Leonidas and his companions were happy to comply. The Corinthian had indeed taken the lead and Pheidippides was losing ground, while Oliantus was still gaining. Leonidas hoped for an upset. As they completed the last turn and started back toward the finish on the last lap, however, the two leaders put in a final effort and started pulling away from him again. Leonidas felt sorry for him. He’d put in an excellent effort, far better than anyone had expected of him. Victory had appeared to be within his grasp, but it slipped away on the heels of Eukles and Aristeas.
As the two runners swept past Leonidas, they were like a single beast, with all four limbs flailing the air and their beautiful bodies glistening with sweat and oil. They were over the finish line, and Archilochos turned to look at his son, asking, “Who won? I couldn’t see. Who won?”
Archilochos was not alone in his uncertainty over the outcome. The Athenians were wildly declaring Eukles the winner, but the Corinthians insisted it was Aristeas. The judges had their heads together, consulting; then the herald was called over and Aristeas of Corinth was declared the winner. At once the Corinthian spectators went wild with enthusiasm, while the Athenians protested: “Not true! Not true!” “Cheaters!” “Liars!” “The judges have been bought with Corinthian gold!”
Athenian spectators poured out onto the floor of the stadium. While some swept their champion onto their shoulders and started to parade him around like a victor, refusing to admit he had lost, still others started rushing toward the judges’ stand shouting, “Cheaters! Takers of bribes!” They tore away the barricades set up to protect the judges from the crowd.
The judges fled, clambering over their seats and trying to get away from the angry Athenian mob. A couple lost their himations, and one was pulled down by the hem of his chiton, while another was caught by the ankle. Soon their screams for help were as loud as the Athenian protests and insults—only shriller.
Archilochos was terrified that something would happen to his crippled son. He signaled to the litter carriers, but it was impossible for them to make progress down the steps against the flood of frightened spectators pouring upward. He shielded his son with his own broad and well-muscled body, while roughly shoving Chambias up the slope. Pipes were shrilling, trying to restore order, but a brawl had broken out between the Athenians and some of the poorer Corinthians.
Archilochos was shouting in Leonidas’ ear, “Get my son to safety!”
Leonidas looked over and assessed the situation. The stream of people determined to get away from the brawling were too concerned about their own safety to give way to the litter. Even as he watched, someone thrust Chambias aside so roughly that he fell. His cane rolled down the slope out of his grasp. One of the slaves holding the litter put down the handles to fetch it for him. Behind them, the sound of the brawl was getting worse. The shouting of insults had been replaced by grunts, the unmistakable sound of fists hitting flesh, and the groans of the injured.
“Hold on!” Leonidas grabbed Euryleon and trusted Sperchias to follow him. They locked arms and formed a human shield against the other spectators who were fleeing in panic. Thus protected, the slaves and Chambias collected themselves and started up the slope again. In a few moments they were over the brim of the bowl and the crowd was dispersing around them. They could look back down on the stadium and see how the Athenian mob had swarmed over the judges’ stand, knocking over their chairs. There was no sign of the judges themselves. Some of the game officials had arrived, however, and with whips were starting to restore order.
Archilochos gestured for the Spartans to come with him. Sperchias protested weakly, “We could still make the boxing”; but Leonidas shook his head, and Euryleon wasn’t going anywhere without him. They soon found themselves in Archilochos’ large, well-appointed tent.
Lychos was protesting that he was fine. “Don’t make such a fuss, father! Nothing happened to me. Look to Chambias.”
Indeed, Chambias had scraped his elbow and wrist when he was pushed down. Slaves were sent for water and bandages, while Lychos dragged himself across the tent to the three Spartans. Leonidas could see his eyes scan all three of them, and with a slight smile he focused on Leonidas. “Are you Leonidas?”
“Yes.”
“Then I owe you my life. I am glad I now have the opportunity to thank you personally. And your friend?” He dismissed Euryleon, who was half hiding behind Leonidas, and looked at Sperchias closely, expecting Alkander. But although he had no memories of the youth, he had been told by Chambias how beautiful and fair Alkander had been. Sperchias didn’t fit the description, and he was vigorously shaking his head.
