“Why have you come across the Alpheios?” Kuniskos laughed. “You seem to have the look of the huntress, with your long arms and legs. Are you a Sapphic? There are travelers, they say, from Arkadia, or is it that a few lost Boiotians came your way? Surely you can tell Grandfather Kuniskos something of their talk?” He stuck his hand into her hood and pinched lightly her covered neck. “Where is this foul Proxenos? I hear he has a plan for a new city on top of my house, right here on my mountain. Stranger, do you know a Nêto? Or this Amazon Erinna whom you must have heard is in the highlands? Or maybe you’ve mixed it up with this Doreios? Or are you the woman of Nikôn?”
The cloaked figure muttered only a word or two about “a horde from the north.”
“A horde, now? Of Boiotians maybe? You know the Messenian prophecy?”
“And some Arkadians. I know no more news.”
Kuniskos laughed again. “What does this horde want with this Kuniskos? To throw down Sparta and raise up Messenia?”
“Perhaps—though the god has not told me all that. They act only as fate wills. It’s too late. Neither you nor your Spartans can ward off the great reckoning.”
“Reckoning, is it? Come nearer, priestess, sit on your granddaddy’s lap. Either you be a talker of the gods’ minds, or some faker in the robes of a holy woman sent here to stir up our kind. But I say, come near, scoot over, cast off that hood. Do you remember who I am?”
The hooded girl spat back. “They know you as Kuniskos. The new killer of the helots, or so the travelers say Lichas mined you out of Taygetos, hammering you from stone to smash down your own kind. You kill the Messenians sometimes as the farmer, sometimes the mounted man, sometimes their friend and recruiter. They say you are alone and a drunkard and even your lord Antikrates has left you to swing on a Messenian gallows.”
Kuniskos liked her sauciness and even more his own playacting. In his wine-craze he was close to confessing to her his charade, but wished the drama to play out a little longer. Kuniskos tugged a bit on a thick cord that was wrapped tight around her left foot. “What a nice little bitch on a leash to visit her Kuniskos. But when Klôpis brings me virgins from the helot temples, I send them back soiled and stamped—the lucky ones that do not go over Taygetos to the pits. With the seed and the brand of Kuniskos—my own kappa burned right into their cheeks and a puppy in their belly, if I’m lucky.”
He yanked on her leg chain a bit more. “They learn to serve men’s lust on the street corners. Or maybe they play flutes at the fine houses for a few coppers. For the goddess has nothing to do with them stained and polluting her sacred ground, especially if with child, the new litters of my puppies to come.” Gorgos was pulling the chain ever harder, as he went on. “So Virgin, talk—unless you wish to feel the spike of Kuniskos inside you. Then the pictures and whispers in your head will disappear for good. An ugly gamma will mark your cheek just as your own Messenian killers smear their bloody letter mus on my innocent dead. You alone earn the gamma—for the sake of the ancient days on Helikon.” With that end to his drama, Kuniskos, drunk and stumbling, with haze in his eyes and dizziness in his head, threw off the young woman’s long cloak and veil. Then he tore her chiton. But then even he, lord of the Helots, froze for a moment in his delight as the wine no longer clouded his vision.
His eyes flashed, and he yelled to Klôpis, “Bar the door, bar it and for the night!” Kuniskos calmed and laughed. “You now. We are a long way from that hill above Leuktra, are we not, my Nêtikê? Nêtikê. Oh, my lovely Nêtikê at last. So lovely after all, in your nakedness, as I dreamed. So much the better for all my waiting. Now in service to the lord of the helots, of your own kind. Now you leave the virgin world of Artemis and will join that of Erôs.”
She spat at him. “Kuniskos, a new name for an old monster. You were never drunk. You knew me even in your feigned stupor, liar, dogface.”
“And no doubt, you knew that I did, at first sight when they brought you in, for all your denials of your old lust. You enjoyed our little game as much as I did. No matter. Past is past. For you alone, my Nêtikê, it is Gorgos. Only you can call me that, my old name, in your erôs as you groan for your Gorgikos. As I promised, I will brand you not with a kappa for Kuniskos, but you alone with a little gamma no less—a gammikon for the Gorgikos of old and for the sake of the Helikon days and on that soft unspoiled cheek.”
