A Heroic King

by Helena P. Schrader

  Crius managed a crooked smile. “Yes, master. You have a son.”

  It took Leonidas a half-hour to organize a stretcher to take Temenos to a military infirmary and to ensure that Crius and the youths were attended by one of the agoge surgeons. Then, at last, he took one of the horses he kept at the lochos stables and galloped home.

  By the time he arrived, the women had washed and changed, wine had been distributed liberally, and a feast was in preparation, smoke billowing up from a crackling fire in the outside pit. The sound of laughter wafted over the roof from the terrace and greeted him as he swung down from his horse.

  “Congratulations!” Hilaira called as Leonidas emerged from the stables. Then Chilonis, his stepmother and Nikostratos’ wife, came to give him a kiss on both cheeks, announcing with warmth, “He’s beautiful, Leonidas, perfect! Absolutely perfect!”

  “And Gorgo?”

  “She’s so proud of herself. She’s been asking for you every two minutes.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Still in bed. Go to her, so she can get some sleep,” Chilonis advised.

  Leonidas did not need to be told twice. He started up the outside steps two at a time, but at the top of the stairs he nearly tripped over his daughter. “Daddy! Daddy!” Agiatis cried, holding up her arms to him.

  Leonidas swept her up into his arms without stopping, and she clung to him, ducking from experience as he went through the bedroom door.

  Gorgo had been sponge-bathed by the other women, dressed in a fresh linen chiton, and propped up in bed with her hand on the cradle beside her. “Leo!” she called out with a radiant smile. “Come see him!”

  Leonidas swung Agiatis down but firmly held her hand as he bent to kiss his wife. Then he looked into the cradle.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” Agiatis stamped her foot and held up her hands to be lifted up again.

  Leonidas laughed and took her on his hip as he gazed into the cradle. His son slept blissfully, with his bright red hands balled into two fists on either side of his bald head.

  “He’s ugly!” Agiatis declared emphatically, eliciting a laugh from her parents. “I didn’t look like that, did I?” she demanded, and got only laughs for answers. Then her father showered her with kisses of sheer joy and assured her. “No, princess, you were much, much prettier!”

  Leonidas could not contain his joy: This boy changed everything. He was the direct descendant of the ruling king, and both parents were Agiads. Whether the Assembly voted to depose Cleomenes for madness or whether he just died of natural causes, this boy now stood in the way of Brotus’ ambitions. Brotus might claim the Agiad throne, but Leonidas had a valid, legitimate means of opposing him. Leonidas would not let Brotus seize the Agiad throne without a fight.

  Leonidas looked at Gorgo again. She was gazing up at him, smiling, but her eyelids were half falling over her eyes. He bent and kissed her again without letting go of Agiatis. “Get some rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Where’s Chryse?” Gorgo asked drowsily. “Her mother was angry that she wasn’t here to help.”

  “She―Temenos―don’t worry. It wasn’t her fault. Get some rest.” He kissed her on the forehead and then withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  “Daddy?” Agiatis was thoughtfully picking at the brooch holding his red himation to his chiton. “Why is everyone so happy it’s a boy?”

  “Because, precious, only a boy can be king.”

  “But you aren’t king,” Agiatis pointed out.

  “That’s because your grandfather is still alive. When he dies, your brother will become king.”

  “But why won’t you become king?”

  “Because I have a twin brother, your uncle Brotus,” Leonidas answered, hoping she wouldn’t press him to explain how this barred him, but not her brother, from the throne. Leonidas started back down the stairs to the terrace.

  Fortunately, Agiatis had lost interest in a throne she couldn’t have, and asked instead, “Were you as happy when I was born?”

  “Yes, of course,” Leonidas lied. “And I’m happy now because your brother, when he grows up, will be able to look after you and your mother, even if something happens to me.”

