Lichas had chosen not to send out his phalanx—not with the memory of the piles of dead at Leuktra still fresh. Myriads of these invaders, without fear of a Spartan spear or a sword, were burning even more houses and fencing, rounding up stock, killing—and always lapping up to the banks on the icy river. Finally King Agesilaos hobbled out to the banks of his side of the Eurotas and sent his guards to line the river and bar the way into the city for any of his latecomer refugees. Helot-lovers he called them—better to let them die than to let them slink as spies into the city. No more Spartans were to come across the river into the city. The peers were to kill anyone who neared the Eurotas once the bridges had been torched.
When the Boiotians at last reached flat ground a day after the allies of the Peloponnesos, Epaminondas pointed out to Mêlon the hillock, just six stadia from the the high shrines of the Menalaion, where the generals would camp. “We sleep there on that rise, not far from the Eurotas—there in the middle of this new sea of ravagers. Look, Mêlon, look how we cover the spurs of Taygetos to the west. We’re already lapping on Parnon far eastward.”
Mêlon could see that the countryside of Sparta was scarcely big enough for the thousands of men in the three armies. The next day they were plundering again, without the fog or even much dew to dampen their fires. Epaminondas came up with Proxenos, all in heavy woolen cloaks against the cold wind. Mêlon and Melissos fell in at the van with Epaminondas to head toward the city proper and the Eurotas, to scout the fords and plan the final assault. Mêlon shouted to Melissos above the yelling, “Epaminondas, dear boy, is an artist, you see, one better than Exekias himself; but his work is not to be found in painting clay, but in the wholesale destruction of his enemies—and the end of Sparta is his masterpiece, his ariston ergon.”
None of the Thebans around Epaminondas cared for the booty that drove on most of the coalition that had poured over the plain of Lakonia. Instead, battle was their desire, and so always they eyed the Spartans on the other side of the river. Red-capes were running about there, taunting and overturning wagons as they threw up a makeshift rampart at the fords and shook their spears. Their women on the rooftops yelled at the sight of the fires of Epaminondas—as angry at their own men who had let the unthinkable happen as they were at the Boiotian pigs across the water. A few of the younger girls had climbed the peaks of the roofs. They were prying up the roof-tiles with iron bars and handing them down to their mothers on the balconies, who stockpiled their weapons for the street-fighting to come.
“Hoa. You three. Hold up.”
It was Ainias again, marching in at dusk to the camp of Epaminondas. He was waving his hands in a way unlike the somber killer who usually stabbed first and spoke only later. “Come. Now get over here. Look at this. A Spartan party, a half lochos, maybe more. Look. They’re trapped on that farm over here just as the early sun sets. Some slow-coach Spartans are caught on our side on the river, the wrong side of the Eurotas. They will either go up in smoke with their shed or fight their way through us to their king across the water.”
Without waiting for a reply from his friends, Ainias pulled his helmet down over his face and headed back toward the Spartan holdouts.
CHAPTER 26
The Plains Afire
Epaminondas followed. As they neared the besieged farm, Ainias called over the Elean lords Talos and Philoxenos and the captains of their mounted rangers who had trapped the orphaned band of Spartans out in the plain of Lakonia. Talos broke in, “We’ve cornered something over here on this estate. Something big. A phantasma, a ghost from their Zeus is holed up there. My Eleans have plundered the field vats. But there is a hoplite bunch still in the house. And another hundred or more Spartans milling about in the courtyard. There is a big man with them that brings piss to our boys’ legs who won’t go near the tower. We were too busy with the booty in the sheds to notice this enemy island. Now we discover that we’ve surrounded a whole company of killers. They say it is the clan of Lichas—or even worse—inside.”
“Hold up. Stop your men. I know this place,” Epaminondas yelled. “I know this foul farm.” The general then sent a runner to Pelopidas and ordered after him, “Send in the Sacred Band. Send for another lochos or more if you can. Get Philliadas and his hard men from Tanagra over here. All of them before midnight.” Then he turned to Mêlon and pointed to the tower, still looming white as darkness fell. “Lichas may be here, or at least some of his own. This is the farm of his dead brother Leôn. His klêros is somewhere close by. I passed right by here on the embassy last year to the taunts of Antikrates and his kryptes. I wager that either Lichas or his son, or maybe both are in there, or at least nearby. So maybe we have torched the grand estate of Leôn.”
