‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’ he asked with a smile. ‘And yet everything I’ve told you is absolutely true.’ Lahgal’s expression went from bewilderment to something deeper, more intense. He turned forward to face the dusty road.
‘Perhaps . . .’ he said after a brief silence, ‘perhaps you’re different . . . different from the other men who live on this earth.’
‘No, my young friend, I’m not. I’m a person just like you, for whom the gods have reserved a strange destiny. If you like I’ll tell you my story.’ Lahgal nodded. ‘Well, long ago, before you were even born, a child was born in a noble home of Sparta. His parents called him Kleidemos. But they soon realized that he was lame, and the father carried him away one night and abandoned him on the mountainside. This was the law of Sparta: no male child who was deformed, and so could not become a warrior, was allowed to live. But this child was found by an old shepherd, a Helot who brought his master’s flock to pasture on the slopes of Mount Taygetus. He saved the child and his daughter raised him as her own. He named the boy Talos, and that’s what the Helots called him.
‘The child grew and learned to wrestle and to use a bow and arrow. He called the woman who raised him “mother” and the old shepherd, “grandfather”. He also learned to force his crippled foot to support the weight of his body and to move with dexterity.
‘This boy had a brother, a little older than him, raised to be a Spartan warrior. One day they met, and they fought without ever knowing that they were brothers. Talos was nearly killed—’
‘Why did you fight your brother?’ interrupted Lahgal. ‘You are Talos, aren’t you?’
‘Because my brother and his companions had attacked a girl who was my friend, the daughter of a peasant who lived on the plain. From that day on, he hated me. One day he came to finish me off, or so I thought. He let his ferocious hound slaughter all my sheep, and my own little dog. But it didn’t end there . . . War broke out, you see, between the cities of Greece and the Great King of Persia.
‘We Helots were brought to the city to be chosen as the warriors’ attendants, and my brother chose me. I accompanied him to the Thermopylae, and I saw my father there as well – the father who had abandoned me as a child. I did not know who he was, but he knew . . . I think. I remember the way he looked at me; there seemed to be infinite pain burning within him, held in check by the power of his will. My father was a great warrior, the cousin of King Cleomenes and King Leonidas. He perished with the other warriors of Sparta, butchered all on the rocks of the pass.’
Kleidemos fell silent and only the scuttling of the ass’s hooves could be heard on the stony path. A farmer who was scything the grass in a nearby field raised his head to wipe away the sweat and waved at them with his wide-brimmed hat. Some storks who had been poking around for insects in the cut grass took flight, disappearing behind a hill.
‘I’ve heard tell of the three hundred heroes of the Thermopylae.’ Lahgal said suddenly. ‘I heard a funeral lament that was written for them by a great poet who lives on the island.’
‘Did the dirge mention that two of those warriors were saved?’
‘No, I thought they all died.’
‘That’s not what happened. Two of them were spared, and I accompanied them to Sparta on orders from the king. One of them was my brother Brithos. They had a message to deliver to the elders, but no one was ever to know what it said. It was rumoured that they had lied or sought to escape, and no one in their city would have anything to do with them. They were branded as cowards and traitors. One of them hanged himself in his own home. The other, my brother, tried to kill himself one night on the mountain, but I’d been watching him, and managed to stop him. I brought him back to my mountain cabin and convinced him to vindicate himself by fighting a solitary war against the Persians.
‘I arranged to have the armour of our father taken from his home and Brithos wore it that autumn, winter and spring, fighting in Phocis, Locris and Boeotia. I was with him, fighting at his side. We hid in the wood, sleeping in mountain caves. By day we would take Persian detachments by surprise, attack isolated groups requisitioning food and forage. My brother was a fury: he killed more than two hundred Persian officers and soldiers, while I covered him with my bow and arrow.’
The sun was high and the day was hot. The road led down to a little clearing where a shimmering plane tree stood. The ass trotted towards the shade, attracted by the cool green grass. Kleidemos let him go and, as he grazed, sat in the shadow of the huge tree with Lahgal. The waves of the nearby sea lapped the beach, wetting a myriad of brightly coloured pebbles that glittered like gems in the sunshine.
