She was no longer alone. The exchange had attracted two other Spartiates. They were younger than the man who had spoken to Danei. The first, wearing a striped chiton and hair braided at a rakish angle, remarked, “You can take his word for it, young man. He knows what he’s talking about.”
“But―who was he, master?”
“That was Leonidas, the man who should be king of Sparta.”
Danei looked again in the direction in which the Spartan had disappeared, as if hoping he might re-emerge, but he did not. When Danei turned back, the other Spartiates, too, had faded into the crowd. Only the woman selling sweets was still there. “How many do you want?” she asked.
It was the filthy boys with their bare feet and shaved heads that Zopyrus found most repulsive. They were everywhere, and always in swarms―like locusts. Since they did no work, they could not be slaves, but they dressed too poorly to be the sons of noblemen. They were, he supposed, street urchins of some sort, although the numbers of them were quite astonishing. Zopyrus kept a hand on his purse whenever they came near him.
As for the women, also much in evidence, Zopyrus had been warned about them before his departure. He knew that many were the wives of citizens, and while he found it odd that men of standing allowed other men to see their wives, he soon realized it was not particularly risky. These women were strikingly unattractive―brown and muscular and direct. They would literally look a strange man straight in the eye on the open street! His youngest bride, in contrast, was so well brought up that she was still too shy to look him in the eye even in the privacy of their bedroom after almost a year in his harem. The mere thought of having one of these man-like women in his bed turned Zopyrus’ stomach. He was certain he would be impotent if forced into naked proximity with the creatures. He could not imagine how the Spartans procreated.
But Zopyrus had not come to Sparta to see either the children or the women, but the men. It frustrated him that except for the sentries guarding certain public buildings, he saw almost no soldiers. For a city in which allegedly every citizen was a soldier, this seemed very odd. In any provincial capital of Persia, let alone in Susa, soldiers of the Great King were prominently in evidence.
No sooner had the thought formed, however, than Zopyrus caught sight of a man leading a large dark-gray stallion. In the next instant he recognized him as one of the two kings. Zopyrus spurred forward to catch up with the man and jumped down from his stallion to bow politely. “Your Excellency and Magnificence! Accept my most humble greetings!”
The man stopped and looked at Zopyrus in astonishment and then remarked, “There is no need to address me like that.”
“Are you not one of Sparta’s kings?” Zopyrus asked, bewildered, looking up from his deep bow.
“No, I am his younger brother.”
“But you look―I could swear―” Zopyrus was certain he had made no mistake: this was the taller and fairer of the two kings.
“I am the younger of twins,” the man explained.
That explained everything, Zopyrus thought with relief. Although the man looked identical to one of the kings, he was dressed in simple but modern armor and wore no jewelry. That gave Zopyrus an idea. He measured the man in front of him only a second longer, and then with the instincts of a cavalry commander, plunged into the attack. “My lord, I have traveled almost half a year to come to Lacedaemon, and for hours now I have wandered the streets of your city, yet I cannot find what I am looking for.”
“What are you looking for?”
“The Spartan army.”
The king’s brother did not seem surprised. He nodded as if to himself and then offered, “If you come with me, I will show you the Spartan army, but you will be disappointed.”
“My lord, why do you say that?” Zopyrus asked, surprised.
“Because it is better than it looks.”
Zopyrus thought that was the excuse of everyone with something shoddy for sale, and his respect for this man―and the Spartan army―dropped correspondingly, but his curiosity was heightened nevertheless.
Meanwhile, the king’s brother had flung himself onto the back of his colt and indicated that Zopyrus should remount and come with him. Zopyrus was riding a fine-boned, high-strung black stallion that pranced and shied as he made his way through the city. Zopyrus’ bodyguard, a tall Nubian wearing a leopard-skin skirt and a necklace of shells on his naked torso, trailed them silently on foot. As Zopyrus fell in beside his Spartan guide, he took advantage of the situation. “Who are all these boys I see everywhere?”
