Spartan

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  He did not hide his desire to return to the woman who had raised him on Mount Taygetus, and when he took possession of the house of the Kleomenids, his wish was granted. The ephors imagined that this would make it even easier for them to trace any suspicious contacts.

  And so, at the beginning of the winter, Kleidemos was given permission to leave the syssitìa where he had lived for months in complete compliance with the rigid military standards of communal life, and to take charge of his own home and possessions.

  He left the barracks one morning as the sun was rising, followed by a Helot from his father’s house who had loaded up his belongings and armour onto the back of an ass. He left through the eastern gate, walking slowly and taking in his surroundings: he could just make out the Kleomenid house about ten stadia away, still enveloped in the shadows of the night. Contradictory sentiments possessed his heart: he would soon see the place where he was born, the house in which for a moment he had known Ismene, the woman who had brought him into the world. And he would soon be bringing there the woman who had raised him and given him the love that his true mother had denied him.

  He felt uncertain, torn: would the people he had spent his youth with still remember him? Would he ever return among them? Kritolaos had once made him their leader, and the great bow still secretly waited to be taken up once again by Talos the Wolf. In a dark underground chamber, the armour of King Aristodemus and his cursed sword still hoped to see the light, but when would that day ever dawn?

  The house of the Kleomenids was just a stone’s throw away now. The house of the Dragon. The home of Aristarkhos, his father. There, down on the plain, was where he’d first seen him, and he had never forgotten the sorrow deep in the warrior’s eyes as he saw the boy’s lame foot.

  Perialla, running from her own destiny . . . what had she said?

  The dragon and the wolf first

  with merciless hate

  wound each other.

  That starry night on the hills of Plataea, those words on Brithos’ lips . . . the Kleomenid Dragon and the Wolf of Taygetus. But Aristarkhos was dead, Brithos was dead. Where was the dragon now if not deep within himself, in the heart of Kleidemos, Kleomenid, there together with the Wolf of Messenia? There the two beasts attacked each other, feeding on their endless fury, no truce, no peace . . . for how much longer? Why had the gods reserved so perverse a fate for the little lame boy?

  He realized that the Helot had drawn up in front of the gate of the house. The courtyard was invaded by weeds, the enclosure wall was cracked and crumbling, the bones of Melas gleamed white on the family altar. No one had set foot here for years.

  ‘Do you know where my mother Ismene is buried?’ he asked the Helot.

  ‘Yes, noble sir,’ replied the servant. ‘Down there, among those cypress trees.’ He pointed at a rough-hewn stone sarcophagus in the field surrounding the house.

  Wait here for me,’ he said to the Helot, and walked towards the tomb of his mother. The sun rose just then, flooding the valley with its light. The house emerged from the darkness and the cypresses swayed in the early morning breeze. Kleidemos remained at length beside the tomb, his head bowed. He suddenly realized that there was an inscription on her burial stone, half hidden by the thick coat of moss that had grown there. He took out his sword and scraped away the moss; the inscription read:

  ISMENE DAUGHTER OF EUTIDEMUS

  BRIDE OF ARISTARKHOS THE DRAGON

  UNHAPPY MOTHER

  OF TWO VALOROUS SONS

  THE GODS BEGRUDGED HER

  THE PRECIOUS GIFT

  OF THE LION OF SPARTA

  Kleidemos called out to the Helot, who tied the ass and hurried promptly over.

  ‘Who dictated that inscription?’ he asked in a quiet voice, indicating the sculpted stone.

  The Helot stopped to consider the writing, then said, ‘Sir, I have been assigned to your service, because for many years I farmed the land of your father Aristarkhos, may he be honoured. The elders called upon me to build this tomb, along with several companions. I can’t read those written symbols, but if I remember well, only the first four lines were carved into the stone. I’m certain of it. If you don’t believe me, you can question my fellow workers or consult the archives of the Council, where there must be a copy of this inscription, since it was carved at public expense.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure of what you’re saying?’ urged Kleidemos.

  ‘I’ve told you the truth, sir. But you can verify it yourself without going to too much trouble.’