‘You never knew you were brothers?’ asked Lahgal, his back still turned to Kleidemos.
‘No,’ he replied, watching the swirling sea. ‘Only Brithos’ eyes looked like mine. He was the image of our father. Taller than me and more muscular; wearing that heavy armour had made him very powerful. When he stripped to wash himself in the river he looked like Hercules. I resemble my mother.’
‘Didn’t that give it away?’ asked Lahgal, surprised.
‘No, it didn’t, because I looked like a servant and he looked like a nobleman. Servitude accustoms you to keeping your head down. It takes the light out of your eyes, it makes you similar to the animals you spend your time with—’ He stopped; Lahgal had turned around and was looking at him sadly. Kleidemos shifted to face him as well, as though he had felt the weight of his stare. ‘Did I say something that has made you feel bad? I have . . . I can see that.’
The boy lowered his head, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
‘You mustn’t feel sorry for me, Lahgal,’ continued Kleidemos. ‘I was happy as a servant, there with my grandfather on the mountain, with my dog, my lambs and now . . . I have lost my family, my people. I wear the shield and the armour of the Kleomenids, one of the most noble families of Sparta, but I no longer know who I am. I regret leaving, but I can’t turn back, and I see nothing before me. Brithos died at Plataea: he redeemed his honour but he lost his life. It was King Pausanias – the man who has occupied this island – who gave me my brother’s weapons and told me my real name: Kleidemos. I went back to the house where I was born and there I met the woman who gave birth to me: my mother Ismene. If I live to be a thousand, I shall never forget that night. My heart was as hard as a stone at the thought that she had had the courage to abandon her son to the wolves of the mountain. I was relishing the idea of torturing her, of making her suffer – the proud bride of Aristarkhos. But the creature I found before me was shattered, her face furrowed by tears. Her mind . . . vacillating at the threshold of madness.
‘When I held her to me and promised that I’d never leave her again, her heart couldn’t bear it. She died in my arms.’
Lahgal got to his feet and held out his hand to Kleidemos, who got up as well. They walked in silence along the seashore, the water at their ankles, listening to the sound of the waves. Lahgal bent down to collect a beautifully coloured shell and handed it to Kleidemos. ‘This is for you. It will bring you luck.’
‘Thank you, Lahgal. It’s lovely,’ he said, accepting the gift.
‘Oh, it’s nothing, but it will remind you of me when you go away, Two-Names.’
Kleidemos tightened his fist around the shell. ‘Two-Names? Did you call me Two-Names?’
‘Doesn’t that seem like a nice name?’
‘Very nice. And very . . . appropriate.’
Lahgal smiled and winked. ‘I’m hungry, Two-Names, aren’t you?’
‘I could eat an ox with his horns!’
‘Well, run then! Let’s see who gets back to the ass first!’ challenged the boy as he raced through the water, raising iridescent splashes.
*
The sea seemed to be on fire when the bay of the port of Paphos appeared; the sun was low over the water and its golden glow reflected onto the houses of the city. Towering palms swayed above the roof tops, revealing clusters of yellow flowers among the serrated lea
ves. Scarlet pomegranate blossoms peeked through shiny dark green foliage in the gardens. The surrounding hills were covered with olive trees, sparkling silver amidst the black tips of the cypresses. Kleidemos stopped the ass to enjoy the spectacle. ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, Lahgal, in all of my life. Is that the city of Paphos?’
‘No,’ replied the boy, ‘that is just the port. The city is behind those hills to our right. It is very ancient, and was built around its temple. I’ve never been able to enter the temple, though, because I’m a child . . . or perhaps because I’m a slave. I don’t know. They say that there are marvellous things inside. Let’s go, the road is still long.’
‘We won’t reach it before nightfall,’ observed Kleidemos. ‘There won’t be anything to see.’
‘You’re wrong about that!’ said Lahgal, winking. ‘The temple remains open until late at night for pilgrims who want to make a sacrifice to Aphrodite. They say that the goddess watches them as they make their sacrifice, and if she likes one of them . . .’