But it was far more than that. For the Boiotians had, in their ignorance, stumbled onto the compound of all the Lichades, all five farms, a thousand plethra of orchard and vineyard altogether near the Eurotas, with six tall towers, all built by their own hands, without the labor of slaves or helots, five of them by the grandfathers of Lichas—Xanthos and Prytanis—whitewashed purgoi all in shouting distance of each other. Little did they guess that Gorgos on his arrival from Leuktra had spent a half-year here himself, although Mêlon looked out among the bonfires and thought that one of the towers seemed strangely new with its fresh whitewash and a red border—and in the fashion of his own back on Helikon. Its roof and stones might easily have been built by the Malgidai.
Now Mêlon and Proxenos leveled their spears and advanced toward the fires and the hoplites who ringed the estate. Ainias headed to the outer field wall. It ran about twenty palms high around all the farms and had various gates, as paths from each farm led out of the family grounds. As they neared the path to the southernmost farm, maybe two hundred Eleans under their general, Talos, were throwing stones and javelins at Spartans behind the tower’s courtyard wall—a man’s height, its gate closed fast. A few were torching the door jambs of one of the abandoned towers. Talos was waving them forward. “They’re in there. No worry about that. Lichas must have an iron gut to dare to be on our side of the river.”
“Lichas has no gut, Talos. He feels nothing, but won’t give up his own estates without blood—our blood he thinks,” Mêlon said grimly.
“So let’s storm it and get the killing over.” Ainias pulled out his blade and put down his spear. “It will be too crowded for spear work in there, only sword killing. Man-to-man, hand-to-hand, a real blood feast for your night-loving Kêres, Mêlon, that you so often warn us about.”
“No, no,” Proxenos broke in. “Better to let them die on the vine. They’re like a rotten grape cluster with the gnats once its stem has been nicked. Why go in there? It’s too dark. We have thousands in this plain. They are a good stade or two from the safety of the Eurotas. We have them trapped on the wrong side of the water. They’ll starve while we tighten the nets. All of them are not worth one of our dead. Let them be.”
Mêlon agreed. “Proxenos is right, Ainias. Talos—you back step a bit. Well before morning we’ll have enough men to surround the entire farm five deep. We can throw embers through the windows. So for now let the Spartans be.” Mêlon planned to keep his shield all night on his arm, as he sat against a plane tree that had grown into the stones. He watched the shadows of hoplites run up as the call went out that Lichas or at least his kin was trapped. “But don’t think they’ll starve. Hardly. They’ll charge a little after daybreak. We need more guards here, but the army is scattered for thirty miles plundering and burning. Our men are looking for cattle and sheep, not the spears of Spartan hoplites.”
Ainias nodded and looked over at the Spartan enclave. “Remember Leuktra. They’ll fight their way out through our circle. Break out with Antikrates or someone like him at the front. They’ll march out to the sound of pipes, with torches blazing. Maybe Lichas, maybe his son will lead. But they’ll come out that gate before dawn and head for the river. These men won’t die without killing some of our own. Still, there is enough of us to slaughter th
e whole herd.”
The hoplites and their generals were crouched behind the long low field and cross walls, as sentries slung lead bullets and cast javelins over the high courtyard into the Spartans, sure they could wear down Lichas and his men. For the present there were at least stout walls between the red-capes and the Boiotians. Proxenos was sitting quietly. Some around him were sleeping by the campfires; others were drowsy but waiting for the men of Tanagra to come up, half-convinced these Spartans were already dead or would give up. Then Proxenos himself dozed off only to awake to the sounds of Doric shouting.
“To me. Spartans to me. Rally to me.” It was not even dawn light yet. The Spartans had surprised them in their breakout by beating the sunrise. The waking Boiotians jumped up just as the Elean guards ran past them in terror. Ainias, who was on the front watch at the courtyard, flew frantically behind the Eleans. Then he ducked behind the road wall when he saw his Boiotians. “We were wrong. There’s not fifty there, not by a long way, but three hundred hoplites, maybe even more—peers all by the look of their armor. Maybe even five hundred coming down the lane, keeping the walls on each side, and nothing to stop them in front, like a bull with his horns lowered trapped in town. All royal guard I reckon. They march in their capes as on parade. Here they come in a phalanx. They broke right through our ring. Get out from this road, up over the field wall, before they roll us over.”
