A Heroic King

by Helena P. Schrader

  “Give him that!” the surgeon ordered, handing Leonidas a kothon with a sticky, unpleasant-smelling liquid in it. Leonidas looked skeptical. “Give it to him now,” the surgeon ordered. Leonidas slipped one hand under Simonidas’ head and held the kothon to the boy’s lips with the other. He didn’t have to say anything to encourage the boy to drink.

  Although he unconsciously made a face, Simonidas was at the end of his nine-year-old strength. He had turned himself over to the adults and surrendered all personal will in doing so. He would do whatever they asked of him, even kill himself if that was what they wanted. He’d tried for more than two years to survive on his own, and he had failed. It was that simple. But the thought of failure enclosed him as he started to drift off to sleep, and for a brief moment he wanted to cry out again from the sheer agony of realizing he had failed his father, his mother, his big brother, and everyone! And then he heard Leonidas say over his head, “Relax, Simonidas. Everything will be all right.”

  The first thing he heard as he came to again was his mother’s voice. He heard it as if it was far away, and yet it was very clear and emphatic. “I knew he was going to have trouble from the very start. He is not a herd animal. He can’t be put in a herd and chased around like he’s a boneheaded calf!”

  “That’s the way the agoge is organized, and it works for most of us,” Leonidas answered reasonably.

  “But not for all of you!” Hilaira retorted sharply. “There has to be some way of making exceptions for boys who aren’t suited to the agoge.”

  “If we start making exceptions, the whole system will break down.”

  “Well, maybe it is time to let it break down,” Alkander answered softly but firmly.

  Hearing his father say something as heretical as this made Simonidas sit bolt upright. At first he couldn’t figure out where he was. The room was completely dark, but a gentle, indirect light was coming in through an open door. Slowly he made out the silhouette of a handrail, and, after a moment, he realized he was in the upstairs bedroom of his parents’ town house. The voices had to be coming from the hall and hearth room on the floor below. He flung back the soft covers and paused to look at his hand. It was still there. That was a good start. It was bandaged, and now that he looked at it, he decided it was throbbing and uncomfortable, but it didn’t really hurt. He made a tentative attempt at moving his fingers, but gave up; the bandages were too tight. He stood up, looked around for his himation, didn’t see it, and so continued on to the gallery naked. It was chilly but not really cold. He could see shadows moving, and he could hear the adults better.

  Leonidas was pacing back and forth and saying, “…The rich will pay for exemptions for their sons and raise them to be pampered sissies just like the Athenian dandies I saw! The next thing you know, they’ll be buying places in the Guard, and officer’s berths in the army―just like in Corinth and Athens, where wealth alone determines a man’s rank. In the end, there will be nothing left of what makes us who we are!”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Alkander said, “Leo, I know you feel very strongly about this, but you saw the condition Simonidas was in. What if he had waited another day or two? Not every boy in the agoge would have had the courage to demand to see a lochagos―nor have the good fortune to be given a hearing if they did.”

  “No, most boys would have gone to their fathers,” Hilaira pointed out, making the others―including Simonidas―catch their breath.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Alkander asked defensively. “Are you saying I’ve failed him in some way?”

  “Not failed him,” Hilaira equivocated, “but I think it is a very sad commentary when a boy in such straits went to a practical stranger.”

  “I’m hardly a stranger!” Leonidas protested, and Simonidas leaned over the railing and called down: “Mom, you don’t understand!”

  The adults instantly stepped out into the courtyard and looked up at him, all four of them―his parents, Leonidas, and Gorgo.

  Simonidas ran down the wooden stairs into the courtyard to fling himself into his father’s arms. Alkander clung to him for a moment, and then Simonidas freed himself and turned to his mother. “It’s only because of who Dad is. Because he’s a deputy headmaster. If I went to him it would be ratting.”

  “And going to one of the most powerful men in the city isn’t?” Hilaira asked in disbelief.

