A Boy of the Agoge

by Helena P. Schrader

  This phrase ran in his ears as Brotus made his announcement, and Leonidas decided that Prokles was right after all. Brotus was a bonehead.

  “Dorieus is back, you know,” Brotus informed him next.

  “Oh? When did he get back?”

  “Today. He’s come extra to see how we do tomorrow.”

  Leonidas did not like the sound of that. It could only end in another lecture from Dorieus on how he had “failed” their mother’s memory again. He was heartily sick of it all—and had been happy when, almost two years earlier, Dorieus had received a Delphic oracle that said his place was in Sicily. The oracle said that he was to found the city of Heraclea to honour his ancestor, who had conquered Sicily but had now been forgotten there. Ever since he received this oracle, Dorieus had spent his time trying to convince others to come with him and found the colony—and to finance him. Although only a handful of Spartiates—his closest friends and supporters—were interested in the adventure, an increasing number of perioikoi appeared intrigued by the prospect of financing it—and then getting the trade monopolies Dorieus promised in return. As a result, Dorieus had recently spent most of his time in the perioikoi town of Anthana, negotiating with key perioikoi merchants to finance his expedition and, most importantly, provide him with ships.

  “Why should he care how we do?” Leonidas asked his twin brother, a bit petulantly.

  “He plans to make himself king of Heraclea, and he wants us to join him there.”

  “First he has to establish Heraclea,” Leonidas pointed out.

  “Do you doubt it? The oracle said it would be his.” Brotus then dropped his voice and added, “And you know he still has no heir except that bastard by that African woman.” Cleomenes now had two children, a boy and a girl, and his wife was pregnant yet again.

  Leonidas understood now. Brotus saw himself as Dorieus’ heir apparent. He also finally got around to what he really wanted from Leonidas. “I don’t want Timon getting in my way tomorrow.”

  “Timon?”

  “Yeah, he’s been going around bragging about how he’s going to win tomorrow. You must have heard him?”

  “I guess so. I don’t pay much attention to what Timon says.”

  “Well, to hear him talk he’s already won, and I want you to stop him.”

  “What do you mean, stop him?”

  “You and your friends could hold him back when he’s in the temple—you aren’t planning to seriously compete anyway,” Brotus added contemptuously, to show he knew all about Leonidas and his plans.

  “Maybe not, but I’m not going to cheat, either.” Leonidas informed him bluntly.

  “I see.” Brotus’ face became very grim. “Family honour means nothing to you. Sometimes I wonder if you’re an Agiad at all!”

  “How should I not be?”

  “I don’t know. Castor and Pollux were twins by different fathers....”

  “Sure, our mother the adulteress! Tell that one to Dorieus, if you want to make sure he never makes you his heir.”

  “Maybe she didn’t have a choice....” Brotus suggested in a low, ominous voice that conjured up images of brutal rapes in dark mountain ravines; but Leonidas found the whole conversation ridiculous, and broke it off to go get some sleep. The ordeal was going to be bad enough tomorrow as it was.

  The festivities began in the predawn light as selected maidens departed the Temple of Artemis up in the Taygetos, bearing a magnificent new gown for the goddess that had been sewn during the preceding year. The maidens, carrying the gown and singing odes to the goddess, came down from the mountains in a procession, escorted by selected units of the army carrying torches for them. The maidens were selected for their beauty, virtue, and voices. They also wore “ancient” dress, which meant the tight-waisted, bare-breasted gowns worn in the age of heroes. The procession down from the mountain was joined all along the route by matrons with their cheeses and children, helots, and perioikoi, all dressed in their festive best. They fell in behind the maidens to form an ever longer parade that wound its way through the city as the sun topped the peaks of the Parnos.

  By this time the whole city had turned out, and the crowds lined the streets to watch the procession or flooded the temple grounds around Artemis Orthia. The 17-year-olds, in leather training armour and helmets, meanwhile cut their canes from the reeds of the Eurotas. They were in high spirits, and obviously looking forward to giving their juniors as difficult a time as possible. The 16-year-olds stripped down, oiled themselves, and prepared to face the ordeal, as tables were set up and they were shown where to bring their cheeses and shown the “safe area” where they could go after surrender. Clearly, the first youth to seek the safety of this area would face considerable hissing and scorn.

