A Heroic King

by Helena P. Schrader

  “What light?”

  “There!” Leonidas pointed to an eerie greenish light that lurked low on the horizon below the Parnon range, as if on the road to Tegea.

  Sperchias stopped and followed his finger. At length he said, “That is what people have been talking about.”

  Leonidas stopped and stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Has no one told you?” Sperchias sounded both surprised and weary. “It shines many nights, from the Temple of Talthybius.”

  “But what causes it?”

  “Have you forgotten that we murdered two Persian ambassadors?” Sperchias asked, adding, “Talthybius has not forgotten.”

  “The Persian king appears to have forgotten!” Leonidas snapped back, irritated by Sperchias’ reproachful tone, “He has never demanded reparation of any sort.”

  “No. He simply vowed to obliterate us.”

  “He is dead.”

  “He has a son.”

  “A man many say does not half fill his father’s shoes.”

  “Ask the Egyptian.”

  They had reached the steps of the Ephorate and went up them together. On the porch the two meleirenes saluted. Leonidas recognized Alkander’s elder boy and paused. “Thersander. How are you?”

  “Well, my lord,” Thersander answered, with a self-conscious smile and a glance at his comrade, before adding, “I rather like being a meleirene―so far.”

  Leonidas laughed. “You will never have so much freedom ever again. Enjoy it. Has Leotychidas arrived yet?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Maybe you should wait,” Sperchias suggested.

  Leonidas shook his head. “I don’t give a damn about Leotychidas.” They passed through the door into the antechamber, and Leonidas continued through double doors into the actual chamber.

  The ephors were not expecting him yet. They had not taken their seats, but were speaking earnestly in a cluster. Leonidas waved the herald silent and descended the steps to join them unannounced.

  “There can be no question the omen is bad!” one of the newly elected ephors declared in an agitated tone.

  “But it was not in the right quadrant of the sky. It did not pertain to the kings.”

  “But so many stars! What can it possibly mean?”

  “Good evening,” Leonidas interrupted them. The ephors spun about, startled. Leonidas shook hands with each, offering congratulations on their election one after another. Before he could engage them in earnest conversation, however, Leotychidas arrived. They retreated to their assigned seats.

  Leotychidas nodded curtly to Leonidas and then announced: “Let’s keep it short; I’m in a hurry.” He raised his hand. “I solemnly swear that I, Leotychidas―What’s the matter, Leo?”

  Leonidas shrugged. “I am not in a hurry,” he answered, but then he raised his hand and took the traditional oath.

  “The omens?” Leotychidas demanded impatiently.

  The ephors looked at one another, and the chairman answered. “They portend terrible things, but―so far as we can tell―not for the Spartan kings.”

  “Good. Anything else?”

  “There is an Egyptian scribe―”

  “A man of no importance. A refugee with nothing left but the rags on his back!” Leotychidas dismissed him.

  Leonidas nodded, “Quite. Don’t let us keep you.” Leotychidas was already on his feet and halfway up the steps out of the chamber before he had second thoughts. “What about you, Leonidas?”

  “I wish to meet the Egyptian.”

  Leotychidas’ eyes narrowed. He returned to his throne. “I will, too.”

  The ephors signaled to the meleirenes to bring in the Egyptian, and shortly afterward a man entered and descended the steps. He was frail and wore long cotton robes with wide sleeves. His head was covered in a neat striped headdress that hung to his shoulders. He was flanked by two black men, one burly yet aging and the other small, wiry, and young. The Egyptian turned a worried face to Leotychidas and seemed to dismiss him. He turned to Leonidas, paused, and seemed to straighten before asking with great dignity in heavily accented Greek, “Are you the Lion’s Son?”

  “That is what I am called.”

  “Ah.” The Egyptian fell onto his knees and bent his head to the floor at Leonidas’ feet.

  “He’s no more important than the rest of us,” Leotychidas protested irritably and ineffectually.

  The Egyptian ignored Leotychidas. “Great King! I have come a long distance and suffered many hardships to tell you of the people who have destroyed my homeland. I beg you to hear my testimony.”

