At the sight of Phormio, Gorgo’s panic dissolved. The plump perioikoi did not look like a man bearing bad news. He had come in his chariot, evidently to take part in the funeral procession, and his wife was beside him, dressed in a glamorous black himation studded with pearls and silver beads.
The perioikoi steward was smiling broadly. “I thought I should drop by and assure you that all is well,” he explained, letting himself down from the chariot with an unconscious grunt and coming forward to take both of Gorgo’s hands. “The boy’s no trouble at all,” he murmured in a low voice, as if he didn’t want even his wife to hear. “My daughter-in-law assures me he is a very good boy.”
“Which is more than I can say for his sister,” Gorgo admitted, with a sigh of relief and a glance over her shoulder at the upstairs windows of the house, from which Agiatis’ enraged protests could still be heard.
Phormio looked intently at Gorgo and could see worry and sleeplessness written all over her face. He had come to remind her of perioikoi interests, but at the sight of her he could not bring himself to voice them. The poor girl, he thought, had enough worries―although he’d expected her to look better now that the Persian threat was banished. Then he had another thought. “You have heard the news of Marathon, haven’t you?”
“What news?” Gorgo asked, instantly alarmed again.
Phormio calmed her with a wide smile. “The Athenians routed the Persians completely! My sources said something―probably greatly exaggerated―about six thousand Persian dead for just two hundred Greeks. But regardless of details, there can be no doubt that the Persians have withdrawn. Their fleet was last seen heading for Mykonos. Your husband may already be on his way home with the whole army at his back.”
Gorgo caught her breath and looked up at him hopefully. “Is that true? You’re sure of it?”
“Not a doubt. The battle took place four days ago. Did no one tell you this?” Phormio asked anxiously, realizing that something was very wrong if this important information had not been delivered to Gorgo.
“No,” she answered simply, instantly understanding that Brotus must have withheld the information. She felt as if she could hardly breathe. She was suffocating under her black himation, which seemed to absorb and magnify the almost unbearable heat of the summer sun. She could feel sweat trickling down between her breasts and under her arms. She ought to be overjoyed that Leonidas was out of danger, but she could not afford the luxury of joy: if Brotus knew Leonidas was alive and was returning, he would be compelled to act sooner and more forcefully. Brotus didn’t have any choice but to lay claim to the throne today. He had to seize power at once, and confront Leonidas with a fait accompli. Gorgo could see that, but she couldn’t see how she could stop him.
“Are you all right?” Phormio asked solicitously.
“I must go to Sparta,” Gorgo answered, turning to mount her own waiting chariot, but she had moved too abruptly in the heat. The world started to sway unnaturally.
Phormio caught her. “Steady. Sit down for a moment. Catch your breath.”
Gorgo got hold of herself again and shook her head. “I must get to Sparta,” she repeated.
The road was so crowded that they moved at walking pace, and things only got worse in the city itself. It was much more congested here even than during the major holidays. Gorgo remembered hearing that almost ten thousand people had attended her grandfather’s funeral, and that was thirty years ago; the population of Lacedaemon had grown since.
As they approached the Agiad royal palace, not only did the crowd become denser, but many of the women were keening and hitting their foreheads as well, in the prescribed gestures of grief. The drummers that had carried the word of the king’s death to the borders of Lacedaemon now flanked Herakles Square, beating in slow unison. Their deep, resonant pounding provided a counterpoint to the keening of the mourners.
Yet it was the sight of the boys and youths of the agoge that struck Gorgo most forcefully. They were all in black and collected by unit along the processional route. Despite the obvious excitement of the younger boys, a surprising solemnity and dignity had gripped the youths. Even the little boys knew they were witnessing history. It was a generation since Sparta had last buried a king, and only full citizens were old enough to remember that event.
On the front steps of the royal palace, the Guard was drawn up three hundred strong. They too wore black chitons under their blackened armor, and their helmets were pulled down over their faces. Gorgo looked for Dienekes but could not find him. They all looked the same, and she shuddered; she knew that at least one company sided with Brotus.
