“Where did you recruit the crew of your penteconter?” Leonidas asked next.
“Oh, mostly in Skandia.”
“They’re Kytheran, not Aeginan?” the perioikoi captain asked, astonished.
“For the most part,” Eurybiades agreed, “maybe a third are Aeginan.”
“And where do you come in, Prokles?” Leonidas redirected attention to his old friend.
“Eurybiades and I met on that convoy to Byzantion and back.”
“You were with me on that?” Leonidas turned again to Eurybiades, shocked that he had not recognized someone who served with him on that fateful expedition.
“I was assigned to the Harmony. We hardly saw each other.”
“I showed Eurybiades Byzantion while you were with that Corinthian cripple,” Prokles added.
“Lychos,” Leonidas rebuked Prokles, “attacked a Phoenician trireme with his merchant ship.”
“Brave,” Prokles agreed with a nod, “but a cripple all the same―and too rich for my liking. He smelled of gold as bad as Croesus!”
“Eurybiades is not exactly poor,” Leonidas reflected, with a glance at the younger man.
Prokles shrugged, “But he smells of salt water and pitch.”
While they had been talking, the trireme had rounded the Dragoniden and was making for Skandia. The Kytheran port crouched along the shoreline, a jumble of whitewashed structures with pale tile roofs. Many of the buildings, particularly along the shorefront, were new; most of the town had been burned down by the Argives twenty years ago.
The high headland started to provide protection from the north wind, and the seas were beginning to calm. The trireme steadied, but below deck the rowing master prowled the gangway between the oar banks, calling out insults more than encouragement.
“Just how many helots do you think are going to last ten years on a trireme?” Prokles scoffed. “They’ll desert before half their time has run.”
“If they desert, they remain helots.”
“So what? If they jump ship in Memphis or Syracuse, who’s going to care what status they have here in Lacedaemon?”
“I’ll worry about that when Lacedaemonian triremes regularly call at Memphis and Syracuse,” Leonidas retorted, turning to Eurybiades. “And what do you think of the law, young man?”
“I agree with Prokles.”
That surprised Leonidas, because Eurybiades’ father had supported the law. He asked somewhat defensively, “Where else are we to get crews? There aren’t enough perioikoi.”
“I know. I meant we should free them sooner―not after ten years.”
“But then there will be no incentive to serve at all!” Leonidas protested.
Eurybiades shrugged. “Other cities man their ships with citizens. How can we expect equal service from men with only second-class rights?”
“The men who man Aegina’s oars don’t have the same rights as the men who command the ships, either,” Leonidas reminded him. Aegina’s oligarchy was small, even by Peloponnesian standards, and poorer citizens had fewer rights and status than perioikoi. “And Athenian thetes can’t even run for office!” Leonidas scoffed.
Eurybiades considered this a moment, but then he nodded. “True, but ten years is a long time to pull an oar ….”
“No longer than we are on active service,” Leonidas pointed out.
That made Eurybiades break into a smile as he answered provocatively, “And that seemed like forever!”
They laughed together, the two Spartiates who had served in the Spartan army, unconsciously excluding Prokles and the perioikoi around them. When their laughter faded, however, Leonidas turned to the perioikoi captain to ask, “What do you think?”
“About the helots, my lord?”
“Yes.”
The captain weighed his head from side to side, more cautious than the Spartiates about disagreeing with a king. “I said earlier today that it is hard to turn a farmer into a sailor. Half of them will never get the hang of it, really―they’ll be seasick every time we put to sea, and terrified in every gale. A man’s got to have the sea in him ….”
That was a different issue, so Leonidas let the topic drop. He turned instead to Prokles. “So, when are you coming home to Sparta to get your cloak and shield? Your exile ended at the winter solstice.”
“I’ve told you before, Leo. I’m not coming.”
Leonidas had not expected any other answer, but it still saddened him. “May I tell your family I saw you here?”
“Would you hide the fact if I asked you to?”
