Spartan

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘Listen,’ began Aghias, ‘this message must be tremendously important; it must contain something more than just the news of losing the pass. If King Leonidas entrusted us with such a hateful mission, it must be because he had something really vital to say to the ephors and King Leotychidas. Don’t you remember your own words? Our Peloponnesian allies will certainly have brought the news of the defeat at the Thermopylae before we arrive.’

  ‘What you say is true, Aghias,’ said Brithos. ‘Our allies from Tegea started off before us, and they can reach Sparta in a few hours from their city. But then, why did King Leonidas want to expose us to such dishonour?’

  They continued their long ride in silence. From the top of a hill, they saw the waves of the Gulf of Corinth glittering below them and decided to stop for a bit of food and a couple of hours of rest. They were empty and exhausted from the enormous strain of the days before, and both feverish from the wounds that they had received in the battles.

  Talos shackled the horses and the mule and lit a fire under a jutting rock. He began to prepare some barley meal. The thought of seeing his mother and his people again did not cheer him; he felt a leaden weight on his heart.

  He huddled in a corner to eat a bit of food, then went to sit on a rock overlooking the sea. The moon spread its silver rays on the peaceful mirror of the waters, while a light breeze, redolent with the intense scents of thyme and rosemary, moved the leaves of the almond and olive trees.

  Talos turned to look at the two dark figures slumped over the bivouac a short distance away: he felt no hate and no resentment for them. He saw as in a dream the battlefield that they had left such a short time ago. The fallen warriors for whom there would be no funerals. No women would lament over their bodies. He could almost feel their shadows hovering about the small camp.

  He thought of the warrior of the dragon, of his shield that must be lying crushed and filthy among heaps of corpses. He thought of the tragedy that would soon sweep away entire populations. In his heart rang the desperate cries of the Thespian women; he saw that old man’s eyes, reddened and full of tears. Where had those peaceful nights on Mount Taygetus gone? Kritolaos’ fables, Antinea’s bright eyes, her fragrant breasts? He felt his heart swell in pain and anger. Destiny had torn him from his people and from those he loved but would not permit him to be a part of this other people that he hated but also deeply admired. The warriors he had seen on the plain as a child. The young Spartiates who bore their flagellation without a moan. And now the incredible valour and formidable spirit of the three hundred warriors at the Thermopylae.

  The sound of a footstep behind him distracted him from his thoughts; he turned and saw Brithos’ shield glittering in the moonlight. The two youths remained silent for a long while, the Spartan erect, immobile as a statue, the Helot seated on a stone. Brithos was the first to speak.

  ‘Fate is bizarre,’ he said in a nearly distracted tone. ‘How many times, watching your people, have I thought that it would be better to die than to live such a squalid, monotonous, unemotional existence.’ Talos rose to his feet. ‘Now I envy you, Helot. You’ll return to your mountains alive; that’s the only thing that matters to you anyway. But me . . . I’ll return to a city eager to condemn me. I’ve had to leave my father unburied, at the mercy of dogs and barbarians. My friends have been massacred, mutilated, their bodies disgraced. Before me all I can see is darkness, dishonour, perhaps even contempt.’

  He stopped, bursting with anger, desperation and shame. Aghias was sleeping wrapped in his ragged red cloak, and Brithos’ anguish was so unbearable that he had been forced to speak to a servant. Talos looked at him sadly. ‘Are you really so sure that my life is the only thing that matters to me? What do you know about my life, or that of my people? Do you know what it means to serve silently, to wear a yoke like an animal every day, with no hope of ever breaking free? The gods have not made us slaves; men have, men like yourself . . . and like me.

  ‘Tomorrow, or maybe already today, entire peoples – who were prosperous and free – are being made slaves by these unstoppable invaders. Noble men. Proud, courageous men, like your father, like you, perhaps. Certainly, one who is born in chains can’t even imagine what freedom is. But he’s well acquainted with courage . . . a courage that you can’t even imagine. The courage to carry a heavier load each day without giving up, the courage to continue to live, for yourself, for your loved ones.’

