave access to the commander’s office, knocked loudly, and without waiting for a reply opened it to announce, “Councilman Nikostratos!”
Leonidas was standing behind a table. He had evidently just returned from somewhere; he still had his himation over his shoulders, and his light brown hair was wet from sweating in the helmet that now stood on the desk in front of him. The ties of his leather corselet had been loosened but not undone, revealing his sweat-soaked beige chiton underneath. His hands were dirty from sweaty reins.
Leonidas looked up sharply as the door opened, but his expression eased at the sight of Nikostratos. The councilman sent the helot boy to wait outside with a word and gesture, adding, “And close the door behind you.” Then he focused on the man in front of him.
Leonidas was five foot ten, three inches taller than his twin but not a giant. A wrestler rather than a boxer, his body was well proportioned. His naked arms and legs were tanned and muscular, the result of spending most of his day outdoors at drill, sports, or hunting. He wore his beard clipped short and his hair in the traditional manner, neatly braided from his brow to the back of his head in eight strands that hung halfway down his back, each bound at the ends by tarred twine covered by a bronze clip.
As a youth and young man he had been considered less attractive than his friend Alkander, whose fine blond hair, blue eyes, and classic features reminded everyone of images of Apollo, but Leonidas had aged well. He was now thirty-six, and his rough brown hair was as thick as ever and peppered with gold rather than gray hairs. His hazel eyes were set well apart under a high brow, flanking a straight if somewhat long nose. The lines on his face had been made more by smiles than by frowns.
Nikostratos had witnessed the making of those lines. He had watched Leonidas grow up and take over his responsibilities. He had applauded Leonidas’ advancements in the agoge and the army, and comforted him in his private disappointments and tragedies. Recently he had come to rely on him as one of the most sensible citizens in Sparta. Leonidas was, in Nikostratos’ opinion, quite simply the best man of his entire generation.
“You’ve heard the news?” he asked.
“Technarchos sent a runner. He caught up with me on maneuvers. My lochos is still halfway to Gytheon, but I borrowed a horse and rode back as fast as I could. What truth is there in these accusations?”
Nikostratos sank down on a bench by the door, prompting Leonidas to grab a more comfortable chair with arms and a leather seat and back and bring it to Nikostratos. The councilman transferred wordlessly to the new chair and then looked up at Leonidas with an expression of deep concern. “More truth than is good for Sparta,” he admitted unhappily.
“How can that be?” Leonidas protested at once. “Surely these are just machinations of my brothers and Leotychidas?”
“I wish,” Nikostratos admitted with a deep sigh. “But the witness Leotychidas dug up is exactly who he says he is: Diophithes, son of Paidaretos. Furthermore, he was ephor the year of Demaratus’ birth; we’ve checked the records. Third, the story he tells is not new. I heard it as a young man―and so did several other councilmen, including Eukomos and Polypeithes.” The opinion of these latter men mattered, because they were the oldest men in the Gerousia.
“In that case, what has changed? If no one took the accusations seriously before, why take them seriously now?”
“Because when Demaratus was born, your father had not yet produced an heir, either. There was genuine fear that both houses were on the brink of extinction. More important, Demaratus was a newborn infant who seemed full of promise.”
“And now he is a mature man of proven ability and considerable intelligence.”
Nikostratos nodded. “I thought you would come to his defense. Which is to your credit, of course. But don’t forget, Demaratus is also the man who humiliated us in front of our allies and cost us our position of preeminence in the Peloponnesian League.”
“You supported him!” Leonidas protested. “You said we were stronger to have allies that followed us freely, rather than vassals who followed us out of compulsion.”
“Indeed. And so we are. I know that. Kyranios knows that. Epidydes knows that, and very likely a majority of the councilmen and citizens know that. But that is not the opinion of either of your brothers―or that faction that rages against the humiliation and dreams of glory far beyond our real means. That faction of irrational but bigoted citizens has been seeking Demaratus’ downfall for the last four Olympiads.”
“And they prefer Leotychidas?” Leonidas asked, incredulous.
“Leotychidas is a tool, nothing more. Because he is a weak, selfish man with no thought for Lacedaemon, only his own power, they believe they can manipulate and control him.”
“And such a man might replace Demaratus as the Eurypontid king?” Leonidas did not want to believe this was possible.
“Not if I can help it, but I am here to tell you the truth, Leo. The Gerousia is bitterly divided, and your brother played the outraged traditionalist, shocked beyond measure to think that some man not entitled to the honors of kingship had shared power with him for a quarter century. He may not have been credible in himself, but his words were welcome grist for the conservatives. The Assembly might be more favorably disposed to Demaratus, but they will not have any say in this. An accusation against a king is tried by the Gerousia together with the ephors. Leotychidas timed his attack well. Except for Technarchos, this year’s ephors are not men of strong character. They will cave in to pressure, if it is great enough. If your wife has any influence with her father, she would be advised to use it now. She must try to talk him out of this madness.”