Leonidas thought about it and realized he would not. “No.”
“Then why ask?”
“Your mother is very ill. It would comfort her to see you alive.”
“Don’t try to pressure me, Leo,” Prokles warned, while the men around him stirred uneasily, angered by Prokles’ insolence to their king.
Leonidas again signaled for them to relax, and turned his attention to Eurybiades. “I regret that you are in Aeginan pay; I would rather have you serving Lacedaemon.”
Eurybiades did not hesitate for an instant. “Give me a ship, my lord, and you’ll find I can serve Lacedaemon very well―far better at sea than on land.”
Leonidas glanced at the perioikoi captain and then remarked, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Alkander caught a glimpse of himself in the face of a shield, and drew up short to look again. He looked middle-aged. His hairline was receding, his nose sharp, his throat creased with lines. If he stopped to count the years, it was only natural; he was forty-one. But how was it possible that he was forty-one? He didn’t feel forty-one. He didn’t feel like a man who had been out of the agoge longer than he had been in it. He still identified with the boys more than the “adults.”
He turned away from the shield and sank down on the heavy, throne-like chair that served as his seat of office. Alkander was deputy headmaster of the agoge with responsibility for the “little boys,” the boys aged seven to thirteen. In this austere office, furnished only with the chair, a table, a chest, and a bench against the wall, he directed the fate of roughly 350 boys. Here he worked out the lesson plans, gave instructions to instructors, listened to complaints from citizens, eirenes, and boys, and meted out punishment….
Alkander knew that many people, particularly Brotus and his cronies, believed he had been defeated and humiliated when Ephorus had been elected Paidonomos shortly after Leonidas became king. Indeed, he had felt humiliated when the votes were shouted out and so few had acclaimed his name compared to the loud roar in favor of Ephorus. Sperchias, so often defeated in his own ambition for public office, had met his eye with an unspoken “See how it feels?” But Alkander had long since come to terms with his defeat.
Hilaira had been the first to point out the advantages of his situation. As Paidonomos, she reminded him, he would have been an elected official, subject to public censure. As the deputy headmaster appointed by Ephorus, he answered to Ephorus alone. Ephorus was a sensible man, one who did not feel compelled to say no to sensible ideas just because they originated from a subordinate or because they differed from the way things had been when he was a boy. Furthermore, he’d been Alkander’s herd leader when they were boys, and he’d won Olympic laurels as a young man. As a result, he felt himself so inherently superior to Alkander, the former stutterer, that he did not feel threatened by him―certainly not after Alkander’s resounding electoral defeat. In short, Ephorus patronized Alkander, generously giving him a free hand―and taking credit for his successes.
Leonidas had argued the advantages of Ephorus’ election differently; he told Alkander that Ephorus was his “shield.” Noting that Ephorus was widely seen as independent of Leonidas but popular for his own tangible successes, Leonidas claimed that Ephorus deflected criticism from Alkander. “Let them think they have defeated us, and that by holding fast to Ephorus they are keeping us down,” Leonidas reasoned.
Alkander, however, had come to see the advantages of his non-e
lection in the fact that Ephorus was biased in favor of the eirenes and meleirenes. He left the “little boys” entirely in Alkander’s care largely because he didn’t care about them. He did not have any particular ideas of his own about how they should be raised or what they should learn. He approved Alkander’s changes because he didn’t have any ideas of his own on the subject.
Alkander smiled to himself. That was a mistake many men made: to dismiss little boys as uninteresting and unimportant. Alkander believed, in contrast, that it was easier to influence a boy at ten than at twenty. By the time a boy was an eirene, his personality was already formed for the most part. It was because he believed his influence was greatest with the little boys that Alkander liked working with them.
