A Peerless Peer

by Helena P. Schrader

  They dropped the subject until after they had left the baths. Back outside in the brittle sun of a cold, short day, Alkander pulled his himation around him from the inside like a cocoon and told Leonidas in a low voice, “I want to take her to one of your estates. My kleros is the first place they’ll look for her.”

  “And mine is the second!” Leonidas countered, alarmed by the thought. “They know how close we are!”

  “But you have so many estates. They won’t know where to start.”

  “They know it will have to be close by. You can’t miss morning roll call.”

  “I think we have a twenty-mile radius.”

  “You can’t walk forty miles between evening and morning roll call!”

  “I can ride it. Hilaira will have two of her father’s racehorses waiting for us.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Prokles always said you were too obedient to our laws,” Alkander observed, looking off into the distance.

  Excessive obedience was a far worse insult than the reverse, but Leonidas hotly pointed out, “Look where Prokles’ disregard for our laws got him!”

  “I’m going to marry her, Leo.” Alkander turned his gaze back on his friend. “Whether you help us or not. If you don’t help us, it will make no difference—either to my determination to marry Hilaira or to our friendship. I know how much I owe you. I know I wouldn’t be wearing this himation if it weren’t for you. If you had not paid my school fees, I would have ended up apprenticed to some tradesman at best, and more likely sold into slavery. You saw those boys in Corinth?”

  Leonidas frowned. He had indeed seen the boys hawked in the Corinthian agora like female prostitutes. Although they had been warned, it had still disturbed him.

  “If we take the racehorses, people will look for us as far from Sparta as possible.” Alkander brought Leonidas’ thoughts back to the present. “That is why I thought the best place to hide would be at your ruined kleros.”

  Leonidas had inherited so much private property that the Spartan treasury felt he could afford to receive as his official state portion an estate that had been devastated by fire five Olympiads earlier. It was located near the city but had been vacant for two decades, since only someone with other sources of income could afford to fix it up.

  “It’s not habitable!” Leonidas protested.

  “Three of the rooms are,” Alkander reminded him. They had visited it together several times as Leonidas tried to recruit helot tenants and decide where to start fixing it up. “We can put braziers in the room under the stairs, and I can fix up the shutters beforehand. You wanted to do that anyway.”

  Leonidas knew he had no choice. No matter what Alkander said, Hilaira would never forgive him if he did not help her now, and if she were against him she would turn Alkander against him. Leonidas couldn’t bear the thought of losing Alkander’s friendship. His parents were dead. His brothers were his enemies. And he had lost his other good friend, Prokles, to exile. He couldn’t afford to lose Alkander.

  “Will you wait until I go on leave? At the next new moon?”

  “Of course. I want to get as much fixed up as I can in advance—like set up a nice soft bed with lots of warm blankets.” Alkander grinned at him.

  When the new moon came, Leonidas departed on the long-postponed tour of his estates. He had not had enough leave to visit those of his properties located deep inside Messenia since he came into his inheritance a year earlier. He had a steward, Phormio, who made regular tours of his estates; and naturally each property had a manager, usually a perioikoi who shared in the profits; but Leonidas was curious to see his properties himself. With the survey map the Agiad steward had turned over to him at his inheritance, he set out with his dog Beggar, a mule loaded with provisions, and his attendant Mantiklos.

  Mantiklos was himself Messenian. He had walked over a hundred miles to offer Leonidas his services, and many had advised Leonidas against hiring a Messenian. In the year they had spent together, they had slowly learned to trust one another; but the relationship was still an uneasy one, marred by the overpowering suspicion that all Spartiates harbored against their resentful subjects. More than once this past year, Leonidas had regretted his decision to hire the taciturn Mantiklos.

  Now, as they tacked up their horses and dressed warmly in double layers of himations for the trip across snow-capped Taygetos, Leonidas asked the other youth, “Are you glad to be going home?”

