“Which brother?” Cleomenes wanted to know. Even with Dorieus dead, he still had two younger half brothers, likewise sons of his father’s first wife, and so from Cleomenes’ point of view untrustworthy.
“Leonidas,” the helot answered.
“Oh. Will he live?”
The helot glanced up, startled. “He has only a broken arm, sir.”
“So why the fuss?”
The helot treated the question as rhetorical, and withdrew.
“Fool!” Cleomenes commented to Asteropus with contempt. “He shouldn’t be out hunting boar if he doesn’t know how to keep out of their way.” Cleomenes reached again for his wine.
But in that moment Asteropus had one of his flashes of inspiration, and he warned Cleomenes, “Do not underestimate Leonidas. He may prove far more dangerous to you than Dorieus ever was.”
“Little Leo? Nonsense. Cleombrotus is the one to watch. He covets my throne. Leonidas is as docile as a lamb. Lambonidas would be a better name for him!” Cleomenes liked his own joke and laughed at it.
Asteropus let it go. He did not feel it was his job to contradict the king. He had done his duty by warning him.
Cleombrotus was Leonidas’ twin brother. The news that Leonidas had killed a wild boar reached him in his tent, where he was dicing with his seven mess-mates. Hearing that Leonidas had broken an arm in the encounter, Cleombrotus snorted and remarked contemptuously, “Lucky someone was around to rescue him from worse harm!”
When they were little, Cleombrotus had been significantly bigger and stronger than Leonidas and had used both advantages to bully his brother. In the agoge they had been separated and rarely met; but Cleombrotus continued to excel, particularly at boxing, eventually winning in the youth competitions at Olympia. He had won the honors at the Feast of Artemis Orthia as well, and he carried that title and trophy for life. Throughout these early years he had looked down on his smaller twin, sneering at him for failing to be elected herd leader and for failing to win honors or Olympic laurels. But last year everything had turned upside down and bitter, when both youths were twenty-year-old instructors at the agoge, called eirenes. Cleombrotus lost his command after a case of unprecedented insubordination by his unit, resulting in its being turned over to his twin brother.
“That’s not what Alkander is saying,” noted the man who had brought Brotus the news.
“Alkander? That trembler! He p-p-probably shit at the sight of the b-b-boar and didn’t notice what was g-g-going on.” Cleombrotus imitated the stutter that Alkander had had as a boy, to the amusement of his companions.
When they stopped laughing, however, the messenger put him right. “You’d better come see the carcass first, Brotus. It’s huge! It took four men to carry it, and the tusks are at least two feet long. Alkander held it down with his spear while Leonidas stabbed it with his sword. They weren’t hunting and didn’t have a proper boar spear with teeth—just their standard-issue war spears, which were still in it when Demaratus got there.”
“Demaratus? What the hell was Leonidas doing hunting with the Eurypontids?” Cleombrotus made it sound like treason.
No one bothered to answer, because everyone knew that Leonidas and Alkander had been friends since boyhood, long before Alkander’s sister married Demaratus. “Come and see for yourself,” Brotus’ comrade suggested sensibly, and they all scrambled out of the tent to take a look.
Torches were forbidden in a Spartan camp, no less than in the city of Sparta, but they didn’t have much trouble finding the source of commotion. It was, after all, not yet late, and most men had not gone to sleep. The arrival of Demaratus with this immense trophy had brought many men out of their tents, and word had rapidly spread that Leonidas had killed it.
Despite himself, Cleombrotus was impressed. The boar was the largest specimen he had ever seen. Nor could he comfort himself that the beast was old, decrepit, or lame. Not a hair was gray, and there was not one other injury on its body besides the ones sticky with fresh blood. The boar was muscular, with bristling black hair and eyes that—even in death—were full of power and contempt for lesser creatures. How could Little Leo have vanquished such a beast? For the first time in his life, it occurred to Brotus that Leonidas might have qualities he had failed to notice up to now. Leonidas, he registered, might be more than he appeared to be.
