This tiny craftsman’s house, squeezed into a row of such houses behind one of the city bakeries, had been available very cheap. Alkander had shown it to her eagerly, blind to all its many shortfalls in his eagerness to have her near his barracks. Hilaira had not been particularly enthusiastic about the cramped house, but she shared Alkander’s impatience for a place of their own, so she had agreed to take it. She’d then set to work trying to turn it into a home, with the help of just one helot girl and the occasional assistance (for heavy and carpentry work) of Leonidas’ tenant Pantes. With each year the house had become more comfortable, and by the time Alkander went off active service and they moved to his kleros, it had become home. There had been climbing flowers tumbling off the balcony and potted flowers marking each stair. There had been bright home-woven hangings on the walls, and cheerful homemade cushions offering comfort in every room.
It was here that both her sons had been conceived, she noted, with a glance up the wooden steps to the gallery giving access to the upstairs bedroom. Here that she had comforted that poor perioikoi girl that Brotus had put in the stocks. Here, too, that Simonidas had recovered from the damage done to his hand, and―oh, there were so many memories! It would be hard to part with this house, but what was the point of keeping it any longer?
Thersander was already a meleirene, and even Simonidas appeared to have no need for his mother’s care and cooking any longer. He had adjusted to the agoge after all, and now spent all his time with his Corinthian friend. Hilaira sighed, knowing it was for the best, and yet at some level sad, too. Soon it will be just the two of us again, she thought, Alkander and me, an aging couple…. But Alkander was so busy. Rather than two sons, he had 350. He hardly noticed his own sons were almost grown.
Nor did he have to put up with his sister all day, Hilaira thought with a sigh. After Demaratus fled Lacedaemon, Percalus had moved in with them. She was not an easy house guest, because she was used to being a queen. She never tired of talking about her former life―when she wasn’t heaping recriminations on Demaratus or speculating about how many concubines he kept in the Persian court….
Maybe she should fix up this house after all, Hilaira thought, and use it as a refuge from Percalus. Or Thersander might marry young, as Alkander had done. They suspected he had a sweetheart already, and Hilaira lifted her head suddenly, noticing that there were ashes on the house altar. Maybe he had been trysting here with his girl already?
With these thoughts in mind, she righted one of the overturned flowerpots and went into the kitchen for a broom to clear away the dead bird. As she came out again, something crashed in the back of the house. Hilaira nearly jumped out of her skin. There was someone here!
“Thersander? Is that you?” she called out, fear that it was someone else evident in her voice. What if it was a thief or a runaway helot?
There was another crash and a scraping sound, followed by a grunt that could only be human. Hilaira’s hair stood up on the back of her neck, and she started to back toward the exit. Her son would have answered her properly. Whoever it was, he meant her harm.
As she backed up, her eyes were fixed on the hearth room beyond the interior porch. She saw something move in the darkness, and then a bent-over figure was in the doorway. He was naked, but glistening with sweat and covered with a horrible red, pustulate rash. “Mom!” he gasped out.
Hilaira screamed, not from fear but from horror. It was Simonidas.
Within a week a quarter of the boys in the agoge had come down with whatever it was. Within two weeks more than half were ill. The agoge was closed and the boys sent to their own homes. But it didn’t stop. The first boy died on the eighth day of the epidemic. By the end of the second week, the death count was already twenty-two.
In the Assembly Alcidas blamed Alkander, saying that his methods had made the boys “soft” and “vulnerable.” He was shouted down, but Alkander resigned anyway. A week later the death toll had risen to forty-nine, and the epidemic had spread to helots and adults.
An extraordinary Assembly resolved to consult Delphi. A runner set off before sunset and ran without pause, just as Pheidippidas had done from Athens to Sparta to bring word of the Persian landing at Marathon. The Spartan runner reached the coast in less than twenty-four hours and paid a boatman to take him across the Gulf of Corinth by the light of the stars.