  ‘I thank you,’ he replied. ‘Go on ahead to the house; take my baggage with you. I’ll soon join you.’ As the servant was leaving, Kleidemos observed the inscription closely: it was obvious that the last three lines had been added. The hand was different and the first four lines were well centred on the slab, while the others continued so low that they nearly touched the bottom edge of the stone. There was no need to question the other workers. But who could have added those words? And what was the gift they referred to? There seemed to be a message there, perhaps an important one. He had to discover for whom those words were intended, and what their significance was.

  The Helot was in the stable, arranging food and shelter for the ass. He walked towards the house. The oak door creaked open with difficulty on its rusted hinges. The interior was the picture of desolation: the ceiling of the atrium was draped with spider webs and a thick layer of dust lay everywhere. Large rats scurried away in haste at Kleidemos’ approach. In their niches, the Kleomenid heroes too were coated with dust and cobwebs. He moved into the other rooms, and saw what must have been his parents’ bed chamber. All that was left of the great bed was the frame of solid oak; the mattress and covers had been shredded by the mice for their nests. He heard the sound of footsteps in the atrium: the servant had come to ask for instructions.

  ‘I want this house to be cleaned and restored to its former dignity; I’d like to live here,’ Kleidemos told him. ‘When everything is in order, I’ll call the woman who raised me on the mountain as a son of your people. What is your name?’ he asked the elderly servant.

  ‘Alesos, sir.’

  ‘Do you know of whom I’m speaking?’

  ‘I do, sir. You’re speaking of the daughter of Kritolaos. Your story is well known in this city.’

  ‘I see that it is,’ replied Kleidemos. ‘I’ll sleep here in the atrium tonight.’

  He worked all day alongside Alesos and the other servants he had called in from the fields. As dusk was falling, a fire was burning at the centre of the atrium and the votive lamps were lit. Kleidemos felt as though he had returned to his ancient home. He sat next to the hearth with the old servant who had accompanied him.

  ‘How old are you?’ asked Kleidemos.

  ‘Over seventy, sir.’

  ‘How long have you been serving in this house?’

  ‘Since my birth – like my father before me and his father before him.’

  ‘You lived many years with Aristarkhos, the master of this home, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And while I was vigorous and my limbs strong I followed him to war as his personal attendant.’

  ‘Tell me about him. What kind of man was he?’

  ‘He was a great warrior, but not only; valiant warriors are common in this land. He was a just man, and generous, and he could rely on us always.’ He got up to add wood to the fire, then sat down again and spoke in a low voice. ‘Our people do not love the Spartans, sir.’

  ‘I know, Alesos, I lived with your people.’

  ‘They are shells of iron and bronze; they have no soul.’

  ‘You are courageous to speak thus with the commander of the fourth battalion of the equals.’

  ‘But your father was a real man, and none of us ever suffered beatings or humiliations at his hand.’

  ‘And what do you think of me?’

  ‘Do you really want to know my thoughts?’

  ‘Yes, I do, speak freely.’

  ‘The voice of
your blood cannot be silenced, and it was written that you would return to where you had come from. Only you know the secrets of your soul, but I believe that the heritage of Kritolaos has not been lost either. Embers smoulder long under the ash, and stupid men believe them extinguished, but when the wind starts to blow again, the flame is reawakened.’

  Kleidemos lowered his gaze. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, old man.’

  ‘Sir, among your servants there are some who, due to unfortunate necessity or fear, have become the eyes and ears of the powerful lords who oppress our people. Beware them; I will reveal their names to you. As for me, I knew Kritolaos well and held him in great esteem, as I loved your father Aristarkhos. You are a tree with your roots in two different fields, but I have cultivated both fields with love. I can give you proof of this, if you want. You have taken possession of the house you were born in and honour the memory of your father, so illustrious and so unfortunate. Rightly so. But the road you must walk is perhaps still hidden even to you, and only the gods can reveal it.’

