Leonidas just stared at him.
The silence and the absence of physical violence made the boy peer frightfully over the edge of his arm to see what was happening. When he met Leonidas’ gaze, he first ducked his head back down, but then seemed to register that Leonidas’ look was not threatening or angry. He looked up again questioningly.
“Who beats you, boy? And what is your name? Where do you come from?”
The boy’s eyes widened in wonder. He started to stammer out, “Crius, master. My name is Crius.”
“Come here, Crius—but be careful not to step on the shards.”
Crius slowly got to his feet and tiptoed nearer to Leonidas, who swung his feet down from the ledge and sat facing him. The boy stopped about a yard away, as if hoping he were still out of range of Leonidas’ fists.
“Where are you from, Crius?”
“From here, master,” the boy answered, puzzled.
“Are you a helot? Messenian?” Leonidas asked.
The boy nodded.
“Your parents live on this estate?”
The boy nodded again.
“Who beats you?”
Crius looked nervously over his shoulder and around, as if he thought the walls might have ears. Then he dropped his voice and whispered, “The master, master. I mean Master Melampus, master.”
Melampus was the manager.
“Are you the only one he beats?”
The boy shook his head vigorously.
“Does he beat your parents?”
The boy nodded.
“What does your father do?”
“What can he do? The master has a right to beat us, doesn’t he?”
“I meant, what is your father’s job.”
“He’s a groom, master.”
“And your mother?”
“She works in the helot kitchen. The master says she’s not pretty enough to serve him.”
“I see. Does he beat the other helots?”
The boy nodded.
“All of them?”
The boy thought about this for a moment and then decided, “I don’t think he has ever hit Grandma Tima—she is very old, almost a hundred. She is blind and toothless and I don’t think he has ever hit her. He just told us to stop feeding her, but my mother sneaks her things.”
Leonidas rubbed his face with his hands. This was a nightmare. He took a deep breath. “Crius, I want you to clean up the shards and the spilled oil very carefully and put them there on the shelf, and then I want you to continue oiling me down.”
Crius nodded and did as he was told, while Leonidas lay back on his belly. The boy had just gotten to his calves when there was a knock on the door and Melampus stuck his head into the bath. “Is everything all right, sir? Can I get you anything? Wine? A girl? We have several fine fillies here!”
Leonidas opened his eyes and looked back toward the smiling manager. He shook his head. “Not at the moment. I knocked that vial off the shelf earlier; could you remove the pieces?”
“Of course, sir.” Melampus rushed in to gather up the shards on the shelf, casting a suspicious look at Crius, who cringed, betraying his guilt. Melampus cuffed him across the back of his head. “You careless whelp! I can’t trust you to do even the simplest task!”
“Leave the boy alone. I told you, I broke it.”
Melampus knew Leonidas was lying. “The boy is worthless! He is frightened of the horses and no use in the stables. I thought he might be of use here in the house, but he drops things all the time! I can’t have him serve at table or half the dinner lands on the floor! And now he can’t even see to a guest in his bath. It would be better if we could sell helots like this! He’s worthless to us here, but he might bring a good price as a whore; his backside isn’t bad.”
The boy blushed violently.
“It is illegal to sell helots as chattel slaves,” Leonidas answered evenly. “Let him finish; I am anxious to dress and have something to eat.”
“Of course, sir.” Melampus withdrew.
Crius seemed to hesitate, and Leonidas had to insist that he continue. Very timidly the boy resumed oiling his calves.
“Do you have something wrong with your hands, Crius?”
The boy stopped and stared at Leonidas. Leonidas sat up again. “Show me your hands.”
Crius held them out to him.
Leonidas could see nothing wrong with them. He held out his own hands palm upward, but with his fingers curled. “Hook your fingers in mine and pull.” The boy glanced up at him curiously, but then did as he was told. The boy had hardly any strength in his hands at all. “Do they hurt?”
“It hurts to grasp things, master. To close them tight.” The boy tried to make fists while staring at his own hands, but stopped himself when it became too painful.
“Has Melampus ever abused you?”
“Master?”
“What he said about your backside. Was he speaking from experience?”
The boy’s blush seemed to belie the shake of his head—until he added in a whisper, “Not him, one of his guests. A horse trader from up north.”
“Help me get dressed, boy.”
“Yes, master.” The boy scurried to collect a fresh-pressed chiton and Leonidas’ belt. As he helped him into them, he ventured, “I don’t want to be sold, master. Please don’t let the master sell me. My mother says my hands weren’t always like this. Maybe they will get better.”
Leonidas went down on his heels to be eye to eye with Crius. “Melampus has no right to sell you, Crius. It is against the law. Where can I find you again?”
“Find me? But I’m supposed to sleep outside your door in case you have need of something, master.”
“Very good.”
Back in the chamber assigned to Leonidas, Mantiklos was waiting, washed and changed and obviously impatient. “May I go pay my respects to my parents, sir?”
“I’ll think about it,” Leonidas answered, and Mantiklos’ expression instantly turned sullen. “Stop it,” Leonidas ordered in exasperation. “Of course I’m going to give you leave to visit your parents, but not until you’ve told me more about Melampus.”
