A Heroic King

by Helena P. Schrader

  By the afternoon of the second day, Dienekes’ pentekostus was just hours behind him, and at nightfall Dienekes ordered the company to make camp while he went forward with just one other man to the next city, Zacynthus. After assuring himself that Demaratus was spending the night there, Dienekes returned, awoke his men, and brought them to the walls of Zacynthus, ready to enter the city as soon as the gates opened the next morning.

  Shortly after sunrise the following day, they surrounded Demaratus’ wagons and chariot as the servants were hitching up the teams and reloading the items used during the night. When Demaratus emerged from the large house where he had spent the night, he saw only a sea of scarlet and bronze completely surrounding and overwhelming his little convoy. He turned on his heel and retreated into the house.

  Dienekes bounded up the steps and tried to follow him, but Demaratus’ Zacynthian host blocked the way. “Demaratus, son of Ariston, is my guest. I will not allow you to violate my hospitality by seizing him!” the man told Dienekes indignantly. He was white-haired, tall, and elegant. He spoke with authority―and with a touch of contempt for the brash young Spartan officer.

  “Let me speak to Demaratus!” Dienekes demanded.

  “I will see if he wants to speak with you,” the Zacynthian replied haughtily. “Who should I say begs audience?”

  “Dienekes, son of Polybius, on orders of the ephors of Sparta!” Dienekes replied proudly―but he was still left standing before a closed door.

  Dienekes had plenty of time to notice how foolish he looked with a hundred armed men surrounding an ox-cart and an empty chariot. Meanwhile, the whole town of Zacynthus collected to gape, point, and stare―or so it seemed to Dienekes.

  Eventually the Zacynthian gentleman returned. “You may come in unarmed,” he announced.

  “Unarmed?”

  “Yes. It is quite a simple procedure. You remove that baldric and sword and leave it, along with your spear, with your attendant,” he explained patronizingly.

  Dienekes had no choice but to comply, seething inwardly. Unarmed, he was at last admitted into the dark and richly decorated home. He was led down a corridor to a small atrium where he found Demaratus pacing back and forth under a low tile roof supported by slender pillars.

  Demaratus was a half-century old. He was stocky, bowlegged, and scarred. His face was dominated by a large nose, and his hair was coarse and graying. Even as king he had not placed much emphasis on the trappings of royalty (unlike Cleomenes), and had usually dressed simply. Now he was wearing only a pale blue chiton under leather armor and practical, sturdy boots that came halfway to his knee. When he spun about and faced Dienekes, his eyes flashed like a caged lion. Dienekes instinctively came to attention.

  “You!” Demaratus snarled. “Who do you think you are? How dare you stand in my way? I have every right to travel wherever I please!”

  “No, sir. As a Spartan citizen under the age of sixty, you require the permission of your commanding officer to leave Lacedaemon.” The ephors had provided Dienekes with this little speech.

  Demaratus snapped helplessly for a retort. He had forgotten that every Spartan citizen serving in either an active or a reserve unit of the army needed the permission of his commanding officer to leave Lacedaemon; as king, he had never needed such permission and had traveled at whim. Furthermore, since he had been deposed, no one had seen fit to assign him to any particular unit in the army, as it would have been embarrassing for everyone involved. Since the reserves were not called up and there was no immediate prospect of that happening, the oversight seemed inconsequential. Now, however, Demaratus realized that he had no one from whom he could even ask for permission. He decided not to address the issue. “I am going to Delphi to consult the oracle. What on earth could be the objection to that?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I did not make the decision to come after you. I am only following the orders of the ephors.”

  “The ephors.” Demaratus said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Well, I suggest then that you go back to the ephors and find out what their objections are. I do not intend to return to Sparta just because the ephors―without explanation or apparent reason―order me to do so.”

  Dienekes opened his mouth twice, but he could not think of a suitable reply. He was abruptly confronted with the unexpected fact that he would have to use force to make Demaratus return with him. He realized that he was not prepared to do that. He tried a bluff. “I have a hundred men outside. It would be child’s play for us to force our way into this house and seize you. Sir.”