Lychos looked surprised, but he said no more. Instead, he signaled to the slaves to bring refreshments.
Somewhat warily, the Spartans sat down on the folding chairs provided, and soon Archilochos and Chambias joined the circle, too. A krater was brought, and water mixed with wine. Chambias looked shaken and he kept repeating, “I warned you about the Athenians! They are worse than barbarians. Did you see them? They attacked the judges and Aristeas, too! Dogs! Wild dogs!”
“I hope this spectacle will convince your countrymen that these so-called ‘reforms’ in Athens are very dangerous,” Archilochos remarked to Leonidas.
Leonidas raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying my brother was right after all, and we should have driven Kleisthenes out of Athens three years ago?”
Archilochos frowned; in retrospect, Corinth’s elite did see Kleisthenes’ reforms as a dangerous precedent. If ordinary Athenian citizens could make laws and pass judgment on their betters, how long before the Corinthian hoi polloi started demanding the same rights?
On the other hand, Archilochos could not regret the coup carried out against Spartan leadership in the League. Corinth would never give up the control they had wrested from Sparta there. “No. I would not go that far. Your brother sought to restore Hippias—and Corinth has felt the oppression of tyrants. Sparta has no business trying to impose tyrants on others, since it goes to so much trouble to ensure not even your two kings have as much power as one tyrant. But Sparta should keep a close watch on what is happening in Athens. These reforms have unchained demons of the worst kind: ambition and greed among the undisciplined and uneducated masses, the very class of men governed by base urges and shortsighted conceptions of their own good.”
Leonidas looked rather blankly at the Corinthian merchant, which annoyed the latter. Archilochos frowned more darkly. “Mark my words: if things continue the way they are going in Athens, Sparta will not have the luxury of ignoring it. The Athenians grow arrogant, and it is only a matter of time before they try to take what is not theirs. Kleisthenes has opened a Pandora’s box of new and dangerous forces. Surely you agree?”
“I’ve never been to Athens, sir.”
The answer surprised Archilochos—not because he had expected a young Spartan to have been to Athens, but because most young men had opinions about everything, whether they knew anything about a subject or not. “Would you like to go?”
“Very much, sir,” Leonidas admitted, the old urge to travel bubbling up in his breast more powerfully than ever. He still felt cheated, in a way, that the campaign of three years ago had disintegrated before he could get much beyond the Isthmus. He thought, too, of the way strangers who came to Sparta spoke of other cities that were bigger and richer. They spoke of temples and monuments more magnificent than any in Lacedaemon. They laughed at the Spartan acropolis and disparaged Spartan homes as “quaint” and “old-fashioned,” or even “primitive.” Leonidas wanted to defend his city, but how could he if he had nothing to compare it to?
“I’ll take you, if you like. I’ll be taking a cargo up to Piraeus as soon as we return from the Games. You could travel back with us to Corinth and take ship with me to Piraeus. I expect to have a return cargo within a fortnight and be back in Corinth by the new moon.”
Lychos at once seconded his father enthusiastically. “Yes! That’s an excellent idea! I’ll be on the second shi
p, won’t I, Father?”
His father nodded—albeit uneasily, as if he wanted to say no.
“We could see the sights together,” Lychos continued to Leonidas; “that is, if you don’t mind being seen with a cripple.” He added the latter with a twisted smile.
“How can I object, when I am to blame?”
“Blame?” Lychos frowned and cocked his head. “You did what you could. I do not blame you for not coming earlier.”
“But if I had come later, you would not be suffering now.”
“What a Spartan thing to think and say—that it would have been better to die than to live as a cripple. That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”
Leonidas nodded once.
“Come to Corinth. I will show you, you are wrong. My life is probably better than yours—if all the things I hear about Sparta are true.”