“The sons of citizens in our public school,” the king’s brother answered.
“Sons of poor citizens, then?”
“Rich and poor.”
“Rich men let their sons run around like that?” Zopyrus asked, pointing in horror at a troop of boys just back from some outing that had left them muddy and sweaty.
“They are on their way to the river to clean up,” the king’s brother answered apologetically.
“But they are shaved and barefoot!”
“It does them no harm.”
“It demeans them.”
“No. A boy dressed like that cannot hide his fat, his wounds, or his bad character―like a rich boy can hide behind bright cloth.”
Zopyrus stared at the boys a moment more, but then shook his head and returned his attention to his guide. A closer look revealed that although his armor was not highly decorated it was of excellent workmanship, and the sleeves and skirt of the man’s chiton were beautifully woven flax with a fine border. His sandals were sturdy, his horse blanket thick and soft. All of these little things signaled wealth, but as a connoisseur of horseflesh, Zopyrus could not understand why a king’s brother rode an ugly, big-boned colt with oversized hooves.
They crossed a wide bridge, crowded this time of day with wagons coming and going, and reached the drill fields, where the king’s brother led them to a hillock that provided a relatively good view of the flat area used for training. Here he jumped down, and Zopyrus followed his example, handing the reins of his stallion to the black slave. The Spartan, in contrast, left his reins on the horse’s neck and let go. The cavalryman raised his eyebrows, because, as a horseman, he considered that foolish. As expected, the horse walked away in search of grazing material, but his master took no notice; he was pointing to the troops on the drill field.
“What you see at the moment are the Amyclaeon and Pitanate lochos. The Amyclaeons are practicing a relief maneuver, when a fresh unit replaces an exhausted front line, enabling the tired unit to pull back to tend wounds and refresh themselves. The Pitanates are the enemy―There! Did you see that?”
Zopyrus didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
“On the far right! Don’t you see? The line’s bending backward. The Amyclaeons didn’t get the wing reinforced fast enough, and the ‘enemy’ is turning the line. If they’re any good, the Pitanate will rapidly reinforce there and start rolling the defenders back. See! They’ve increased the depth to ten. Good.”
Zopyrus looked at the mass of men pressing against one another in a cloud of white dust and didn’t understand anything. This heaving mass of men pushing and shoving had nothing to do with war as he knew it. This was a war of ants, not men. Men rode into battle with their armor glinting and banners flying. They galloped forward with their bows raised, firing at the gallop as they circled their enemies. They clashed with their equals and fought like dancers, pirouetting around one another while their horses whinnied, mad with the smell of blood. Sabers flashed in the sunlight and turbans fluttered in the wind as they fought, man to man, in duels of courage and skill that could be seen and sung about for generations. No man of courage and breeding cowered behind a shield or hid himself in anonymity. Zopyrus shook his head in disgust and looked away.
The king’s brother smiled faintly before remarking, “I warned you. Shall we get out of the heat? Have you visited the Menelaion yet?”
Zopyrus agreed to the suggestion, asking as h
e snapped his fingers at his slave to bring up his horse, “Have you no cavalry?”
“The perioikoi provide mounted reconnaissance in the field,” the king’s brother answered, looking about for his horse, which had (predictably) wandered twenty yards away to nibble at the leaves of a tree.
“Do you have no chariot or mounted fighting troops?” Zopyrus persisted as he settled himself comfortably on the back of his stallion, feeling better as soon as he was remounted. He rarely walked when out of doors.
Rather than answering the question, the king’s brother put his fingers to his lips and whistled once. The errant horse stopped eating and looked over at him. He seemed to think for a moment before trotting back to his master, shaking his head low to the ground as if in protest. That was a neat trick, Zopyrus admitted mentally.
While waiting for the horse to arrive, the king’s brother pointed again to the drill field. “Look at that phalanx, sir. The one coming toward you. Do you have horses that could ride it down?”