Chapter 2
Sparta and Her Allies
Leonidas was not comfortable with the attention he suddenly received. All his life he had lived in the shadow of his more prominent elder brothers. Cleomenes had been king since Leonidas was a child of eight, and kings were—whether one liked them or not—representatives of the Gods. Dorieus, on the other hand, had been exalted not by his position—he had been sent through the agoge just like an ordinary citizen’s son—but by his innate superiority. Dorieus had simply been the best at everything. Even Brotus, until the incident when they were eirenes, had drawn more praise than Leonidas. Brotus was a Victor of Artemis Orthia, and he had taken the wreath in youth boxing at Olympia. But suddenly everyone, even strangers, stopped Leonidas to congratulate him for slaying the boar.
Leonidas didn’t know how to react. He had not given much thought to what he was doing when he’d gone in for the kill. It had seemed the only way to resolve the situation positively. He certainly had not known the identity of the youths he was rescuing, and did not feel he should take credit —as one of the lochagoi had put it—for “single-handedly making the Corinthian chief polemarch indebted to Spartan arms.” Mostly he was distressed because his company commander, Diodoros, had ordered him to pack his things and return to Sparta at once; until his injured arm healed, he was not fit for active service in the Spartan army.
Leonidas tried to argue. “It’s just a fracture, sir,” he pointed out, flapping the bandaged and splinted arm to show he didn’t mind moving it. “I’m sure it will heal rapidly.”
“Certainly, in six to ten weeks,” Diodoros agreed; “but not before we march out tomorrow. You return to Lacedaemon today.”
Leonidas snapped for air like a fish out of water. This was the first time the Spartan army had deployed since he’d come of age. He couldn’t bear the humiliation of being sent home. “But, sir—”
Diodoros raised his eyebrows. It was not common for junior rankers, men barely out of the agoge, to question the orders of someone as exalted as a company commander. Nor did Diodoros know Leonidas well; there was a section leader and enomotarch between Leonidas and Diodoros, so their contact had been minimal up to now. Still, Diodoros did not cut Leonidas short: after all, he was a citizen, an equal, a Spartan Peer. He had an equal voice in the Assembly along with every other Spartan Peer, from ranker to lochagos. He had a right to state his mind.
“Even if I can’t hold a hoplon, there must be some way I could be of use. I can still ride, for example, and could do reconnaissance?” Leonidas suggested hopefully.
Diodoros nodded once. “Maybe, but I don’t command the light cavalry. All reconnaissance is conducted by the perioikoi. If you wish to assist, you’ll have to ask your brother or Demaratus. Only the kings have command authority over the perioikoi.”
Leonidas did not like that answer. As an Agiad, it would be humiliating for him to ask a favor of the rival royal house, the Eurypontids. As the son of his father’s first wife, however, he had been raised to look down on Cleomenes—and Cleomenes returned the compliment. The brothers were not friendly. But these were his problems, and since there was nothing more he could say to or expect from Diodoros, he nodded and left the company command tent.
Outside he stood for a moment, debating what to do next. He had to seek out one of the kings or go home. With his broken arm he knew he couldn’t stand in the line of battle, and so would have no opportunity to test either his skills or his courage whether he stayed with the army or not. But the Spartan army was about to cross the Isthmus of Corinth, and Leonidas had never been north of the Isthmus. He had been looking forward to seeing something beyond the Pelopon
nese, and was particularly fascinated by the prospect of seeing Athens.
Athens was the largest city in Greece. It had a population roughly five times that of Sparta and twice that of Corinth. It was wealthy, audacious, and increasingly aggressive. It dominated the slave and olive-oil trade and was challenging Corinth’s primacy in pottery. Most intriguing to Leonidas, however, was that it had recently revised its constitution again, reducing the influence of the landed aristocracy still further, while increasing the franchise and giving more power to the poor, often illiterate, classes. These changes had provoked lively debate in the Spartan messes.