No sooner had the Stymphalian yelled than he saw that even the Boiotian guards had fled as well. So Ainias looked at Mêlon as they struggled to get over the waist-high wall and hide behind the stones, whispering, “They’re passing right beside us, over there. Now. Stay down. Flat on our bellies, even in our armor under the wall where they can’t see us. Quiet.” Just as Ainias finished, the Spartan Antikrates strode through the courtyard gate into the narrow walled lane. He led more than three hundred men behind him, four abreast, the front three ranks with spears out, more than eighty men deep, all in perfect column. His nephew, the piper Dôron, was hitting the war notes as they kept in time. Twice-widowed Elektra, the daughter of the daughter of Agesilaos himself, marched in the front rank. She wore no helmet but let her black hair wave over her breastplate. It was thick and wavy although Elektra herself looked like a skull with wrinkled skin pulled over. She was shaking a spear like a Harpy to her third husband, bald Lichas himself, beside her, laughing and chanting to her mate, “To the river and the city across. Kill the pigs in our way. My Lichas, lead us, my Lichas, lead us to Epaminondas.”
The front three ranks also had their shields out. The Spartans behind them put theirs above their heads, as bolts and stones rained on the little army from the flanks as it headed for the Eurotas. The fleeing Thebans had raised the shout and called for help. In reply, hundreds of Boiotians who had drifted off to ravage the nearby farms now answered back and in small bands headed for the sounds of the Spartan pipers. Some of the allies who had not fled ran alongside the road, on the other side of the field wall, parallel to the slow-marching army of Antikrates. They hoped at some point to leap over its walls, form a line, and block the passage of this two-stepping Spartan phalanx. But still they had no idea of the size or fury of the breakout, or that it was led by the entire savage clan of Lichas.
Most of these northerners did not know they were inside the compound of the Lichades, with the tower of Elektra herself opening to the walled lane, and that of slain Thôrax, the son of Lichas, close by, beyond the apple orchard. This is where Lichas had raised his four boys. He had sent all of them to the agôgê at seven. With his new wife, the widow Elektra, he had sired another three. All of this second litter was alive—Charillos, Thibrachos, and Polydektes. At thirty each had returned and built higher their towers and taken their farms as inheritance from their mothers. Here Lichas worked bare-chested and with a wide hat in summer, drilling his boys and sending them up to Taygetos to bring back a deer, protecting his later brood of royal sons from his first-born Antikrates, who shield-bashed his half-brothers for sport.
By the time the Spartans had passed out of the tower compound and headed down the lane toward the Eurotas, they found a mob of ravagers and archers waiting right at the start of the public road, with torches and iron bars, behind a barricade of a cart and some goats. Fools. The Spartans went through all of them in laughter. Behind Lichas and Antikrates, they tore through the Elean plunderers like the fisherman’s blade tears up the soft belly of the bluefish. Most of the ravagers blocking the way weren’t hoplites but light-armed thieves who hoped their numbers would turn aside Antikrates, or that the herd of goats might break through the red-capes better than they. Elektra herself cleaved the hand of an Elean who ran alongside and tried to pull her down.
“Proxenos, where’s Proxenos”? Mêlon looked along the lane wall where he thought the Plataian had hugged the dirt next to Ainias. Then the Stymphalian leapt up, “Look. He went after Antikrates’s flank.” Proxenos had run down alongside the lane. He jumped over the cross walls ahead to hit them at an angle. “Look, the madman charged them, way over there, by himself, as they passed by.” Ainias ran after the rear of the Spartan phalanx, which was at least four hundred paces ahead, spearing its way through the Elean ravagers—who threw their torches into the middle of Antikrates’s small company and fled in terror back into the orchards.
“No worry. No worry. Mêlon, there he is, down by that plane tree.” Mêlon saw something by the side of Ainias ahead, as he was limping at a wild pace toward another large bay tree, also grown into the farm’s wall, at the main crossroad to the Eurotas. Mêlon stopped when he saw the two of them, Proxenos with his hand on his belly. He yelled back to the others. “Over here for Proxenos.” The Spartans had passed by and were spearing their way onward to the Eurotas, still to the beat of their pipers.