Leonidas said nothing. Gorgo’s relationship to her father was volatile at best, and was particularly strained since she had sided with him rather than her father in the aftermath of the campaign in Argos. Furthermore, Leonidas increasingly questioned whether Cleomenes was accessible to reason at all.
Nikostratos understood his silence and took a deep breath. “No matter. We are referring the issue to Delphi. We will ask the oracle what we are to do. Not―note―whether Demaratus is legitimate or not, since that is not so much the issue as whether at this stage, and given the alternatives, it would be right to depose him in favor of Leotychidas, regardless of his bloodlines.”
Leonidas still said nothing. He supposed it was the best solution. Sparta had always turned to Delphi in times of crisis. Lycurgus had taken their radical new Constitution to Delphi fifty Olympiads ago. They had consulted Delphi during the Second Messenian War, and at the oracle’s advice they had welcomed Tyrtaios, whose music had restored morale. It made sense to consult Delphi―if only he didn’t have this horrible suspicion that his brother Cleomenes could manipulate the oracle. For years now, the oracle at Delphi had delivered judgments that conformed uncannily to Cleomenes’ wishes. And Cleomenes wanted Demaratus humiliated and destroyed.
“Do not confuse the oracles you’ve paid for with the will of the Gods,” Asteropus, the Agiad permanent representative at Delphi, warned King Cleomenes of Sparta. Asteropus was approaching forty years of age, and for more than a decade he had been serving Cleomenes at Delphi. The years away from Sparta had left the
ir mark. Asteropus, who had never been a particularly handsome or athletic man, now had sagging shoulders and a paunch. The hours spent in libraries rather than on drill fields had left his acne-scarred skin pale and had given him a permanent squint. “You may be able to frighten the ephors and manipulate the Spartan Assembly with the forgeries I give you, but the Gods have not been bought!”
“Well,” Cleomenes snapped back, “don’t forget that you have been bought, and by whom!”
Asteropus caught his breath and straightened his shoulders. “I am entirely in your service, my lord,” he protested. “Have you ever had cause to complain of me?”
“No. So don’t give me grounds for complaint now,” Cleomenes retorted, downing the contents of a large kylix of red wine without stopping for breath.
“Think of the consequences of this, my lord!” Asteropus tried again. “Demaratus has been king for decades—”
“And all he’s ever done is get in my way and weaken Sparta. Now he’s interfering with my policies in Aegina, and I won’t have it!” Cleomenes declared, pounding his fist on the table before his couch and making the empty kylix jump.
“But Leotychidas—”
“Is a greedy little weasel who can be controlled with gold,” retorted Cleomenes, dismissing the Eurypontid challenger. Then he looked hard at Asteropus. “You never had any scruples about the other hoax oracles, why now?”
Why now, indeed? Asteropus asked himself, but he couldn’t shake the sense of impending catastrophe.
“I want a very clear statement,” Cleomenes continued in a tone that brooked no further argument, while he reached down to tie his sandals. “Something like: Demaratus has not a drop of Eurypontid blood, is not a descendant of Herakles, and has absolutely no right to rule in Sparta. Nothing ambiguous. Nothing that can be interpreted to his benefit. The oracle must order us to depose him.”
“But, my lord—”
“Asteropus! You deliver this oracle just the way I want it, or you are dismissed. Do you understand? It’s as simple as that. There are plenty of other ambitious young men who can write silly rhymes that sound like oracles.” Cleomenes stood, swung the end of his himation over his shoulder, and went out into the windy night, leaving Asteropus alone with the flickering lamps and a cold sweat.
There was nothing that Asteropus feared more than returning to Sparta. If he returned to Sparta, he would be compelled to live by Spartan law: to attend his syssitia every night and eat the dreary communal meals, to drink only watered wine, to give up all gold and silver, and to drill regularly with his reserve unit. The social pressure to pretend interest in the athletic contests and the boys of the agoge would be almost as oppressive. Worst of all, he would be subjected to ridicule and abuse for not being married―because the woman who kept his house and had given him children was a local Phocian girl, not a Spartan citizen. He couldn’t bear the thought of returning to Sparta.
But that meant faking an oracle―again.
Why was that so terrible? He’d done it before. Why did his stomach tie itself in knots at the mere thought of it this time?
Asteropus realized with terror that he had a real premonition. It was these rare flashes of second sight that had attracted Cleomenes’ attention to him in the first place. Asteropus had spontaneously predicted the demise of Cleomenes’ elder brother Dorieus months before it happened, and had forecast a disastrous storm shortly afterward. Throughout his life ever since, the Gods had sporadically revealed fragments of the future to him. But they did it when it suited them, and always just like this: without his asking, without his reading entrails, and without even sending birds or snakes that behaved strangely.
Yet when he had one of these flashes of insight, there was no room for interpretation. Today’s divine message was absolute and immutable: Deposing Demaratus would be disastrous for Sparta.
