A Peerless Peer

by Helena P. Schrader

  “Don’t we have enough already?”

  “I will have to go and find one, sire.”

  “Forget it, then. Leave me alone.”

  Gratefully, Asteropus withdrew from the king’s tent. But the sight that greeted him beyond the tent was hardly designed to cheer him up. The Spartans, of course, didn’t camp with the other Greeks. They had set up their own camp almost half a mile away, and it was laid out exactly as the Spartan army would camp on campaign—except that the weapons were absent. The whole atmosphere remained, however, disciplined, and therefore abhorrent to Asteropus. All these healthy young men laughing around their campfires, sharing jokes and bad food! The sight disgusted him, and it reminded him of how different he was from his countrymen. If only he’d been born in Athens or Corinth or Thebes!

  He turned his back on the Spartan camp and made his way toward the bright lights of the chaotic, vibrant main camp. Asteropus breathed more deeply and more freely the farther he got from his countrymen. You could literally smell the rich diversity of the other camps! There were so many different sorts of things cooking—garlic and onions, cinnamon and cloves, pork fat and goat’s cheese. And lanterns lit up these tents from the inside, turning them into bright-colored beacons. Torches moved between the tents, too, in contrast to the near darkness of the Spartan camp, while the clamor of voices was intoxicating: all the different dialects of Hellas blended and competed like different instruments, punctuated by the occasional sound of a foreigner. Asteropus loved it.

  He plunged into the narrow, crooked alley between the outer rows of tents, watching his step to avoid all the refuse dumped out into the walkway, and he did not mind even this. The refuse was a tribute to freedom! In the Spartan camp everything was regimented, right down to where one was allowed to urinate and shit, he thought resentfully.

  Asteropus deftly skirted the part of the shanty town where the gambling and whoring houses were set up. Although he was not interested in visiting such establishments, he approved of their presence because they represented the freedom to enjoy life, to indulge oneself, even to ruin oneself. He thought that no man was truly free unless he had the freedom to destroy his health and fortune with excessive drink, excessive sex, and senseless gambling. Only by proving that a man could of his own free will despise these excesses, did a man demonstrate true character. Since Spartans did not have the opportunity to overindulge, their abstinence proved nothing. Rather, they were like children, slaves, or women—inferior creatures who had to be guided, regulated, and controlled by their parents, owners, husbands, or—in the Spartan case—by their officers, ephors, Council, and kings.

  The thought reminded Asteropus of his own wife and daughter. He missed them and wished he could bring them to Delphi to live with him. Other priests brought their wives, but Eirana had not liked Delphi the one time she visited. She complained that she had nothing to do there; and of course the libraries, theatres, and symposia were all closed to her, being open to men only. She had complained that he spent every night with his friends, drinking and talking, and came home drunk at dawn—unwilling to understand that to have done anything else would have demeaned him in the eyes of the other Greeks. She had complained that he did not fulfill his “marital duties” often enough, and accused him (most unjustly) of having sex with flute girls and whores just because she had heard these creatures were brought as entertainment to the symposia he frequented. In short, they had fought frequently, until she threatened to leave him if he did not take her home. To avoid such a scandal, he dropped everything to escort her back to his kleros in Sparta.

  Asteropus sighed at the memory. He had expected marriage to be different. He had imagined Eirana waiting for him every evening (or morning, as the case might be), anxious to hear all that he had to tell, a source of comfort and encouragement. Take tonight: Cleomenes was clearly displeased with him. He would have liked to talk to Eirana about it and hear her tell him all was well, that he understood the Gods, and that he had no need to fear. But without someone telling him that, it was so easy to doubt himself …

  “Asteropus!” The sound of his own name startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked around in astonishment.

  The man smiling and waving to him was familiar, but at first Asteropus could not place his face. He waited hesitantly as the man lifted up his elegant long chiton to make his way carefully over and around the refuse in the alley. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m Cobon, son of Archiphron.”