  Mantiklos glanced across his horse’s back at his master and considered his reply carefully before answering. “That will depend on what I find.”

  Mantiklos was a dark-haired youth with dark brows and skin. He no longer wore his hair shoulder length as when he’d first come to Sparta, but it was still rather wild and shaggy, while his face was almost always dark with stubble.

  They mounted and set off with Beggar trotting happily along behind them, her white-tipped tail wagging upright in the air. The road to Messenia zigzagged up out of the Eurotas valley, rising steeply. The horses strained, stretching out their necks, and their warm breath vaporized in the cold air like billowing smoke. They passed various temples, springs, and the marble quarries before midday. By now they were high enough for snow to have collected in the shadows, and it became perceptibly deeper as they continued the climb. Eventually it covered the earth beneath the trees so completely that dead leaves and fallen branches were obscured. The road was visible only because it was a cleared white path that snaked between the barren, gray trees.

  This pass to Messenia was closed completely by blizzards at least once or twice most winters. In bad winters it could be closed for several weeks or even months on end. Leonidas didn’t like the low clouds that seemed pregnant with fresh snow, and they pressed on with only very short breaks to snack from their cold provisions and relieve themselves. That way, they managed to put the pass behind them before dusk and benefited from the longer daylight west of the peaks. But when it became completely dark, they had no choice but to find a relatively sheltered fold in the mountains and settle in for the night. They tethered and fed the horses, and then dug themselves into the leaves to set up a tent. They cooked a meal over a fire they built at the entrance to the tent, then crawled inside and lay down with Beggar between them.

  After a moment Leonidas asked, “Is this safe?”

  “The fire will keep away the wild beasts,” Mantiklos assured him.

  “I was thinking of your countrymen,” Leonidas answered, remembering with unwanted vividness all the childhood stories of Messenians slitting the throats of unsuspecting Spartans. It even occurred to him that Mantiklos, up to now kept in check by the fact that they had been with the Spartan army where Leonidas was surrounded by his comrades, might have been awaiting this opportunity.

  “You are well armed and well trained. It is unlikely that the kind of men who live in the wilderness could kill you. And there is Beggar, too.”

  The bitch lifted her head at the sound of her name, looked over at Mantiklos, then yawned and flopped her head back down, obviously intent on sleep after the long, hard journey.

  “Do you regret your decision?” Leonidas asked abruptly, the cold keeping him from sleep.

  “No. But sometimes I wish I were not so alone.”

  “Alone?” Leonidas turned on his side and propped himself on one elbow to look at his attendant. They were never alone. They lived in barracks, drilled in units, went to the baths and gymnasia in groups, and sang in chorus. The rarest thing in the life of a young Spartiate and his attendant was solitude.

  “The others, the attendants, they’re all Laconian. They look on me with as much suspicion as you do. Not to mention your comrades! Sometimes I get very tired of all that suspicion and hostility.”

  “It’s hard to forget two hundred years of warfare.”

  “Especially when you declare war on us every year!” Mantiklos snapped back.

  “That does not seem to bother the Laconian helots,” Leonidas pointed out.
“And we only declare war on you because you are so hostile. We live in peace with the perioikoi, and Tegea, and all the cities of the League, which were our enemies once,” Leonidas pointed out.

  “But not with Argos!” Mantiklos reminded him. “You only make peace with people who submit to you. Like hounds, the others have to lie down and offer you their jugular. Then you accept them as long as they run in your pack. But if men are as proud as you, then you cannot abide them, and you fight until one or the other of you is destroyed.”

  “Then all Messenia needs do to have peace is to submit—truly submit—to us.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense! You admire courage above all else. You should respect us more for not being submissive! You should admire our spirit.”

  “But you would never be satisfied with our admiration. You want control of your country back. You want independence for Messenia.”

  “Of course we do!”

