Spartan

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘When will I be relieved of duty here?’

  ‘Immediately, if you like. You can return to Byzantium with me. Your deputy commander will take over until the king sends another officer to conduct the next campaign.’

  ‘Byzantium . . . I can’t believe that I’ll be able to leave this life, return to Sparta—’

  ‘Wait, the mission you’ll have to carry out will be neither easy nor brief, I believe.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Anything will be better than continuing this massacre, than spending another year in these desolate lands. Let’s leave right away, Lahgal. Tomorrow.’

  ‘As you wish,’ replied the young man. He took a leather scroll from his cloak. ‘These are the instructions for your deputy: you’ll have to read them on the skythale.’

  ‘Fine,’ agreed Kleidemos. ‘I’ll have him called immediately.’ He gave orders to the guard posted at the entrance to the tent, who returned shortly thereafter with the taxiarch of the first battalion. The officer saluted him and, at a gesture from his commander, removed his helmet and sat down on a stool. Kleidemos removed the skythale from its case. It was a smooth boxwood stick marked with two parallel spiralling lines, the guides where the leather scroll was applied in the prescribed way so as to become legible. Kleidemos fastened the scroll to the stud at the top and then carefully turned the stick until the leather strip was rolled onto it, following the guide. He attached the bottom end to another stud at the opposite side of the stick. The message, which had been written horizontally on a similar stick of the same length and thickness, was apparent now:

  Pausanias, King of the Spartans, to Kleidemos, son of Aristarkhos, commander of our army in Thrace: hail!

  We commend your great valour, worthy of the name you bear, and thank you for the service you have rendered to your country in the many battles you have won over the barbarians. Your presence is now required elsewhere. You shall turn over command of your troops to your deputy Deuxhippos, and join me in Byzantium as soon as possible.

  Kleidemos handed it over to his deputy, who read it as well, noting the seal of Pausanias at the end.

  ‘When will you leave, commander?’ asked Deuxhippos.

  ‘Tomorrow at dawn. Prepare to take command.’ The officer got to his feet. ‘I know I’m leaving my men in good hands,’ added Kleidemos, reaching out his right hand.

  ‘Thank you, commander,’ said Deuxhippos, gripping his hand in some surprise. ‘I shall attempt to show myself worthy of this honour.’ He put on his helmet and left.

  ‘You’ll sleep in my tent,’ Kleidemos said to Lahgal. ‘I don’t have a pavilion for guests – I haven’t had many visitors.’

  Lahgal stripped to lie down, tired after his long journey. He had a man’s body, but his burnished skin glowed with the delicate beauty of an oriental. Kleidemos noticed that he had shaved his thighs and pubes, as if to soften the full exuberance of his virility. After Lahgal had fallen asleep, he still sat watching the coals in the brazier that burned in the centre of the tent. He stretched out his hands to warm them and his gaze fell on the studded armlet that Philippides, the champion of Olympia, had given him that long-ago day. Dangling from it was the coloured shell that Lahgal had given him as a child, on the beach in Cyprus. He ripped it off and tossed it onto the ground, smashing it under his heel.

  *

  ‘Tell me now, Kleidemos: you who were born twice, you of two names, who are you really? Can you tell me whether you are a son of Sparta or of the people who brought you up on Mount Taygetus?’

  King Pausanias was waiting for an answer, but Kleidemos was silent and confused.

  ‘You cannot answer me, can you? Your heart is still with those who raised you. But at the same time you cannot suffocate the call of your true race, the blood of Aristarkhos the Dragon. And this is why I know that you will understand and support my plan. Sparta can no longer hope to survive by governing in the same way as when she was founded by the descendants of Hercules. The number of equals is decreasing year after year. One day, not long hence, our army will no longer have enough warriors to fend off any enemy attack. The Helots themselves, constantly growing in number, could pose a threat. For this reason, Sparta must change, and all the inhabitants of Laconia must become her citizens, eliminating all distinctions.’

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ protested Kleidemos coldly. ‘The Helots hate you.’