  The kings arrived. Demaratus was 29, still on active service and single. He came alone, driving his own light racing chariot, with the team he planned to enter at the Olympic Games later this year. Cleomenes also arrived by chariot, but it was a heavy state chariot with a driver. Beside him was his pregnant wife and his three-year-old son. His infant daughter had apparently been left at home with a nanny. The boy was very active and excited. His high-pitched voice could be heard even above the crowd, and his parents were “outrageously” indulgent. Leonidas looked on with disapproval, remembering his own strict upbringing.

  Dorieus stood far apart, surrounded by his tight-knit clique of loyal followers, and made no effort to meet Leonidas’ eye.

  The singing drew closer and the crowd parted for the procession of maidens, led by the priestesses in high headdresses. Percalus had been selected as one of the maidens, and Alkander groaned at the sight of her. Like all the maidens in the procession, she looked straight ahead or dropped her eyes modestly. She moved with stately slowness and her voice was clear and modulated. There was no flirting and no frivolousness; but Percalus had the perfect figure for the ancient dress. Her waist was small enough to enclose in two hands, while her breasts were unusually full for her 19 years of age. All male eyes, notably those of King Demaratus, seemed to be riveted on Percalus’s magnificent endowment, and Alkander felt ashamed.

  The priestesses and maidens, followed by the matrons laden with trays of cheeses, disappeared into the temple. When they re-emerged, they joined the crowd and the kings stood and led the paen to Apollo. As the voices fell silent, Cleomenes went forward to offer a sacrifice to the god, pouring wine and scattering seed. After he returned to his seat, he gestured with his hand to the waiting agoge officials that the ritual could begin.

  The boys were told to take up their positions and the seventeen-year-olds formed two files, shoulder to shoulder, facing each other on either side of the door. Then with a shout the sixteen-year-olds were told to attack.

  Leonidas was surprised by how easy it was at first. There were so many of them that none of the blows seemed to hit directly or hard. He had three cheeses out before he was even winded. He paused to catch his breath and take in the situation. Amazingly, there were already a handful of youths sheltering in the safe area, and a glance at the tables indicated that the most ambitious had already managed to take out four cheeses. Leonidas caught Prokles’ and Alkander’s eye, and with a nod they made another dash through the gauntlet. It was so easy, in fact, that they did it twice more without too much trouble. By then, however, about half the boys had given up, and the 17-year-olds could concentrate on fewer and fewer contestants. That made it easier for them to strike and strike hard. Alkander had one ugly welt on his cheek, and the side of his neck was bright red and swelling. Leonidas could feel but not see that he had an unpleasant welt on his backside. Reaching around, his fingers told him it was swelling up nastily. “One more?” he asked his friends.

  Alkander nodded, breathing hard. Prokles hesitated, made a sour face, and then agreed reluctantly, “If you insist.”

  They made another dash for it. The blows rained down on them, and Leonidas, holding his arm over his head, took a blow that numbed his entire forearm. It staggered him e
nough to make him trip on the steps, and at once the canes fell upon him with a vengeance. Alkander shouted to Prokles, who had just made it into the temple. A moment later, they each grabbed one of Leonidas’ arms and dragged him up into the temple to safety.

  It took half a minute to catch his breath, and Alkander was looking at the damage, while Prokles commented simply, “It was your idea!”

  It was only now, as they took their time, that Leonidas noticed something else. Timon was stretched out on the floor, apparently exhausted. But he wasn’t moving or making any noise. “Timon?” he called out. “Are you all right?”

  The others looked over.

  “Hey, Timon? Get up! You can’t just stay in here.” Prokles nudged him with his toe.

  He did not respond. They looked at one another, and Leonidas felt icy cold all of a sudden. “Timon?” He went down beside the other boy and shook him hard. His head fell to one side. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and blood trickled out of the side of his mouth and nose.

  “My God!” Prokles exclaimed, jumping back. “He’s dead!”