  “I am listening, but first stand and look me in the eye.”

  The Egyptian raised his upper body and sat upon his heels. His lined face looked up at Leonidas. “Great King, I have been told that you defeated the Persians in a great battle to the north.” Leonidas wanted to correct him, but the chairman of the ephors caught his eye and shook his head sharply. Leonidas said nothing and the Egyptian continued. “But the army you defeated was only a small force, a tiny token army. It was commanded by a Mede―not the Persian emperor.

  “I, on the other hand, have seen the Persian emperor himself: the man Xerxes, who calls himself the King of Kings, although he is the mortal son of a mortal man. Xerxes came to my homeland, and he brought with him his whole host. He came because we dared to want to live as our ancestors lived. He came not to conquer us, but to crush us. He came not to secure submission and tribute, but to eradicate our very essence.

  “Xerxes is like no conqueror that has gone before―not even like his father. He is not content to rule over his subjects. He demands that they accept his god and his language and his way of life.

  “Xerxes has not only killed the living, but destroyed the graves of the dead. He has taken not only our independence but our pride, our dignity, and our identity as well.

  “Great King, I am here to warn you that if you do not want to fight the Persians in the temples of your Gods and over the bodies of your forefathers, then you will have to fight the Persians before they get here.”

  The Egyptian folded his body again, banged his forehead on the floor and concluded, “That is the message I have traveled longer than the length of the Nile to deliver, Great King. I have nothing left to gain or lose. The graves of my ancestors and my beloved wife have been destroyed, their bodies disinterred and allowed to rot like the carcasses of vermin. My son was killed and his body left exposed, so that his soul will wander homelessly for all eternity. My soul has nowhere to go, but what is the use of living in eternity when all those I loved are lost in nothingness? I beg only one favor of you, as you are a Great King: take my slaves, Kaschta and Taiwo, and treat them with kindness out of respect for an old man, who can no longer look after them.”

  Leonidas glanced at the two black men, who appeared astonished by this plea. They looked at one another with what Leonidas interpreted as alarm.

  Leonidas stood and stepped forward. He reached down and took hold of the Egyptian’s arm to raise him up. “Thank you for bringing me this warning. I will consult with my advisers about what is to be done. Meanwhile, you and your two slaves will be my guests.”

  The Egyptian looked up and straight into his eye. His look pierced Leonidas to the quick. In his eyes were terror and desperation. “Great King, believe me! You must fight them. If they come too close, you―and all you love―will be doomed.”

  “Brotus!” Sinope called irritably. “What’s keeping you?” Sinope was standing in front of their kleros dressed for going into the city, and she was in a hurry. Today the full citizens who were still bachelors would be submitted to public humiliation. It was a day she always looked forward to, but today more than ever―because her brother-in-law’s protégé, Temenos, was finally going to get his due for preferring a helot slut to a Spartiate bride.

  There had been frost overnight and the sun rose through the winter haze, pale and weak. Sinope wore sturdy leather shoes and a thick peplos folded double,
fastened by heavy fibulae decorated with silver snakes. Over this she had draped a large purple himation that advertised her royal status. As always she wore no jewelry, and she combed her graying hair severely away from her face.

  Pausanias, lounging against the front of the house, thought she looked rather like a vulture, and made a mental note not to marry a girl who would age like this.

  “Pausanias!” His mother turned on him, making him jump guiltily and come to attention.

  “Ma’am?” he asked dutifully.

  “Go and find what’s keeping your father! We don’t want to be late, or we won’t have a good view. I want to see your uncle’s face while his little protégé parades around showing his limp dick to all the maidens.”

  Pausanias couldn’t understand why his mother got so agitated about Temenos. If the fool didn’t want to have legitimate sons, that was his problem. It wasn’t as if Sparta were short of young men. Even his ugly sister Megisto was bound to find a husband sooner or later―especially given the dowry his father was willing to dump on her, Pausanias thought resentfully. He glanced at her before heading back into the house.

  Megisto took after their mother. She was thin and flat with overly prominent teeth. She had a terrible temper, too. Pausanias didn’t envy the man whose greed for her dowry led him to take her to wife.