  ‘And they will as long as this state of affairs lasts. But if we give them the status and dignity of free men, the right to possess land and weapons, the chasm that now divides them from the equals will cease to exist. Slowly, perhaps, but it will be bridged. In many other Greek states, this happened a hundred years ago. Look at Athens: she is building an empire on the sea and prospering in her riches. My plan can – must – be accomplished,’ exclaimed the king, ‘but for this to happen, the custodians of our institutions must be eliminated. Destroyed, if necessary.’ Kleidemos was shocked by Pausanias’ words, even as he continued in a calmer tone. ‘I am practically alone in this endeavour, and I do not have the power to bring it to fulfilment. I need a powerful ally – the most powerful.’ He seemed absorbed in his thoughts for a moment, then stared straight at Kleidemos, eyes flashing: ‘The King of Kings!’

  The young man shuddered. ‘My father and my brother died in the attempt to rid Greece of the Persians, and I shall not betray their memory,’ he said, and got up to leave.

  ‘Sit down!’ ordered the King with a peremptory tone. ‘Your father and your brother, as well as Leonidas and all his men at the Thermopylae, were sacrificed in vain, betrayed by the blind obtuseness of the ephors and the elders of Sparta. They are the ones truly responsible for the deaths of your family. The inhumane laws they rule by forced your father to abandon you on Mount Taygetus. But now one age has drawn to an end and another is about to begin: Sparta must change, or she will die, dragging the Helots with her in her plunge towards ruin. This is why I need you. I know the Helots will listen to you and follow you.

  ‘The time has come for me to reveal something to you. I know about the bow that you used at Plataea, I’ve seen the mark carved into it: the wolf’s head of the King of Messenia. The man who you thought was your grandfather, old Kritolaos, must certainly have told you about him. There isn’t much I don’t know, Kleidemos – I commanded the krypteia for ten years. When your brother Brithos went up the mountain that night with his Molossian hound, I knew what was happening. And I also know about the Spartan warrior who roamed the mountain for years, wrapped in a grey cape, his head covered with a hood . . .’

  ‘My father,’ admitted Kleidemos, trembling.

  ‘Yes, your father. Listen to me, you bear one of the most illustrious names of Sparta, and at the same time you are the heir of Kritolaos, the leader of the Helots. One day you will return among them and convince them to support my plan. I’ll get rid of the ephors and the elders, and even of King Leotychidas if necessary – with the help of the King of Persia.

  ‘Xerxes is prepared to back me with impressive means, certain that I will one day become his faithful satrap in a Greece reduced to a province of his immense empire. This shall never come to be; I defeated his army at Plataea and I shall defeat him once again. But right now I need his money.

  ‘You should know that I have powerful friends in other cities of Greece, including Athens. Now I must return to Sparta, because the ephors have begun to suspect something, and I must ensure them of my loyalty. But you will bring my message to the King of Persia. You will deliver it to the custodian of the imperial palace at Kelainai in Phrygia and remain there until you receive his answer. And then you will return to Byzantium. I would calculate that to be at the beginning of the autumn. And I shall be here once again, in my place.’

  Kleidemos was absorbed in thought. What he had heard was nearly unbelievable, but he was struck by the realization that what Pausanias wanted to achieve was right. In such a world he would be able to set free the people he had lived with since birth without spilling blood, and
without denying the Kleomenid name.

  ‘I will leave as soon as you wish,’ he said suddenly. Pausanias walked him to the door. He laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘There’s something about you that I’d still like to know,’ he said. ‘Who is Antinea?’

  ‘Antinea . . .’ murmured Kleidemos, lowering his head. ‘Antinea was someone that Talos knew.’

  And he fled into the starry night.

  *

  Kleidemos beheld wealthy Cyzicus, straddling two seas, populous Adramyttium and Pergamum, and then Ephesus, its port teeming with ships. He journeyed up the majestic Meander to Hieropolis, with its hot springs. He saw Sardeis, vast and rich, and the tumbledown temple of the Great Mother of the gods, incinerated by the Athenians during the Ionian revolt.