  “But we can’t afford to give it to you. We can’t support the Spartan army—not in today’s world where other armies are so well equipped—without the riches of Messenia.”

  “Then you will always live in fear of us.”

  They were silent for a few moments, each following his own thoughts. After a while Leonidas asked in a low, earnest voice, “Why did you want to serve me?”

  “I wanted to learn what the Spartan army was really like, from the inside. I wanted to understand what made it so good, so I would know how to fight it.”

  Leonidas held his breath for a moment, registering that this was more dangerous than the murder he had feared. He should have thought of this earlier. “And now you will stay here and start training rebels?”

  Mantiklos laughed. “If only it were that easy!”

  “What do you mean?”

  The other shrugged, then sat up to readjust the sheepskins he had spread over himself to help keep warm before asking, “Do you think there are many Messenians like me?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You will see. Most of my countrymen are craven. They want their freedom only if others are willing to fight and die for it. They want independence only if it does not cost them anything. The bulk of my countrymen are whiners—always complaining and moaning about their fate, but unwilling to take any risks to change it.” With these words, Mantiklos lay down again and turned his back to Leonidas.

  The next morning, stiff and unrested from a cold and uncomfortable night, they made their way down from Taygetos to the Gulf of Messenia. They spent the night in Kardamyle, a pretty town on the east shore of the bay with a good anchorage and a well-appointed inn. The horses and mule were put up in a proper stable, while they had a hot meal and slept with the other guests around a large hearth that burned through the night.

  The following day they kept to the coastal road following the shore of the Gulf, and at last Mantiklos seemed to lose his inhibitions and began to talk. He started hesitantly, but when he realized that Leonidas was interested, he talked more and more expansively. He told Leonidas about the battles that had taken place in the surrounding countryside during the First and Second Messenian Wars.

  Of course, Leonidas had already heard about these battles. They were an essential component of agoge curriculum. But he pretended otherwise, responding rather with wonder and pressing Mantiklos for details, because Mantiklos’ version of what had happened was very different from what was taught in the agoge.

  Leonidas did not discard what he had learned in the agoge. He thought that the agoge version could not be so far from the truth, or he would be Mantiklos’ attendant and Mantiklos the wealthy hoplite—not the other way around. But he realized that the way one was told about the deeds of one’s ancestors had a huge impact on one’s perception of oneself.

  Mantiklos stressed again and again that his forefathers had been heroic freedom fighters, while Leonidas’ forefathers represented brutal and corrupt power. Mantiklos’ ancestors had been crushed by greater numbers, greater wealth, superior weapons—never by the cleverness or courage of their adversaries. Yet when Leonidas looked around him, he saw that Messenia was richer and more prosperous than Laconia. Messenia should have had numbers and wealth on her side. As for weapons, it does not take long to imitate the weapons and tactics of one’s adversaries. They taught that at the agoge, too: if the enemy has something that you find hard to defeat, then learn what it is and how to counter it—fast.

  “What is your agoge like?” Leonidas asked, interrupting his attendant’s description of the Battle of the Boar’s Grave.

  “What?” Mantiklos asked, disconcerted by the interruption.

  “What is your agoge like—your upbringing, your schooling?”

  “I cannot say what it is like for everyone, because each father has charge of his sons’ education. As you can see, my father taught me well, but not everyone is so lucky.”

  No, clearly not, Leonidas reflected—and that gave Sparta a significant advantage over other city-states. The agoge assured that all Spartan boys, regardless of the wisdom, wealth, and virtues of their fathers, enjoyed the same education—provided their fathers could pay the agoge fee. And the agoge enabled the able sons of mediocre fathers to win recognition and advance in life. Furthermore, all the boys were required to attain a high standard of education, both physical and mental, and all gained fundamental knowledge about their city and the world around them.

  Of course, the agoge was only as good as the instructors that ran it, but no institution in Sparta, not even the army, was more carefully monitored and regulated. The Paidonomos was elected to his office and therefore subject to dismissal if he was found wanting, and his assistants were selected as carefully as officers in the army.