  Asteropus was immediately embarrassed. Cobon was incredibly rich and very influential in Delphi. Asteropus bowed his head and answered readily, “Sir, I am honored that you know my name! What can I do for you?”

  “Why, come join me in my tent. I was just on my way there, but I am not ready for sleep. Let us drink together for a bit.”

  Asteropus was flattered that Cobon even knew who he was, much less that he would extend an invitation of this kind. He had certainly never invited Asteropus into his home in Delphi.

  As if reading his thoughts, Cobon remarked, “We have seen far too little of one another in Delphi. Entirely my fault, of course. I meant to invite you over, but you know how things are—one thing after another got in the way. What a fortunate circumstance that I should run into you here. Come, this way.” Cobon’s slave trailed him, holding up a torch, and this made the going much easier. They proceeded to a large tent conspicuously guarded by two burly Nubians. Only very wealthy men could afford this luxury. Then again, only very wealthy men needed to take such precautions.

  Inside the tent, Cobon kicked his other slaves awake and ordered them to light the lamps and pour water and wine. In a very short time, Asteropus found himself comfortably settled on a low couch softened by thick pillows. On a low table in front of him, a broad kylix had been placed along with a bowl of figs, dates, and raisins mixed with nuts.

  “You must tell me how you found your king,” Cobon remarked jovially. “Is he still intent on interfering in Athenian affairs?”

  Asteropus grimaced and took a deep drink of the rich black wine; then, shaking his head, he declared, “You have no idea what a difficult man Cleomenes is. He is vain beyond reason! It isn’t a matter of interfering in Athenian affairs. He does not take a genuine interest in Athens or anywhere else—he cares only about whether an affair makes him look good.” It all started to pour out of him—the things he had imagined saying to Eirana.

  Cobon nodded sympathetically, encouraging Asteropus with well-placed words of agreement or exclamations of distress at appropriate moments. He also kept the wine flowing and the snacks plentiful.

  Late into the evening, Cobon asked the young priest, “And what is this I hear of your wife? Is it true she has left you?”

  “No, no! She simply does not like living in Delphi. She has returned to her father’s home.”

  Cobon shook his head in disapproval. “A wife should not put her own likes and dislikes ahead of her husband’s welfare. I can assure you, no Phocian girl would have been so selfish—or rather, so foolish. A wife who leaves a young, virile husband alone is inviting him to take a concubine. There are many poor men in and around Delphi who would be delighted to sell you their sweet virgin daughters to keep your bed and house if your own wife is so neglectful of her duties.”

  Asteropus stiffened and was about to reply that that was not the custom in Sparta, but he stopped himself. Another stupid Spartan custom! Another restriction on a man’s freedom! The other Greeks were so sensible! Of course a young man needed a woman in his house and bed. “Good girls, you mean? Not whores or slaves?”

  “No, no! I wouldn’t think of letting some common whore into my house either! After all, I have daughters, and you never know what diseases they bring with them. No, I mean well-brought-up, modest girls whose fathers are simply too poor to come up with a dowry. Just the other day a poor farmer came to me in bitter distress because unexpected bad times mean he can no longer pay the dowry he promised his neighbor. Now the neighbor will not take his daughter as pl
anned. The girl is already fourteen, and he sees no hope that his fortunes will improve in the short term. Or there was another fellow who came to ask the oracle what to do because he has twin girls, both twelve, and he cannot provide both of them with dowries, but he says they are so alike he cannot select between the two who should be rewarded and who punished. I’m sure either father would bless you the rest of their days if you would promise to take their daughter into your house and treat her properly, like a concubine and not some slave girl.”

  “Even knowing that any children would be illegitimate?”

  “Well, it is up to you whether you expose or provide for the children. Their fathers would have no objections whatever you do, I assure you, as long as the girls are honorably taken off their hands.”

  Asteropus was tempted, but the idea was still so strange that he could not wholeheartedly embrace it. So he nodded and said he would think about it. They talked of other things, notably the fact that the deposed Athenian tyrant Hippias had found refuge with the Persian satrap in Sardis. Cobon reported that Hippias had been given a huge palace filled with slaves and a dozen women for his personal use and was living almost as well as the satrap himself. “It is said by those who have seen him that he is more tyrannical than ever—and bitterly determined to regain control of Athens. He brags that he is learning from the Persians how to rule.”