‘Just what does this sacrifice consist of, Lahgal?’ asked Kleidemos, intrigued.
‘Come on!’ exclaimed Lahgal, turning around to look at his companion. ‘Then it’s true what they say about you Spartans – that you are thick, and a little slow up here,’ he said, knocking against his head.
‘What do you mean?’ insisted Kleidemos.
Lahgal pressed his heels into the ass’s flank. ‘All right, so I have to explain everything. You see, there are many beautiful maidens who live inside the temple: they are the servants of the goddess. The pilgrims enter, make an offering to the temple and then choose one of the girls and then they . . . make sacrifice to the goddess of love. Now do you understand?’
‘I do,’ admitted Kleidemos, cracking an embarrassed smile. ‘I understand. But what does the goddess have to do with all this? To me it seems like a ploy to fatten up the temple priests through some thick-headed dolt like me.’
‘Don’t say such a thing!’ interrupted Lahgal. ‘You must be mad! If the goddess hears you, she will strike you down!’
‘That’s enough, Lahgal, no more teasing. The gods cannot afflict me more than they already have. Nothing can frighten me after what I’ve lived through.’
Lahgal twisted around and took Kleidemos’ hand tightly between his own. ‘Beware, Two-Names. The goddess truly exists, and she reveals herself in this temple. Many people have seen her take on a number of shapes, or so they say. But anyone who has seen her remains so profoundly impressed that his heart and mind are never the same. They say that a Persian satrap to whom the goddess appeared was struck speechless, and never spoke another word.’
It was getting dark, and there was no one around. The road wound upwards through a forest of holm oaks which rustled in the light sea breeze. The birds nestling among the branches filled the wood with their twittering. Lahgal, tired of the long journey, shivered and pulled his cape tight around his thin shoulders. The last ray of sunlight sunk into the distant sea, which became leaden.
‘I have to urinate,’ he said suddenly, breaking the heavy silence.
‘Right now? Can’t you wait until we can see the city, at least?’
‘I said I have to urinate!’
‘All right, all right, don’t get upset,’ Kleidemos pulled on the ass’s halter and he stopped. He got down while the boy, slipping down the packsaddle, was already at the side of the road. He was back in a moment.
‘That was it?’ asked Kleidemos.
‘That was it.’
‘Well, get back on, it’s late.’
‘My bottom hurts and I’d rather walk. You’re comfortable there on the saddle, but I’ve been sitting on a bunch of bones. I’ve had enough.’
‘All right. Let’s walk.’
A thin crescent moon appeared over the tops of the trees, shedding a pale glow on the dusty white road. They walked for a while in silence.
‘Two-Names, don’t you want to go to the temple any more?’
‘No, I’d like to go, really. After what you told me, it would be foolish not to go. Who knows, maybe the goddess has something to tell me.’
‘You’re not afraid, Two-Names?’
‘Yes,’ replied Kleidemos, ‘I am a little afraid. The gods can tell us things we’d rather not know.’
The city began to appear behind a curve in the road: it stood on a hill, ashen in the moonlight.
‘Lahgal,’ Kleidemos began again, ‘do you know what the statue of the goddess looks like?’
‘I’ve heard it described. But I’ve never seen it, as I was saying. It doesn’t have features; it doesn’t have a face and a body, like the statues of the other gods.’
‘What does it look like, then?’
‘Well, they say it is a double spiral that tapers at the top and comes to a point.’
‘That’s very strange. I’ve never heard of anything like that.’
‘They say it is the symbol of life, or the shape of life itself.’
‘But life has different shapes: in men, in animals, in plants, in the gods themselves. Don’t you agree?’
‘This is what we see. But I have the feeling that life is a single thing. When it’s there, men move, they talk, they think, they love and they hate. Animals graze and chase each other over the fields. Trees and bushes grow and flourish. When it’s gone, bodies dry out and decay. Trees wither.’
‘And the gods?’ asked Kleidemos, astonished by the words of the boy who trotted along at his side, trying to measure his steps with Kleidemos’ rolling gait.
‘The gods cannot be alive if they can’t die. Or perhaps they are life itself. Anyway, the artists who make them look like us are wrong. That’s why the goddess you’ll see is a double spiral. She has the shape of life.’