  Brithos saw a young shepherd, encircled by armed men, fighting savagely with only a staff in his hands. He saw a blonde girl shielding him with her own body.

  ‘Now you will get the chance to learn whether you are a man or a slave,’ continued Talos cruelly. ‘Live, if you can. Live as you have been ordered; survive your infamy, if you will. Even an ass puts up with being whipped without a whimper.’ Brithos felt a sudden flame rise to his face. ‘Even animals can butt and wound each other to the death—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ shouted Brithos, putting a hand on his sword. ‘Don’t tempt my anger.’

  ‘. . . But only a man is capable of surviving!’ Talos continued. ‘Of stifling the cry of his heart, of suffocating the pain, the rebellion, the anger, of carrying the shame on his shoulders like a repugnant burden. You are covered with bronze, Brithos, but isn’t that skin on your bones? Or has it become like the skin on the drumhead that calls you to battle?

  ‘Have you ever cried, Brithos? Have your eyes ever been filled with tears? Glory has been taken from you, and you are nothing more than a jar full of sand.’ He touched a finger to the Spartan’s chest. ‘What’s behind this breastplate, Brithos? Is there anything there?’

  Talos paused, clenching his fists until his nails dug into his flesh. ‘And now, unsheathe your sword, warrior,’ he said coldly, ‘and you’ll see how much a slave cares about his miserable life.’

  Brithos let his head drop and was silent.

  *

  A black cloud which had risen at dusk from the distant peaks of Mount Helicon hid the moon in the middle of the night. Sudden darkness closed in on the small field, extinguishing the reflections of the sea and the song of the crickets in the grass; only the embers of the bivouac continued to give off a pale halo of light. Aghias, on guard duty at the time, was overcome by fatigue.

  A shadow arose from nowhere, sliding furtively among the sparse bushes. Perhaps one of the spirits that the earth shelters in its hollow womb, condemned to wander in the night seeking its lost life; so silent was its step . . . The shadow crept next to Brithos, behind Aghias; it hung over them like a ghost. For a moment it seemed to crouch as if searching for something, rose again and disappeared into the blackness of the night.

  So it seemed to Talos that he had dreamed. What was certain was that when the moon shone again the three youths had given themselves up to sleep; only Aghias, when a humid breeze began to blow from the sea, shook himself awake, and shivered.

  Shortly before dawn the three young men resumed their journey, stopping only for a few moments to water their horses at a brook; they arrived at the sea as day was breaking. When they reached the isthmus, the sun was already high in the sky and they stopped, weary and disheartened, at an abandoned cottage to eat a fistful of olives and a piece of stale bread that Talos took out of his pack.

  In a short time they were at the base of the wall that the Peloponnesian troops had raised to block enemy passage. A Spartan officer leaned from the rampart. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘I am Brithos, son of Aristarkhos, Spartan,’ was his reply. ‘We’ve come from the Thermopylae.’ Excited orders could be heard, and immediately a small iron door was opened at the base of the wall.

  ‘Come in, quickly,’ said the officer, stepping aside. ‘But tell me,’ he added immediately, ‘how did you manage to save yourselves? The allies that preceded you told us that no one survived.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Brithos in a broken voice. ‘Our men remained to cover their retreat. We are here because King Leonida
s gave us a message for the ephors. Our orders are to deliver it directly into their hands.’

  ‘The king . . . ?’ asked the officer.

  ‘He’s dead by now,’ answered Aghias. ‘No one could have survived the battle; the pass of Anopaea was betrayed to the enemy. We left just in time to avoid being trapped. But now, let us by; we have to bring our mission to its conclusion.’

  A crowd of soldiers was pressing around the small group.

  ‘Who are they?’ one asked.

  ‘They’re Spartans, come back from the Thermopylae.’

  ‘From the Thermopylae? But didn’t they say that no one was saved?’

  ‘These managed it, somehow.’

  ‘They say they have a message from King Leonidas.’