  “We’ve got to tell someone!” Alkander decided.

  The three youths fled the temple, driven by terror, and hardly felt the blows of the youths outside. They had fled so fast that they had completely forgotten to take a cheese with them. They arrived gasping at the table, and their eirene started to admonish them, “Where are your cheeses, you fools? What—”

  “Timon’s lying in there! unconscious!” Leonidas burst out.

  “Maybe even dead!” Prokles added.

  “What?” The eirene didn’t want to believe them.

  “He is, sir!” Alkander insisted. “We tried to wake him, but he didn’t respond at all.”

  “You’re certain?” The eirene still did not want to believe them, but around him his comrades started to take notice.

  “What is it?” they asked, and Leonidas, Prokles, and Alkander told what they had seen.

  “Do we stop it?” one of the eirenes asked uncertainly, looking around at the cheering crowd of enthusiastic spectators. The contest was clearly into its last phase, with just a handful of boys still competing. The spectators were cheering on their favourites. Dorieus’ faction was shouting for Brotus.

  “It’s almost over anyway,” another replied.

  They clearly did not want to disrupt things in front of the entire city. They weren’t yet citizens, after all. It was a heavy responsibility.

  “Maybe he could be revived!” Leonidas argued desperately. Although he had seen nothing suspicious and had not a fragment of evidence with which to make an accusation, in the pit of his stomach he was certain that Brotus had had something to do with Timon’s state.

  Before the eirenes replied, one of the officials came over and angrily asked the boys: “Are you still competing?”

  “No, sir, there—”

  “Then get over there in the safe area!”

  “But, sir, there’s—”

  “Do as you’re told!”

  They retreated, joining the vast majority of their age-cohort.

  Within another five minutes Brotus had won. In the festivities following, no one seemed to take any notice of the fact that Timon had to be taken to a surgeon, comatose. And by the time he died, three days later, the city was back to normal. His death was attributed to over-eagerness on his own part. It was just one of those “tragedies” that the “enthusiasm” of youth produced. Leonidas was left alone with his suspicion of his brother’s role, and it was a suspicion no one wanted to hear. Brotus had raised himself from simply being the bigger and stronger of the “Agiad twins” to being a “hero”.

  Brotus’ status was further increased by the departure of Dorieus shortly afterwards. Dorieus sailed away with 14 ships and over 200 men, but only a handful of Spartiates, just a month after the feast of Artemis Orthia. He seemed to have made some kind of arrangement with Brotus, but it was not one to which Leonidas was party. In fact, Dorieus took no further note of Leonidas at all, beyond remarking in passing, “Mother always said you were superfluous. I can see now how right she was. Brotus is the only brother I need.”

  Leonidas had retorted impudently, “And frankly, sir, Cleomenes is the only brother I need.”

  Dorieus had hit him for that—as he was justified in doing—leaving Leonidas feeling a little triumphant at provoking his elder brother’s anger. But he was glad to see the back of him when he sailed.

  Brotus was a persistent problem, however. Not only was he now a Victor of Artemis Orthia, he was also attracting attention as a boxer. He was so good, in fact, that the city sent him to the Olympic Games to compete in the youth contests there. To Leonidas’ further chagrin, he was successful and returned crowned with Olympic laurels. Fortunately, his victory was eclipsed by the more dramatic victory of King Demaratus in the four-horse chariot race.

  After that the Eurypontid king started to become increasingly popular, so much so that young Cleomenes became openly jealous. To counter the popularity of his co-regent, he announced dramatically that he had an oracle from Delphi that ordered the Spartans to rescue Athens from the tyranny of Hippias. This caused a rather large sensation. The Oracle was read and re-read, and it was very—unusually—explicit. Leonidas couldn’t forget the Athenians in Prasiai, who had been so interested in Spartan aid. They had been so interested to hear that Sparta would follow the advice of Delphi....

  While the Assembly debated, the 16-year-olds drilled and drilled and drilled. They were now expected to master the smallest “phalanx”—a unit of twelve. This meant they were expected to form up four by three or three by four, six by two or two by six, or in files, and of course reverse and alter formation at a signal from the pipe without confusion or loss of defensibility. And now their marches took them to Tegea and on to Corinth, and right across Messenia to Pylos.

