“So your brother gets away with a second murder?”
“Alkander! What do you want me to do?” Leonidas asked back angrily. He hated this, too, but he didn’t see any alternative.
Alkander waited a moment for Leonidas’ anger to cool, then said in a very low, almost inaudible voice, “You should tell someone else about your suspicions—the ephors perhaps or, better, members of the Council of Elders. They have to know what you think, even if they too can do nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because Brotus is now the heir to the Agiad throne.”
“What he has done does not alter that.”
“Maybe not, but it might convince the ephors and Council that something else has to be done to ensure he does not become king.”
“What do you mean?”
Alkander shrugged and looked away, unwilling to meet Leonidas’ eyes. What he meant was that someone might “discover” that Leonidas was the elder twin. What he said was, “Maybe Cleomenes could be persuaded to take another wife, one who will give him healthy sons. There is the precedent of your father, after all.”
“And create that kind of intrafamily rivalry again?” Leonidas countered. Then he conceded. “I’ll talk to Nikostratos about it.”
Alkander had to be satisfied with that.
Chapter 8
The Heir to the Throne
When Cleomenes returned, he was overcome with grief. He threw himself on the floor beside the couch where the little corpse was laid out, and banged his head on the tiles. His screams resonated through the palace and the servants fled in alarm. In a fit of guilt, the king drew his hunting knife and started to systematically cut incisions over his heart, as if he wanted to tear it out. His wife managed to stop him only by pulling him into her arms and wrapping her himation around him. He sobbed into her breast and then her lap until she took him back to her chamber, where he spent the night with her.
The next morning a messenger was dispatched dismissing the mistress in Messenia, and the king made a point of appearing everywhere in public with his queen. He started showering her with gifts as in the early years of their marriage. Cleomenes also granted his mother a large, prosperous estate opposite Amyclae, and she was given permission to remarry. Many saw this as an indication that Chilonis had been to blame for “poisoning” her son against his wife and that she had been sent away in disgrace. Her marriage to Nikostratos aroused a brief flurry of gossip, but it was generally accepted as a perfectly sensible thing for both of them.
The only person who suffered from the arrangement was Gorgo. She felt guilty for not really missing her brother Agis, and she felt neglected by her parents and betrayed by her grandmother. She wanted to run away again, but she was afraid. She sought out her mare, Shadow, and her puppy, Jason, and spent hours talking to both.
One morning while she was standing on an overturned crate so she could trim Shadow’s mane, her father came up behind her. “So this is where you disappear to!” he exclaimed.
She spun around, delighted at the sound of his voice, and her smile broadened when she saw that for once he was alone. Her mother was not with him. She had him all to herself. She flung her arms around his neck, and he lifted her off her crate and spun her around. “Does my princess want to come for a ride with me?”
“Oh, yes, Daddy! Of course! Where are we going? Can I ride Shadow?”
“Yes, if you wish; but I rather hoped you would sit in front of me on my horse, like you used to do when you were little.”
Gorgo was torn only for a moment. She could ride Shadow this afternoon or tomorrow, but it had been ages since her father had taken her with him, and she did not know when she would have another chance. So she nodded eagerly, and he carried her over to his favorite white stallion. The grooms were just brushing the last pieces of straw from his tail and picking out his hooves.
Cleomenes swung his daughter up onto the horse’s back and then, from a mounting block, jumped up behind her. He took the reins, and as soon as they were in the street outside he took up a canter. The eager horse sprang forward willingly and they tore down the streets, scattering everything in their way, from chickens and helots to boys of the agoge.
Gorgo would have been frightened if her father hadn’t been holding her so tightly in his left arm. They were galloping north, past the theater and ball field and on toward the temple to Penelope. When they left the main road and started up a rocky, zigzagging path, Cleomenes let his horse fall into a walk. He also let Gorgo talk.
Gorgo babbled without pause about all the things she had wanted to tell him for weeks and months and years. She told him about her puppy and made him promise she could keep it, and she told him about her adventures when she ran away. Cleomenes seemed to find it all very amusing. Maybe it hadn’t been so dangerous after all? She asked why her grandmother had moved out, and if she could go visit her—to which her father said she could visit as often as she liked, without answering the question of why she had left.
They left the forest behind and rode across a meadow in which the first of the wildflowers, heralds of the nearing spring, were blooming. Amid a semicircle of cypress trees stood the Temple of the Horse Grave. This ancient Doric temple marked the spot where Helen’s suitors had been made to swear that they would support whichever one of them became her husband. Here Cleomenes jumped down and pulled Gorgo into his arms, before turning his horse loose to graze.
They went together to the simple, weathered stone altar, and Cleomenes made an offering of wine that he had carried in a satchel over his back. Then he removed some prunes and considered them before deciding they could be “better used” to feed himself and Gorgo.
Gorgo entered the temple to admire the beautiful bronze statue of a horse with raised head, pricked ears, and one foot outstretched as if anxious to come toward her. It reminded her of her beloved Shadow.
“Gorgo! I’m hungry!” her father called.