But there were times when he was forcefully reminded of the limits of his influence. Today had been one of those days. A pair of eight-year-olds had been caught throwing stones at helots harvesting hay. Their eirene had locked them in a pen and let the other boys throw stones at them―which was as appropriate a punishment as any―but it bothered Alkander that these boys would even think of stoning helots. Their excuse from the start had been, “But they’re just helots.” Alkander had heard that contempt too often in his lifetime. For hours he had been trying to think of some way to impress upon the boys the importance of helots.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. To his astonishment, neither an eirene nor a boy from the agoge entered. Instead, a middle-aged man in a long, elegant chiton stepped into the room. The man was obviously a stranger. He wore his hair cut short, and his dark green chiton had a broad border of lotus blossoms the color of ripe wheat. His himation reversed the color scheme and was wrapped with an elegance rare in Sparta. He had armbands on his wrists and his shoes were decorated with bronze.
It was only a few days before the start of the Gymnopaedia, and Sparta was overrun with visitors at this time of year. More seemed to come from year to year, with a veritable explosion of interest, ever since Leonidas had became king. This was in part because the tradesmen and craftsmen, who had flooded into Lacedaemon in response to Leonidas’ incentives, told their friends and relatives not only about the opportunities opening up in Lacedaemon, but about the Spartan festivals as well. They encouraged people to visit them during the major holidays. It was also due to the fact that word was spreading that a new wind was blowing in Lacedaemon.
Alkander politely rose to his feet and asked courteously, “Can I help you, stranger?”
“I am looking for a man called Alkander, the son of Demarmenus.”
Astonished, Alkander admitted, “I am he.”
The stranger smiled and continued into the room. He moved awkwardly, a little twisted and tilted to one side, and he seemed to drag one of his feet. Alkander started to guess who he was even before the stranger announced, “And I am Lychos, son of Archilochos. Twenty years ago you saved my life.”
Alkander came around the table to meet the man halfway, dismissing the praise. “Leonidas killed the boar. I only―”
Lychos cut him off. “Two men came to my rescue, and two men felled the wild boar. It makes little difference who delivered the coup de grâce. I owe you both my life, but while I have had several opportunities to thank Leonidas, today is the first chance I’ve had to thank you.”
This was true. Leonidas had met Lychos at Olympia more than a decade ago and traveled with him to Athens. They met again when Leonidas commanded the Spartan marines that escorted a Corinthian grain convoy during the Ionian revolt. Lychos and Leonidas had become friends.
Lychos opened his arms and Alkander embraced him. Then they drew back to look at each other again.
Although Lychos was younger than Alkander, pain had carved his face, and he looked ten years older. Alkander knew, too, that Lychos owed his tan to years at sea, because despite being an extremely wealthy man, Lychos regularly sailed with one or another of his nearly one hundred merchant ships. For nearly twenty years Leonidas had pleaded with Lychos to visit Sparta, but Lychos had always refused, claiming that overland travel was too strenuous. “What finally brought you to Sparta?” Alkander asked candidly.
Lychos nodded. “A good question. Shall we sit?”
Alkander indicated the bench lining the room and sat beside him.
“Leonidas,” Lychos started with a faint smile, “has always praised your public school, your agoge.”
Alkander laughed. “He would! He loved it.”
“And you did not.” It was a statement, not a question. Leonidas had clearly told the Corinthian about their childhood.
“No. It was hell for me.”
“But you and your sons are here.”
“My sons have no choice. As for me, I am here to try to make it as good as Leonidas thinks it is.”
Lychos laughed, but then grew serious. “I, too, have two sons. The elder is seventeen, almost the age I was when we met so fatefully. He has turned into exactly what I was then: a spoiled dandy interested only in fashion, fast horses, and theater. He is rude and disrespectful, self-indulgent and lazy. I do not want my younger boy to turn out like him, so I was thinking of enrolling him in the agoge.”
“How old is he?”
“He is fourteen.”