  By the time Asteropus made his way back toward the Spartan camp on rather unsteady legs, he was feeling very pleased with himself. He had clearly impressed Cobon with his intelligence and his insight. Asteropus imagined being included in Cobon’s famous symposia. He imagined being counted among the great man’s inner circle of friends. How it would improve his status in Delphi! Who needed Cleomenes, Asteropus asked, if a man like Cobon valued his friendship and advice? Soon he could picture himself living an independent life in a lovely villa overlooking the Gulf of Corinth. He would have his own library and his own chef. What a thought—to never again have to eat black broth! And there could be a sweet Phocian girl—all smiles and humble adoration—to listen to him and admire him and share his bed. Why, with Cobon as his patron, he would be able to afford to let their offspring live, and they would be surrounded by happy children.

  “What’s the matter with you?” a sentry demanded. “Been drinking neat wine?”

  The challenge, with the sneer in it, intensified Asteropus’ hatred of his own city. “And what if I have?” Asteropus threw back. “Sparta is the only city in the world that does not trust its grown citizens to drink wine! Indeed, the whole world laughs at Sparta for its fear of wine.”

  “Until they face our spears!” came the retort.

  “We can’t fight the whole world,” Asteropus scoffed back. “Sparta is nothing but a quaint provincial town! We only make ourselves ridiculous by pretending we do everything better than everyone else and are more virtuous, too!”

  “If you have so little liking for our laws, why do you wear Spartan scarlet?”

  “Why, indeed?” Asteropus asked himself, and turned his back on the sentry to find his way to his own tent.

  The boxing was scheduled for immediately after the dolichos, the long-distance race in which the runners had to run twenty-four lengths of the stadium. It was always hard to guess how long the dolichos would last, and since it was a rather boring event, many spectators skipped it to secure better seats for the boxing. The bulk of Spartan spectators chose this option, because they had no strong entrant in the dolichos but were hoping Cleombrotus would give them a victory in boxing. Leonidas, however, declared his intention to go to the dolichos.

  “But if we go there, we’ll never get a good seat for the boxing!” Sperchias protested.

  “Why should I fight with half of Greece for a place from which to watch my brother beat someone up? I can see that in Sparta without any trouble any day of the week.”

  Sperchias opened his mouth three times to find an answer, and finally settled on, “But the dolichos is so boring.”

  “Not really. You go ahead to the boxing, if you like.”

  Sperchias and Euryleon wordlessly followed Leonidas. They joined a small contingent of other Spartans, friends of the one Spartan competitor, Oliantus. No one really thought the young man, who was in the age cohort ahead of Leonidas, had much of a chance against the Corinthian Aristeas or the Athenians, who were rumored to have not one but two outstanding runners, Pheidippides and Eukles.

  Leonidas and his friends made themselves comfortable partway up the slope beside the stadium. These were not the best seats, but their interest was only moderate. Below them was a very large crowd of rowdy Athenians, who at the moment were divided into two factions that were shouting insults at one another. It was hard to hear exactly what was being said, but it sounded as if some of the men had invented little rhyming ditties that made rude remarks about their rival. These brought roars of approving laughter from their own faction and counterinsults from the other faction.

  There was also a large Corinthian contingent, but this was more orderly, and the front-row seats near the finish line had been cordoned off. Only just before the start of the race did the men for whom these seats were reserved arrive in a small group, escorted by slaves. One man was even carried in on a litter, which the slaves set down so he could sit. The slaves then stood and held an awning over the spectators so they were shaded from the hot sun. Refreshments had evidently been brought along as well.

  Sperchias shook his head in disgust.