The funeral procession was forming up in the alley beside the palace. Gorgo joined her mother and grandmother, turning the chariot over to the palace grooms. Her mother wore her veil completely over her face. She grabbed Gorgo’s arm and hissed, “So! You have just given up. Abandoned everything to Brotus! I should have known!” But then she clung to Gorgo’s arm as if she could not stand up without it.
Gorgo glanced at her grandmother. Chilonis just nodded briefly. She looked even worse than Gorgo felt. She looked like a living corpse, and Gorgo felt a flash of guilt for leaving her here to deal alone with the mutilated body of her only son and his hysterical wife.
The palace steward approached Gorgo. “My lady? May we proceed?”
“Yes, of course,” Gorgo assured him.
He disappeared again. The drums started beating faster and faster until they sounded like galloping cavalry. From the front door of the royal palace, between the rows of guards, the bier emerged. Her father’s body had been skillfully wrapped in a purple shroud that exposed his face and torso, encased in armor, but hid the hideous, self-inflicted wounds. Gorgo got only a glimpse of her father’s face, but it appeared remarkably relaxed and peaceful in death. The bier was carried by the six youngest Council members. The rest of the Gerousia and three ephors followed in two files.
Then came Brotus.
Gorgo had expected it, but it still made her blood boil. He was dressed, like everyone else, in black, but it was black accented with gold. Gold framed his greaves and his breastplate, the latter evidently purchased for this occasion. Gorgo didn’t get a good enough look to be sure, but she thought the gold figures on the black background showed a man strangling a lion. This scene ostensibly depicted Herakles killing the Nemean lion, but it was, she thought, intended to symbolize Brotus defeating Leonidas. Yet by far the worst aspect of his attire was that he was wearing a cross-crested helmet. Such a helmet was reserved for Sparta’s kings, and it was the most prestigious of all royal symbols because it was the symbol a Spartan king wore in his most important function: as commander of Sparta’s army.
Gorgo heard her mother suck in her breath and then spit out, “What did I tell you?”
The funeral procession started forward at a solemn pace set by the drums, which had slowed again to a solemn march. Behind the family came the Guard and then the Spartiates, followed by the perioikoi, and finally the helots, who formed the long tail of the procession.
The procession wound its way through the city past the most important temples―the Bronze-House Athena, Poseidon of the Family, Zeus and Athena of Counsel, the Argive Hera, Helen’s Sanctuary, Alkman’s Grave, the Horse-Breeding Poseidon, Kassandra’s Sanctuary, Kastor’s Grave, the Olympian Aphrodite, Zeus of the Trophy, and more―every one, it seemed, but the Menelaion and Apollo at Amyclae. It took almost two hours to complete the route, with the keening and the drumming never letting up for a moment. Gorgo had a headache and her mother was limping by the time they finally arrived at the Theomelida, the tombs of the Agiad kings.
The priests were waiting here with a pure white steer, heavily tethered and held by two burly helots. The steer sensed danger and was not about to submit docilely. Gorgo’s first thought was that this did not bode well, but on second thought she wondered who had selected this bull. If Brotus stepped forward to make the sacrifice reserved for the new king, and the bull resisted….
T
he paean to Hades was struck up and sung by the assembled crowd. Silence fell. The bier was carried inside the mausoleum. The Council and ephors followed it inside. Brotus, then Cleomenes’ widow, mother, and daughter, followed the ephors. The corpse was set upon a marble slab and everyone filed past, taking their last leave before filing out again in the same order. Gorgo’s mother let go of her arm and stood staring at her husband’s corpse. The Council, ephors, and Brotus were already out the door. Gorgo gently began to urge her mother to move on.
She was gripped from behind by a powerful arm. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand was clamped over her mouth, silencing her. She made a desperate attempt to break free, but hot breath and a familiar voice spoke into her ear. “Relax. It’s me.”
She twisted around to stare into her husband’s face. He removed his hand and replaced it with his lips. Then he took her hand and led her out of the mausoleum, right past her mother, who was still communing with her husband’s corpse.