Alkander thought about that. It was not a bad age for a visitor to enter the agoge, because it was the first year of “youth,” when much was new for the Spartan boys, too. It was also after passing the “fox time,” when the boys had to live outside society for forty days―something the gentle sons of aristocrats from other parts of Greece could not be expected to endure, much less survive. It had another advantage as well, as Alkander admitted: “That is the age of my son Simonidas. We should introduce them to each other and see if they get along.” Alkander was thinking that Simonidas was still too much of a loner, and having responsibility for a stranger might be integrative. At the same time, Simonidas could be trusted to teach the Corinthian the rules.
Lychos agreed enthusiastically. “That’s an excellent idea. I will not tell Kallias what I plan―just let him see for himself that the agoge is not as bad as people say it is.”
Alkander nodded, but he did not look convinced. “You can use the time to observe and think this through again. After all, there are many things he will not learn here.”
“Leonidas assured me that a Spartan education trains the intellect as well as the body.”
“Yes, of course,” Alkander agreed. “But―”
There was another knock on the door, and Alkander called, “Come in.”
An eirene in the distinctive short haircut of his position, wearing an unbleached chiton under a leather corselet, pushed two boys with shaved heads, bare feet, and ragged chitons into the office. “You sent for us, sir,” the eirene explained, coming to attention with his hands at his sides and looking respectfully over Alkander’s shoulder.
Alkander excused himself to Lychos and went to stand in front of the boys. While the eirene stood very straight and still, the miscreants were eight-year-olds, and they had not yet absorbed the agoge discipline to the same degree. They kept squirming and sneaking glances at Alkander.
“Do you know why you are here?” Alkander opened the interrogation.
“Alpheus says it is just for throwing stones at some stupid helots,” one of the boys announced in a defiant tone, with an angry look at his eirene.
“And you do not think that is reason enough to have to face me?” Alkander answered the boy’s tone rather than his words.
The boys continued to look sullen, and one of them asked, “What’s wrong with throwing rocks at helots?”
“Well, tell me this: Can the Spartan army fight without food?” Alkander asked.
They shook their heads vigorously.
“Do you produce food for the Spartan army?”
They shook their heads even more vigorously.
“Does your father produce food for the army?”
“Of course not! He’s Spartiate,” the bolder boy countered indignantly, and then drop
ped his eyes before his eirene could cuff him.
“But Spartiates have to eat,” Alkander told him reasonably. “If you don’t produce food and your father doesn’t produce food, who does? Does your mother plow and plant the grain?”
“Of course not!” The talkative boy sounded very angry.
“Who does?” Alkander insisted.
“Helots!” he spat out.
“Exactly. So you, your father, and the Spartan army all depend on helots to survive, don’t you?”
Sullen silence answered him.
“Don’t you?” Alkander insisted.
“But farming is slave work, helot work! It’s for stupid beasts!” the other boy insisted.
“Do you know a beast that can plow and plant and harvest?”
Silence.
“The character of your actions was fundamentally hostile to the Spartan state, because no matter how small or minor your actions may seem, they were directed against a pillar of our society: the freedom of Spartiates to focus on their duties as citizens.” Alkander looked from one boy to the other. They were both frowning, but he hoped it was now more from puzzlement than from resentment. “Without helots to work our estates and grow our food, we would be like the other Greeks, who have to earn a living first and are soldiers second.” Again he paused to let this sink in before asking, “For sabotaging the Spartan state, your punishment has been very mild, hasn’t it?”
The boys started squirming in anticipation of the cane.
“Eirene.” Alkander turned to Alpheus. “I think these boys should go without bread, cheese, sausage, honey, or any other farm produce until they learn to appreciate the importance of agricultural labor. They are to be allowed to eat only those things they can gather, trap, or hunt from the wild.”
“Yes, sir,” the eirene answered dutifully, looking uneasy. At eight, the boys could not yet hunt, had barely learned the fundamentals of trapping, and had not yet learned how to distinguish edible from poisonous plants.
“I want to see these boys again in a week.”
“Yes, sir,” the eirene swallowed nervously, recognizing that his obedience to these orders would be assessed by the state of the boys in the next interview.
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