She let out a shriek as the toothless satyr dropped his bright robe. It was the alalê, alalalê of Helikon, the war cry of Nêto of the Malgidai—the paean to Alalê, daughter of Polemos. Nêto was caught in the lair of Gorgos—no longer the loyal servant of Mêlon but Kuniskos, the fading lord of the helots. He pulled hard on her roped leg and sent her sprawling to the floor, as he had wanted to for twenty summers on Helikon even under the deathless eye of Mêlon, who was now far away on the road to Mantineia.
CHAPTER 29
Erinna of Messenia
For days Chiôn had been stuck in this port of the Phokians. He was drinking the worst of Nemea’s red wine and eating squid and cuttlefish by the fire with the helot rowers, pledged to protect the effort of Alkidamas to arrive in Messenia before the army. Five Korinthian triremes still battled the white caps off shore, with ten more arriving as they left. All the time he thought of Nêto in the fort of Kuniskos.
“They think we carry gold, not helots,” Gastêr swore as he clamored over the deck of the beached Theôris. “Why do these Korinthian pirates keep circling out there? Hey you, Alkidama. Our hull rots, and I’m sick of these shorebird Phokians, worse than thieves. We either break out or hike home and let the Theôris keep rotting.”
Alkidamas scoffed at the fat man. “Settle down and keep eating your oysters. The arm of Agesilaos is not so long anymore. Just be patient. A few more days, a few more coins sent over the Isthmos, and the Korinthians will smile and leave, and we’ll be back out. With these helot rowers, we’ll be there just in time to help with the building of new Messenê. These Phokians here are not such bad cooks, anyway.”
Chiôn had had enough. He left the small hut and glanced back at Alkidamas. “No more wait. Nikôn can’t wait. Nêto can’t wait. No more sea legs. You meet me wherever this Ithômê of yours is. I’ll find it. In five days I’m there before you with a live Nêto and the head of your Gorgos.” Chiôn put a long pole on his shoulder with a bag of rations on the end and set out along the sea. He had little idea of the world outside Thespiai but knew enough to follow the north shore of the gulf for a half day, always west into the setting sun, until he could see the long walls of Patrai looming across the water.
This was real freedom—no wife, no farm to work, no children to raise, just one man in the wild against all others. No wonder men liked war. He knew he did. He forgot Damô, even their son to come, and the three sons of Lophis, with the assurance they’d all be better off after he killed those who needed killing. Yes, he’d take a ferry across the straits to the Peloponnesos, skirt the shoulders of Erymanthos until he reached Olympia, and from there, or so he heard, he’d just hike up the Alpheios. Then take the south fork down to the land of the Messenians. Five days he reckoned and he would be at this Ithômê, and before either Epaminondas or the Theôris. He’d put the dragon head of Gorgos in this bag and stuff it with honey to show Mêlon when he arrived. Maybe Chiôn would pull the tongue out between the teeth so Gorgos would look like the gorgon he was. As he ran he mumbled to himself, as if Alkidamas was at his side rather than stuck back on the shore of the gulf.
“Nêto warned me about the sea, Alkidama, and so I’m leaving the waves to you to find her. I’m a hoplite, a front-rank prostatês. I have no worries. I’ve lived too long as it is. No death wish. Better yet, no care. Live or die, freer than any free man. You won’t see me again, only hear of my work. I go into the hills to kill those who would kill our own. Free to kill. You’ll see the good I do you all without the bridle of your law.” With that Chiôn stopped his talking to himself and went over the hill on his way to Naupaktos and the mouth of the gulf.
Chiôn went on foot west, and in a day and half saw the torchlights at the eastern gate of Naupaktos on the water. Once back on land and free from the Theôris, he felt better and moved even more quickly than he was accustomed, convinced he could do far better without the leaky boat and the helots of Alkidamas. Already he was at the neck of the gulf. But could he run fast enough to kill Gorgos before he cut off the head of Nêto? He would surely be across the water tonight at least, since there were helot boats aplenty down there for hire. He had a full pack of Mêlon’s coins and hadn’t left much with Alkidamas. No doubt Epaminondas was sweeping down from Sellasia into Lakonia—and here he was not yet into the Peloponnesos.
Then a blast of cold air nearly knocked Chiôn over as he turned the last switchback of the mountain trail, on the downward slope to the city gate of Naupaktos. The odd wind came in the wrong direction, hard, but blowing from the south. It howled and it brought winter ice in the air. The torches above on the walls of Naupaktos went out with sudden gusts. Where did that come from? Cold blasts on the gulf—but something colder from the south across the water. Was Epaminondas blowing into Lakonia? Or was the gust from Ithômê? Chiôn pressed on and would run for the rest of the night.