Mantiklos’ expression turned wary. “What do you mean?”
“You grew up around here. You must be able to tell me something about his reputation. Is he respected?”
“As a horse breeder? Certainly. People come from all over Hellas to breed their mares with his studs.”
“And otherwise?”
Mantiklos’ expression closed. “What else matters to a Spartiate?”
That was too much for Leonidas. “Go on, then!” he dismissed Mantiklos. “Go visit your parents, but don’t bother coming back!”
That sent a visible shock through the young Messenian. “But—why not, sir?”
“If you don’t know me after a year together, then you’re too boneheaded to be of any use to me. Surely you’ve learned all you wanted to about the Spartan army. Why not start a rebellion right away?”
“Maybe I will!” Mantiklos shot back and then stamped out the door.
Leonidas was left feeling confused and angry. “Damn him!” he muttered under his breath.
In the andron, Melampus had a feast waiting for Leonidas. The elegantly appointed chamber was aglow with light from what seemed like a hundred small lamps. Added to these was a large lamp in the shape of a pentekonter, which hung from the ceiling and emitted lights from the oar-holes. There were also tall standing lamps in all four corners, with lifelike bronze snakes coiling up to hold a broad, shallow bowl full of glowing embers. The couches were made of wooden frames with rattan surfaces, covered with cushions. Leonidas had never dined in such luxury before, but he pretended it was ordinary.
There were just the two of them for dinner. They were served by two boys wearing wreaths of myrtle. First they poured water from jugs over the diners’ hands and handed them pressed linen towels. Then they rolled in the tables laden with savory-smelling dishes, swathed in clouds of steam when the lids wer
e taken off. The scents made Leonidas’ mouth water and his stomach growled at him, reminding him he was hungry.
Melampus was graciously identifying his dishes: snow-white wheat rolls, lamb casserole, baby birds in a flaky pastry, and grilled tuna steaks. Leonidas felt almost dizzy just looking at it—and he had the uneasy feeling from his host’s smirk that Melampus knew it.
Still maintaining a façade of sophistication, Leonidas helped himself to a small portion of each dish, but firmly refused the offered wine, insisting on water only. His stomach was going to have enough trouble digesting the fragrant sauces and rich fare without wine on top of it. Besides, he needed his wits about him.
After the meal was served, Melampus launched into a well-prepared report on the estate, stressing how prosperous and famous it was, while carefully injecting hints on what needed to be improved. “The worst thing, sir, is being required to use the labor tied to the estate rather than being able to purchase qualified slaves.”
“That’s the law.”
“Not all Spartiates are so—shall we say—scrupulous?”
“No?”
“Your brother Cleombrotus, I hear, has discreetly authorized the manager of his estate near Pylos to sell off worthless helots in exchange for some first-class Scythian and Thracian slaves.”
“It is a common mistake for people to assume that because Brotus and I shared the same womb at the same time, we are otherwise similar.”
Melampus took the hint and let the topic drop—at least for the moment. They talked again of horses: the number and age and reputation of the stallions, the fact that even Demaratus had sent mares here, and that one of the horses that had drawn Demaratus’ chariot to victory at the Pythian Games had a dam from here. Melampus felt Leonidas could breed racehorses if he invested a little more …
“The Games do not interest me. Let Demaratus have his victories. I would rather concentrate on horses for our army.”
“Draft horses?” Melampus gasped, appalled.
“Scouts. Reconnaissance is critical, and mounted scouts are the best.”
Melampus was disappointed, but he swallowed down any protests for the moment, saying only, “You must see the horses yourself, sir.”
“I intend to.”
Noting that Leonidas now called for wine, however, Melampus guessed that he was tired of business and ready to relax. “Would you welcome some entertainment, sir?”
“Entertainment?”
“I regret that without knowing the date of your arrival, I had no time to hire musicians for the evening, but perhaps a couple of the fillies from the estate might amuse you?”
“All right,” Leonidas agreed, inwardly uncertain. They had been warned about “entertainment” in Corinth, but he had never had an opportunity to experience it.
At Melampus’ signal, three girls entered nervously. Their bodies were almost naked, but their faces were laden with heavy makeup—white paint base with rouge on their cheeks and lips and thick, dark lines outlining the eyes. Shimmering shadows darkened their lids, and they reeked of heavy perfume. If their bodies had not been so unformed, still juvenile, Leonidas would have thought they were older women. They performed an awkward dance in which they gradually removed their scanty clothes.
Leonidas could feel his host watching him anxiously, so he kept his eyes on the girls and sipped his wine slowly. They did not particularly arouse him. In fact, he found himself thinking of how much lovelier Eirana and Hilaira were when they ran or rode in short chitons. When the girls finished, he nodded simply and thanked them.
“Would you like one of them to join you in your chamber tonight?” Melampus asked.
“Are they chattels?”
“No, helots,” Melampus responded, surprised. “If you would authorize me to buy chattel slaves, I could improve the quality—”
Leonidas waved him silent and addressed the embarrassed-looking dancers. “Go to your own beds.”
They scuttled out.
“That bad?” Melampus asked, with raised eyebrows.