  At the bottom of the steps to the main entrance of the Agiad royal palace, Gorgo paused to inspect her son. He was barely a week old and still very tiny, very red, and very sleepy. Gorgo adored him, but she was not blind to the fact that he was still a squirming infant; his character lay inchoate inside him, not yet apparent even to her. He was definitely different from Agiatis. He was gentler, less demanding, more easily satisfied. She wondered if those were traits he would have all his life, or if he would grow out of them. What had she been like as an infant? She had never thought to ask her mother. Maybe this would be a good opportunity.

  But first she had to face her father. She took a deep breath and started up the stairs to the main portico facing Herakles Square. This portico was supported by a battery of six kouroi dating back to the age before Lycurgus. Once they had been painted, as was still the custom in other Greek cities, but during the last ten to fifteen Olympiads such decoration had become unpopular in Sparta and was increasingly scorned as extravagant. Newer buildings had plain white kouroi and pillars, but the royal palaces were not only ancient, they also represented the kings’ divine ancestry. The ancient decoration had been left intact, except that wind and weather had dulled the colors over time.

  At the massive, ten-foot double door, studded with bronze rosettes, the meleirenes on duty came to attention and opened both wings for the king’s daughter without hesitation. That wasn’t entirely correct, Gorgo reflected. She didn’t live here anymore, and maybe her father didn’t want to see her. His moods were increasingly fickle, and he was as likely to throw her out as welcome her.

  Beyond the door she found herself in the large, formal reception hall. This had a high painted ceiling, frescoes recording the labors of Herakles, and a mosaic floor. The mosaics were uneven from age, and over the centuries some of the stones had been replaced for one reason or another so that the coloring was uneven, too. Surrounding the mosaic center were a shallow gutter and benches. Gorgo had been told that when the palace was built it had been customary for visitors to sit here while slaves washed the dust from their feet before they entered the palace itself.

  Gorgo passed through the opposite door to an interior peristyle with a central fountain. Although Gorgo had rarely entered the palace this way, she moved confidently around the peristyle, avoiding the oppressive, ancient core of the palace with its fat, painted pillars and murals of legendary battles, and headed for the more modern courtyard around which the private apartments of the king were grouped in two-story buildings. Here she had the good fortune to encounter her father’s personal secretary.

  “Mistress Gorgo!” the man exclaimed, breaking into a smile. Before she could even answer he asked, “And is that the little one? What did you name him? Pleist―? Pleist―?”

  “Pleistarchos.”

  “Yes. Pleistarchos. Isn’t he a fine little man!” the old secretary declared as she held out the infant for his inspection. He smiled at the infant, offering a finger for him to hold in his fist. “You must be very pleased with yourself and that husband of yours.”

  “Yes. We are very happy.”

  “Come to show him to his grandparents, eh?”

  “Yes―but it is a surprise,” Gorgo admitted.

  “Your mother is lying down, but your father is in the library.”

  Gorgo thanked him. To get to the library, she had to pass through the private courtyard. Here she kept in the shadows under the roof of the peristyle to avoid attracting her mother’s attention. She would visit her later; she wanted to face her father first. The sight of the nursery window, however, reminded her that her mother had given birth to no fewer than four sons―and not one of them had lived to adulthood. Three of the boys had died as infants before they could walk or speak. The eldest, Agis, had died in an accident at the age of te
n. She cast a frightened glance at Pleistarchos, sleeping as if exhausted in the crook of her arm. He was so very vulnerable!

  She mounted the stairs to the gallery along the back of the library, and entered the library by the first door. Here she paused. King Cleomenes sat halfway down the room on a throne adorned with bronze griffins and swans. He sat at a table, peering intently at a scroll rolled out before him. The sound of someone entering distracted him, and he looked up and straight at her. He stared at her for a long time, almost as if he did not recognize her.

  “Father.”

  Cleomenes just continued to gaze at her.

  Gorgo started forward cautiously, her eyes on her father’s. He looked older than she remembered him, older and more strained. He was only twelve years older than Leonidas, she reminded herself, amazed, but he looked twice that. His shoulders were starting to bend and his belly to expand. He did not exercise as much as citizens his age because he was not required to drill with a reserve unit, and in recent years he’d lost his passion for the hunt.

