A herd of naked boys were jostling one another at the start, preparing to run a race. Most of the spectators were at the other end of the course, where the finish would be. Gorgo walked around to join a group of girls her own age.
Before her brother died, Gorgo had gone to school with these girls, although she had never been allowed to sleep in the agoge with them. Now her mother did not even let her go to school. The girls, therefore, acknowledged her only with nods or not at all. One of them, Alkyone, sneered audibly, “Oh, if it isn’t the precious little princess.” Only Phaenna risked a timid smile at her. Gorgo placed herself next to the friendly Phaenna and tried to ignore Alkyone.
With a shout, the boys at the start of the course set off in a ragged herd. The girls leaned forward to see what was happening. Nausica’s brother was among the runners, and she started jumping up and down, cheering him on. “Neokles! Neokles! Come on! Faster!” Some of the other girls had other favorites. Gorgo didn’t know any of the boys. “Who is the boy out in front?” She put the question to Phaenna, but unfortunately Nausica overheard her and burst out laughing. “That’s a helot, silly!” And then, louder for the other girls, she added, “Our princess fancies a helot! Gorgo is in love with the helot Crius!” They all laughed at her. “Gorgo is in love with a helot!”
Gorgo felt the perfect fool. First of all, she didn’t fancy any of the boys, much less love one. And how was she to know that the fastest boy in the whole pack was a helot? They were all naked with shaved heads. Phaenna reached out and squeezed her hand in sympathy, whispering, “Crius is faster than anyone.” Sure enough, he won this race and the next, but the other spectators paid no attention to him; they were only interested in who came second.
By now the sun was high and oppressively hot. The other girls were collected by the widow who looked after them and herded back toward the city to bathe and change. They left Gorgo standing without so much as a goodbye—except for Phaenna, who half turned and waved at her over her shoulder. Gorgo waved back and then looked around, wondering what to do next.
How much longer could it be before the signal came? She looked down at Jason as if he might be able to answer her, and he responded by pawing her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her cheek on his head until he squirmed free.
She noticed a helot woman clinging to the shadows of the closest gymnasium. She had her veils up over her head, as was more typical of foreigners than Laconians. She also had a heavy satchel across her back and held a pitcher in her hand, which she had apparently just filled with water from the nearby fountain house. The fountain house itself was overflowing with boys, clamoring for a drink and dunking each other under the spouts, or otherwise noisily splashing water around to the accompaniment of high-pitched squeals of delight.
The helot boy did not dare go there. He would have been thrown out or even beaten if he tried. He went instead to the helot woman, and with a smile she handed him the pitcher. He lifted it to drink directly from the spout and then, his thirst quenched, he poured the rest over his head with a laugh. The woman, whom Gorgo presumed to be his mother, reached out and patted his shaved head as if she weren’t used to the sight of it. He responded with a toss of his head, shaking off extra water like a dog. His mother took her satchel off her back and offered him something that he eagerly accepted. Then someone shouted something, and he darted away with only a hasty wave to his mother, still eating what she had given him.
The helot woman put the pitcher back inside her satchel and swung it up onto her back. As she did so, her eyes met Gorgo’s. She smiled at her. “I expect you’d like a sweet, too?”
Gorgo’s face lit up, and the helot woman brought the satchel down again and opened it up to remove a nut-and-honey square. Gorgo popped it into her mouth, and at once her eyes widened. “That’s delicious!” she exclaimed, with her mouth still full. The woman laughed at her. Gorgo remembered her manners and covered her mouth with her hand.
“They better be,” the helot woman said as she again shouldered her burden. “I want to set up a stand near the Dancing Floor and sell them this afternoon.”
“Do you live around here?” Gorgo asked, falling in beside her.
“No, on the other side of the Eurotas.”
“And that boy—the one who is so fast he wins every race—is he your son?” Gorgo looked back and gestured vaguely.