Back on Ithômê, Erinna was stacking tiles on the roof of her school. The Thespian Chiôn from Helikon had not arrived as promised. So there was no ransom money for Nêto. Only if they had the money, would they learn of the fate of Nêto, though most of Erinna’s girls assumed that she was locked inside the compound of Kuniskos, or that her head already was impaled on one of his many trophy stakes. “Nikôn—no Chiôn? No ransom. No silver, and no way inside the house of Kuniskos. And no Nêto. We can’t wait any longer.” Erinna pulled a long dagger and slid it into a cotton sheath inside her chiton that she tied close to her waist. “This Chiôn of yours has gone off with his master’s treasure. Six days after you come and no money. You said he has one arm—but maybe the slow-cart had one leg? Or did the kryptes catch him? Or was his boat sunk by pirates? I go to this camp of Gorgos and free her or kill him—or both.”
Erinna showed Nikôn a finely curved leg and picked up her bow—as she looked over at Nikôn and said the one would lead Gorgos to the other. Nikôn nodded and followed her down from the school, wondering how the Amazon without any silver would get close enough to Kuniskos to free Nêto and assuming his own rangers would have to storm in with her. Their small band of four helots made their way over the crest of Ithômê. Nikôn stopped and pointed to the tamarisks and limestone outcroppings. “Look, soon there will be the great theater. On that hill, there is our Arkadian Gate to come. A stadium will rise down there in the low ground. With stone seats far better than any found at Olympia or Pythia’s sanctuary at Delphi. I’ve heard what this Proxenos promises us and I have his city laid out in my head. When he comes, the new council hall of a free Messenê will sit atop the camp of the Spartans.”
Erinna kept silent at the idea of anything rising from these dry scrub pines and ancient oaks but she did not laugh since they were the days of flux when everything was not as it was and would be. She was at a loss as to how to free Nêto once they reached the fort of Kuniskos. Poets like herself, she thought, are no saner than this wild Nikôn. Who knows what twenty myriads might do if organized and inspired by her Epaminondas? “We both see things as we hope rather than as they are. I call out to the Muses, you to the dead helots of the past. But enough. Hurry, Nikôn, if Nêto still has her own head, hurry.”
It was not far to the compound of Kuniskos below, and Erinna led Nikôn and his four helots, running down the gentle slope. Soon they were at the low-lying saddle and reached the edge of the scrub pine. The fort was in clear view, and they stopped their talk. Yet there was no way to storm the double wall and get to Nêto, unless Erinna might be let in alone. But she had no ransom money, only the power of her voice. So Nikôn and his guards trailed off into the brush as Erinna approached the path toward the Spartan guardhouses. The helots had no chance against a hundred Spartan hoplites and waited in a gully above the camp and would stay there until they heard the sound from the wooden whistle around Erinna’s neck. She first went into a small clump of bushes by the timber gate. There, despite the winter morning cold, the poetess pulled off her leather jerkin, leaving the soft linen that barely covered her arms and thighs. She left behind her quiver and pack. But Erinna pulled over a long wool cloak with a hood, rough and full of burrs and stickers, as if she had been on the road for days. Then she approached the guard up on the rampart.
“Hoa. You. Red-cape. Come here. Leônidas or Lykos may be your name? Or are you Lysander back from the dead? At least you have the look of a Spartan warrior man. I’m an Athenian bard, a rhapsôdos. You see that, hear that. Yes? An Athenian. I’m a traveling rhapsode and music girl who can read out loud block letters. I entertain to the lyre. Let me in and out of the cold. I want a talk with your Antikrates or at least his henchman Kuniskos. I want help.” Now she shouted even louder to the man on the rampart, “Did you hear? Who’s in charge? I’m cold and numb and lost. I fear these mad helots and their damn cries of freedom.” Then Erinna threw off her outer hood and put her hands on her hips, and louder still cried, “And I can sing in the high strain for you and more still.”
The gate opened. Two Spartans approached. One was a young toothless sort, Klôpis, who had hacked down three Thebans at Leuktra and reminded Kuniskos nightly of his tally. Now this Klôpis grabbed Erinna and took her through the gateway and inside the double walls of the stockade and then all the way to the stone courtyard of Antikrates’s house.