  Only when she was right before him did she draw attention to her son. “I’ve brought your grandson to see you, father,” Gorgo explained, holding Pleistarchos out for her father to see.

  Cleomenes turned his eyes to the infant, and Gorgo held her breath. She could see the bandage on her father’s arm from an incident shortly before Pleistarchos’ birth. The palace servants had come to her in distress because, they said, he had tried to tear open his own veins, claiming someone had tried to poison him. What if he reached out a hand to do violence to Pleistarchos?

  The king did reach out a hand, or rather a finger, but not in violence. Very gently he stroked the back of his grandson’s hand. A smile spread across his face. His finger went up his grandson’s arm, and then touched his forehead. Then Cleomenes pulled back his hand, straightened, and looked up at his daughter. “Your husband didn’t have the courage to come face me?” he asked.

  “My husband does not believe in coming uninvited.”

  “But he had no objection to you coming?” Cleomenes asked with raised eyebrows.

  “My husband would not come between me and my own parents,” Gorgo replied steadily. While this was true, it was also true that Leonidas had been opposed to her coming. He argued that if her father was interested in his grandson, he would either send for him or come to see him. He had been uneasy about exposing Pleistarchos to the unpredictable moods of a madman―and apprehensive about exposing Gorgo to the vituperative tongue of her father.

  Cleomenes guessed the truth. “Ah, from being an unruly daughter you have turned into a disobedient wife,” he summarized.

  “If that is what you want to call it.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “A plea for reconciliation, acceptance, a new beginning. You are my father, and I your only surviving child. I adored you once, and I thought you loved me.”

  “Loved you?” Cleomenes sounded surprised, but then he shook his head. “To say I loved you would not do justice to what I felt.” His eyes went through her, seeing beyond the present to the past. He saw Gorgo as she had been: a bright-eyed, impertinent, but always observant child. Her older brother had never been able to focus on anything for long―his mind wandered and his attention was easily distracted―but Gorgo had tagged around behind her father whenever she could, taking an interest in whatever he did and said. She had been like a faithful dog, always in his shadow with adoring eyes.

  “What have I done to so disappoint you, father?” Gorgo asked softly.

  “You grew up,” Cleomenes told her simply, and Gorgo caught her breath. She could not have stopped that even if she had wanted to, nor could she reverse it. If only being a little girl again would please him, then there was no hope for reconciliation.

  Cleomenes reached out his hand and patted her arm. “Don’t be distressed, child. I did not mean to suggest that you should have died like your brothers. I was simply noting that the changes were indeed inevitable. It was unreasonable to expect you to remain an adoring child. It was only natural you grew up, developed your own opinions and fell in love with a young man. You could have done worse than my brother Leo.” That was the closest he had ever come to a compliment about Leonidas. Gorgo started to hope her gamble had paid off.

  “Will you trust me to hold my grandson?” he asked her next.

  Gorgo immediately handed over Pleistarchos, who stirred and frowned in his sleep but did not wake up.

  Cleomenes inspected the boy very carefully, even unwrapping the blanket to inspect his chest, legs, and genitals. “He seems very healthy,” he concluded. “Let us hope I live long enough for him to survive the agoge.”

  “I will do everything in my power to ensure that he is healthy and ready for the agoge.”

  “You will have to do more than that,” her father warned, handing the baby back and looking hard into her eyes. “You must never, ever leave him alone without an armed man in attendance.”

  “Father, what are you talking about? We live practically in the heart of Lacedaemon. No enemy has come within―”

  “That boy’s enemy lives not more than five miles away. He will kill him, if he gets a chance, and women helots will not stop him. Surely your husband has one or two army helots he could spare for the protection of his son?” The insulting tone Cleomenes usually used when speaking to or about Leonidas tinged his voice again.

  “Leonidas will not let any harm come to his son,” Gorgo replied firmly.