“Yes, my youngest boy. He has a sickness in his hands and has never been any use to anyone, so I am very grateful to the Gods that he can run. Our master says that when he grows up he can be a runner for the army. I never thought things would go so well for him. That is why I am going to stop here and give one of my cakes to Herakles to thank him for giving my little boy a gift after all.” They had reached the statue of Herakles. Gorgo regretted losing such a wonderful sweet to a God who couldn’t possibly enjoy it, having neither tongue nor stomach anymore. Then they continued on together.
“And who are you?” Laodice asked.
Gorgo was surprised. Everyone else seemed to know who she was without asking. “I’m called Gorgo,” she admitted.
“What an odd name!” Laodice exclaimed.
“My father said it was because I screamed so loudly from the moment I was born.”
Laodice laughed. “And who is your father?”
Gorgo shrugged in embarrassment, sensing that if she told the truth this woman would shy away from her. “He’s a Spartiate, but he won’t let me go to school—Oh, listen! That’s the signal! I have to go home and change!” She started to run away, feeling guilty for being so far from the palace. She had gone three strides before she stopped, turned back, and called to Laodice, “Thank you for the honey square! I’ll look for you later and buy some more!” Then she ran as fast as she could back to the Agiad palace.
She was late, of course. Everyone warned her that her mother was looking for her. So she burst into her mother’s chamber with an excuse on her lips: “Mom, I’m sorry—”
She couldn’t finish before her mother interrupted with an exclamation of horror: “Where have you been? You look like something the cat dragged in! Your filthy dog has been jumping all over you, hasn’t he? I warn you: if you don’t stop letting him ruin everything you own, I’m going to sacrifice him to Hera!”
As if he could understand her words, Jason instantly turned tail and darted out of the room. Gorgo called after him, in a voice sharp with fear for his life, “Go lie down!”
Gyrtias was sitting before her dresser while one of her women dressed her hair. It was being braided and then looped up and pinned with bronze pins in the shape of lilies. Her jewel box was open before her. She ordered one of her women to “see to Gorgo,” and her daughter was hustled into the next room.
A large terra-cotta tub filled with rose-scented water stood in the middle of the room. Water stains splattered around it were evidence of her mother’s recent bath. Gorgo was ordered to strip out of her dirty chiton and get into the bath. Her mother’s servant even made her put her head right under the water and scrubbed at her head and hair. When she finished bathing and was drying herself off on a linen towel, her mother emerged. She was wearing a lovely white peplos with a border of palm leaves in gold thread. A fine Egyptian-cotton himation in the deepest of blue and purple tones hung off her shoulders, clasped with two huge brooches shaped like Gorgon faces. At her neck was a large gold collar with rolled amethysts. She also wore a tiara and long dangling earrings with amethysts. On both hands she wore several rings. Not at all what Lycurgus, the Spartan lawgiver, had prescribed for women, Gorgo thought. She remembered learning that Lycurgus had said Spartan women were not supposed to wear gold or silver at all, much less rouge their cheeks and lips, as her mother had clearly done. The more self-righteous women refused to wear any kind of jewelry—although the majority were happy to wear bronze, rolled stones, alabaster, ivory, glass beads, and the like.
“Come here, child!” Gyrtias ordered her daughter, shaking her head in despair. “What are we going to do
with you? You look like a drowned rat!” She sat herself down on the foot of the bed with Gorgo between her knees and started vigorously combing Gorgo’s wet hair, while giving orders to her women to bring this and that.
Within a short time Gorgo was outfitted in a lovely bright-green chiton with bright yellow trim. She had been given pretty sandals with green beads sewn atop the leather. Meanwhile, her mother combed her hair until her whole head hurt, and then braided it while still wet into six tight “cornrows” that clung to her scalp until they reached the back of her head. Here the ends were woven together and looped up and pinned with a single large tortoiseshell hairpin. Her mother then turned her around and started pinching at her cheeks, while calling for her coal pencils.
Gorgo protested. “I don’t want to wear makeup!”
“Nobody asked you if you wanted to!” her mother replied bluntly. “You’ll do as you’re told. I want your father to be proud of you when he comes home.”
“But he likes me the way I am!” Gorgo insisted.