  Then quite suddenly, Leonidas’ voice dropped, and he started to grow even faster. He grew so fast the others joked about the sound of it keeping them awake at night. He had to be issued a new chiton ahead of schedule. The instructors muttered about it being “unnatural”. There was, however, nothing that anyone could do about it—least of all Brotus, when he discovered that suddenly his “little” brother was taller than he because Brotus had stopped growing. Brotus was becoming increasingly stocky, while Leonidas was soon topping most of his classmates. At the end of that year, Leonidas finally felt that he was on the way to adulthood. He had withstood ten years in the agoge and successfully passed the two most difficult hardship tests: the fox time and the flogging at Artemis Orthia. He had just four years to go, and he told himself they would be relatively easy.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ages 17 and 18

  AT 17 THE YOUTHS OF THE agoge exchanged their training weapons for battle equipment. They were taught the use of the short swords and long spears for which the Spartan army was famous, and—just as important—to wield the heavy hoplons that characterised Greek heavy infantry the world over. The first day they drilled with the real hoplons, the youths were staggered by the weight of the “monsters”. They had thought themselves strong and proficient with their wooden shields, but now they found themselves collapsing from exhaustion. Just a few minutes’ drill with the hoplons left them breathless, and soon their shoulder muscles cramped and their knees gave way abruptly. The next morning, their muscles were so stiff they hobbled about like cripples—much to the amusement of their eirenes and drill masters. It took them months before they could handle the hoplons with anywhere near the ease with which they had carried their training shields—and then they started formation drill.

  Now they had to work in units of 24, 36, and 48. The manoeuvres were infinitively more complex in these combinations. Drill seemed to last longer and longer; and time for sports, much less loitering around watching the maidens, was greatly reduced. For Leondias, particularly, the time he had for himself was cut to the bone by an unexpected development. When his voice had finally broken in the previous year, the se
nior choral master had been delighted. Leonidas had always had a good ear for music, but suddenly he also had the voice for it. More exciting still (from the choral master’s perspective), his voice was exceptionally deep for a youth, and this made him exceptionally valuable for the next Hyacinthia.

  At the Hyacinthia, one of the most popular events was the performance by a youth chorus of a dance in which one or another fable was performed to music. In this traditional event, each participant represented an animal in a musical pantomime before dancing out the fable. In short, each animal performed a short, introductory solo dance that ended with a short, sung text of introduction. Then in a complicated choreographed dance, the fable itself was acted out, and finally the entire cast came together to sing a choral conclusion to the fable.

  The choreographing was in the hands of Sparta’s senior chorus master, who also selected which fable would be depicted and which youths would perform. The choral master, a certain Hellanikos, was highly respected even beyond Lacedaemon, and had been asked to choreograph plays in both Delphi and Corinth. Hellanikos was not, however, a poet. The actual texts of the songs were written by whichever poet won that honour in a competition at the previous year’s Hyacinthia (although many older people felt that “modern” writers could not equal the texts that Aesop had himself composed for the Spartans ten Olympiads earlier). Regardless of what the “traditionalists” thought, the competition for the honour of writing the texts attracted poets from throughout Hellas. Likewise, the music was composed each year by the musician who won the pan-Hellenic competition for that honour as well. This was a key reason why the Hyacinthia was the most international of Sparta’s festivals. Musicians, poets, and connoisseurs of both, as well as dance enthusiasts, came to see the renowned Spartan chorus perform the works of Greece’s leading musicians and poets—and to compete themselves for the honour of composing for next year’s festival.

  For the youths participating, the challenge was to pantomime the animal portrayed so perfectly that the audience recognised it before the text was sung. The boys were selected for their voices, but their ability to pantomime was what made their performance successful or otherwise. Depending on the fable selected, there were youths who had to imitate foxes, snakes, hares, dogs, horses, wild boars, deer, bulls, bears, badgers, roosters, and—in Leonidas’ case—a lion.