  Cleomenes narrowed his eyes as he considered her. “You and your son would be safer if you moved back into the palace.”

  “Me and Mother under the same roof?” Gorgo quipped back, and to her relief her father burst out laughing.

  But when he was finished laughing, Cleomenes leveled his eyes at her and said: “I could send your mother away.”

  “Could you really?” Gorgo asked back. “After all she has suffered? The dead children and your infidelities? Could you throw her out, when she has done no wrong?”

  “Are you my child or my conscience?” Cleomenes retorted, exasperated.

  “I am your child, father―but if you can confuse me with your conscience, then that is only because I say out loud what it has already whispered to you softly.”

  “Why weren’t you born a boy?” Cleomenes asked, wistfully and bitterly at the same time.

  “So I could marry Leonidas and reunite the family.”

  “You do love him, don’t you?” Cleomenes observed, not entirely pleased.

  “Yes, I love him. More than I imagined possible.”

  “And I love you, Gorgo. Don’t ever doubt that, no matter what happens.”

  Gorgo leaned forward and kissed his forehead. Cleomenes responded with a kiss to her cheek. Their eyes met at close range and Gorgo could see love in them―but also fear.

  “What are you afraid of, father?” she asked very softly.

  “I―am―not always―sure―of what is real,” he whispered, his eyes clinging to hers for understanding.

  “My love for you is real, father. And so is Leonidas’ loyalty. And Mother’s despair and need for you.”

  “But what about the snakes, Gorgo?”

  “What snakes?”

  “The snakes that have infested this palace!” her father answered, annoyed by her evasiveness. “They are everywhere! Not a room is free of them. Look at those shelves!” He pointed angrily at the honeycomb of shelves lining the library wall and designed for scrolls. “There must be hundreds of them nesting in there! They coil in the shadows and as soon as you sit still even for a moment, they slither over your feet, and at night they slip between the sheets and coil themselves around my ankles!”

  Gorgo was speechless.

  “Go! Take my grandson away before one of them worms its way into his blanket. They aren’t poisonous, but I don’t think it would be good for them to coil themselves around him as they do me. They might choke him by mistake. Take him to his grandmother, but don’t put him down anywhere
where the snakes can get to him.”

  “Yes, father,” Gorgo answered, her stomach knotting itself with fear as she kissed him again on the forehead and then withdrew to seek out her mother.

  Dienekes was an ambitious man. He always had been. But he did not come from a “good” family, and his father had made things worse with a bad temper that led him one day to kill a man in a rage. Dienekes had always felt he had to work twice as hard as his comrades to gain recognition, and he sometimes went out of his way to draw attention to himself. For example, rather than just braiding his hair from forehead to neck, he braided it at an angle from right eyebrow to left ear. It looked rakish, and not a few of the younger men were following his fashion. He had also taken to wearing chitons with red, white, and blue stripes. Combined with a red himation, these gave him a striking look. Thus he had gained a reputation as a dandy, which distracted people from the fact that he could not afford fine armor, and even after he went off active duty he carried a standard-issue shield with the lambda on it. It was a measure of his popularity among the younger men that others had started to do the same.

  He was, therefore, extremely keen to succeed when given orders to bring ex-king Demaratus back to Sparta. Demaratus had made good his promise to abandon Sparta, leaving his wife behind. Demaratus claimed to be heading for Delphi, but there were too many rumors circulating about his intent to go to the Persian king for the ephors to be comfortable. After consulting with the Gerousia, they ordered a pentekostus to bring Demaratus back to Sparta. Dienekes’ pentekostus was entrusted with the task.

  By the time the decision had been made, Demaratus had a three-day lead―but a Spartan king, even a former Spartan king, attracted attention wherever he went. Every village he had passed through, even shepherds with their flocks, could readily confirm his passage and point in the direction he was headed. Furthermore, he had not traveled light, taking an ox-cart of personal effects and provisions as well as his chariot and no less than ten horses, four dogs, and a score of servants. This large entourage and convoy forced him to keep to the main roads.