  Kleidemos got to his feet and poked at the fire. ‘The gods know the road we must take,’ he said, staring at the flames dancing brightly in the hearth. ‘Tomorrow you will go up the mountain and you will bring the woman who was my mother for twenty years back to me. You will tell her that I’ve never stopped thinking about her, and that only destiny kept me away . . . that I am awaiting her with the love of a son.’

  ‘At dawn I will have already departed,’ said the servant, getting up, ‘and so with your permission I will retire now.’

  ‘Yes, go ahead,’ said Kleidemos. ‘And may the gods grant you a restful night.’

  ‘The same to you, sir,’ replied the old man, opening the door to leave.

  ‘Will she come?’ asked Kleidemos without turning, as if he were talking to himself.

  ‘She will come,’ replied the servant, closing the heavy oak door behind him.

  *

  He saw her far off, riding on the ass that Alesos was leading by the halter, and he recognized her immediately. He threw down the scythe that he had been using to cut the weeds in the courtyard and started running as fast as he could, even though his lame foot pained him greatly with the turn of the seasons. But no pain could have stopped him at that moment. He lifted her off the packsaddle and held her in his arms, unable to say a single word. Alesos led the ass into the stable.

  ‘Mother!’ he gasped finally. ‘Mother, how long has it been? Your hair . . . is all white.’

  He caressed her head and face, then pulled her to him in a close embrace. Her hot tears wet his face and then came her voice, trembling. ‘Son, the gods are good if they have conceded me this day. Ever since you left, every evening before I closed the door I looked towards the trail that comes from the plains, hoping to see you come up the mountain.’

  ‘Oh, mother!’ replied Kleidemos. ‘It had to be you, old and tired as you are, to come looking for me.’ He put his arm around her shoulders and walked with her towards the house. They went in, and in the solitude of that great silent place they poured out all the feelings that they had kept so long locked up in their hearts, and their weeping was sweet as they looked upon one another without saying a word.

  Kleidemos realized that his mother’s lips no longer pronounced the name ‘Talos’ that he had expected to hear from her. She called him ‘son’ and her soul was filled with that word, more precious to her than life itself. But the name ‘Talos’ stayed inside her like a memory that she guarded jealously as if she was waiting for events to take their course. Kleidemos had so many things to ask her, and at the same time he didn’t dare: what had happened to Antinea and what news had she of Karas? He had been gone for so long, without being able to send them word of himself. How could the memory of Talos have remained alive in those he loved?

  It was his mother who spoke first, before he could ask anything. ‘Do you have a woman?’

  ‘I have had many in the years I was away, but I never loved any of them, and so I am alone.’

  ‘You are nearly thirty, my son. You know that when an equal reaches this age, it is customary to choose a wife.’

  ‘Mother, I’ve never stopped loving Antinea. How could I ever choose another woman?’

  ‘Listen to me: Antinea is one of our people and you know well that—’

  ‘Where is she? Mother, tell me where she is. I have to know!’

  ‘Why? You could only make her your concubine, certainly not your wife. The city will not allow the Kleomenid name to be extinguished. Don’t you understand that this is why the house of your fathers was returned to you? If you don’t make your own choice, the elders will exercise their prerogative and select a virgin from a noble family who will be brought to your home so she may become your wife. You’ll be able to see her first, if you like, as she exercises in the palaestra with her thighs bared—’

  ‘It’s not possible!’ cried out Kleidemos, frowning. ‘No one can force me—’

  ‘It’s true, no one can force you to marry. But they will put her in your bed nonetheless so you may deposit the seed of the Kleomenids in her womb. Oh, son, you have been away so long! I realize now that you are not even aware of all the customs of this city.

  ‘Sparta has always been obsessed with the fear that the number of equals will diminish. There are Spartiates who do not know their fathers, although they see them every day. Men incapable of begetting sons have their wives impregnated by famous warriors to ensure strong, robust progeny for themselves, in the same way as we give a mare to the most vigorous stallion, in order to improve the breed of our horses. The city cannot allow the number of equals to drop, nor can it permit a family of equals to die out, especially at times when there are few births. This is why you cannot think of reuniting with Antinea.’