They emerged just as Brotus stepped forward to dispatch the still struggling bull. Leonidas dropped Gorgo’s hand and reached out to grasp Brotus’ arm before he could raise it. An exclamation of excitement and amazement ran through the crowd like a sudden squall of wind. “Don’t you think we should do this together, twin?” Leonidas asked, in a voice that carried far out into the crowd.
Brotus looked as if he were seeing a ghost. He could only stare at Leonidas as if it couldn’t be true. His surprise was so complete that his strength temporarily failed him. Leonidas put his hand over Brotus’ and led it to the sacrificial kill.
“And nobody knows what the Council is going to propose today?” Leonidas pressed Alkander. His friend had come to collect him for the extraordinary Assembly marking the end of the ten days of official mourning for King Cleomenes.
Alkander shook his head. “They were still in session when I drove through the city on the way here.”
“They sat through the night?”
“Yes.”
Leonidas drew a deep breath and turned to help Gorgo into the chariot. They exchanged a glance. Then Leonidas glanced over his shoulder and up at the balcony over the front porch where his children were: Pleistarchos in Laodice’s arms and Agiatis holding Chryse’s hand. It crossed his mind that his children would be safer if Brotus were declared king; as king, Brotus would have no reason to fear them. But this wasn’t about what was good for him and his family; it was about Sparta and Lacedaemon….
The sight of the two helot women, however, reminded Alkander of Crius. “Did you ever find out what happened to Crius?” he asked Leonidas, as he took up the reins of the chariot to drive his friend into the city.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Leonidas asked back. “We found the body―but not the head.”
“Murdered?”
“Obviously―and not by common thieves. The Agiad ring was still on him, along with the five drachma Gorgo had given him to cover his expenses. The murderer was so intent on silencing him that he didn’t even bother to look for valuables.” As he spoke, Leonidas unconsciously stroked the lapis lazuli ring, set in heavy gold, that had been a symbol of the Agiad kings for a century or more. He wore it on his own right hand. “It was Brotus’ work, we can be sure, but as with his other murders, I have no evidence.” Leonidas’ expression was grim, almost defeated.
Alkander felt compelled to point out, “Support for Brotus has been crumbling ever since your return. The story that he dropped his sword and shield in the middle of the assault on the Argive camp during the recapture of Kythera hurt him badly, too. Even Euragoras, a staunch supporter of Brotus up to now, couldn’t stomach the thought of taking orders from a man who would put his lust ahead of his military duty. Many men feel like that.”
Leonidas glanced sidelong at Alkander. “Funny, isn’t it, that Kleta turned up in Sparta for the first time in sixteen years just when the issue of the succession was being debated?”
“She came to pay her respects to your brother, as the head of her household.”
“Of course … and then just happened to start talking about something that she has been ashamed to tell all her life.”
“Not exactly,” Alkander admitted.
“Do tell me more,” Leonidas urged.
“Dienekes was the one who came upon Brotus in the tent. He interrupted the rape and booted Brotus out. That’s the main reason Dienekes has opposed Brotus for decades. But for all his other virtues, Dienekes is not the most eloquent of speakers. Besides, he’s been so hostile to Brotus in recent years that some people questioned his motives, claiming he had made up the whole story just to discredit Brotus.”
“And Kleta was viewed as less biased?” Leonidas asked skeptically.
“Not less biased, perhaps, but her testimony was too vivid to be discounted.”
“So Nikostratos and Sperchias told me ….” Leonidas hesitated and with a glance at his wife added, “She arrived looking like a modest matron, humble and shy, and then bared her breasts to the entire Council, showing the alpha carved into her flesh by the Argives. She described the attempted rape, including lurid details that shook the Council, Nikostratos claims.”
“Including a vivid description of Brotus,” Alkander added.
“Yes,” Leonidas agreed with a glance at Alkander. “Just where did Kleta stay, by the way, when she came to Sparta?”
“At our kleros, of course,” Alkander admitted readily. “After all, Hilaira was instrumental in convincing you to get her released after Brotus had her arrested for soliciting. She was happy to host Kleta, and Kleta felt safe and comfortable with us.”
“I can imagine,” Leonidas agreed with a knowing nod.