“I’ll try to get permission,” Leonidas promised sincerely, adding with a glance at his companions, “but my friends would like to see the boxing, if you will excuse us now.”
As soon as they were out of the tent, Sperchias shook his head. “You’re mad, Leo. They’ll take away your section if you ask for furlough. Besides, you’ll be taking a huge risk. What if you develop a taste for neat wine and whores and fancy food with spices and sauces?”
“I could always desert,” Leonidas suggested with a wicked smile.
“Leo! Don’t even say that!” Euryleon protested in obvious distress.
Leonidas at once threw his arm over Euryleon’s narrow shoulders and laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back, if only to tell you fools what it’s like.”
The boxing had not gone as people expected. The Rhodian had been knocked out in the first qualifying rounds, and the Naxian had danced over one opponent after another without taking a single blow, while Brotus had to beat his way to the finals by sheer, dogged force. By the time Brotus faced the Naxian his nose was bleeding, one eye was swollen shut, and half his teeth were loose.
Brotus hated the sight of the young Naxian. He was grinning and relaxed! Through his remaining eye Brotus noted that the Naxian was beautiful—just the kind of sunny boy all the girls fell for, Brotus thought resentfully. He became determined to break the pretty boy’s nose and ensure that he would never smile quite like this again.
Brotus’ trainer was giving him tips as he rebound his hands, but Brotus wasn’t listening to anything but the rush of blood in his veins. “Pretty little pimp,” he kept thinking. “I’ll teach him to respect Sparta.”
As they bowed politely to one another like model athletes, the Naxian whispered, “I’m going to show you stupid Spartan swine what boxing really is.”
Brotus swung at once. The Naxian was caught off guard. He’d become overconfident because of his easy victory over the famed Rhodian boxer. Brotus connected, and the Naxian staggered backward, dazed more by surprise than by the force of Brotus’ fists. Before he could recover, Brotus landed a second and a third blow.
The Spartan spectators were cheering. “Bro-tus! Bro-tus!”
The Naxian spectators (and many others) were shouting advice at the Naxian, telling him to get his guard up, to step left or right or duck or whatever—anything but let the Spartan win.
Sweat stung Brotus’ eye as he moved in, and then suddenly he was down and the sky was falling. He got his feet under him in a second and jumped upright again, but then a second crack hit the back of his head and he not only went down on his knees, he lost his vision for a few seconds. But he wasn’t out yet. In a maneuver practiced so often at the agoge he didn’t even have to think, he dropped on one shoulder, rolled onto his back, and then flung himself forward onto his feet again. His vision had returned.
The Naxian hadn’t expected the move and his guard was down, just long enough for Brotus to smash his fist squarely into the pretty face, shattering his nose. The Naxian staggered backward, a hand going to his face as if to assure himself of what had happened.
Brotus jeered. “You won’t ever be pretty again, pretty boy!”
The Naxian took advantage of his gloating. A fist hit Brotus’ good eye.
Brotus reeled, his balance knocked askew along with his vision. The next blow hit his lower jaw with a crack audible even among the spectators. Brotus felt blood pour into his mouth, and for a moment he could hear shouts of “No! NO!” as he lost his balance and fell. He could hear someone panting. Something wet was dripping onto his face. “Pig. Stupid Spartan pig!” The judges were counting …
“I’ll kill him,” Brotus thought in the darkness and silence that surrounded him. “I’ll kill him.” But the crown of olives had slipped away.
Chapter 10
Homecoming
Gorgo’s mother had forbidden her to go far from the palace. The Olympic victors, King Demaratus in the chariot racing and Ephorus in the discus, were expected to arrive sometime in the course of the day. The city had planned an elaborate welcoming ceremony, and the Agiad queen was determined not to be outdone by the Eurypontid queen. As soon as the men returning from Olympia reached the shrine to the divine Lacedaemon, a runner who was waiting there would sprint to the city, and heralds would blow a signal. Then the whole city would begin to assemble; and the Agiad queen expected her daughter to accompany her since, inadequate as she was, she was all the children Gyrtias had left.