Zopyrus looked at the phalanx. It was ten men deep and twenty men wide. The shields overlapped and the men had lowered their heads so that only their eyes and the crests of their helmets showed above the wall of bronze. The black crests of the helmets shivered in the breeze, but otherwise the line was as solid as a rock―a rock that advanced at a slow but steady pace. His stallion was already nervously swinging his haunches back and forth, unnerved by the advancing wall of bronze, which caught the sunlight and flashed irregularly.
“You’re welcome to try riding it down,” the king’s brother suggested.
Zopyrus glanced over at him hard. The Spartan’s gray colt was snuffling around his master’s shoulders, taking the Spartan’s long braids in his lips in affectionate playfulness―while the Spartan stood looking out at the drill fields, ignoring the horse altogether.
Zopyrus looked at the advancing phalanx again and tried to imagine riding against it. The Spartan was right. It would not be easy. Horses would shy, and even if a man got within range, it would be hard to do damage to men so well protected by heavy shields and bronze helmets. Certainly it would be difficult unless one had overwhelming superiority of numbers and could loosen the line with a barrage of arrows and javelins before pressing in for hand-to-hand combat. Still, Zopyrus thought, if they got in close enough, they would be able to wreak havoc. Men so cowardly that they had to crouch close together for comfort would be thrown into complete disarray as soon as their line was breached.
The king’s son flung himself up on the back of his horse, took up the reins, and smiled at Zopyrus. “Shall we charge it together and see who comes closer?”
Zopyrus already knew the answer. His nervous young stallion clearly wanted to flee in the opposite direction. He sweated and swung his haunches back and forth, searching for an opportunity to bolt. In contrast, the big gray the king’s brother rode seemed oblivious to the phalanx. Clearly he had been trained in proximity to the bronze men and knew better than to fear them. That said it all. The famous Spartan line could indeed be breached by cavalry―you just had to be sure you had the right horses and men.
Zopyrus smiled graciously and bowed his head to the king’s brother. “No, my lord. I know you would win, because your horse is familiar with a Spartan phalanx and mine is not. What price do you want for him?”
“For who?”
“Your horse, my lord,” Zopyrus replied with a smile.
The king’s brother smiled but shook his head. “He is not for sale.”
“I’ll give you ten gold pieces,” Zopyrus offered extravagantly. No horse was worth that much, but he wanted to both show that he could afford it and indicate he was not about to haggle. He wanted the horse.
“He’s not for sale,” the king’s brother repeated more firmly. He was no longer smiling.
“Twenty,” Zopyrus retorted. He hated being thwarted in anything, and he wanted to show he would have his way at any price.
“Sir, you could offer me the entire Persian treasury, and the answer would be the same. He is not for sale.”
“No horse is priceless,” Zopyrus scoffed.
“I did not say he was priceless; I said he was not for sale. I do not sell the things I love for any price.”
Zopyrus laughed. “You are a strange man. What did you say your name was?”
“Leonidas.”
“The Lion’s son. Do you not resent that your brother, your twin, is a king and you are given no honors? In Persia, the twin brother of the king would be the second greatest nobleman in the realm, with vast powers and riches.”
Leonidas smiled but replied earnestly, “In Persia, I do not believe the twin brother of the king would be allowed to live at all.”
Zopyrus was caught off guard by this perceptive remark. Although he had given it no thought until now, he realized that no king with absolute power could risk having a living twin.
Zopyrus’ curiosity was aroused. “Do you have many sons, Leonidas?”
“I have one son and one daughter.”
“Is that all?” Zopyrus was flabbergasted. Leonidas looked about forty years old, an age at which a Persian nobleman usually had scores of children.
“I lost two children in a fire,” Leonidas conceded, his face closed, and he quickly asked back, “And you?”
“I have seven sons by my wives and another nine by concubines.”