Sperchias, resident in Delphi as one of Leonidas’ two permanent representatives, was shaken awake by his attendant before the light of dawn. “Sir, a messenger from Sparta.”
Unlike his predecessor Asteropus, Sperchias did not live in a large, elegant house with a concubine and many slaves. He had only a rented flat above a local shop. He clattered down from the loft room where he slept, dazed by the unexpected summons. The messenger had slept and regained some strength during the boat crossing. As Sperchias dressed, he explained the desperate situation in Sparta. “No one is safe. Priests and women have been infected no less than the boys of the agoge. Whole households have been stricken, and even those who recover are often left horribly scarred―utterly disfigured for life.”
Sperchias hardly dared ask, “Do you have word about my family? My children?”
The messenger shook his head mutely. “I was not given time to inquire.”
Sperchias nodded. What right had he to worry about his kin when the whole city was struck like this? “And the king? Leonidas and his family?”
“When I left they were well. His bodyguard will let no one in or out of the Agiad palace except the king himself. King Leonidas has ordered Queen Gorgo to remain at home, although he himself is everywhere. He is not at risk,” the messenger declared confidently. “He is a true son of Herakles and so has the protection of Asclepius. But Leotychidas caught the fever, proving he is a usurper.”
“Leotychidas is dead?” Sperchias could hardly believe it.
“No, no. He recovered, as most adults do, and is hardly scarred at all―just here and there―but his son Zeuxidamus was very ill when I left Sparta. We must find out how to appease the Gods, sir. Will the Pythia see you?” the messenger asked anxiously. “It is not the new moon.”
“She will see me,” Sperchias assured the runner. It was a privilege of the Spartan kings that their representatives had access to the Pythia at any time during the nine months of the year when Apollo was present in Delphi. “But we must make a sacrifice first, and cleanse ourselves.”
It wasn’t Sperchias who told the Spartans they had to send two men to Persia to atone for the murdered ambassadors. It was Megistias. Megistias, an Acarnanian, had an international reputation as a great seer. Sperchias had been so intimidated by the disaster that had struck Sparta that even after receiving the oracle delivered by the Pythia, he had sought the advice of the more experienced seer. Megistias, however, had only confirmed his own interpretation, adding greater urgency and authority. “At once!” he had told Sperchias. “You Spartans must send two defenseless men, not slaves but citizens, to the Persian court to offer their lives in atonement for the outrage committed by the Spartans against the Persian ambassadors.”
Sperchias had nodded. He had known it would come to this ever since the murders, but precisely because he had said this before and been ignored by his fellow citizens, he feared he would not be believed now. So he had begged Megistias to come with him to Sparta.
Megistias had not hesitated. On the contrary, he had set out at once with Sperchias, his son Adeas, and a couple of slaves. They hired a boat to cross the Gulf of Corinth, and then horses on the far side. They reached Sparta just five days after receiving the oracle and delivered it to the ephors. An extraordinary Assembly was called at once in which the oracle was read out loud, and Megistias interpreted it for the assembled citizens. The Assembly was noticeably smaller than usual; many citizens did not attend because they were either sick or caring for wives or children who were.
As soon as the Assembly adjourned, Leonidas asked both Sperchias and Megistias to join him. He took them into one of t
he smaller, more intimate and recently renovated androns and ordered refreshments. Until the helots had withdrawn, they talked only about the journey, but once they were alone, Leonidas bluntly confessed to Sperchias: “You warned me about this when the murders took place. I did wrong not to listen to you.”
“It wasn’t just you, Leo. No one listened.”
“I should have made them,” Leonidas insisted.
“Will you be able to find volunteers?” Megistias asked earnestly, his dark eyes bright under bushy white brows.
“We will have more than enough volunteers,” Leonidas assured him confidently. “The problem will be choosing between them. The men who ought to go are the men responsible. It was Brotus and his minions who were responsible for this catastrophe, and they are the ones who should pay for it.”