  There were almost twenty contenders for the race, and they set off rather like a herd of cattle, thundering down the length of the stadium. There were the inevitable collisions at the turn, shouts of “foul play,” and protests, largely ignored, as the leaders pulled away in the second lap. After four laps, the field was spreading and thinning out. The favorites were justifying their odds and the Spartan was holding on to fifth place, which was fine at this stage. By the end of ten laps, a couple of men dropped out of the race altogether, and the majority were running only for the sake of honor with no hope of victory. The contest was down to a six-man race: the two Athenians, the Corinthian, the Spartan, an Ithacan, and a Samian.

  A slave reached the Spartan spectators and leaned over the man sitting nearest the edge. The man turned and pointed toward the back, and the slave made his way up the slope. “Leonidas, son of Anaxandridas?”

  Because of his poor eyesight, Euryleon couldn’t follow the race, so he was watching the spectators. He heard the question and nudged Leonidas.

  “Leonidas, son of Anaxandridas?” the slave asked again.

  “Here!” Leonidas answered.

  “My master, Archilochos of Corinth, invites you to join him over there.” The slave pointed to the Corinthian section on the other side of the stadium, with the awning held by slaves.

  “Why?” Leonidas wanted to know. Although he recognized the name, he also remembered Archilochos had engineered the revolt of the allies against Sparta’s dominance in the League. While he understood Kyranios’ logic about not fighting with half-hearted allies, he still did not feel particularly friendly toward a man who had called Sparta insulting names. “I’m perfectly comfortable here.”

  “His son Lychos would like to meet you, sir,” the slave explained.

  Leonidas thought about that for a moment, and then stood up.

  “You’re going?” Euryleon asked, amazed.

  “Why not?” Leonidas countered.

  Euryleon sighed and got to his feet.

  “You don’t have to come.”

  “Over there I might be able to see something,” Euryleon retorted.

  Leonidas couldn’t argue with that, and he was not unhappy to have Euryleon with him. Leonidas would have preferred Alkander; after all, Alkander had helped kill the boar. But Alkander had stayed home in Sparta to enjoy the holidays with his wife and newborn son. “Chi?”

  Sperchias shrugged and pushed himself off his feet. Together the three friends followed the slave, harvesting curses and compla
ints for treading on other people’s toes and things and blocking their view.

  They reached the Corinthians as the race went into the twentieth lap. It was now getting exciting. The two islanders had fallen almost a lap behind. The Spartan Oliantus and one of the Athenians, Eukles, were half a lap back. Fighting for the lead were the Athenian Pheidippides and the Corinthian Aristeas. The Corinthian crowd was correspondingly on edge.

  Leonidas paused to get a good look at where he was going. He quickly found Archilochos, who had not changed much in four years. He was still a handsome, vigorous man in his prime. He was darkly tanned, and although he wore rich clothes, they were not gaudy or excessively ornate like those of some of his countrymen. Nor was it hard to identify Chambias. He looked much the same, only softer and plumper. Lychos, however, was a shock. He sat twisted in the litter in which they had carried him. One shoulder hung lower than the other. He was very pale, and his face was lined prematurely from pain. Leonidas shuddered inwardly, wondering if he had done the young man a service—saving him for a life like this.

  The cheers around them grew in intensity. The runners were on their twenty-second lap. Just two more turns. The Spartan seemed to be gaining on the leaders, and from across the stadium the few Spartan spectators were standing and cheering him on by name: “Oliantus! Oliantus!” Leonidas was glad for him. He was a quiet, rather ugly man who hardly ever drew attention to himself. A conscientious soldier, Leonidas knew, who had been passed over for promotion every year. He felt it would only be fair if Oliantus won a surprise victory here—and it served the rest of his countrymen right for preferring to secure seats for Brotus’ fight rather than support this underdog.

  The slave who had sought out Leonidas was, however, urging him to hurry up, and the spectators around them were cursing them for being in the way.

  Leonidas and his friends arrived as the runners went into the twenty-third lap, and even Archilochos was perfunctory in his greeting. “Here, here.” He and Chambias made room for them. In this cordoned-off space people were not really crowded. “We’ll just watch the end of the race,” Archilochos told them. “Aristeas is leading!”