Gorgo patted the bronze horse on his shiny nose (which proved she was not the first to have patted him) and went back out into the pleasantly warm sunshine. They sat down on the steps, looking across the broad field before the temple. Although the field was blooming and the surrounding trees were budding, leaves blown off the surrounding trees by the winter storms still lay at their feet like a carpet.
Gorgo wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her arm as she had seen the boys do.
“Thirsty?” her father asked. She nodded vigorously. Her father produced a skin of wine and with a smile, offered it to his daughter.
She eagerly took a sip and then made a face and spat it out. “Yuck! That tastes terrible!”
Cleomenes threw back his head and laughed in delight. “It’s neat wine, precious. Just the way I like it.” He took a large gulp, smacking his lips demonstratively as he finished.
His daughter was frowning at him, and so he pulled her into his arms and tousled her hair with his hand.
“Stop that!” she protested. “You’ll mess up my braids.”
“What braids?” her father teased. “You mean this mess is supposed to be braids?” He held up one braid by the frayed tip. Large loops had long since escaped around her cheeks, and the braid itself was halfway unraveled.
“Yes!” Gorgo insisted, pulling it out of his hand and then deftly pulling the strands apart to start rebraiding her hair.
Cleomenes stopped her by holding her tightly in his arms and kissing the top of her head. “My little princess!” he declared proudly. “Do you know what you are now?”
“What?” she asked suspiciously.
“Why you, my precocious princess, are the heir to the Agiad throne.”
“But I’m a girl,” she protested. “I can’t command the army.”
Cleomenes threw back his head and laughed in delight. Then he gave her a short hug and turned her around in his arms to kiss her nose before saying, “No, but whoever you marry will command our army; and you, of course, will command him!” He pinched her nose playfully.
Cleomenes again swung his daughter up onto the broad back of his stallion and climbed up behind her. As he turned away and asked his stallion for a trot, he thought smugly to himself that Tyndareus had been very lucky, but also very wise. After all, sons were unpredictable—they could die young, be weak or whiny or overly self-willed. What father could ever be sure that a son would be all he wanted him to be? But a son-in-law—the grown man that a father could choose for his daughter—could be exactly right. It made no difference that Gorgo was not a beauty, as Helen had been. For the prize of commanding Sparta’s incomparable army, men would willingly overlook her deficiencies.
Chapter 9
The Games
The winter had been mild, and the earth sprouted and turned green earlier than normal. The unseasonably warm weather brought everyone out into the fresh air, casting aside with relief their winter clothes and mood. This being an Olympic year, every ambitious athlete took advantage of the weather to start training as soon as possible.
Leonidas was under considerable pressure to compete in wrestling. He had always been good; and there were those who said that if he would just train a little harder, he stood a real chance of a victory. But when Leonidas was feeling lazy, he would argue that Sparta had enough other contenders for the laurels without his efforts. Demaratus was entering a four-horse chariot, and his chances were widely thought to be excellent. His team could beat anything that came up against it in Sparta, for a start; and Leonidas would also point to his old herd leader Ephorus, who was now a world-class discus thrower, and Brotus, who had won at boxing when still a youth. Brotus was determined to take the crown home again, this time as an adult. He spent every free minute at his gymnasium, battering bags or people. In short, Leonidas told those pushing him to compete, Sparta had more than one good chance of a victory and did not need his efforts.
But Alkander harassed him when they were alone together, insisting: “It would not be good for you if Brotus claims another Olympic victory while you have nothing. If you get one, too, it will largely neutralize any benefit he would otherwise derive from an Olympic prize.”
“Why do you insist on seeing us as rivals?” Leonidas retorted irritably.
“Because you are—whether you want to be or not,” Alkander replied, and it was true. It had always been true.
So although Leonidas was undecided about competing, he did start training harder. What this meant was that he spent nearly all his time either at drill or in the palaestra. He almost never made it to his kleros anymore, much less his other properties.
One evening as he came out of the palaestra, he was astonished to see Crius running down the street. Worse, a whole herd of boys from the agoge were pursuing him, shouting threats and insults and even throwing things at him. The boys of the agoge were raised to look down on helots, and they were certainly not above beating or otherwise intimidating and harassing helot boys their own age or younger. Fearing the worst, Leonidas immediately stepped between Crius and the boys and ordered at the boys to halt.
There was nothing the boys of the agoge hated more (as Leonidas well knew) than the interference of Spartiate citizens in their games and free time. Their life was hard enough, between training and sports and lessons, without having to answer to every passing citizen. But the law was the law, and they knew that Leonidas had the right to stop them, question them, and—if he thought they were rude or disrespectful—report them to the Paidonomos, who would see that they were punished.
Reluctantly, resentment written all over their dirty faces, the boys drew to a halt in a ragged cluster and stood waiting for him to address them.
“What’s going on? Why are you chasing my helot?”
“Sir?” one of the boys ventured with a quick upward glance. The boys were standing, as required, with their eyes cast down and their hands at their sides.
“Are you the herd leader?” Leonidas asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“You were chasing one of my helots. I want to know why.”
