A Heroic King

by Helena P. Schrader

  Chilonis sat beside her husband and he gave her one of his hands, which she took in both of hers. It was she who said, “You’re going to have to move soon, Leo. Brotus left in a bad temper, surrounded by his faction. He looked like he was intent on murder.”

  “I know―but that is hardly anything new,” Leonidas dismissed her concerns.

  “Unless my son returns very shortly, Brotus will make his move,” Chilonis warned. “Polypeithes is going to introduce a motion to depose my son for abandoning his post.”

  “That won’t wash,” Leonidas assured her. “The kings are not enrolled in the army and do not need permission to leave Lacedaemon. If they move against Cleomenes, they’ll have to move against Leotychidas and Demaratus, too.”

  “Don’t be so sure they won’t,” Nikostratos warned, a slight frown drawing his brows together. “You should have heard what was being said in the crowd today. More than one person pointed out that the original kings were descended from twins, and that since both Eurypontids have discredited themselves, it might be wise to elect both you and Brotus king.”

  “Me and Brotus―permanently at each others’ throats?”

  “Your hostility is hardly worse than that between Cleomenes and Demaratus,” Nikostratos pointed out.

  “It would stop Brotus from having an interest in killing our son,” Gorgo reasoned.

  “Come! Sit down with us,” Nikostratos ordered Leonidas and Gorgo.

  Gorgo willingly sat beside her grandmother, but Leonidas complained, “I need to get out of this armor first. It’s doesn’t fit and it chafes under my arms.” Maron, who had been standing in the background feeling out of place and lost, at once sprang forward. “Can I help, sir?”

  Leonidas nodded with relief and lifted his arms so Maron could unlatch the casing. Before Maron could finish, however, Agiatis came running around the corner of the house and flung herself into her father’s arms.

  “Daddy, Daddy! Did you hear us singing? Aunt Hilaira says we can have a bonfire tonight. Why were you so late?”

  Leonidas ignored her questions, which were unending and never seemed to need answers anyway, and admonished her to wait for him to get out of his breastplate. This drew her attention to Maron. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “That is Maron, son of Orsiphantus.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “I invited him. His father was killed when he was a little boy.”

  “Doesn’t he have any sisters or brothers?” Agiatis asked, looking up at Maron with big eyes.

  “He has a younger brother, who is very sick and in the infirmary, so I asked him to join us. If that is all right with you, madam?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s fine. I better introduce you to the others,” Agiatis decided, taking Maron by the hand. Maron cast Leonidas a questioning look, and Leonidas nodded for him to go. Then he turned to Chilonis as he sank down on the bench and asked, “Was Gorgo like that?”

  “Sometimes. Gorgo listened more than that one does.”

  They all watched the odd pair as Agiatis solemnly introduced the shy Maron to one person after another. Then Nikostratos stamped with his cane on the earth and asked Leonidas: “So, young man, what is your next move?”

  “I’m going to bring charges against Alcidas, whether Epidydes backs me or not, and I am going to bring him down.”

  “You’ll make enemies,” Nikostratos warned. “Just like you did by attacking Bulis and the other guardsmen who beat up Temenos.”

  “Not really,” Gorgo declared, with so much conviction that the others turned to look at her expectantly. “Never underestimate the power of Spartan mothers, especially when they are protecting their young. They know what has been going on, and they have long been frustrated by the reluctance of their husbands to act. Leonidas has more to win than to lose in this fight.”

  “Have you been talking to other women?” Leonidas asked, astonished.

  “Of course. Ever since the incident with Simonidas, Hilaira and I have both been talking to the mothers of other boys in the agoge. They know what has been going on, and they are angry―not least at their husbands, who are afraid to speak up.”

  “Don’t be so harsh on them, child,” Nikostratos urged. “A man who got up in Assembly and complained that his son was being treated too harshly would only harvest scorn. No one would give him time to explain himself. And much as I hate to say this, the situation is only aggravated by Alkander being Alcidas’ opponent. People remember he had a terrible time in the agoge himself and don’t want to side with a former stutterer.”

  “Which is all the more reason that Leonidas can profit from the situation,” Gorgo insisted unabashedly. “He thrived in the agoge, and his own son is years away from enrollment. If Leonidas puts himself at the head of the movement against the hated Alcidas, he will win support from people who up to now have been completely disinterested or neutral in his rivalry with Brotus.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE LIMITS OF DIPLOMACY

  “AND THIS IS IT?” THE PERSIAN interpreter Zopyrus asked incredulously. “This is Sparta?” He looked around, baffled, as his chariot drew up in front of a modest whitewashed building with a sober portico on a pleasant, but far from grandiose, square.

  Zopyrus was the official translator of a Persian diplomatic mission sent to Lacedaemon by the Great King. His mother had been the daughter of Aristagoras, who had been married by her father to a Persian satrap in the years when he was still currying favor with the Persians. Zopyrus had learned Greek from her and the nanny she brought with her.

  But Zopyrus was also one of Persia’s most successful cavalry commanders. He had risen high and fast in the Great King’s service after saving the life of his commander, the Great King’s son Masistius, during the dreadful storm that destroyed so many troop transports during the last expedition against Greece. Masistius had arranged Zopyrus’ current assignment with the ulterior motive of giving a trusted cavalry commander the opportunity to get a closer look at the Spartan army.