  “Then do it, Dienekes,” Demaratus called his bluff with a grim smile.

  “Do you wish to see the innocent servants of your host, not to mention this noble gentleman,” Dienekes nodded to the Zacynthian, still standing in the shadows listening to the entire exchange, “harmed?” Dienekes tried again.

  “Not at all,” Demaratus retorted. “Do you?”

  “No, sir. But if you will not come willingly, I will have to use force. No one will be harmed if there is no resistance.” Dienekes said this with a glance at the Zacynthian host.

  The old man, whoever he was, drew himself to his full height and announced: “I will not allow my hospitality to be violated without defending it! If you use force against me and my household, you will have committed your city to war, because my neighbors, friends, and family will not allow me to be cut down in my own home. If I die, my death will be avenged. We may be a small and insignificant city in your eyes, but we are a proud people, Spartan. If you kill me and my servants just to arrest your former king, you will find we are a vicious and tenacious opponent that will take more than one of your red-cloaked warriors to a premature grave before you crush us.”

  “I doubt you were given the power to make war and peace, young man,” Demaratus scoffed at him.

  “No, sir,” Dienekes admitted, and then looked at Demaratus a second time with a rush of unexpected respect. The former king was not mocking him, just showing him the bridge on which to retreat. “I will inform the ephors, sir!”

  Yet in the moment of his victory, when it was clear Dienekes was going to let him proceed, Demaratus no longer looked fierce or even angry, only sad. Endlessly sad.

  Dienekes turned to go, but something about Demaratus’ countenance stopped him. For the first time since the oracle had delivered Apollo’s judgment against Demaratus, Dienekes found himself wondering if it had been right to depose him. He reflected on the fact that Demaratus had always been a competent commander, and recently a good magistrate. Dienekes turned back to the deposed king. “Sir, think about it once more. Being king isn’t everything. There is nothing disgraceful in being a Spartan Peer.”

  “No disgrace, perhaps, but I cannot bow to the likes of Leotychidas and Cleomenes.”

  “Then don’t! Come back and help us to keep them in check,” Dienekes countered.

  Demaratus flinched, and the sadness in his eyes deepened. “You’re good, Dienekes,” he murmured. “I wish we had a thousand of your caliber ….”

  “Don’t we, sir?”

  Demaratus shook his head. “No. We don’t. That’s what I’ve discovered in the last six months. Under the façade of equality and equal justice for all, we are riddled with intrigue and jealousy and hatred. If you thought the spectacle of Leotychidas humiliating me was demeaning, wait and see what awaits Cleomenes when Brotus makes his move.”

  “Come back and stop it from happening, sir!”

  Demaratus shook his head slowly. “I am too bitter. Too full of hate. Go now, Dienekes.” He waved with his hand, not in dismissal but in farewell.

  Dienekes still hesitated. He felt he ought to have some argument that would persuade Demaratus to return. He wanted to find the right words not only because he did not want to return empty-handed, but also for the sake of bringing this seasoned and reasonable man back to Sparta. Half the Gerousia was senile, the ephors were mediocre men elected for not offending anyone, Leotychidas was interested only in his p
ersonal gain, Cleomenes was mad, and Brotus was dim-witted, brutal, and self-serving. Dienekes turned back one last time with the word “please” on the tip of his tongue, but Demaratus forestalled him with a shake of his head.

  “Do not beg me, Dienekes. I do not want to see a Spartan officer beg.”

  “Then come of your free will, sir.”

  “You’re persuasive, young man. You will go far. But I did not depart on a whim. My mind is made up. Now go, and don’t look back.”

  As he watched Dienekes turn and walk away, however, Demaratus felt as if his heart were being slowly pulled out of his breast. It had cost him far less to say goodbye to his wife than to this young man, a virtual stranger, because Dienekes incarnated for the deposed king all the manly virtues of Sparta. Demaratus wondered if he would ever again have the privilege to see Spartan soldiers. Part of him hoped so, and part of him knew that the sight of them would tear him apart with regret.