  “Dad?” Pausanias stopped in the center of the hearth room and shouted, “Mom’s in a hurry!”

  There was no response.

  Pausanias frowned and looked around. He took a few steps up the stairs and shouted again, “Dad?”

  Still no response.

  He moved toward the back of the house, to the bath and latrine. “Dad?”

  A grunt answered him from the direction of the latrine.

  Pausanias continued to the door. “Dad? Are you in there?”

  “Help!” his father grunted back.

  Pausanias grabbed the door and yanked it open. His father fell forward onto Pausanias’ feet. He was ghastly pale and was clutching his stomach with one hand.

  “What is it, Dad?” Pausanias asked, alarmed.

  “It hurts!” Brotus croaked back. “Help me up.”

  “Mom wants to go―”

  “Tell her to go on her own. Help me!”

  Pausanias bent and tried to help his father to his feet. He was nineteen and in good physical condition, but his father was very heavy. Too heavy, Pausanias noted to himself. His father’s once massive muscles were slowly turning soft. In armor he still looked like a fiercely powerful man, but up close and naked Pausanias could see he was turning downright fat.

  “My arm,” Brotus complained. “I can’t move it. It’s numb.”

  Pausanias stared at his father’s limp arm, then took it over his shoulder, and with his arm around his father’s waist he got him onto his feet. They staggered together toward the hearth room, where Brotus croaked, “Lay me down!” indicating a wide couch by the hearth, covered with thick cushions.

  Pausanias guided his father to this couch, and Brotus dropped down on it with a grunt. “Lift my feet!” he ordered, and Pausanias obeyed.

  Megisto burst in complaining, “What is the matter with you two? Mom’s furious―”

  “Dad’s not feeling well. Go on ahead of us,” Pausanias answered.

  Megisto stared at her father for a moment and then asked, “What is it?”

  “Probably just something I ate. Go on! Tell your mother to go ahead,” Brotus barked at her, scowling darkly.

  Megisto darted out before he could add a cuff of his hand to his words. Brotus was always quick to lend his orders a little physical urgency.

  “You go, too!” Brotus ordered his eldest son. “I don’t want your sister wandering around without some protection.”

  Pausanias refrained from remarking that Megisto was one of the last maidens in Sparta who was going to attract amorous male attention, and asked instead, “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

  “Of course! It was just a dizzy spell. Go on!”

  Pausanias retreated warily, his eyes on his father. Brotus lay on his back with his eyes closed. He was still very pale, and the lines on his face were pronounced. He was swallowing and sweating. This isn’t the first time this has happened to him, Pausanias thought. His father was sick, he realized, not just aging and softening, but sick.

  Pausanias reached the door to the hearth room and stopped. He turned and stared at his father again for several seconds, trying to come to terms with the situation. He wasn’t sure of all the consequences, but he knew this changed a lot of things. Then, with a faint smile, he turned and started running to catch up with his mother and sister.

  “Shhh!” Pelops hissed furiously at his younger brother Kinadon, twisting the younger boy’s arm to lend his words weight.

  Kinadon let out a closed-mouth grunt of protest and kicked out at his older brother’s shins. The abrupt attack was enough to make his brother loosen his hold on his arm, and Kinadon yanked his arm free but stood staring up at his brother defiantly, his eyes blazing with fury.

  Pelops was unimpressed. “Keep your clap closed, or I’ll leave you behind!” he threatened.

  Kinadon stuck out his tongue in answer, but emitted not another sound as he followed his brother.

  Pelops’ courage this day was awe-inspiring. He had stolen one of the master’s horses, ridden it into town, and boldly walked into one of the army stables, where he glibly lied: “The king wants to leave this horse here for a few hours.”

  From the stables, Pelops led his brother to the back of the agoge barracks and walked straight in as if he belonged there. Of course, the boys of the agoge were all collected on the square to witness the humiliation of the bachelors, and Pelops had taken advantage of this fact to lead his little brother up into attic of the barracks. It was when Kinadon had tried to ask him how he knew about this that he’d been so severely reprimanded. The only thing Kinadon could think of was that Agiatis, who had been enrolled in the agoge for two years now, had shown Pelops around. Agiatis seemed to know her way around everywhere, and she and Pelops were friends.