Kleidemos stopped in his tracks and turned to Lahgal. ‘Who taught you these things? I’ve never heard a child talk like this.’
‘No one. I’ve listened in on the pilgrims who remain at the temple. They speak an old dialect from this island that you would never understand. No one pays attention to a child. A slave-child to boot. They talk as if only their dogs or horses were around, but I listen because I want to learn everything I can. And some day . . . perhaps I’ll be free and be able to come and go as I like, and visit distant lands.’
The first houses of Paphos were just a stone’s throw away. Lahgal headed straight towards a ramshackle city gate, seemingly in disuse, but the road soon led to the high part of the city and the temple lights glittered before them. They stopped at a spring.
‘Wash yourself,’ said Lahgal. ‘You smell sweaty.’
‘Listen, Lahgal, you surely don’t imagine that—’
‘I’m not imagining anything, you fool. You are going to wash before going into the temple, aren’t you?’
Kleidemos took off his chiton and washed himself at the spring. Lahgal then brought him to the entrance of the temple. It was not very tall, built of blocks of grey stone with a portico in front. Its wooden columns supported a lintel which was decorated with brightly painted panels. Kleidemos stopped to look at them.
‘You’ll see them better in the light of day,’ protested Lahgal. ‘Go inside now,’ he said, pushing him towards the entrance. ‘I’ll wait for you out here.’
Kleidemos approached the threshold: a reddish glow filtered from the half-open doors. He entered a large hall, divided by two rows of wooden columns, each of which supported a three-flamed oil lamp. The air was permeated with a sharp, inebriating odour coming from a bronze brazier at the end of the hall, in front of the image of the goddess. The large bronze sculpture stood as Lahgal had described it on a pedestal. The flickering light of the lamps cast rippling reflections into the spirals, sudden flashes which seemed to animate the statue with a sinuous upward movement.
Deep silence surrounded the idol; Kleidemos could hear the soft crackling of the incense on the brazier coals. He sat down on an oxhide there on the floor; his limbs felt sluggish, sleepy somehow. He couldn’t take h
is eyes off the statue, as the double spiral seemed slowly to take on a life of its own, rotating upwards, its coils sparkling with a bloody light. The movement seemed to become imperceptibly faster and Kleidemos blinked to chase away the illusion. It had to be an illusion . . . or was it the effect of that strange fragrance that pervaded the air? He was so tired, and hungry, as if he hadn’t eaten all day – yes, that must be it; he was seeing things.
In fact, the image was now motionless on its pedestal, but to its right . . . to its left? . . . a woman appeared. He rose to his knees as she stood before him, and her crimson dress slipped off her golden limbs . . . slipped to the floor, where it seemed a scarlet rose, withering at her feet. Her legs, like those of a magnificent deer, bore rings of silver, shining . . . the same reflections in the image of the goddess and on her thighs of bronze. And the fragrance . . . it was stronger, and different, scented with almonds, bitter somehow. But why couldn’t he see her face? Long flaming hair covered her face, fell over her breasts. She came closer . . . closer . . . lifted her head – a soft music caressed his ears, the indefinable melody of distant flutes – and she showed her face. O most powerful gods . . . most powerful gods! It was the face of Antinea.
He reached out his arms. ‘O goddess, lady of this place, don’t let this be a cruel dream,’ he whispered. ‘O my far-away love . . . why was our season so short? . . . Antinea – her face dissolving behind a veil of tears, that night, with the dying sun, never to return – Antinea!’ he gasped. ‘Antinea . . .’
He lay back in a wave of fragrant hair, set ablaze in an ardent embrace that seemed never ending. The light of the lamps trembled and faded, the last sparks scattering in the gloom that enveloped the sanctuary. The idol of bronze, perfectly still now, cold and dark, reflected only the pale rays of the moon.
*
Dawn began to lighten the great hypostyle hall of the temple. A man wrapped in a dark cloak entered through a door behind the image of the goddess and walked to where Kleidemos was still in a deep sleep. He turned to the woman lying next to him.
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