  CHAPTER 3

  WAGES OF CORRUPTION

  “THE FOUR GUARDSMEN HAVE SOME VERY powerful friends,” Oliantus told his lochagos cautiously, his face drawn and worry hovering around his eyes. Oliantus had served as Leonidas’ quartermaster for a decade, moving up the ranks in Leonidas’ wake. Oliantus knew that on his own, he would have ended in obscurity―an intelligent, well-meaning man, conscientious and hard-working, but always overlooked, always second best. His whole life seemed a repeat of the long-distance race at Olympia more than a decade ago, when he had performed better than anyone expected, leaving a score or runners in his wake, but still had come in third behind two brilliant runners. His only comfort was that Leonidas, a truly exceptional man, trusted him, relied on him, and sometimes took his advice.

  “Ex-guardsmen,” Leonidas corrected, “and they are being protected by no one but my brother Brotus.”

  “Yes, your brother Brotus―and Bulis’ father Nicoles―”

  “Nicoles should be ashamed of raising such a youth! Nicoles is a magistrate, and his son tramples on the law with both feet by brawling in the streets like a Syracusan sailor!”

  “Nicoles refuses to believe his son could do anything wrong, and your insistence on punishing his son is turning a man who once supported you into a bitter enemy.”

  “Temenos almost died, Oli. He cannot yet walk. The surgeon says he will have damage for life; the only question is how severe it will be. If we let these four thugs get away with what they did to him, we are barbarians. They broke the law, and in Sparta the law applies to all of us―including the kings, much less guardsmen.”

  “Nicoles argues that Temenos also broke the law through his liaison with your helot girl―what’s her name?”

  “Chryse. And if sleeping with helot girls is a crime, we are all criminals. Every Spartiate youth has a helot girl when he’s growing up. It’s how we learn about sex.”

  Oliantus smiled faintly. Leonidas was talking to him as if he didn’t know. But he had had a helot girl, too, and he sometimes thought back to her wistfully. She had been kinder to him than his well-born wife. He sometimes wished … But he did not have Temenos’ courage. “Brotus and these young men have the support of a significant portion of the population, Leo. There are quite a few citizens who think the helots are getting ‘above themselves’ and need to be put down. They want to make an example of Temenos that will remind everyone that helots are inferiors and enemies. They say Temenos is undermining the foundations of our society and deserves to lose his citizenship―while his assailants, they argue, deserve to be rewarded, not punished.”

  “And they are wrong,” Leonidas told his quartermaster flatly.

  “They are many.”

  “How many?”

  Oliantus shrugged to indicate he was not certain, then estimated, “Maybe a thousand two hundred, a thousand five hundred.”

  “That’s at most 20 per cent of the population.”

  “A loud and angry 20 per cent.”

  “I will fight them, Oli,” Leonidas insisted. “This is about who we are. Either we are civilized men who respect our laws and one another, or we are beasts and thugs who respect nothing but brute force.”

  “Leonidas, you know I support you. I only ask you to consider whether this is the right fight. And: is it a fight you can win? Might you not do more damage to your position and long-term goals by fighting this battle, than by letting it go, so you are stronger for the next fight?”

  Leonidas stopped pacing and stared hard at his faithful quartermaster. Oliantus knew Leonidas intended to claim the regency at an appropriate moment. Oliantus was warning him that pressing charges against the guardsmen who had assaulted Temenos might jeopardize that move. He had to respect Oliantus enough to consider this possibility seriously.

  Before he could answer, however, they were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by the meleirene on duty entering to report. “Sir. Your wife has sent for you. She says you must come to the Agiad palace at once.”

  Leonidas stared at the meleirene for a stunned moment, and then grabbed his baldric off the wall and pulled it over his head as he started down the corridor at a run. In four years of marriage, Gorgo had never sent for him. Only an emergency could have induced her to send for him now. His first thought was that something had happened to Pleistarchos. Infants were terribly vulnerable, and Brotus wanted nothing more intensely than to see “something happen” to the boy that threatened his succession to the throne. But the summons to the palace suggested this had to do with Gorgo’s father rather than her son.