  Brithos spurred his horse, forcing a passage though the crowd of soldiers. In a short time, crossing entrenched fields, they reached the slope that led to the Argolic plain. They cut around Argos – treacherous city, probably already in league with the Persians – and headed towards Mantinea, which they reached as night was falling. They were at the port of Sparta the next day. The city glowed white under the blazing sun. On a tower, a long black pall hung motionless.

  They crossed the city at the time of day when the streets were most crowded. The throng opened to let them pass, but regarded them with a mixture of curiosity and mistrust.

  Their mounts, shining with sweat, dragged their hooves in the dusty streets, ears low and tails hanging. The two warriors in their saddles wore dented armour, their clothing was tattered, their limbs were covered with bruises and festering wounds, their heads swung from their shoulders in the heat.

  They arrived at the great square of the House of Bronze and crossed to the building where the council of the ephors was meeting with the elders to discuss what had taken place.

  The news of the fall of the Thermopylae, in fact, had already arrived, brought by a Tegean horseman at the first light of dawn.

  A sentinel introduced Brithos and Aghias into the council chamber. Their entrance was met by a buzz of astonishment. They were not easily recognized: thin, ragged, dirty, eyes red in black sunken orbits; they seemed spectres called up from Hades. Brithos spoke: ‘Venerable fathers, our defence of the pass was condemned by treason. A traitor indicated the mountain pass of Anopaea to the enemy and King Leonidas dismissed the allies so as not to sacrifice them uselessly. He remained with our warriors to protect their retreat. We were spared because the king ordered us to bring you this message.’

  He handed the leather scroll to a guard who delivered it into the hands of the ephors. ‘He ordered that it be read immediately in the presence of the elders, the ephors and King Leotychidas.’

  Without opening the scroll, one of the ephors said, ‘We have heard of the great valour of our warriors at the Thermopylae. Their blood was spilled for the liberation of all Greece and their city renders them homage with solemn funeral rites. And we honour you also for having fought with all of your might and for having obeyed the commands of your king. The message will be read as soon as King Leotychidas reaches us; he has already been summoned to the assembly. Go now, you have permission to return to your homes without reporting first to your syssitìa.’

  ‘Our syssitìa doesn’t exist any more, sir,’ muttered Brithos in a flat voice. The two warriors then left the hall, leaning against each other, and entered the square which was swarming with people, all watching them. In a corner of the square Talos struggled to hold the nervous horses, tormented by flies.

  ‘They have come from the Underworld,’ whispered a child hiding behind his father’s legs, eyes wide open in fear. Brithos and Aghias staggered down the steps of the council building and the crowd split to let them pass.

  ‘It’s the son of Aristarkhos!’ said a man, leaning forward to examine Brithos’ face.

  A woman cried out, ‘Why were they saved? Why only them?’

  The buzzing in the square became louder, the crowd seemed to close in on the two wretched youths. At that moment, all heads turned as one; from the door of the council chamber one of the elders indicated that he wanted to speak. The crowd fell silent.

  ‘Spartans,’ proclaimed the elder, ‘the two warriors who are passing among you now are valorous men. They have delivered a message to us from King Leonidas and they left the Thermopylae on the king’s orders.’

  The crowd parted again and the two warriors dragged themselves across the square to the House of Bronze. Next to a stump, the same one that had seen King Cleomenes’ bloody end, stood Ismene, deathly pale.

  ‘Mother,’ gasped Brithos. His shield slipped off his arm onto the ground, resounding on the pavement. ‘Mother . . . with it, you said . . . or upon it.’

  He collapsed to his knees, Aghias swaying on his feet behind him like a puppet dangling from a hook. Brithos lifted his face to his mother, wetting his dry and cracked lips with his tongue. ‘Mother, he loved you until the last moment.’

  Ismene fell to her knees next to him. ‘Mother, I didn’t want to leave him . . . I didn’t want to leave him!’ he shouted with a broken voice. He covered his face with his hands, sobbing.

  *

  One of the ephors signalled to a guard, who left the room closing the heavy iron door behind him. The ephor advanced to the centre of the room. ‘Noble elders,’ he said, ‘King Leonidas and our warriors have died valorously in the defence of Greece, and now the Athenians cannot refuse to draw up the fleet, commanded by our admiral Eurybiades, to defend the Peloponnese. Our duty is to further reinforce the isthmus.