As if to underline the message, the door of the room, which Cleomenes had not closed properly, blew open with a loud crack, and a gust of wind extinguished every lamp in the room. Asteropus leaped to his feet in alarm, his heart beating wildly. A cold sweat chilled him to the marrow of his bones. He was certain: Deposing Demaratus would set in motion a series of events that would not only harm Sparta, but tear all of Greece apart.
CHAPTER 2
AN EXCESS OF HEIRS
“A MALE CHILD, MY LORD!” LAODICE announced timidly to Nikostratos. Laodice was the wife of Leonidas’s chief tenant, Pelopidas. Although she had been told to bring the councilman the news at once, she was awed by his age and status, and so was hesitant to wake him.
Nikostratos had been dozing in the afternoon sun on the back terrace of Leonidas’s kleros. He sat on one of the wooden benches, leaning against the plastered façade with his hands resting on the cane between his knees. Laodice’s words brought him instantly to his full senses. He looked sharply at the helot woman, noting the sweat that dripped down the side of her face and the blood smeared thinly on her hands, suggesting that she had rubbed them on a cloth but not yet washed them in water.
“A male child?” he anxiously asked the aging helot housekeeper. “Healthy and whole?”
“Yes, my lord. He is smaller than his sister was at birth, but he is whole and fair.”
At that moment a loud wail went up from the side wing where Gorgo had endured the ordeal. With far more relief than joy, Nikostratos exclaimed, “May all the Gods be praised! I have promised Zeus a ram for this, and I will go fulfill my promise at once.” After the Delphic oracle had pronounced Demaratus a bastard and the Gerousia and ephors had felt compelled to set him aside, Sparta was ruled by a madman and an unscrupulous charlatan. This boy, however, was a direct male descendant of the ruling Agiad king, Cleomenes, and as such he had the potential to change everything. Leonidas might have claimed the Agiad throne by right of his wife, but he certainly could by right of his son. This was very good news indeed!
Nikostratos paused and asked next, “And Gorgo?”
“She is exhausted but well so far,” Laodice assured him cautiously. Too many women died after childbirth from bleeding or milk fever. Laodice did not want to presume all was well just yet.
“I will offer an amphora of milk to Eileithyia in thanks for that. Your son is waiting to bring the news to Leonidas?” This being the Chalkioika, the annual feast in honor of Sparta’s patron goddess, Athena, Leonidas was taking part in the festivities.
“Yes, my lord,” Laodice assured the councilman. “He is waiting in the helot hall.”
“Send him to Leonidas at once!” Nikostratos urged. “This is very good news, good woman. Very good news indeed!”
Crius, Laodice’s youngest son, was twenty-one. Since childhood he had suffered from a strange weakness in his hands that prevented him from doing manual labor, but he was exceptionally fleet, and so he had become a messenger for the Spartan army. The work could be hard: he had to be available day and night in all weather, and any message entrusted to him was urgent by definition. Yet like a healthy hound or horse, he loved feeling the strength of his own young body and loved being out in the open countryside. Furthermore, Crius’ work took him to every corner of Lacedaemon and even beyond to Tegea, Mycenae, Elis, and Corinth. Crius knew how to use this freedom to his advantage. He was conscientious about delivering his messages, whether verbal or written (the latter completely mysterious to him, as he could neither read nor write), but there was rarely a return message of equal urgency, and there was always dead time when his services were not needed. He knew the best places for a good, cheap meal, knew the taverns with the best wine, and had many girlfriends scattered far enough apart not to know about one another.
But today he had only a short sprint into the city to tell the master that he was now father of a son. Crius was happy for him. Leonidas was a good man. Almost two decades earlier, he had brought Crius’ whole family from one of his estates in Messenia to run the kleros on the Eurotas. He allowed Crius’ mother, Laodice, to earn extra money selling her sweets and baked goods, and he had
let Crius’ elder brother, Pantes, set up in his own carpentry shop, where he made good money. Leonidas treated them well, and Crius knew that couldn’t be said of all Spartiates. Many helots, especially those still in Messenia, were subject to arbitrary and harsh treatment.
Crius reached the end of the drive flanked by cypress trees and turned north onto the sunny road coming down out of the Parnon range from Epidauros Limera. To his right and a little behind him, crowning a small hill, was the Menelaion, built to honor Menelaus and Helen and constructed, some claimed, on the foundation of their ancient palace. At the foot of the hill was a more recent shrine to the Dioskouroi. Crius knew that Leonidas frequently brought offerings here because, as a twin himself, he honored the Divine Twins particularly. Now that he had a firm, dry road under his feet, Crius picked up the pace despite the intense summer heat.
Within a quarter-hour he had reached the junction with the road to Tegea. From here on into the city, the road was paved. Crius continued, loping lightly past the wide drill fields on which units of the Spartan army and classes of the agoge drilled almost daily. Today, however, was the fourth day of the Chalkioika, so the drill fields stood lonely and deserted under the hazy summer sky. As on all major holidays of the Spartan calendar, the agoge was closed, and the army, except for a small watch from each regiment or lochos, was furloughed.
A Heroic King Page 4