  The attic had a musty smell, and there were dead flies all over the place. Kinadon didn’t like the sound they made when he stepped on them, and he minced his way across the roof, doubled over because the ceiling seemed so low, although he could have walked upright.

  Ahead of him, Pelops stopped and crouched down. He craned his head this way and that, trying to see through a ventilation duct to the street below. Pelops dropped to his knees and then onto his belly and thrust his head out of the opening. “What are you looking at?” Kinadon demanded.

  His elder brother didn’t answer.

  Kinadon nudged him with a foot. “Pelops! What is it? What are you looking at?”

  In irritation Pelops kicked out with a foot. Kinadon easily evaded the kick and demanded again, “What is it?”

  From the street came the sound of a crowd hooting and whistling derisively, the way Spartan crowds ridiculed boys who collapsed too quickly during a flogging or booed bad losers in games and contests. It was common to hear such hissing and catcalling down at the pits, at the ball field, or at the racecourse, but rare to hear it in the heart of the city, on the steps of the Council House and Ephorate.

  “Has somebody done something bad?” Kinadon asked his big brother.

  Pelops didn’t answer. He just lay on his belly, as tense as a cat waiting to spring on a mouse.

  From the street came the sound of voices singing―not the harmonious singing of a chorus, or the sound of young men belting out a marching song, or the solemn sound of a crowd singing a paean to the Gods. This was a ragged song of mismatched voices singing out of tune and stumbling over the words. “… I’m just a worthless weasel with the weenie of a mouse …”

  Kinadon giggled at the crude text. Before he knew what was happening, his brother had pulled back and yanked Kinadon’s feet out from under him. He crashed down onto the wooden floor so hard he burst out crying,
but his brother slapped him across the face. “Shut up! Shut up!”

  “Stop it!” Kinadon protested, thrashing with his feet as he tried to get free of his brother.

  “Shut up or I’ll strangle you!”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t understand anything, baby!”

  “Because you won’t let me see!” Kinadon countered.

  “Look then! Look for yourself!” Pelops shoved Kinadon under the rafters, toward the hole that looked down at the street. His hands were rough and his face bright red.

  It took Kinadon several seconds to get his bearings, and then he saw something horrible. His father was standing in a line with a half-dozen other naked men. Each wore a dead mouse around his neck, and they were all singing this silly song, while the crowd around them hissed and jeered.

  Kinadon pulled back inside and stared at his brother with wide, horrified eyes. “But why? What has Dad done?”

  “It’s because of us,” Pelops told him. “It’s because he won’t give up Mom and marry one of them!” His anger had turned him the color of a cooked crab, and his little, bony chest was heaving with indignation.

  Kinadon gaped at him, and in his chest the first flame of hatred ignited.

  Hilaira let herself into her townhouse, the wooden door creaking on its rusty hinges as she pushed in and moved, more by instinct than sight, down the dark corridor to the courtyard. As she emerged into the light again she drew up, shocked by how rundown things looked. The flower beds were sprouting nothing but the dead stems of last year’s weeds. Dried leaves lay about in heaps. One of the kitchen shutters hung askew, a hinge broken, and a dead bird lay in the gutter below the roof.

  For a moment she let her memories run away with her. She remembered the day Alkander had brought her here for the first time: she a bride of not yet twenty and he still a young man on active service. He had taken her without her father’s permission, and they had spent their wedding night in the ruins of Leonidas’ not-yet-renovated kleros, giving free rein to their pent-up desires in the safety of a house without so much as a helot tenant to disturb or inhibit them. But Alkander had had to return to his barracks before morning roll call, and she to her father’s home and recriminations. Fortunately, her father had proved understanding and had forgiven Alkander for eloping with her, but neither of them felt comfortable trysting under her parental roof. Alkander had consequently been in a hurry to find rooms to rent in the city.