  “King Demaratus is making all sorts of wild claims about the Spartans,” Masistius had scoffed. “He says the Spartans are more disciplined than the Immortals and can outmarch and outmaneuver any army in the world. I’m no fool,” Masistius had remarked. “They have no cavalry, and even if their foot soldiers are exceptionally good, they are no match for us. After all, they were defeated by Samos and humiliated by Athens. But I want a soldier―not just diplomats―to take a closer look at them.”

  Zopyrus had not been disinclined to take on the task. This was an opportunity to increase his reputation and standing. Furthermore, it was clear the Great King had no intention of abandoning his plans to teach the mainland Greeks a lesson just because he’d lost three hundred ships and ten thousand men during his last expedition against Athens and Euboea. The ships were already being replaced in the countless shipyards of the Levant, while conscripts were being called up from all corners of the Empire. Zopyrus believed there would be war with the Greeks sooner rather than later, and it could only help to have seen the enemy up close.

  Besides, traveling with a diplomatic mission meant traveling in comfort. Altogether they had a convoy of over twenty wagons and fifteen camels packed with their wardrobes, bedding, furnishings, cooking utensils, games, hunting dogs, horses, slaves, and women.

  Traveling in easy stages, it had taken four months to reach their destination, and Zopyrus had been looking forward to staying in one place for a month or more. Now that he was here, however, he found Sparta so disappointing that he was no longer certain he wanted to stay for long.

  There was no denying that the capital of Lacedaemon lay in beautiful surroundings. It sat cupped in the hands of a fertile valley enclosed on three sides by mountains. The majestic peaks of Taygetos rose up to the west, and the Parnon range provided protection to the east. The two ranges met in the north so that as the Persian convoy worked its way up from the port of Gytheon on the Gulf of Laconia toward the city, the valley narrowed more and
more.

  But Sparta itself made no sense to Zopyrus. Throughout the rest of the known world, cities were surrounded by massive walls. In the more primitive countries, these might be little more than mounds of earth surrounded by ditches, but in the more civilized parts of the world, the walls were of quarried stone and fired brick. Major cities often had walls twenty yards thick and fifty yards high, strengthened with towers that stood even higher, and many walls nowadays were faced with polished stone or glazed tiles. While more prosperous cities often spread beyond their walls, so that dwellings, stalls, shops, and other semi-urban structures cluttered the surrounding countryside in ever greater density, all the important civic buildings and palaces of every metropolis Zopyrus had seen up to now lay behind defensible walls with ramparts and fortified gates manned by soldiers.

  Sparta was different. It had hundreds of temples, shrines, monuments, and public buildings. It had fountains, broad avenues, gymnasiums and palaestra, stoas and baths, and an amphitheater below the acropolis. It was undoubtedly urban, but because it had no walls, it seemed to sprawl across the plain as if some giant had spilled a basket full of buildings. It was haphazard. There was no urban planning. There was no gridwork of streets running at right angles to one another, and there was no logical organization into quarters for administration, trade, worship, finance, and dwelling. There wasn’t even any separation of rich and poor.

  Furthermore, the royal palaces were primitive. Rather than sitting above the city surrounded by gardens fed by streams and encased in high, glistening walls, they were located right in the heart of the city, crowded by other buildings that had grown up around them over time. They were too cramped to be comfortable or have pretty grounds, and they were completely indefensible. From what Zopyrus could see during their initial drive through the city to the official guest house, the royal palaces were not significantly bigger or grander than his own house. Kings such as these hardly deserved the title at all, Zopyrus concluded, and his opinion of Demaratus fell even further.

  It was now three days since the Persian emissaries had been officially received in Gytheon by a representative of the Spartan kings. (Zopyrus had not been able to comprehend which one exactly, because the emissary kept referring to “the Spartans,” as if the people and not the kings controlled affairs.) They had taken two days to travel up from the coast, and on arrival in this curious city had been escorted to an official guest house. There the Persian party had unpacked, settled in, and refreshed themselves from their journey for a day before now, at the appointed time, two officials arrived to escort them to the kings for the presentation of their credentials.

  Meticulously observing protocol, Zopyrus waited for the two ambassadors, dressed in magnificent silk robes embroidered with gold and silver thread and studded with precious stones, to dismount from their state chariots and start up the stairs to a rather squat old building with a portico, before following in their wake.

  The Persians proceeded through the columns fronting the broad porch of the modest building and passed two young soldiers in black chitons under leather armor (who looked smart but not exceptional to Zopyrus) into the inner room. Here they found themselves in the center of a chamber with four tiers of stone steps (or seats) on three sides and five throne-like chairs carved in stone in front of them. Two other similar chairs stood several meters inside and on either side of the entryway, facing the line of five chairs. These two chairs were empty, while the five seats facing the entryway were occupied.