“Don’t be silly! All men love beauty and, Aphrodite is my witness, you don’t give me a lot to work with. We must cover these ugly freckles,” she remarked over her shoulder to one of her women, who at once went to get a white paste to smear all over Gorgo’s face.
When her mother was finished with her, Gorgo felt like a painted statue. It was horrible. She didn’t recognize herself in the mirror her mother held up to her, and everything itched! But her mother knew how to make her behave. “If you wipe anything off, I’ll have that wretched dog of yours hung up in the garden by his ears and make you watch while the crows eat him!” Sometimes Gorgo had the feeling her mother wanted her to disobey, so she would have an excuse for killing Jason.
But there was no time to fuss. The parade of returning athletes and spectators had reached the outskirts of the city, and everyone in the palace was streaming out to take up positions along the route. Gyrtias hustled Gorgo down and into the state chariot so they could take their places on the steps of the Council House.
The streets were full of people. Banners hung from the balconies. The maidens were garlanded with flowers and the boys of the agoge looked scrubbed and clean—their eirenes having chased them down to the Eurotas not only to wash themselves, but their chitons as well. The young men were in full panoply of bronze, their helmets glistening to perfection and the black crests freshly brushed and stiffened with wax. The older men wore either their armor or, like Nikostratos, a comfortable but good-quality chiton. Gorgo smiled and waved at him and her grandmother, and they waved back but kept their distance. Gyrtias did not particularly like her mother-in-law.
Eventually the sound of singing grew steadily closer, and the crowd in the main square settled down. The chorus of youths leading the procession came into the square first, followed by Demaratus, driving his victorious team with the wreath of olives on his brow. The horses were garlanded with wreaths of oleander (which seemed to be irritating them, since they kept shaking their heads and fretting). Standing beside him in the car of the chariot was Ephorus, likewise crowned with olives. Demaratus halted the chariot before his own wife, who like Gyrtias was seated on a throne before the Council House. She rose, a lovely figure with bright blond hair in a fluttering pale-blue peplos. Holding a large kylix in both outstretched hands, she descended the steps to her husband. He drank from the kylix and then lifted it up and poured the rest of the wine out in a gesture of offering to the city.
Ephorus was greeted by the senior member of the Council, who followed with a short speech praising the victors and urging the youth of the city to strive harder for perfection so they could honor their city at future Games.
Gorgo wasn’t listening. First she waved to her father in the second chariot, and then she looked at the other athletes, those who had participated but not won anything. Among these was her uncle Brotus, wearing a huge bandage around his head, apparently because of a broken jaw. One eye was completely swollen shut and the other badly discolored and half closed. He looked very mean at the moment, Gorgo thought, her latent dislike reinforced. She looked in vain, however, for her favorite uncle, Leonidas. Then she remembered that he hadn’t participated, and therefore would be somewhere in the crowd of spectators farther back in the parade.
Even after the official part of the homecoming was over, however, and people were mixing together freely, Gorgo still couldn’t find Leonidas. Everywhere people were welcoming home those who had been away, and hearing blow-by-blow descriptions of the events. Many were buying the delicacies offered for sale by enterprising helots and perioikoi. Gorgo had managed to slip away from her parents and even wash her face off in a fountain house. She sought out her grandmother and Nikostratos and led them to Laodice’s stand so they could buy some of her nut-and-honey squares.
Laodice recognized her at once, and her face broke into a smile. “Why, it’s little Gorgo! Are these your parents?” she asked, surprised, since Chilonis had long been a loyal customer and Laodice knew she was the mother of one of the kings.
Chilonis laughed. “Grandparents,” she answered. She then obligingly bought some of Laodice’s wares, chattering with her amiably about how things were going at the kleros. Gorgo thought it perfectly natural that her grandmother knew everyone. She was just like that.
“We’ve roofed all the balconies now,” Laodice announced proudly. “I wish the master would come and see. The house gets prettier every day. We see far too little of him. It has been more than two months since his last visit.”
“Oh,” Nikostratos entered the conversation for the first time. “You won’t be seeing him for a bit more. He was granted leave to travel to Athens with that Corinthian youth whose life he saved.”