  Lahgal accompanied him, acting as his interpreter with the barbarians who escorted them across certain tracts so they would not fall prey to the thieves who infested the interior. Asia was immense, and lovely: mild hills sloped into verdant plains, covered with purple thistle flowers and the red poppies whose juice brought oblivion to men’s troubled souls. When the sun descended towards the horizon, the heavens flamed with scarlet clouds, edged in a deep violet that melted into the intense blue of the sky. Endless flocks headed off then towards their pens, raising dense clouds of dust that could be seen from a distance. The fleece of the lambs and sheep shone like gold, and their bleating faded off into the silent plain when the last shaft of sunlight went out with a flash. And then the firmament, so incredibly clear, would teem with millions of sparkling stars, while the monotonous chant of the crickets rose from the earth, joined by the howling of dogs from isolated houses. The smell of Asia was intense and penetrating: the fragrance of the yellow broom, so strong it was inebriating, and the dry, bitter scent of absinthe. Only the sharp odour of wild sage recalled his boyhood on the mountain. At night, they would see silent groups of men, their faces veiled, riding on monstrous animals with faces like sheep and two huge humps on their backs. Distasteful beasts that let out a rude moan when they knelt to allow their masters to mount them.

  As time passed and the sun carved an ever-wider arch into the sky, the terrain itself changed. Yellow and ochre, swathed with deep green wherever a stream or river meandered in wide turns across the sunny plain. The heat became nearly unbearable, and in the evening a furious wind would pick up, creating dozens of whirlwinds that danced over the parched earth. These columns of dust twisted and turned, darting here and there, then vanished like spectres amidst the crumbling rocks.

  But nightfall did not extinguish that scorching wind. The incessant hissing went on for hours, tumbling dried amaranth bushes over the arid grass like gigantic spiders. When it finally abated the vast high plain filled with rustles, crackles, murmurs. The eyes of the jackals sometimes glittered in the dark, and their mournful calls rose from the rocks to the red moon as it ascended slowly between the solitary peaks. Its pale rays lit the misshapen wild fig bushes and the fleshy foliage of the carob trees.

  Off in the distance, here and there, they could make out the black shapes of volcanoes that had been dormant for centuries. Typhon, the father of the winds, was said to live deep in their bellies: from his horrendous mouth escaped the fiery breath that withered the grass and flowers and enfeebled travellers’ tired limbs.

  One day, as he was approaching his destination, Kleidemos saw something that he would never forget: a colossal plane tree towering in the middle of the dusty plain, so enormous that he had never seen one like it in his whole life. Its smooth white trunk immediately branched off into four limbs, each of which was as thick as a fully-grown tree. He drew closer, to admire it and to rest in its shade. His astonishment increased when he saw an armed man standing under that immense tree. Kleidemos knew those weapons and decorations well: it was one of the Immortals, the personal guard of the Great King!

  He wore an embroidered overgarment, open at the sides, with a pair of trousers made of precious fabric gathered at the ankle and woven with a rose pattern in silver thread. His curly black beard, framing an olive-toned countenance, met with his thick, carefully combed and scented locks. Golden rings hung from his ears and a colourful leather quiver swung from his shoulder. His bow was finished in silver and a spear sparkled in his right hand.

  ‘Greetings,’ said Kleidemos, as Lahgal translated his words. ‘I am Kleidemos of Sparta and I have stopped to rest in the shade of this tree. Are you on a journey as well, noble sir? I see none of your servants or companions.’

  The warrior smiled, showing white teeth under his corvine moustache. ‘No,’ he replied in his language. ‘I am not on a journey. I am here by the orders of my king, Xerxes, the King of Kings, light of Ariah, favoured son of Ahura Mazda. Returning from Yauna and crossing this arid land he found shelter in the shadow of this tree, whose size and beauty enchanted him. He decreed that an Immortal from his guard would always watch over this tree, so that no harm could ever come to it.’

  Kleidemos was astonished, as Lahgal translated the words of the Persian soldier. ‘Do you mean to say that a man from the king’s guard remains here permanently to protect a tree?’

  ‘That is right,’ replied Lahgal. They lingered for a while, drinking from the spring which flowed next to the plane tree. The Immortal was seated on his stool, gazing off towards the horizon. Then they resumed their journey. After walking for nearly an hour, they looked back: the tree looked even bigger, while the warrior could barely be seen in the quivering air. But the tip of his spear, struck by the sun, flashed silver.