But the waiting was terrible; and so, confined to the precinct around the Agiad palace, Gorgo wandered around aimlessly. She was drawn first to the grave and monument to Alkman, because the girls’ chorus that was to sing in honor of the victors had come to give sacrifices to the great poet so he would favor them with a good performance. Gorgo hoped that when she was old enough, another three or four years from now, she would pass the audition for this chorus, because it was the most prestigious in the city—and you didn’t have to be pretty, just have a pretty voice. Gorgo took satisfaction from noting all the girls in the chorus who weren’t particularly pretty. She decided that more than half of the girls were plain.
Next she found herself, almost against her will, at the Temple to Helen. Gorgo was at war with Helen. She hated her. She embodied everything that Gorgo hated: beauty, vanity, stupidity, infidelity. As far as Gorgo was concerned, Helen had never done anything worth admiring, and she didn’t see why there should be monuments to her all over the place! “I’m certainly not bringing you any sacrifices!” Gorgo thought defiantly to the statue of Sparta’s famous queen. To her irritation, however, she noticed there were lots of votive offerings collecting before the altar—everything from wilting flowers to little figurines and shards with prayers scratched on them. Feeling very daring and impudent, Gorgo reached out and snatched up one of the offerings to read what was written on it. “Helen, make me beautiful so Polybius will love me! Euridike.” Angrily, Gorgo threw the shard back into the bin with the other offerings and fled back outside.
Although it was still early in the morning, it was obviously going to be a hot day. Not a breath of wind moved the heavy air, and all the leaves on the plane trees were coated with dust. In another couple of hours it would be far too hot for anyone to want to do anything strenuous in the sun. Gorgo glanced down at her dog, Jason. He was panting already, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. “Shall we go to the racecourse?” she asked him.
Gorgo knew perfectly well that that was much farther than her mother wanted her to go, but at least there would be something going on there. Jason, as always, looked up at her with adoring eyes. She reached down and stroked his head, and he lifted his snout to lick her face.
Gorgo laughed, jumped down from the steps of the temple, and started running down the street, with Jason racing delightedly at her heels. He seemed to think she was playing with him, and now and again he leaped up to bat at her chiton. They dashed past the sanctuary of Athena of Vengeance Deserved and the ancient statue of Ares in Chains. According to legend, Ares would never desert the Spartans as long as they kept him captive, symbolized by this statue of the God in chains. Gorgo tho
ught that it was a silly idea. How could you keep a God captive? They came and went where and when they wanted and could not be grasped, much less held fast. Besides, putting chains on anyone only made them desperate to escape and hate the person who chained them. What better way to ensure that victory always evaded them forever than to put Ares in chains?
Gorgo passed the tombs of her ancestors, the Agiadi, and the oldest house in the city, older even than the two royal palaces. People said it had once belonged to Menelaos. It was made of massive stone with sloping walls and very small windows. It seemed a grim, cheerless place, and Gorgo was glad she did not have to live there. The current owners were one of the oldest and richest families in Sparta, but they rarely lived here, either, preferring their estates. Just opposite, however, was a statute to Herakles that was particularly beautiful. It was where the boys of the agoge liked to bring offerings for success in their many trials and competitions.
Gorgo reached the gymnasia that surrounded the racecourse; and here, in contrast to the parts of the city she left behind, there was a lot of activity. Men, towels draped over their necks or shoulders, were coming and going. Their skin glowed with oil, and they smelled of sweat and olive oil mixed with thyme and bay leaf. Gorgo loved the smell, but she did not pay much attention to the men themselves.
Beyond the gymnasia on the racecourse, the youths of the agoge were playing sports. At the start of the racecourse stood two tall and graceful statues to the Dioskouroi, Kastor and Polydeukes. The twins stood, one on either side, arms outstretched like runners preparing to start a race. What Gorgo particularly liked about these two statues was that rather than staring straight ahead like most Kouroi, they looked toward each other and smiled—like friends sharing a remembered joke.
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