  On the front porch of the barracks Leonidas hesitated, unsure whether it would be faster to go to the stables and tack up one of his horses or just run. It was late afternoon. The pipes would soon wail out the call to dinner. If he took a horse, it would be easier to get to his syssitia from the palace, but it would delay him. The Agiad palace was not far away, and, by taking the back streets, he could avoid crowds that might slow him down. He started running.

  The meleirenes on duty at the palace had left their posts beside the front door and were peering curiously around the side of the palace. When they caught sight of Leonidas, they pointed vigorously and called out, “The kitchen door! Your wife is waiting at the kitchen door!”

  One of his own chariots and the pair of matched gray mares that Gorgo liked to drive were blocking the alley. As he ducked under the necks of the horses he could hear shouting and crashes coming from inside the palace. Gorgo was standing with her back to the door. Her himation had fallen off her head, and her hair was exposed; she looked stunned and helpless. Relief flooded her face when she saw Leonidas. “It’s my father! He’s trying to kill the cook!”

  Leonidas took her arm in a gesture of reassurance. “He’s doing what?”

  “My father’s trying to kill the cook. The staff sent for me, but when I went in he chased me out again. He’s got his sword, and he’s trying to hack his way through the door to the pantry where the cook has taken refuge.”

  Leonidas met her eyes, shook his head in momentary disbelief, and then nodded to indicate he was resolved. He turned, opened the door to the delivery entrance, and stepped inside with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Gorgo followed in his wake, clutching her himation around her shoulders.

  They were greeted by crates of fresh vegetables that had been knocked over and cabbage heads that had rolled in every direction across the courtyard. Amphorae lay shattered on the paving tiles, spilling oil across the floor, while chickens fluttered about, screeching in panic. Leonidas slipped on the oil and fell, landing so hard on his elbow that numbness shot up his arm. Gorgo was splattered with blood from a headless chicken that was still twitching on a bench. Toppled chairs, heaps of broken pottery, and an overturned table greeted them next. From the room beyond, they could hear shouting. Cleomenes was hewing at a door with his sword and screaming at the top of his lungs: “Assassin! Assassin!”

  The kitchen staff had evidently scattered or taken cover.

  Leonidas gestured for Gorgo to stand back and adva
nced to just a few feet behind his father-in-law before asking in a firm, commanding voice, “What is this about, brother?”

  Cleomenes spun about to look at Leonidas, apparently only moderately surprised by his sudden appearance. He then pointed with his left hand at the closed pantry door. “That man is an assassin! He put vile poison in my wine!”

  “It’s not true, my lord Leonidas! I swear on my mother’s grave. It’s not true!” The protest came from the far side of the door.

  “That’s old Prothous,” Gorgo recognized and identified the voice.

  “Assassin!” Cleomenes screamed, swinging his sword into the door again. The blade sliced into the surface and stuck for a moment before Cleomenes yanked it free.

  “Why in the name of the Twins would Prothous try to kill you, brother?” Leonidas asked, stepping cautiously closer to Cleomenes.

  Cleomenes spun about and pointed his sword directly at Leonidas’ heart. Leonidas was wearing a linen corselet that would not protect him from a direct thrust, and Gorgo called out sharply, “Father! Stop it!”

  Cleomenes eyes shifted. “Gorgo!” This time he recognized her. “Get away! Get away! We aren’t safe here anymore. Take Pleistarchos to safety! Go to Arcadia! To the springs!”

  “Not without you, father,” Gorgo answered, getting a grip on her own terror and moving steadily forward. Leonidas glanced at her and back at her father, uncertain if this was safe. Cleomenes was confused. He looked from Leonidas to Gorgo, then over his shoulder at the door. “Brotus! Brotus is trying to kill me,” he declared.

  “Now that I can believe,” Leonidas conceded in such a normal tone of voice that Gorgo almost laughed, and Cleomenes was instantly disarmed. He let the point of his sword sink so that it no longer threatened Leonidas’ chest. “You know about Brotus?” he asked in astonishment.

  “Believe me, I know about Brotus. He has more than one murder on his hands already. He would like to murder both of us―and I don’t doubt he has his designs on Pleistarchos. But poor old Prothous is not in his pay,” Leonidas added, reaching out and taking Cleomenes’ sword from his limp hand.