  The five men in the five seats rose as the ambassadors approached. They were dressed very similarly, in short red chitons under white linen corselets with a border composed of repeating lambdas. They had red himations draped around their torsos or hanging down their backs. They had cropped beards that barely covered their faces and were not long enough to curl, braid, or otherwise decorate. Their head hair, in contrast, was braided in rows from the forehead to the back of the head, where it hung down in several braids tied at the ends with bronze or ivory clips or silver wires. The men all wore swords, but no greaves or helmets.

  The ambassadors bowed graciously to these curious-looking men and announced that they had come with a message from the Great King, listing his various titles, for the Kings of Sparta. Zopyrus duly translated the message into Greek.

  The man in the middle welcomed the ambassadors, announced that he and his four colleagues were the officials of the city tasked with receiving ambassadors, and invited the Persians to deliver their credentials and their message. Zopyrus translated this astonishing reply.

  The two ambassadors were more than astonished―they were insulted. They told Zopyrus in no uncertain terms that they were personal emissaries of the Great King, and as such they expected to deliver their message personally. It was impossible to give a personal message from the Great King himself to minor officials!

  Zopyrus tried to convey both the message and the outrage of the ambassadors, but the Spartans considered him as if they were five fish, without a trace of emotion or understanding. When he finished, they stubbornly insisted that they were responsible for receiving ambassadors.

  Offended, the Persian ambassadors replied that they would not talk to mere “slaves” and again demanded an audience with the Spartan kings. When the Spartan officials again refused, the Persian ambassadors withdrew in dignified haste.

  Back at the guesthouse, Zopyrus requested permission to explore the town and see what he could see on his own, but the senior ambassador, Tisibazus, forbade him. “It would be inappropriate,” Tisibazus admonished the impatient cavalry officer, “for any of us to be seen walking about until we have presented our credentials to the Spartan kings.”

  This ritual repeated itself three days in a row, but on the fourth day the Spartans agreed that the two kings could be present at the meeting the following day. So on the fifth day, when the Persians returned again at the appointed time, they found not only the five men who had received them before, but two men seated in the other two chairs as well.

  The men in the two chairs facing the five officials were not crowned in any way, but they wore armor. One was stocky and dark, his hair already flecked with gray, and his armor embossed with elaborate battle scenes. The other was taller, fairer, and wore ancient armor decorated with coils on the breasts. They both wore heavy bronze bracelets on their forearms, and the darker man had a sword hilt set with stones. Although neither could be compared to even lesser noblemen at the Great King’s court, there seemed little doubt that these were Sparta’s (pitiful) kings.

  The Persians bowed to them, and Zopyrus was urged to inquire their identity.

  “We are the descendants of Herakles,” the lighter of the two answered, and Tisibazus nodded knowingly, noting in Persian to the ambassadors that the Spartan kings claimed their descent from this legendary hero. He then, at last, pulled his credentials from his long, flowing sleeves and handed them to Zopyrus to hand to the Spartan kings. For a moment Zopyrus was disconcerted because, with two kings, he did not know which took precedence. He decided to give the credentials to the man who looked older. Although this man snatched the scrolls eagerly and unrolled them, he then seemed confused, frowned, and shoved them at his companion. The fairer man accepted the scrolls, scanned them with his eyes, and then handed them back to Zopyrus with a nod before urging, “Deliver your message to the ephors. We are here at your request, but only as witnesses.”

  The Persians consulted and agreed to proceed. They carefully positioned themselves between the ephors and the kings so they could deliver their message without having their backs to either.

  Tisibazus was an eloquent man. Zopyrus felt his own Greek was not always up to the level necessary for a good translation. He found himself using some words over and over again, and he was frustrated that he could not seem to convey the message adequately. The Spartans listened, utterly expressionless.

  Tisibazus reminded the Spartans of the Great King’s many conquests, stressing both his great generosity to th
ose who submitted to his justice and his wrath with those who defied him. He spoke of the utter obliteration of the defiant Samians, and described vividly the crushing of the Ionian revolt. Three of the ephors appeared to have fallen asleep with their eyes open. Tisibazus realized he might have talked too long. He shortened his prepared speech slightly, coming to the point. “Athens and Eretrea―without cause or provocation―chose to attack the Great King. They burned and sacked his city of Sardis. They killed his soldiers and captured his ships. Yet the Great King has not punished them. He has―with infinite and truly sovereign restraint―sent ambassadors to these cities, just as he has sent us to you. All with a single purpose: to secure peace and end this senseless bloodshed unworthy of two civilized peoples. He begs you to come to your senses, to use reason rather than passion, as civilized peoples do. He begs you to accept his offer of peace, to bask in the sun of mutual prosperity―rather than call down the horrors of war upon your innocent wives and children.”

  Tisibazus paused. The Spartans sat, blinking like sun-bathing lizards. Tisibazus looked to Zopyrus in exasperation.

  Finally one of the Spartan officials, apparently more quick-witted than the rest, seemed to sense that the Persians were finished with their appeal. He asked, “The Great King is offering peace?”

  “Yes, exactly,” Tisibazus responded, as soon as Zopyrus had translated. He was relieved that at least one of these apparent idiots had grasped what he was saying.

  “But that’s what we already have,” the shorter, darker king burst out, scowling. “We are not at war with Persia.”