“He was mocking us, sir! Taunting and calling us names! He does it all the time!”
Leonidas turned to look behind him. Crius had halted and was standing a good hundred yards farther up the road, grinning.
“Crius! Come here!”
Crius obeyed readily. He was clearly not afraid. It was hard to believe that this lanky boy on the brink of youth was the same creature who had cowered in the baths at Leonidas’ estate in Messenia just three years ago. He was very cocky now.
“These boys say you were mocking them,” Leonidas told the helot boy firmly. “Is that true?”
“All I said was that they were lame-asses.”
Leonidas nearly choked. Helots had no business saying things like that to their betters. The boys of the agoge allowed themselves little smiles of self-righteousness.
“What made you say something like that?” Leonidas demanded furiously.
Crius shrugged. “I was watching them race down at the course, and they are all lame-asses!”
Leonidas couldn’t take it any longer. He cuffed Crius hard. “You address me as “sir” or “master!” Just because you’re worthless—or should I say especially because you are otherwise worthless—is no excuse for disrespect.”
The boys of the agoge were grinning now.
Crius shook off Leonidas’ blow like a duck shaking off water. “They’re still lame-asses—master.” He made it sound like a sneer, and Leonidas felt he had no choice but to hit him again, harder this time.
Crius ducked his head, so that the blow only partly connected, and took flight at once. Leonidas was caught off guard, and as he started after the boy he realized that Crius was sprinting away from him with apparent ease. He called out to a meleirene farther up the street to stop Crius. The meleirene, twice Crius’ weight and wearing leather armor, brought Crius down easily, but by now they were attracting attention. People on the street stopped to see what was going on, and the shopkeepers came out of their shops and craned their necks.
“Bring him here!” Leonidas ordered. The meleirene obligingly wrenched Crius’ arms behind his back and held onto both his wrists while he pushed him forward to stand in front of Leonidas. The boys of the agoge who had been chasing Crius watched with open triumph and anticipation written on their faces. It was not common for them to get such exalted help as this from a Peer and officer.
Crius was finally beginning to look sullen rather than impudent, which meant he had at least acknowledged that he had to submit for now.
With the meleirene holding Crius in front of him, Leonidas asked, “What are you doing here in the city?”
Crius frowned, shrugged, and shuffled his feet. The meleirene brought his knee up hard into Crius’ butt, and the boy straightened up with widened eyes that gazed at Leonidas in outrage. Leonidas saw a flash of understanding in those eyes: the late realization that although Leonidas might have indulged him in the past, he could command him. “I was just here, sir. I—” he shrugged—“don’t have anything else to do.”
The boys of the agoge started laughing and calling him a liar. Helot boys started working as soon as they could walk. A boy as old as Crius, who was clearly ten or eleven, would usually be burdened with chores. Helots did not enjoy leisure. But Leonidas knew that Crius was telling the truth. “You were loitering around in the city. Is that what you usually do?”
“I like watching the games and the races. Sir,” Crius told Leonidas, looking up with wide eyes that were openly pleading now, reminding Leonidas of his handicap, playing on his sympathy as he had so often before.
“And you called these worthy sons of Spartiate citizens insulting names?” Leonidas asked, trying to break the pattern of pity and indulgence.
The boys of the agoge looked smug.
Crius
glanced at them, impudently tossing his long hair out of his eyes as he looked straight at Leonidas. “Yeah. Because they are slow as mules! I could beat any of them—I could probably lap them!” Crius bragged, his little chest swelling out as he spoke.
The meleirene kicked at the back of his knees, and Crius dropped onto the street. His astonishment was greater than his pain, and the boys of the agoge laughed in delight. Even the onlookers hissed, and several shouted at Leonidas that it was time the boy was taught a lesson.
Leonidas recognized the voice of his former eirene Lysimachos, who (as always) advocated punishment: “Take his impudent hide off him, Leonidas!”
Leonidas did not respond. He remained apparently unmoved. He just looked down at Crius, who was now looking up at him with tears in his eyes and a quivering lip—but not from pain, from rage. “It’s true!” Crius insisted furiously.
“Prove it!” Leonidas answered. With a flick of his hand he gestured for the meleirene to pull Crius to his feet; and turning to the boys of the agoge, he nodded. “Go on, back to the racecourse. He’s going to race you right now.”
The boys were surprised, but Leonidas was a Peer and officer. None of the boys dared contradict him, no matter how unprecedented such a contest might be. And many of the passers-by—those that had nothing better to do—followed along curiously, although Lysimachos shook his head disapprovingly and went in the opposite direction.
At the racecourse there were many agoge units engaged in training and informal races, but Leonidas cleared them off the course with a single shout. He had the boys of the agoge unit that had been chasing Crius select their three best runners. He ordered them and Crius to strip and to line up at the start between the statues of the Divine Twins, Kastor and Polydeukes. The Twins stood naked and at the ready, with opposite feet forward, smiling at one another under stone helmets. Leonidas ordered the selected boys to race the length of the stadium.
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