Gorgo looked from her husband to his best friend and back again. She didn’t quite understand the tension between them.
“And nobody mentioned that Brotus never removed his helmet during the attempted rape?” Leonidas wanted to know.
“How do you know that?” Alkander asked, astonished.
“That’s what Kleta told Laodice―that she didn’t know and couldn’t identify the Spartan who had tried to rape her.”
“But Dienekes recognized him―and Kleta could describe him because of the later encounter.”
Leonidas nodded again. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Alkander decided it was time to confess. “We located your wet nurse.”
“Dido?” Leonidas looked over sharply. He had been paying her a pension for years, but she was old and ill. He did not want her dragged into this. After all, all she could possibly do was confirm that Brotus was the elder twin.
Alkander hesitated and then admitted, “Unfortunately, Dido is dead. She died several years ago.”
“But I’ve been paying a pension―”
“To her cousin Polyxo, so it wouldn’t fall into the hands of Dido’s unscrupulous sons. Polyxo didn’t see any reason to put an end to that welcome stream of income just because its intended recipient was gone….”
Leonidas thought about that a moment. He couldn’t particularly blame the old helot woman for pocketing Dido’s pension. After all, Brotus had never thought to send her anything. But it also meant that the only witness to his birth was inexorably biased in favor of Brotus. The hopes he’d surreptitiously harbored about claiming the throne for himself were fading fast.
When they reached the bridge over the Eurotas, the streets were full of citizens dressed for Assembly. Leonidas asked Alkander to see to the chariot and then to take Gorgo to the Canopy, while Leo went to Kastor’s tomb.
Leonidas had brought a special offering this time, rather than the usual produce from his kleros. Stopping just inside the entrance, he fished in the leather pouch that hung at his right hip and removed a beautiful brooch of jade and coral. It had belonged to one of the Persians who fought at Marathon. Miltiades had handed it over to Leonidas when they parted, “as a remembrance.” Leonidas approached the altar and laid the brooch upon it. Then he stood in front of the smiling figure of the young demigod
and took a deep breath. “Kastor, help me today, and I will dedicate the rest of my life to Lacedaemon.” Was that enough? Shouldn’t he be doing that anyway? He added, “The Persians will be back. We cannot fight them alone. Lacedaemon has to act in concert with Athens and our allies. We need the support of perioikoi and helot both. We need a fleet. We need all the men who have lost their citizenship because their land is marginal and they cannot pay their syssitia fees, and we need their sons, too. Lacedaemon cannot afford a king like Brotus―selfish, brutal, bigoted, and blind. Whatever the Council proposes, give me the words to sway the Assembly today so that Brotus does not become our next king.” He stopped there, short of asking for the crown himself. He still could not overcome his reluctance to ask for something that wasn’t his.
The Canopy was packed to overflowing. From the look of things, every citizen who was not absolutely bedridden had obeyed the summons―and that meant close to eight thousand men, many of whom had brought their wives with them. Sparta’s citizens were standing nearly as close together as in a phalanx, as the men at the back pushed forward as far as they could to ensure they could hear when the proceedings started.
Brotus and his wife Sinope stood at the very front with a large body of supporters around them. Brotus was wearing his new armor, which depicted Herakles slaying a lion. Don’t count on it, Leonidas thought to himself belligerently, but he noted that Brotus looked very self-assured and relaxed, while his wife looked outright haughty. Although she scorned jewelry, she was wearing a peplos in vivid purple with crisp white trim that was ostentatiously regal. Gorgo looked modest by comparison, although she was wearing a jade necklace and earrings as well as bronze bracelets her father had once given her. She, too, was standing in the front row, beside Alkander. She took Leonidas’ hand as he joined her, her face strained. She was afraid, and her fear gave him new determination.
The Council and ephors took their places facing the Assembly. Leonidas tried to read Nikostratos’ face, but his mentor only looked tired. Kyranios looked even worse, while Sperchias looked nervous. Not good. A glance at Leotychidas and Lysimachos, however, revealed that his enemies looked hardly any better. Leotychidas looked dazed, and Lysimachos was frowning furiously.
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