“And daughters?”
“I don’t keep track of them,” Zopyrus replied, dismissing the nuisances. Each female child was a wasted pregnancy and an added expense.
“You are a poor man.” Leonidas turned his horse around and started riding down from the hillock, his big horse on a loose rein.
“Poor?” Zopyrus’ temper flared, and he put his heels to his stallion so that with a leap he was beside Leonidas again. “You dare to call me poor when you ride around on a plow horse and have only one son?”
Leonidas pulled up and stared at the Persian. “Tell me, what was the first word your eldest son said?”
“How should I know?” Zopyrus dismissed the question irritably. “Nursery talk is for women and eunuchs. What matters is that I have seven legitimate sons who will carry on my line, and nine more that carry my blood. Furthermore, my newest wife will give sons of the Great King’s own blood! They will grow up to be great warriors!”
“I have a thousand boys who call me ‘father,’” Leonidas countered, “and each of them is being forged into a splendid soldier, but my son―and my daughter―have enriched me beyond measure with their smiles and temper tantrums and the trust in their eyes when I take them in my arms. You are a poor man, Persian, who has never known the joy of a little girl’s laugh or the peace of holding a sleeping infant in your arms.”
Zopyrus had no answer to this speech. It was incomprehensible to him. They were both speaking Greek, but they clearly did not understand each other.
“I have shown you what you came for. Is there anything more?”
“No,” Zopyrus told him irritably. “I’ve seen quite enough.”
“Good. Can you find your own way back?”
“Easily.”
The Spartan king’s brother bowed his head, turned his horse on his haunches, and was gone. The “plow” horse showed a burst of speed that left Zopyrus more annoyed than ever that he had not talked the Spartan into selling him. A good lesson, he told himself: the horse might be ugly, but it had strength and speed and uncanny intelligence.
For several minutes Zopyrus simmered with discontent, provoked by the man and his arrogance, but as his temper cooled, Zopyrus realized the encounter had been productive. He now knew that the Spartan army, because of its equipment and discipline, was a formidable force, but―he was certain―when attacked by well-trained and well-led heavy cavalry it would collapse quickly. More important, he had learned just how proud―arrogant, really―these Spartans were. They vastly overestimated both their prowess and their importance. They needed to be taught a lesson, he concluded, and Zopyrus found himself hoping the
y would be foolish enough to reject the Great King’s generous offer of peace. He looked forward to leading the cavalry that would shatter their line and trample these arrogant barbarians under the hooves of Persian horsemen.
Tisibazus sat absolutely still while the slaves fluttered around him like moths around a lantern. One slave was carefully outlining his eyes with a tiny pointed brush full of black ink, another was kneading oil into his long black curls in preparation for binding them at the back of his head, a third slave was finishing his pedicure, and a fourth stood ready with his ivory-and-gold decorated sandals.
Meanwhile, Zopyrus, already fully coifed and dressed, paced fractiously back and forth.
“You will never make a diplomat,” the older man observed, his eyes closed and his hands relaxed on the arms of his chair (which had been brought with them in the baggage train rather than risk his having to sit uncomfortably while visiting primitive countries such as Greece).
“Frankly, my lord, I do not want to be a diplomat, but a soldier. I’m the best rider in Persia—”
“Hush! Bragging is unbecoming,” the diplomat rebuked. Zopyrus, recognizing his error, bowed deeply to the older man. They had been told the Spartan Assembly was in session and to expect a decision by noon, but the sun was already past the apex now. Although the ambassadors remained confident that they would receive the tokens of submission, Zopyrus was beginning to hope that the Spartans really did so overestimate themselves that they would actually refuse to submit.
“What if the Spartans turn the Great King’s offer down?” Zopyrus asked.
“Tush!” Tisibazus dismissed the thought without moving, adding, “The preparations for war have not stopped even for a moment. If the Spartans refuse, they will be crushed. It is as simple as that.”
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