  Kleidemos fell silent, his heart crushed. His life was cursed; but while once he had been ready to put an end to it, that day in Thrace, he was now determined not to bow his head in the face of adversity, even though his problems seemed insuperable.

  ‘Mother,’ he said then, ‘I want you to say what you know of Antinea, even if what you tell me may hurt me. I will know how to act when it is time.’

  ‘What I know of Antinea was told me by Karas. She lives with her father Pelias in Messenia at about three days’ journey from here. Pelias is old and weak, and Antinea is his only support. Their master Krathippos died three years ago, and his son fell in battle during the war in Asia. The proceeds from his farm now go to the city, but it is not impossible that they will be called back and assigned to the service of another family here. I can also tell you, since you want to know, that Antinea has never forgotten you and has not united with another man. The love she had for her father has held her back as well. If she had married she would have had to abandon old Pelias to care for the farm alone, something he would never have been able to manage. Had that happened, he would have certainly been dismissed and died in utter poverty.’

  ‘Karas – Mother, tell me about him. Where is he now, when did you see him last?’

  ‘Karas has been my support over all these years, even though he would disappear for months at a time. But this never created difficulties for me: the people of the mountain always remember Kritolaos and I’ve never gone wanting. Unfortunately, I have heard nothing from Karas for over three months and no one knows where he has gone. I’ve asked the shepherds and the farmers who come up from the plains, but no one has been able to tell me anything. At first I was not worried, because I know that he has left his cabin up at the high spring before, but as time goes on, I have become anxious; when he went away for so long a time he would always send word.’

  ‘Did he know that I had returned?’ asked Kleidemos, suddenly troubled.

  ‘He did know. It was he who told me. He said that I would embrace you again soon; he said that he would turn the whole city upside down to find you!’

  ‘I’m sure of that!’ exclaimed Kleidemos, smiling despite himself. ‘But if it’s true
that he was looking for me, that doesn’t explain why he has disappeared. Mother, there are so many thoughts crowding my mind; I need time to reflect on them. Ever since I was a boy, I’ve felt surrounded by mysterious happenings and events. Since that night that Kritolaos took me out into the forest – you know about that, don’t you mother?’ The woman nodded, keeping her eyes low. ‘Strangely enough, Kritolaos never spoke to me clearly; he never told me exactly what he wanted me to do. And when he died, Karas appeared. He has been my guide, as Kritolaos was. More than once, he has shown me the way, but he has never told me where that way leads; where exactly I am headed.

  ‘I can tell you, mother, that I don’t know who he is in reality. What I know for certain is that Kritolaos must have called him before he died – he knows the secret of the cursed sword, and he knows where the weapons of King Aristodemus are. The time has come when I must decide my fate: Karas will come back, and then I will know. All the questions that I’ve been asking myself for years, trying to remember looks, words, gestures . . . all of this must have an answer. And you, mother? Are you hiding something from me, as well?’

  ‘Oh no, my son, I’ve always told you everything, and even now I’ve told you all I know. Among our people, the men decide, never the women; they take charge of matters that involve the common good. But I’m sure that one day Karas will be back, and that day all of us will know what we must do.’

  ‘Mother,’ said Kleidemos, ‘I left the mountain ten years ago to find my way, but fate unfortunately has prevented me from succeeding in my quest. I have learned other things, though. Many things that were unknown to me are now clear: those who abandoned me as a child loved me, although the laws of the city never permitted them to show it. My brother Brithos was, in his soul, a sincere and generous man, and he loved me too. I met Pausanias, one of the most illustrious men of Hellas, and I learned what his dream was: I thought that he would make it possible for me to save my Spartan blood while I delivered the people of Kritolaos from their long servitude.

  ‘I am lost now because I am alone. I don’t know who I can trust among the equals of Sparta and I’m not sure that I can trust the Helots who surround me either. I’ve been told that some of them have been compelled or convinced to spy against me for the ephors and elders. Mother, now that you are here, tell me who, among the people of the mountain, is against me and who is with me.’