  Simonidas had not looked at it that way. Leonidas was just his father’s best friend, a man he had known all his life, a man he trusted. He tried to explain, “But, Mom, he can’t do anything to them. He has to go to the Paidonomos, but if I’d gone to Dad, then―then it would have been ratting.”

  The nine-year-old’s logic escaped the adults, but they were not inclined to argue with the little boy. Hilaira, noting he was naked, was more worried about him catching cold and wound him in her own shawl, while Gorgo suggested they go back to the fire.

  Simonidas took shameless advantage of the obvious concern of the two women to declare that he was starving. He asked his mother if they didn’t have “real” (meaning white) bread and asked Gorgo if she’d brought any sweets. The women shooed him indulgently toward the hearth, leaving the two men behind, arguing. “Leo, we’ve been through this before: we aren’t equals, and no amount of making us wear the same clothes and suffer the same indignities as children will change that.”

  “It’s not just about being equals,” Leonidas countered. “The agoge is about giving every boy the same start in life. It is the best means to teach all boys about our history and our laws, to teach the songs we sing, the way we honor the Gods―our ethos. And it is a good education, Alkander! Have you never talked to Ibanolis? He spent twenty years in Athens and swears that what we teach here is far more valuable. He says we make philosophers, not sophists. We value truth over argument, and prefer silence to specious discourse, whereas in Athens it is the reverse. In Athens they mocked him for being old-fashioned and provincial. They laughed at him for his accent and his clothes because, there, everything must be in the latest fashion. Athenian youth have no respect for age or wisdom.”

  “And you think our youth does?” Alkander asked incredulously. “You should hear what the boys say about Ibanolis behind his back! They are only polite to him to his face.”

  “Well, at least they are that. In other cities they are impudent and rude.”

  “At what price do we buy that hypocritical politeness? Simonidas almost lost his hand. Other boys are ruining their backs or their feet because they carry too much and walk too far―all out of fear. Fear of ridicule, fear of scorn, fear of not being accepted.”

  “Then someone isn’t doing their job! The eirenes are supposed to ensure that no serious harm comes to the boys.”

  “Not all eirenes are up to the job, and you know it! What if Brotus had been given a class of defenseless seven-year-olds?”

  “That’s what you and the other agoge officials are there to prevent.”

  “How in the name of Almighty Zeus can we do that when we have a power-hungry sadist as headmaster!” Alkander exploded. There was so much passion in his voice that the others, even the two women and Simonidas, turned to stare at him.

  Alkander broke away, ashamed of what he’d said in front of his son, crossed the courtyard, and went out into the street, the door clacking shut behind him.

  Leonidas looked at the shocked women, focusing on Hilaira.

  She shook her head. “You have no idea what it has been like since Alcidas took over, Leo. He’s to blame for this!” She indicated her son’s hand. “Technically, maybe, it was two other boys in the herd, but they only risked doing it because they were certain that their eirene would let them get away with it. And their eirene let them get away with it because he was too afraid of Alcidas to face him down!”

  “That can’t be!” Leonidas protested, and followed Alkander outside.

  He found him standing in the narrow alley staring at the stars.

  Alkander did not turn as
the door behind him creaked open and clacked shut. He knew it was his best friend. He just started speaking, while still gazing up at the stars. “Just last year at the Gymnopaedia I found myself talking to a stranger who, like most, was avidly interested in our agoge. I told him how free the boys were and how we teach them not to judge a man by what he wears. I explained how every citizen takes equal responsibility for all the boys, and how the boys share among themselves. Although I did not lie, it was not the truth either―because, in the end, education consists of teachers and pupils. It is all about individuals.”

  “Yes, of course,” Leonidas agreed, adding, “and institutions. Eirenes come and go, and so do instructors and headmasters, but the agoge itself is stronger than that.”