  16

  THE SECRET

  LAHGAL FELL ILL. The climate on the high plain had sapped all of his resources. When their supplies had run out and they could find no more wheat, the rancid mutton they were forced to eat turned his stomach causing him to vomit violently. Kleidemos stopped in several villages to allow him to rest and wait until his fever passed and the cramps in his stomach eased off. It was in one of these villages that he learned from its chieftain himself that the worst risk came not from eating, but from drinking; on the plateau, the waters were prevented from flowing down towards the sea by the huge mountains in their way. And so they stagnated or seeped very slowly underground, becoming saturated with noxious humours. The damage done could be so great as to bring about death. ‘It is the stomach that suffers,’ the chief assured Kleidemos. ‘It becomes so ruined that it can keep down no food at all; even a simple piece of fruit will cause overwhelming sickness.’

  ‘Is there a remedy?’ Kleidemos asked the chief in Phrygian, which he spoke a little after two months of travelling through so many villages. The man took out an earthenware jug and poured some murky liquid into a cup. It was an infusion of the poppy that produced oblivion.

  ‘This calms the cramping of the stomach and the spasms in the gut,’ he said. ‘In this way, your friend will be able to eat a little food; his body will slowly become stronger and fight off the sickness.’

  The potion was very bitter, but it was laced with wild mint and the savory which abounded in the surrounding fields; in fact, the Phrygian name for the village meant ‘place of savory’. Kleidemos trusted the chieftain’s word; he remembered seeing a river – a month before, in a place called Kolossai – that abruptly disappeared underground, as if swallowed up by the earth. The inhabitants claimed the water fell in a cascade two stadia long, and that on many a winter’s night they could hear the waters churning in underground caves.

  Lahgal felt better within a week; his fever broke and was gone and he could manage to keep down the flat wheat bread they roasted on stones. Given his condition and his surroundings, he had stopped dedicating himself to his grooming: his hair had grown to shoulder length and his tanned face was framed by a thick beard. His razor, strigil and tweezers were long forgotten at the bottom of a saddlebag.

  ‘Now you look like a man,’ Kleidemos said to him one day as he was bathing in the river. Lahgal shrugged.

  ‘You Spartans are boors. You don’t appreciate beauty
or gentleness. You have no art of your own, nor poetry. Only military songs to beat time as you march.’

  ‘I see you know a lot about Sparta, and Spartans,’ said Kleidemos, with a touch of irony.

  ‘Of course I do,’ replied Lahgal. ‘I’ve been living with them for years.’

  ‘You mean that you live with . . . King Pausanias.’

  ‘Yes, and so?’

  ‘Are you his lover?’ he asked bluntly.

  Lahgal began to tremble and his eyes were fixed to the ground.

  ‘Is that what you want to know about me, Two-Names? Does our Kleomenid hero really want to plunge his hands in the shit? To poke around in the misery of a Syrian slave? Well, if that’s what you want and you’d like to have a little fun listening to obscene stories, Lahgal can satisfy your curiosity. Oh yes, Two-Names, Lahgal has lots of stories to tell: besides the scars that I showed you on my back, I have worse, and much more intimate scars.’ He raised his black eyes, burning with rage and shame. ‘When you met me in Cyprus, my master was already prostituting me. I even had orders to let you have your share, if you liked me—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ shouted Kleidemos. ‘I don’t want to know—’

  ‘Oh yes, you do want to know and you shall, by the gods! You asked me something very specific, Two-Names, just a moment ago, or have you forgotten already? And so now let me tell you . . .

  ‘My good looks became my curse. How I envied those who were deformed! I was forced to submit to sordid, repugnant beings and to undergo abominations, choking on my vomit and disgust.

  ‘Yes, Two-Names, I have become the lover of the king. But did I have a choice? Have I ever had a choice? All I could do was try to avoid the worst. Pausanias has never mistreated me, not once, and he has promised that he will set me free.’ Kleidemos couldn’t say another word; Lahgal continued in a lower tone of voice. ‘When you left Cyprus I hoped ardently to see you again one day. You were the only person who had ever shown me sincere affection, and when I saw you drenched and desperate under that tree in Thrace, I realized that I had saved you from taking your own life. My joy at seeing you again was immense.’