  ‘We will first pay our honours to the fallen men, and try to recover, if possible, their bodies. They will not go unburied! Our Phocian allies will see that this is done. Next, we must provide for the nomination of a regent, since Leonidas’ son, young Pleistarchus, is not old enough to take the throne. The council hereby proposes the name of Cleombrotus, brother of the deceased king.

  ‘He will undoubtedly accept the burdensome charge of the regency in this dangerous moment. We’ve also already uncovered information about the man who guided the army of the Great King to the pass of Anopaea, condemning our contingent at the Thermopylae.’

  An old man with a long white beard rose from his seat in the senate. ‘King Leonidas would have died anyway; we all know that his fate was decided from the moment that this assembly established that not a single man would be diverted from the defence of the isthmus.’ The first orator paled. ‘Or perhaps,’ continued the old man, undaunted, ‘noble elders and ephors, we wish to deny the true reason for which King Leonidas was sent to die at the Thermopylae?

  ‘Someone, honourable fathers, thought that it was the minimum price to be paid to force the Athenians to draw up their fleet in defence of the isthmus. No one opposed the idea, not even myself, but I invite you now to respect the memory of valorous men that we sacrificed willingly and knowingly, but whom we have no right to deride with our hypocrisy.

  ‘The traitor certainly did lead the soldiers of the Great King to our combatants, but if this hadn’t happened, what would have changed? The agony suffered by King Leonidas and his men would only have been prolonged.’ The old man returned to his seat, pulling his mantle over his head and isolating himself in scornful silence.

  The ephor, after a long embarrassing pause, spoke again: ‘Noble Archelaus has spoken, undoubtedly influenced by the emotions of the moment. But we all know that it is our duty to punish the traitor; his name is Ephialtes, son of Eurydemus of Malis. From this moment, no respite will be given him until he has paid the penalty for his foul act.

  ‘And now,’ continued the orator, ‘it is just that we read the message that King Leonidas, before dying, wished to send us.’ He opened the leather scroll and unwound it slowly as silence fell over the hall.

  ‘Why, it’s blank!’ he murmured, growing pale. ‘There’s nothing written here at all.’

  Brithos and Aghias had hoped to be welcomed back into the city, since the reason for their safe return to Sparta had been made public,
but the shadow of suspicion only grew. In assembly, the places next to theirs were always left empty, and their old friends no longer spoke to them. Aghias stopped going out by day in order to avoid meeting anyone. He spent his time lying on his bed, staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling beams.

  He went out only at night, and wandered at length through deserted streets, in the dark. His mind was giving way, day by day.

  The affection of his parents, who had never lost faith in him, did not count for anything. Excluded from the city that he had always served with devotion, oppressed by the shame that his people had cast upon him, he had lost all attachment to life.

  One night he returned home drunk and feverish. A hot, suffocating wind was blowing, making the dust whirl on the silent streets of the sleeping city.

  He opened the door to his home and a gust of wind put out the fire that burned before the images of the gods. Frightened by this sinister omen, he backed into the street, refusing to enter. He walked towards the house of an old friend who lived nearby to ask him for a lamp to relight the flame in his home, so that his parents, when they awoke, would not find it extinguished.

  He knocked repeatedly at the door, and a chained dog began barking. His friend came out, holding a sheet around himself.

  ‘Aghias,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here at this hour? What do you want?’

  ‘I was just returning home,’ responded Aghias, confused, ‘and as I was about to enter, the wind put out our flame; please, let me light it with your lamp.’

  His friend looked at him with compassion and contempt. ‘No, Aghias, I’m sorry but I cannot give you our flame. My brother was at the Thermopylae . . . remember?’ He closed the door. The wind increased in intensity, carrying away the insistent barking of the dog. Aghias backed away, staggering, from the threshold. He leaned against the wall that encircled the house and wept, softly, for a long time.

  The following morning they found him hanging from one of the ceiling beams in his home, strangled by his own ragged crimson cloak.