  Alkander turned on him and asked explosively, “Do you know what Alcidas did to the two youths who came to Temenos’ rescue? He had them flogged for attacking citizens. Four respected citizens all but killed one of their fellow citizens just because they don’t like the woman he’s sleeping with, but two youths who came to the aid of the victim were taken down to the pits and flogged as if they’d neglected their duties or committed sacrilege! Aristodemos dropped early, of course, not willing to suffer for something he’d been led into, but Eurytus had to be carried off unconscious. He was furious about a punishment that he felt was unjust.”

  The silence was tense. Then Leonidas asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What good would it have done? Alcidas has the right to order them flogged, and it is their right to decide how they will stand up to it. The problem isn’t one flogging or another, it is the cumulative impact of too many floggings, insults, and downright indifference to the welfare of the boys themselves. Yet another youth tried to run away this week. That’s three this year. I don’t remember anyone in our time even contemplating it, do you?”

  Leonidas shook his head.

  Alkander continued, “When we were growing up, we were told that we would never be punished without telling our side of it. Even when charges were brought against you by the Eurypontid king, you were given a chance to tell your side of the story.”

  “It would have done me no good if you hadn’t spoken up for me,” Leonidas reminded Alkander. He would never forget that this was the start of their friendship.

  “That’s the point, Leo! We were just two―what were we? Ten-year-olds?―and me a notorious stutterer always in the place of dishonor, but when I said you were telling the truth and a priest and king were lying, Epidydes believed us. He dismissed the charges. Alcidas lets the boys tell their version of things, but he doesn’t listen to them. They might as well be speaking to a stone wall. Formal protections that are not lived are worthless. Most boys, and particularly the eirenes, have given up expecting any kind of fairness. They think the system is stacked against them, and they believe they are just expected to endure everything.”

  Leonidas was inwardly shaken. “A sense of justice is fundamental to respect for the law. If youth think they will be punished regardless of whether they are right or wrong, then they will grow up without any sense of right and wrong at all―only self-interest.”

  “Exactly,” Alkander agreed, gratified that Leonidas at least grasped the significance of what he’d said.

  Leonidas shook his head. “The agoge is the foundation of Spartan society. If it is in the wrong hands, future generations will be ruined.”

  “Yes,” Alkander agreed again, meeting his eye.

  “Come back inside. We can’t discuss this out here in the street.”

  Alkander turned and they went together back into the house, but they stopped in the courtyard just inside the door so they would not be heard by the others. The cheerful sound of the women and Simonidas chattering together filtered out of the hearth room with the soft light of the fire. Leonidas came to the only possible conclusion. “If Alcidas is that bad―”

  “He is!”

  “Then he has to be removed. The Gerousia must propose his dismissal and the Assembly must approve it.”

  Alkander nodded tensely. To seek the removal of his immediate superior smacked of insubordination, if not outright rebellion. It made Alkander suddenly nervous when he realized what he had done. He was a little afraid of his own courage, and his hands started sweating.

  “We will have to have concrete evidence of his misuse of power.”

  “Oh, Leo!” Alkander cried out in exasperation. “That’s just what we don’t have! Alcidas appears to do everything ‘by the book.’ He fulfills all the formal requirements, from inspecting barracks to daily eirene briefings―he just doesn’t give anyone a chance to disagree with him. You should hear the tone of voice he uses with the eirenes! Or the way he talks about them behind their backs! He has nothing but contempt for his charges, and they can sense that―but he doesn’t do anything you could charge him with in front of the full Assembly.”

  Leonidas thought about this for several seconds, and then decided. “Then we must go to Epidydes. If we can convince him that Alcidas is as bad as you say, and he introduces a motion against Alcidas, his word will be enough to sway virtually everyone who went through the agoge under his aegis. If Epidydes sticks by Alcidas, it will be impossible to find a majority, even in the Gerousia.”

  Alkander sighed. He hated politics precisely because it was always about “finding a majority” for things that ought to be simple common sense. And he hated politics because negotiations and building majorities were slow, uncertain processes. Politics took time, and he didn’t know how much longer he could endure Alcidas’ leadership. If it hadn’t been for his sons, he would have quit months ago.