Laodice looked blankly at him. The incident in which Leonidas killed the boar had happened before Laodice and her husband came to Laconia. But Chilonis remembered the incident well, and she asked with interest, “So the boy survived?”
“Apparently he and his father were at Olympia and invited Leonidas to travel back with them to Corinth and on to Athens, where they are traveling on business. Leonidas was granted a month’s leave—and Euryleon was ordered to travel with him.”
At the mention of Leonidas, Gorgo’s ears pricked up sharply.
Her grandmother was saying, “I’m so glad for him! He’s wanted to travel ever since Prokles was exiled. I wonder why they sent Euryleon with him?”
Nikostratos laughed. “To keep an eye on him, of course—and make sure he has a constant reminder of his duties here in Sparta. Euryleon is just the kind of young man to get himself into trouble in Athens, and Leo will feel obliged to look after him. Nothing could be a better guarantee that he won’t stray too far himself.”
Chilonis looked at her husband skeptically.
“Believe me, my dear, responsibility is a far greater bond than slavery.”
Gorgo was sorry she wouldn’t be seeing Leonidas today, but then she had a happy thought. “We’ll make him come and tell us about Athens, won’t we? As soon as he gets home,” Gorgo addressed herself to Nikostratos as the chairman of Leonidas’ syssitia. “You can order him to come when I can be there,” she advised the older man self-confidently.
“All right,” Nikostratos agreed readily enough—smiling at her and wishing with all his heart that she had been born a boy.
Chapter 11
Athens
The acropolis in Athens sat majestically at the top of a sheer white cliff that separated the Gods from the filth, noise, and chaos of the teeming, overcrowded city clinging to its feet. Acrocorinth also towered above the modern city, but it was much farther away and looked only like a distant fortress. The Athenian acropolis, in contrast, rose out of the heart of the city, and the roofs of the temples were a jumble of decorated tiles that peered over the fortress walls, hinting at the treasures within.
Sparta had nothing to compare with it. Leonidas didn’t see any point in pretending otherwise, and openly admired the magnificent temples—and the view
. To be sure, there were some spectacular views into the Eurotas valley from the mountains surrounding Sparta, but nowhere could you look down right into the agora and see the people in the stalls haggling with their customers or watch people loitering around the theater.
Leonidas leaned out as far as he could over the thick wall to get a better look. Athens was huge. Not only did it spread around the foot of the acropolis but, like water, the houses seemed to be seeping out from the center into all the surrounding valleys. Even beyond the city walls, buildings not only lined the roads, but formed whole neighborhoods in sporadic clusters, apparently around wells, temples, or gymnasia. Inside the city walls, except for the public areas around the agora and theater, the houses were crowded so close together that it was hard to see streets as such, just cracks in the “pavement” of roof tiles. The courtyards were small, and there were swaths of the city with no trees at all. The gymnasia beyond the walls of the city were all the easier to find, because it was only here that large stands of cypress and plane trees stood out boldly, oases of green in the carpet of ragged terra cotta and stone. And somewhere in the distant haze to the south was the sea.
“It’s incredible!” Euryleon exclaimed beside him. Euryleon was not looking out across the city, but back at the acropolis itself. The temples here were so richly decorated that even Euryleon could see they were brightly painted, although he could not see the detail with his poor eyesight.
Leonidas turned back to consider the temples, admiring the lifelike quality of the sculpture. Most of Sparta’s temples were old, dating back twenty-five Olympiads or more, and they were consequently adorned by rather stiff figures in almost passive poses. Here, warriors fought and maidens danced, horses galloped, and men struggled with Amazons on the friezes and pediments. Every image exuded vitality, as if it had been alive only a moment before and suddenly turned to stone by an evil spirit.
Lychos was sitting on the steps to the Parthenon waiting for them. He was dwarfed by the columns framing him, which rose easily to seven times the height of a grown man. Men entering or leaving the temple bustled past him as if they did not see him; certainly they took no note of the slight figure. Many may even have mistaken him for a beggar, Leonidas suspected, because he was so unassuming and obviously crippled.
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