“I didn’t say they were bad, but I have never taken a girl against her will and I don’t intend to start now.”
Melampus’ narrowed his eyes slightly. “Such a paragon of virtue!” The sarcasm was hard to mistake. “Have you no vices?”
Leonidas laughed, thinking of his brothers and their opinion of him; but to Melampus he simply replied, “Undoubtedly. I am tired and will retire.” He swung his feet down, and Melampus sat up to see him out. Leonidas waved him back down. “I can find my own way.”
When he reached his chamber, he found Crius curled up in a ball on the naked floor outside the door. He had neither a pallet to sleep on nor a blanket to keep off the chill. Leonidas bent and lifted the boy off the floor and carried him into the chamber. He put him onto the bed and pulled a blanket over him. Then, taking a couple of the extra blankets, he stretched himself out on the mat before the fire on the floor.
As always, Leonidas woke at first light. For a moment he was disoriented and could not remember where he was—inside a fine house but lying on the floor. Then he remembered and got to his feet. The boy was snuggled deep in the covers, sleeping soundly. Leonidas peered out the window at a gray day, with low clouds scuttling across the sky on a brisk wind. He removed a clean chiton from the mule pack, wrapped his leather corselet around his torso for warmth more than protection, tied it down his left side, and then drew the broad shoulder flaps down and tied them one at a time to the front. He shoved his feet into his high sandals and pulled the laces tight before wrapping himself in his best woolen himation. This he had not worn on the journey, so it was relatively clean. Thus dressed, he went to the bed and gently shook Crius awake.
The boy reared up, alarmed, and stared around in bewilderment. “Where am I?”
“I put you to bed last night. Come, dawn is breaking. I want you to take me to your parents.”
Crius scrambled down from the bed and led him eagerly. The house was still and filled with shadows, but Crius moved silently, and Leonidas followed as stealthily as he could. Only as they approached the helot tract did the first sounds of life reach them—the clatter of pottery being set out and the smell of bread baking. Crius popped his head into the kitchen and looked around, but then shook his head and led Leonidas across the muddy yard, where the chickens pecked and cackled, to the row of low thatched cottages. Smoke drifted from the chimneys, and someone came to the door of one cottage to empty a bowl of something. A youth, relieving himself in the bushes at the end of the row, looked over in astonishment at the approach of Leonidas and Crius.
Crius led them straight to the second cottage from the right, bursting through the door and calling out, “Mom, Dad, the master is here!”
Leonidas had to duck to enter the dim room, which was smoky and dingy. He surprised a family sitting at benches around a wooden table. There was a man, two youths, and two little girls, both younger than seven by the look of them. A woman was standing with a heavy pot in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, apparently preparing to dole out porridge into the waiting wooden bowls set before the others. They all stared at the apparition in the doorway. Then the man struggled to his feet, and his sons hastened to follow his example.
“Sit down. May I join you? It smells good.”
They gaped. The woman dropped the spoon in the pot, reaching for another wooden bowl from a shelf behind her. She put it and a spoon on the table, hissing at the two girls to make room for the master.
Leonidas addressed himself to the head of the household. “Your son Crius has been looking after me, but he is shy. He did not tell me your name.”
“Pelopidas, master. And these are my sons, Polychares,” the larger of the boys nodded his head, “and Pantes.” The younger teenager nodded. Then, turning a bit, he nodded toward the woman: “My wife, Laodice.”
While Pelopidas looked wary and the youths just plain dumbfounded, the woman met Leonidas’ gaze with alarmed eyes. Leonidas nodded to her, rememberi
ng what Crius had said about her not being pretty enough to serve in the main house. She was certainly no beauty, but nor was she an ugly old hag. She was neatly dressed and covered her hair with a simple linen snood, and there was intelligence in her expression.
“Crius tells me you are a groom,” Leonidas addressed himself to Pelopidas.
“Yes, master.”
“You look after the stallions?”
“No, the mares and foals mostly.”
“You were born here?”
“Yes, master.”
“How many helot families are tied to the estate?”
“Seven.”
Leonidas pictured the line of cottages. There were only six. One family either lived in the main house or had a separate house. To be sure he had not misread the situation, he asked, “Are you the senior family on this estate?” (One helot family usually took precedence over the others by virtue of their former status in Messenia, or because they were descendent from the firstborn son of the original family settled on a particular property.)
Pelopidas shook his head.
“Have you been a groom all your life? Have you any other experience?”
“What do you mean, master?”
“Can you drive a plow or reap grain?”
“Of course. We all help as needed. The boys mostly handle the sowing and harvesting, but I can drive a team of oxen.” Pelopidas knew this was something to be proud of; not all men could manage it, but Pelopidas was broad-beamed.
“And your sons? Are they both grooms?”
Pelopidas shook his head. “Pantes is a trained carpenter. He is building the new horse boxes in the south barn and has fixed all these shelves and that cabinet there.” The father pointed with pride, and the son looked down humbly.
Laodice seemed to suddenly remember herself during this exchange and started serving out the porridge, starting with Leonidas.
“Polychares will follow me in the stables,” continued Pelopidas, volunteering information for the first time. “He’s good with horses.”
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