Leonidas, like all his fellow citizens, had learned about Solon’s constitution for Athens while still in school. In school the boys were expected to understand and expound upon the differences between the laws Lycurgus had given Sparta fifty Olympiads ago and Solon’s laws, which were half as old. Lycurgus, they had learned, had addressed the injustice of great disparities in wealth by introducing a land reform that guaranteed each Spartan citizen an estate, or kleros, large enough to support him and his family. Thus, while disparities of wealth remained, every citizen was by definition a landowner; and Lycurgus’ laws discouraged displays of wealth, so that even those who had it did not flaunt it. Furthermore, Lycurgus’ reforms ensured that every Spartan enjoyed the same high standard of education: fourteen years in the public school, or agoge, run by the state. Finally, on gaining citizenship, Spartans did not pursue diverse trades and personal economic interests, but were first and foremost hoplites, all in the service of Lacedaemon.
In Athens, in contrast, Solon’s reforms aimed not at equalizing wealth but just at removing the worst abuses, such as the then common practice of reducing indebted citizens to slaves. He had not attempted to make the citizens of Athens equals, nor ensured that all enjoyed the same education. On the contrary, Leonidas had heard, wealthy Athenian boys and youths had private tutors and trainers, while the sons of poorer citizens received no education at all and were consequently illiterate. Last but not least, Athenian citizens were not professional soldiers, but were free to pursue any profession they liked. The poorest were craftsmen—potters, tanners, cobblers, and smiths; the rich did nothing at all except accumulate, display, and consume their wealth. The wealthy bought this freedom—or rather, reduced the risk of uprisings on the part of the poor—by supporting public projects such as temples, festivals, and plays, and by (and this was the key feature of Solon’s reforms) giving poor citizens, even those with no land and no literacy, a say in government.
All this Leonidas knew from his years in the agoge, but the reforms to the Athenian constitution under Kleisthenes had occurred too recently for inclusion in the agoge curriculum. Leonidas, like his fellows, knew about these latest reforms only from the incomplete and sometimes incoherent reports of strangers who had come through Sparta after visiting Athens. There was something about the creation of seven new tribes that were then represented in the Areopagos, but also much talk about country bumpkins having a say in Assembly; about offices rotating among people based on the calendar rather than on merit; and courts in which the idle poor, rather than educated magistrates, passed judgment. These features sounded very peculiar, and Leonidas had been looking forward to seeing the effects of them himself.
Since Leonidas did not want to go home without seeing more of the world, he was going to have to try his luck with one of the kings. If he went to Demaratus, however, the Eurypontid would only look astonished and ask what his brother had said; so Leonidas resigned himself to talking to his brother. He drew a deep breath and directed his steps to his brother’s tent.
Two members of the king’s personal bodyguard stood watch in front of Cleomenes’ tent, and they made no move to stop Leonidas from entering. Any Spartan citizen had the right to seek an audience with either of his kings, let alone the king’s younger half brother.
A Spartan king was a commander, a high priest, and a very, very wealthy man. These facts were reflected in the larger size of the tent, the bloody altar near the door, and the murals painted on the surface of the canvas depicting the deeds of Herakles and scenes from the Iliad. But ever since the Spartans had accepted the Lycurgan constitution fifty Olympiads ago, conspicuous consumption and the ostentatious display of wealth was scorned—even by the kings. Thus the tent in which his brother resided on campaign was simply furnished. There were woven straw mats on the floor, four identical reed beds for the king and his immediate entourage, and some folding stools and wooden chests for clothes and utensils. That was all. Leonidas stopped just inside the open flap and waited respectfully for his brother to notice him.
Cleomenes was reading a wax tablet. He did not interrupt himself. When finished, he set the tablet down and looked to the entrance. “Well, if it isn’t my little brother Leo!” Cleomenes exclaimed, as he leaned back and considered Leonidas with narrowed, alert eyes.
“Sir,” Leonidas responded.
“Come in,” Cleomenes invited, gesturing with his hand. “Let me get a better look at the little hero.”
Leonidas had seldom hated his brother more than at that moment; but he had been raised in the agoge, and he knew how to hold both his tongue and his feelings in check. He could hear the voices of his instructors and his eirenes echoing in his head: “Speaking in anger is as dangerous as fighting in anger.” “Anger will expose your vulnerabilities.” “Anger makes you careless.” “Always keep a tight rein on your emotions.” “Ride emotions like a powerful stallion, controlling them for your own aims.”