The camp was an elaborate maze. Two parallel walls, both topped with sharp stakes, made a square. It ran about half a stade in each direction, with towers and a gate on each side. In the middle inside was another square, four wooden halls joined together, separated by an arch entry into the courtyard. These were the barracks of the young kryptes, at least of the few who were alive and served Kuniskos or who had not fled back over Taygetos. A fire pit was in the middle and hoplites came out of the stoas on all sides to cook their dinner and warm themselves from the icy blasts. There were guards at the gates of the outside walls and more still at the entry to the courtyard—everything built from massive spruce logs hauled down from the mountains above. Erinna quickly saw that the stockade was far too big for the garrison and that it would not last a day should the army of Epaminondas storm down from Tagyetos.
Kuniskos himself sat beside a brazier, with spits of lamb on the grill. His chair stood near the fire and a nearby table on the largest porch. Six spearmen, shivering in the cold, sat on cots and straw mattresses. He’d lost half his guard to helot killers and carried a spiked club wherever he walked. Klôpis pushed Erinna forward. “Hey, Master, there’s a woman here. No helot. I brought her in, a stitcher of tales who walked over the mountain, or so she claims. No worry—she’s no Messenian from her speech. You can see that well enough. I think she’s a softie from Athens, and beneath that wool cloak of hers I smell rose petals and linen. She will sing and more for us—if we feed her and keep her safe from the murderers of the brigands under Nikôn.”
“A singer, is it, woman—or maybe one of these rebels with a false sound to her speech?” Then Kuniskos stood up, leaned on his club, and laughed. “I am the leader, the harmost. Antikrates is over the mountain dealing with Epaminondas and his Theban pigs. Before I throw this saucy Athenian in the cage with the other one, let me hear her out.”
Erinna was already walking up to the porch of Kuniskos, then paused, hands waving about and head tilted back. “What do you want, my lord? Is it to be war songs from your Tyrtaios? Or do you want me to play some Alkman maiden sounds? Or then again, maybe a chorus of Euripides in more of your harsh Doric? Maybe Medea with her snakes up in her sun chariot? Oh, yes. I can give you all that to music, even the slow beat of Aeschylus and his Klytemnestra with her gory hands.”
She stepped closer to Kuniskos. “I can do all three and more—even a girl song about the loom. But let
me near that fire. Those damn helots came down the mountain and almost got me. I hid in the glen behind an icy rock till they passed. They killed all three of my perioikoi guards, paid in advance for six days of passage from Sparta, where I have sung Alkman and even some Tyrtaios as they ready to battle the incoming Boiotians. Yes, I sang for crippled Agesilaos himself. But, Master, I need this wool off to dry out. Let me inside your halls, my dear Spartan.”
“Oh yes, yes, come here, strange woman. Certainly you will go in. But first, sit near Kuniskos, near my little fire on the porch. No need for my spearmen. I’m well equipped as it is, even though this poetess I see has muscles enough. No danger. She’ll have to play for me and whatever else earns her a dry bed and a rabbit leg or two for dinner. But, woman, tell me, where is our Mêlon, our Chiôn in all this?” He laughed when Erinna blushed at that. “Where,” Kuniskos pressed on, “is that faker we hear about, this Alkidamas? Surely you know all three, my pretty poetess? They all have a bad, bad way of letting friends like you dangle. They flee when they find no more use for them—and the tab for the sacrifices of others comes due. As you learn. Or did you not say your guard ran away at the first sign of a fight?”
Erinna said nothing back as if he spoke Persian or was a Scythian whose grunts gave no meaning. So Kuniskos jumped up, grabbed Erinna, and pulled her inside. As she was forced into the chambers of Kuniskos, she blurted out some Tyrtaios in rough hexameters, while the guards outside on the signal of their master retreated to the outer stockade. “Sit down, woman, and sing louder and have some broth before we dine and drink. Dance as well, yes? I have no flute girls so you’ll have to be both guest and entertainer. We’ll have the barley pulp they serve here, but some special bowls with a bit of hare’s leg and a dried leek or two. Then more wine for us both. A kratêr or two just to keep us dry and warm and feisty. But keep singing. No one here now. Just us. Your name, woman? Did you give me your name? I hear there are lots of poets in these parts and on the hill up there as well. But perhaps I know it already?”
The End of Sparta Page 40