“They won’t, Leo, and you know it. They don’t think they did anything wrong. To this day they brag about their role in ‘teaching Persia a lesson.’”
“Is this true?” Megistias asked, looking to Leonidas in horror.
Leonidas sighed. “It is true.”
A helot arrived at the door. “My lord, Dienekes wishes to speak with you.”
Because Dienekes commanded his guard, Leonidas ordered him admitted at once, expecting there had been some incident he needed to know about. The debonair Guard commander stepped smartly into the little room and nodded his head to the others in greeting before reporting, “My lord, I have two volunteers to go to Persia.”
“Who?” Leonidas demanded warily.
“Myself and Maron.”
“You see?” Leonidas addressed Megistias. “Just as I told you.” To Dienekes he said, “Out of the question. I will not give any member of my Guard permission to go on this suicide mission. In fact, I will give no member of the active army permission to go, and no man who does not have living sons,” Leonidas added as he thought the situation through. “The ambassadors were noblemen and high court officials. Nothing will satisfy the Persians―or the Gods―but sacrifices of equal rank, standing, and importance.”
Megistias nodded his approval vigorously. “That is very wise,” he said out loud, cutting off Dienekes’ protest before it could even be voiced.
“And preferably the men directly implicated in the murders,” Leonidas added as Dienekes withdrew.
Sperchias sighed and shook his head. “I doubt that is going to happen, Leo. Wouldn’t it be better―for Sparta’s sake and the sake of our children―to just let two volunteers go?”
“You heard the good Megistias,” Leonidas countered. “We must send men of equal rank and status to the men killed.”
“Then who better than me? I am your ambassador to Delphi―the closest thing we have to permanent ambassadors―and my family is one of the best in Sparta.”
“But you tried to stop the murders, Chi! No one tried harder than you.”
“But I failed.”
“We all failed.”
“I want to go, Leo. This is my destiny. I’m sure of it.”
They stared at each other, and Leonidas remembered the last time Sperchias had asked this of him. He had refused, and they were paying a terrible price. He took a deep breath. “If you are certain this is what you want, I will not stand in your way. But the other man―the other man must be one of the murderers!”
It was the third extraordinary Assembly since Megistias had told the Spartans what they must do to appease the Gods, and still Sperchias was the only volunteer that met the Council’s (Leonidas’) criteria. Meanwhile, no less than sixty-eight children, thirty-nine (mostly elderly) citizens, and unknown numbers of women and helots had died. There was no sign of the epidemic abating, and the urgency was making men angry. Bitter recriminations were traded, men volunteered their enemies, and in the midst of it all two councilmen and one of the ephors fell victim to the fever. The vacancies needed to be filled at once, and the maneuvering for election mixed with the calls for a second volunteer willing to serve as a sacrificial animal at the Persian court. The pressure on Leonidas was growing to give up his insistence that one of the men be directly implicated in the murders.
Alkander came to Leonidas and insisted he should be allowed to go with Sperchias. “I have held high office, and my sister was once a queen,” he pointed out. “Indeed, Demaratus is reputed to be at the Great King’s court; he can identify me as his brother-in-law, and that should impress the Persians.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Leonidas did not have a good reason, so he did something he did not often do. He said: “I am king of Sparta. I do not have to explain myself.”
“You do to me, Leo,” Alkander stared him down.
“Then I will tell you the truth: because I do not want to lose you. Because I do not want to be hated by Hilaira. Because I could not bear to take from Philippos the son-in-law he loves more than the son he lost to this fever.” Leonidas referred to Hilaira’s younger brother. “And because I could never look your sons in the eye again if I let you go.”
Alkander thought about this answer and nodded. “Then that is the end of it.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Who else has volunteered?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Euryleon?”
“No, his wife won’t let him.”
“Oliantus?”
“Yes―but he was relieved when I said no. He does not like the idea of just being butchered. He would die fighting, but this idea of just submitting….”