Cleomenes did not like what he saw, either. Leonidas was anything but “little.” He was at least as tall as Cleomenes himself, possibly a fraction taller. He had light brown hair that was thick, coarse, and slightly wavy, but cut short, because Leonidas was only twenty-one and on active service. (He would not have the privilege of growing out his hair in the Spartan fashion until he went off active service at thirty-one.) He was tanned, broad-shouldered, and unpleasantly reminiscent of Cleomenes’ most hated rival: the darling of the city throughout his youth, Leonidas’ older brother Dorieus.
“So, what brings you here, little brother?” Cleomenes asked.
“I’ve come to ask permission to serve with the perioikoi reconnaissance—since I can’t lift a hoplon on account of this fracture.” He lifted his splinted arm off his chest and then rested it on his rib cage again.
“Serve with the perioikoi? An Agiad prince? But then, you never were very proud, were you?”
Leonidas held his breath, repeating to himself the lessons of his youth: “The better man endures insults rather than distributing them.” “Insults are a sign of weakness.”
Cleomenes could sense he was not having the effect he wanted. Leonidas was not rising to the bait and getting agitated, as either of his brothers would have done. “You’re not like your brother Brotus, are you?”
“No, sir.”
Suddenly Cleomenes threw back his head and laughed, admitting, “I don’t like him, either! I wonder: does that make us allies?” Leonidas looked at him uncertainly but said nothing. Cleomenes waited, but Leonidas remained silent, so Cleomenes asked, “So you want to come with us?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then come along. You can assist the priests. They are always complaining that they have too much to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Find Asteropus and tell him I have assigned you to be his assistant.”
“Yes, sir,” Leonidas replied dutifully, while inwardly asking Kastor (whom he viewed as his special protector) what he had done to deserve this. The maiden that Leonidas was in love with, Eirana, had told him just last year that she preferred Asteropus, and ever since then he viewed the young seer with antipathy—despite hardly knowing him.
“Another cock!” Asteropus ordered anxiously, his face red and running with sweat, while blood soiled his long chiton.
“We’ve killed two already,” Leonidas pointed out.
“Just bring another cock!” Aste
ropus snapped back, adding, “A black one, and be sure he’s clean!”
That could only mean the signs were bad, Leonidas concluded, making his way toward the back of the camp where the helots were camped with the supply wagons and livestock. Around him the light of a thousand campfires lit up the night, and a low murmur like the humming of deep-pitched bees filled the air. They had reached Eleusis, inside Attica. The allies were no longer in doubt about the target of this campaign, and Leonidas gathered from remarks he’d overheard that they were not pleased.
Athens was the most populous of the Greek cities, and one of the most powerful. She could field twenty thousand hoplites, it was said, and she had twice that many light troops. Attacking Athens was not something to be done lightly, even if one had a good reason for doing so—which, as far as Leonidas could see, the Spartans and their allies did not.
Only a few years ago, his brother Cleomenes had helped drive out the Athenian tyrant Hippias—a move consistent with Sparta’s long-standing policy of toppling tyrants. Furthermore, important Athenian exiles had requested Spartan intervention, and the oracle at Delphi had ordered Sparta to drive Hippias out. But things were different now. There was no tyrant in Athens, and no judgment from Delphi in their favor, either. Leonidas was not surprised that the allies were angry—or that the signs were bad.
He reached the supply camp with only Beggar at his heels, trotting along happily; it being so late, he had already sent his attendant Mantiklos to bed. Here, too, the helots had rolled themselves in their blankets and stretched out beside the fires. He had to go from bundle to bundle in search of the helot in charge of the sacrificial animals.
The position of keeper of the sacrificial beasts was a prestigious and hereditary one among helots. The men who held it were specialists. They not only had the right to commandeer any animal they thought particularly beautiful and suited for the honor of serving as a sacrifice to the Gods; they also bred animals especially for the purpose. They were proud of their animals—and, not surprisingly, a little protective of them as well.
A Peerless Peer Page 4