  “What of your leaders?” Leonidas asked next. “Were they ever elected?”

  “Of course not. Messenia was a kingdom when you crushed her.”

  “And you are descended from Messenia’s last king?” Leonidas remembered Mantiklos claiming this the first time they met.

  Mantiklos frowned. “Aristomenes was never officially king, but he came of the line of the Messenian kings.”

  “Aristomenes: your freedom fighter, my mass murderer,” Leonidas summarized with a faint smile.

  “Is a military commander called a murderer merely because he is successful with his tactics? Because he surprises his enemy when he sleeps?”

  “When his enemies are schoolchildren, certainly.”

  “That was only one incident! Aristomenes did many great deeds besides that! And why do you never give him credit for getting past your guards and being able to strike in the heart of your city?”

  “Maybe because at the time we had no guards in the city. We did not learn the need for them until Aristomenes slaughtered the children of the agoge.”

  “Do you honestly think that Sparta’s army never kills children?”

  “I don’t doubt it has happened. I doubt if it was policy.”

  “You are naive—sir.”

  Leonidas laughed.

  On the evening of the third day, they reached the estate Leonidas most wanted to see, his horse farm located on the far western peninsula of the Peloponnese. The manager of the estate had inherited the position from his father and his father’s father before him. He had been warned by Phormio that his master was coming, and although he could not know the exact day to expect him, he had taken precautions to be ready for him.

  Leonidas and Mantiklos were welcomed with wine and bread the moment they dismounted, and their horses were spirited away by efficient grooms before they could turn around. Leonidas was shown to the master quarters, where fresh linens and fresh flowers awaited him. A young boy was sent with him to take his dirty clothes, offer him a fresh, clean chiton and towels, and show him the way to the bath. Mantiklos was shown the way to the helots’ hall, where he could wash himself and receive clean clothes from his equals.

  Leonidas welcomed the bath more than the wine. He felt filthy after three days on the road, sleeping in the open
or in public inns. The heat in the steamy chamber (for the bath was located in a small, windowless room), at last thawed the chill that had sat in his bones ever since that cold night on Taygetos. He stepped into the marble-lined bath and sank down in the steaming water with a sigh. He closed his eyes and floated in contentment, relaxing and enjoying the solitude.

  After an undefined time, Leonidas noticed the water was cooling, so he roused himself. He submerged his head and rubbed his hair clean with his fingers. Then he stood and stepped out of the bath. The little boy who had been sitting on the floor clutching his knees at once jumped to his feet with a look of alarm on his face. He looked up at the naked, dripping-wet Spartiate looming over him with obvious fear in his eyes. Leonidas grinned at him and asked for a towel. The boy scrambled to get it, handed it to him, and then backed away.

  Leonidas rubbed himself and his hair dry, and then nodded toward the marble ledge running around the room and asked the boy, “Can you oil me down?” Oil and scrapers were provided on a wooden shelf, obviously laid out in readiness for a bather.

  The boy nodded vigorously, although his expression was wary and he swallowed several times. Leonidas stretched out on his belly.

  The boy took one of the vials of oil, poured it into his other hand, and then rubbed his hands together before rubbing Leonidas’ back. His hands were small and he worked rapidly and timidly.

  “You can press harder,” Leonidas told him, missing the expert massage of the public bath slaves in Sparta’s better baths.

  The boy tried to do as he was told, but he apparently did not have the strength or experience. Leonidas accepted this and resigned himself to getting the oil without the massage, closing his eyes. The boy reached for more oil, but the vial slipped through his already oily hands and shattered on the floor, scattering shards. Leonidas started at the unexpected sound, rearing up slightly in instinctive alarm. The boy leaped backward and then ducked down into a crouch, lifting his arms as if to ward off a blow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he gasped out, wincing in anticipation of a blow.