“That bothers many men, Leo. It takes a very different kind of courage than going into battle. We have all spent too much of our lives learning that it is the greatest honor to die fighting―no matter whether in victory or defeat. All that matters is that we fight, that we sell our lives dearly. And suddenly we are asking a man to walk, intentionally defenseless, into the enemy’s hands. We are asking a man to surrender and accept death like a sacrificial lamb. That is not very Spartan.”
“Not to mention the risk of torture. I know.”
Alkander had not wanted to raise the issue of torture, but the Great King’s reputation for mutilating, flaying, tearing out tongues, and generally tormenting his victims before he allowed them to die in agony was well known.
“Leo, if you weren’t king, would you volunteer?” Alkander asked him.
Leonidas caught his breath and their eyes met. They were alone together, and after a long moment, Leonidas shook his head and admitted, “No. I love life―and Gorgo―far too much.”
Alkander nodded. “Then I think I know whom we should ask.”
Leonidas stared at him.
“Bulis, Nicoles’ son. He was one of the four men who nearly killed Temenos.”
“And one of the ringleaders who laid hands on the ambassadors,” Leonidas remembered, nodding.
“He gained full citizenship this past winter, and is not on active duty,” Alkander continued. “I know he has not held high office, but he comes from a very prominent family, and his father has been a magistrate for many years.”
“Yes, he fits the criteria, but what makes you think he could be persuaded to volunteer? He certainly hasn’t come forward up to now!”
“He wasn’t at the earlier Assemblies.”
“Why not?”
“He was ill―and nursing his family.”
“I see. And now?”
“And now they are all dead. His wife, his two sons, and his daughter.”
Leonidas said nothing. He hated Bulis. And yet he felt sorry for him in this tragedy. He, too, had lost a wife and two children in a single blow, more than a decade ago.
“I will ask Epidydes to approach him,” Alkander suggested, and Leonidas nodded mutely. Someone had to go, and they had to go soon.
CHAPTER 15
MISSION TO THE GREAT KING
THE HARDEST PART HAD BEEN TAKING leave of his daughters. His son Aneristus was already twelve, and he had made a manly effort to show no emotion beyond pride and awe of his father’s courage. But the girls ha
d not lived up to the Spartan ideal, despite their mother’s scolding. “What is to become of us?” the little one had asked her father, tears streaming down her face; while the elder worried, “Who will find me a husband if you aren’t here to talk to my suitors?”
At least he had an answer to that. “King Leonidas will be your guardian and see that you both find good husbands,” Sperchias assured her, holding her soft, sweet-smelling body in his arms a last time.
His daughters’ tears, and the unexpected number of men who had come to thank him for his singular courage, had made it very hard to leave Sparta. Sperchias found himself thinking that if all the men who came to express admiration for his courage had only listened to him when the Persian ambassadors were being attacked….
It would also have been easier to leave if only the weather had been gloomy. Or if the orchards hadn’t been in bloom, or the snow on Taygetos not so white and pristine, or the foals in the pastures less playful… But then, Sperchias realized, he would have found Lacedaemon beautiful even in streaming rain or scorched brown, and he let his eyes caress each familiar contour and landmark as he passed them for the last time.
The party was composed not just of Sperchias and Bulis with their respective attendants, but also the Egyptian scribe, who had volunteered to be their interpreter, and his two African slaves. The younger of the two Africans drove the chariot, which Leonidas insisted on sending because Susa lay a long way inland from the Levant, where they were expected to disembark. It was important, Leonidas insisted, that Sperchias and Bulis arrive at the Persian court looking like men of means and status.
The little party came around a bend, and the road started to decline sharply. Ahead they had a view to the harbor of Epidauros Limera. Taiwo leaned back to slow the horses, nodded toward the harbor, and remarked with a grin, “Good fighting ship!”
A Heroic King Page 35