  But what good was he doing his sons? Or any of them? No one under Alcidas’ control could do anything. Help had to come from outside, from the Gerousia. “Even if Epidydes were to turn against Alcidas, do you think you can find a majority in the Gerousia with Leotychidas presiding?” he asked his friend.

  “Leotychidas is planning to go to Aegina. The Athenians have talked him into going―or rather, made it worth his while. He’ll get no regulars, but will take volunteers. That means there will be no kings in Lacedaemon. Epidydes will only have to convince the other elected members―assuming we can convince him to take the lead on this.”

  Alkander nodded unhappily. It seemed such a frail hope in face of a situation he considered increasingly acute, but there seemed nothing more to say. He changed the subject, “What of these rumors that your brother has left Thessaly and is now making trouble in Arkadia?”

  It was Leonidas’ turn to sigh. “They are true.”

  Alkander was silent. If the mad king was in Arkadia stirring up trouble, then the question of his rightful successor would surface again soon. Too soon. Pleistarchos was still an infant. Alkander felt a chill run down his spine. If Brotus seized the Agiad throne, there would be no hope of replacing Alcidas, and the entire city would be in the hands of two utterly unscrupulous kings.

  “Who is going to lead the paeans, make the sacrifice, and crown the victor?” Gorgo asked her husband as she finished her toilette for the feast of Artemis Orthia.

  From the Sanctuary of Artemis of the Goats high up in the Taygetos, the procession of maidens, with their escort of troops carrying torches, would have started. The maidens were selected for their grace, beauty, and voices (Gorgo had never been among them), while escort duty was an accolade awarded the pentekostus that had most distinguished itself in the course of the previous year. The procession was by now winding its way down the lower flanks of the mountains toward the valley and the Temple of Artemis Orthia, where the annual ritual commemorating an ancient battle, in the form of mock combat between the sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds, would be staged.

  Conducting religious rituals such as this was traditionally the duty of the kings, not the elected officials. The kings were the high priests and the protectors of tradition, the symbols of continuity with the past, and the living link to the Gods through their divine ancestry. Traditionally, both kings sat on the thro
nes provided and together opened and closed the ritual―making the sacrifices, leading the opening and closing paeans, and most important, crowning the victor. Traditionally, the Agiad king opened and the Eurypontid king closed the ceremonies. When one king was absent, the other performed both the opening and closing rituals.

  But Cleomenes was still in self-imposed exile and Leotychidas was in Aegina with an all-volunteer force, “restoring order” against the will of the population. Thus, although Sparta had three kings (if one counted the deposed but possibly legitimate Demaratus), there was none in Sparta to perform the ritual duties.

  “I’m sure the ephors will have come up with a solution,” Leonidas answered his wife, gesturing to Meander, who had just appeared at the door. Addressing the young man a little impatiently, he ordered, “Help me with my hair. We’re running late.”

  Meander was already dressed in leather armor and greaves over a fresh, clean sleeveless chiton. He promptly took Leonidas’ bone comb from the dresser and set to work combing out his shoulder-length hair, asking as he did so, “Do you mind if I join my brother for the festival, sir?”

  Meander’s brother Aristodemos was now a meleirene, but for years Aristodemos had scorned Meander’s company, ashamed to be seen with a non-citizen, a mere attendant. It was because of his thanklessness to his elder brother that Leonidas had long held a low opinion of Aristodemos. Leonidas turned to look questioningly at Meander.

  “He asked me to, sir,” Meander said, not without a mix of pride and embarrassment.

  “If that’s what you want,” Leonidas agreed in a tone that suggested skepticism, before adding, “Now, better hurry with my braids, or we’ll be late.”

  “Do you want them straight or diagonal?”

  “Straight, of course. I’m not one of Dienekes’ rakes.”

  Gorgo had been waiting patiently throughout this exchange, but now she remarked as if casually, “I wouldn’t trust this crop of ephors to make any decision that is very sensible.”