Proxenos had a smile on his face, as he staggered up and leaned on the bay trunk, with his hand on his side. “I’m fine, Mêlon. Just pushed aside by that brute Antikrates with his spear. He swatted me without even a look. I gave him a stab and he turned and laughed at my sting. He nicked me as he marched on, and I managed to fall over this low wall as they passed by. No doubt he went away boasting that a tiny swat from Antikrates has killed a Boiotian hoplite.” They could hear the shrieks of Elektra echoing in the distance as the Spartans neared the last open bridge over the river. Proxenos fell back under the tree. Ainias grabbed at his tunic and tried to look at the wound. “More than a nick, Proxenos, you’ve got blood on your chitôn, red and thick. I wager it flows from deep inside—all the way down your shin. Some of it has a black look to it. Bile is in it. Let me have a look at the skin.”
Proxenos pushed him away and leaned against the wall. “No, no, it’s only red. Keep away. The breastplate stays on. Maybe a slice, but it is already drying, and two of those Eleans went to get wool, and if they can find it, some oil and honey. I’m fine. The blood stopped as soon as it ran. A hoplite keeps his armor on. Go look after that other fellow that the Spartan woman cut. He’s lying somewhere back along the wall, without a hand.”
Ainias was relieved as Proxenos kept talking, and wondered at what he had done. “Antikrates. Did you see him? You charged Antikrates as he marched at the head of the royal guard? Did you learn nothing from their final breakout at Leuktra? Look at their torches over there by the Eurotas—they are plowing a furrow through that mob of thieves. You thought one hoplite from Plataia could take down the son of Lichas? As they head over the Eurotas, they’ll kill a hundred of our own for their ticket across, and before the sun is even fully up.”
“But I almost did stop him,” Proxenos sighed. “At least I stabbed someone before he slapped his spear across my belly and gave me this scratch. Nêto was right: There is a foul smell about this Antikrates. I caught it as he nicked me. Either we kill him or he’ll spear more of our own before this is all over. He’s a daimôn, more evil even than his father Lichas. That Spartan has some secret hole he crawls out of each morning, a cave right out of Hades, and then back at night. None of us here can kil
l him, not even you, Ainias, or Mêlon. But no mind. Let’s go inside this farm that it is daylight and see how Lichas and his kin lived. Ah, Lichas has a tower now, in our style. Look at this, Mêlon, from here it looks better than any in Boiotia. Fresh and with new plaster. It’s a copy of your own on Helikon, only taller.” He was now walking about as he talked and proving to them that his cut was not too deep after all.
Mêlon’s leg was sore and his foot blistered. This latest escape of Antikrates was the second time the killer had eluded the Boiotians. Was there a god’s reason for it? Who, what could kill this man? The life of Antikrates and his father, Mêlon understood, hung by a thick rope, not a thin thread. Even the Fates couldn’t cut through them with a sword. “Go ahead, you two. Burn the house of Leôn. Or maybe it is that of the woman Elektra, the wife of Lichas. But set foot in it without sulfur and flame? No, I Mêlon, son of Malgis, will not. I have too many dreams of farmhouses to come with the brood of Lichas, and flames in them as well.”
So the Spartans under Antikrates and Elektra made their way at dawn from their compound and escaped across the Eurotas into the city of Sparta proper. Nevertheless in the next five days the invaders’ ravaging continued right on into the new year and past the end of the tenure of general Epaminondas. The Thebans mostly kept apart from their allies, especially the men of Mantineia, the self-proclaimed liberators who were busy rounding up Spartan helots and perioikoi for their own slaves. Gangs from the potters’ quarters of Mantineia had already foolishly crossed spears with Philliadas and his men of Tanagra. The Boiotian plunderers had killed their rival allies for sport—and warned Lykomedes they would as easily butcher all the Mantineians just as if they were Spartans. With the Spartans safe beyond the river, the three armies without a common enemy would soon battle each other for the plunder. Finally Epaminondas headed the Thebans out in the phalanx for the river and sought a way to cross it and enter the unwalled city of the Spartans. Thousands of plunderers began to follow behind the columns of Boiotians who had assembled under Epaminondas at last for this final assault on the citadel of Sparta. Even the looters figured that should the mad general get across, then the city would be theirs for the robbing. But the Peloponnesian allies in arms—except the Argives—were already scattering over the countryside as snow came in from the north. True, the Spartans were trapped inside their city. But the charge of Antikrates and Elektra from his farm had frightened the Mantineians. Few had any stomach to face him again.
The End of Sparta Page 35